PrefaceI wrote this with the hope that individuals experiencing schizophrenic episodes, as well as their family members and friends, can recognize how these episodes can develop and make themselves apparent. Through my analysis, I’ve learned that many schizophrenic episodes follow similar patterns, often triggered by excessive stress on the brain. Based on my own experience and understanding, it feels as though the brain fractures into two different parts, one conscious and one subconscious. The new subconscious part creates a complex puzzle through associations you make with auditory and visual cues that draw you in, compelling you to uncover more of the puzzle each day. The suspected causes and reasoning behind why my brain fracture occurred and how it revealed itself is drawn out inside the covers of this book. I’ve also written in detail about the way I uncovered the clues to the puzzles and the shocking beliefs that I had during this episode.The arrival of the “voices” in my head right at the time where my stress had reached its peak was uncanny and too coincidental to ignore. I refer to them as "voices" but, for me, they weren’t audible in the traditional sense. Instead, it felt more like an upload of information, teleported into my brain by telekinesis by an entity able to communicate directly within my brain. While these entities seemed to have accents and distinct ways of speaking, I think that they built those associations with people I knew from my life—typically friends, enemies, even celebrities. This gave the voices camouflage, allowing them to blend in and exert even more influence over my thoughts.They were extremely convincing, continually stating that my survival and the survival of humanity was at stake. This left me no choice but to believe them and damn were they convincing. It felt as though they were sent by an external force to help me solve the mysteries of the world.In researching schizophrenia further, I discovered that many others have reported similar experiences with voices starting to appear inside their head when they were stressed to their capacity. This has led many, including myself, to wonder whether these voices serve as some sort of intervention to stress, corrupting that section of the brain and breaking it off into a new entity. The consistency of these experiences among people with schizophrenia seems too uniform to be purely coincidental. It seems highly unlikely to me that a break in the brain due to stress overload would produce such a similar pattern of delusional beliefs in so many isolated examples. Are we so much like computers that there can be corruption that creates the same patterns of belief so closely in so many different isolated examples? If so, that potentially opens a whole new world of possibilities in my opinion.The "voices" effectively created a new world for me full of new puzzles that I needed to keep waking up each day to solve to continue my pursuit of the conclusion of their guidance. The voices cautioned me not to reveal their messages or share anything about our "mission," threatening that I wouldn’t like the consequences if I did. Although they initially prevented me from succumbing to the relentless amount of stress I had, the pursuit of the puzzle they created for me cost me much more in the long run.The voices have relayed an interest in helping others with the disease to avoid the same pitfalls of delusion that I willingly stepped right into. I think that’s all we have to hold onto now. Perhaps they believed the delusions as much as I did, and we idiotically perpetuated each of our delusions back and forth (they’re saying that we did, but I don’t fucking believe them right now), deepening the entanglement.Here I sit with the assistance of their guidance recollecting the stories the best we can. I’m aware that most of my thoughts were simply delusions created by listening to the “voices,” but it seems there was something larger than just my brain at play. I’m compelled to believe that based on the similarities of patterns and similarities of themes between myself and others with the disease. Also, my creativity was never one of my strongest suits and the incredible journey that they took me on was unlike anything I could’ve come up with on my own. Frequently I presumed that I was a part of a Black Mirror episode because the themes were so intricate and borderline science fiction.It was as though my brain had been hijacked, and I became a passenger in my own life for several months. To be honest, that’s still how it feels to me, and perhaps it always will. There are some things that I did that I could never have imagined doing before they arrived. They frequently pushed me to the brink of doing extremely dangerous and potentially deadly things and then they would pull me back at the last second. Sometimes they were too late. Did I create that pattern of structure which they mimicked their behavior after through my own actions and the previous events of my life?In the end the way the voices structured their communication and puzzles in a way that led to a coherent conclusion to the puzzle. This also strikes me as strange because the individual stories and events could seem so disjointed at times that it was hard for me to believe they could come to such a concise conclusion.It continues to fascinate me how real and influential these voices were to me. When I first encountered them, they felt supernatural, as though they held an authority you cannot ignore. Let’s face it, when you’re overwhelmed by your current situation you want to believe something greater is real. They took the heed as that “something greater,” that kept me wanting to experience another day, one day at a time. But how would they know that’s what I needed? How could they have known when they needed to show up? How are they programmed to affect the same lost souls in the same type of search for greater meaning?The book is divided into two parts. Chapters One through Six cover the background and events leading to my first schizophrenic episode. The remaining chapters recount the actual stories, events, and experiences I lived through described as accurately as I can remember. In the beginning chapters there are anecdotes and themes of sexual deviancy which I believe contributed to my eventual breakdown. I apologize if any of these details are unsettling, but I felt it was important to provide the full context of everything I think contributed to my breakdown without shying away from details that embarrass me. I think this is important to the integrity of the story.It’s incredible how my brain operated under schizophrenia. It created a web of associations, connecting songs, TV shows, movies, and even simple noises or notifications from my phone to form a pattern of beliefs. These associations were relayed to me by what I recognized as separate entities inside my mind. I genuinely believed these entities were external voices speaking to me from another dimension or realm. It felt as though they had logged into my brain or hacked my consciousness. They would ask me questions, give me directions, and set tasks that I could never have conceived of on my own, leading me to believe these thoughts weren’t originating from my own mind. At that time the only plausible explanation for me was that they were external.I hope you find something valuable in this book, whatever your reason for reading it. I think it is an interesting and valuable story for everyone to delve further into the innerworkings of the mind, to fully embrace how dark and powerful the mind can be. I’m hoping that it might save your life or someone else’s life if you come across someone experiencing these types of delusions in the future.I felt compelled to share this story, believing it could be helpful for anyone affected by schizophrenia. In my mind, if it helps even one person then it was all worth it. I might be lost to the cause, but I truly hope this changes someone’s life for the better or else I wouldn’t have spent all the time it took to write it. It’s been quite the journey. I’m still alive, and the voices are still with me most of the time.This is my story…“Jake this is going to blow up in your face in the worst way. If I were you, I would dread every single phone call, every single email, every single weird look anyone shoots you. If you want to play games with me, I’ll play games with you. I love playing games, but only the ones I win of course. I know your dad has a pretty high tolerance for you even though you’re an idiot, but he’s about to lose that last, hopeful little shred of respect he is clinging to. What a shame. Goddess Jessica ”



Chapter 1 – Sexual Classical ConditioningI’ve always had a sense that I was meant for something greater, even though I haven’t quite figured out what that was yet. I had always been a kind person ready to lend a hand to anyone, even strangers. I sometimes wondered if people had taken advantage of my generosity over the years, but when it was an attractive woman, I didn’t mind at all. I wasn’t cynical enough yet to build walls or guard my heart yet.I stood 5’10” tall with deep brown eyes that drew people in, while my dark brown hair, usually styled into a purposefully messy, spiked look, gave off a carefree vibe. I went to the gym every day, maintaining a lean, ripped physique at 170 pounds, complete with defined abs and pecs. I didn’t focus much on leg day, but my frame was slender enough that not many noticed.My personality was laid-back, with a sharp sense of humor. I never took life too seriously and was always ready with a joke or a smile. That was me—a mix of contradictions, charm, and unspoken desires, still searching for that elusive "something more.”In high school, I was a bit awkward, so when it was time to start fresh after graduation, I headed to Arizona State University, eager to leave my past behind. I joined a fraternity at ASU, which introduced me to a tight-knit group of guys who became some of my closest friends.The campus was incredible, stretching about 1 mile by 1 mile in the middle of Tempe, Arizona. Mill Avenue extended directly off the campus and was about a ¾ mile strip of bars leading up to a mountain known as “A-Mountain,” because they put a giant golden “A” on it. My freshman year, before I even joined my fraternity, I was at a pre-rush party with some alumni from the frat I eventually pledged to. I got excessively drunk and told them I would paint the letter "A" red and black to match our fraternity colors to get into the frat. I barely remembered the conversation, but thankfully, they never made me follow through with it.Fast forward to post-rush initiation, where we went room to room, taking shots with all of the active members of the fraternity. I ended up taking around seven shots in about an hour and was completely obliterated. I was slurring my words and stumbling, but they hoped I’d sober up on the way to the bar they had rented out, so they loaded me onto the bus anyway. I don't remember much, but apparently, I rested my head on the seat in front of me and vomited all over the floor of the bus. The guys quickly dragged me off the bus and hid me in a pitch-black party room, which had a stripper pole and a couch. I vaguely recall waking up disoriented in the darkness, struggling for about 20 minutes to find the door. When I finally got out, a couple of guys who stayed behind were hanging out in the house. Instead of heading to the bar with the others, I was content just drinking and smoking cigarettes with them on the frat house balcony.I had this faint memory of falling down a flight of cement stairs later in the night, but I woke up fine besides a massive headache and a looming feeling of dread, lying in my own vomit on the floor of the balcony. I managed to trek back to my dorm, which was a five-minute walk to Palo Verde Main from the old frat row by the rail road tracks near Sun Devil Stadium.Despite my drunken antics on our bid night, the fraternity still allowed me to pledge the fraternity – maybe they felt guilty that I had almost died. I was getting a weekly allowance of $120 from my loans, which my dad deposited into my checking account on Mondays. It was meant to last the week, but typically by Thursday, I’d be running low from spending most of it on beer and food. My grades were solid—three A’s and a B—so I figured I was doing fine just maybe partying a little too much. But in reality, I was a mess, getting way too drunk way too often. It wasn’t just about grades as most of my classes didn’t require attendance, so I’d just study a few hours before exams and still ace them. Brief Calculus was the only class I couldn’t pull that trick with, so I ended up dropping it when my last-minute study approach failed. I was just having too much “fun.”During this early time at college, I met a girl named Cecily in my dorm. She was a gorgeous brunette with an olive complexion and dark brown eyes—a total sweetheart. She was high school friends with one of the guys pledging my fraternity, Josh, so we instantly had things to talk about. She also loved Dave Matthews Band, which is how we met. She was playing his music on her CD player, and I popped my head in to her dorm room and said, “Dave?” From there, we struck up a conversation. We began hanging out a lot, even kissed a few times, but I wasn’t sure if those kisses meant anything more.One Saturday night, my fraternity threw a party at the frat house, and Cecily came with some of her sorority sisters. I was sitting with Cecily and another one of the girls from her sorority named Hanna, with my arms around both of them on either side of me. Hanna turned to me and said, “Well, you must feel like a pimp right now.” That was all the signal I needed. I leaned in and started making out with her. Cecily, understandably hurt, immediately left the party. I stayed behind with the other girl, Hanna.Hanna was a stunning Asian girl from Oklahoma, with dark brown hair and eyes. She was built athletically, around 5’5” and 120 pounds, with a toned body from running cross country through high school. Things heated up quickly after Cecily left, and Hanna and I ended up lying down on the futon. I started touching her intimately and tried to take things further by removing her pants. I was ready to go all the way, but she whispered, “No sex.” I respected her boundary and instead kissed her again before going down on her. It was the furthest I’d ever been with a girl as hot as her, and I was completely lost in the moment.Someone accidentally walked in on us and abruptly shut the door leaving us alone again, which startled Hanna, but instead of stopping, she leaned back in, even more determined. She straddled my face, pressing herself against my lips, and I eagerly continued, completely lost in the sensation. After about 15 minutes, she climaxed. She gave me a quick reciprocal act and I was so turned on from pleasing her that it didn’t take long for me to finish.The next day, I had to face Cecily. I played it off like I didn’t know what we were, which is why I went for Hanna and she gave me a second chance. She made it clear we were exclusive now, and I agreed. But less than a week later, I messed it up. I was drunk and horny and texted Hanna, asking if she wanted to come over. I guess I was selfish and looking for more action than Cecily was giving me. Hanna came over to my dorm, and just like before, she straddled my face and let me please her. We both ended up passing out in my bed but I couldn’t remember much other than her sitting on my face. When I awoke she was gone and my roommate gave me the glum news that Cecily already knew everything. That was the end of us.Hanna and I hooked up a few more times after that. The last time, she told me she didn’t want to do anything to me but said I could go down on her if I wanted. I eagerly agreed. I quickly pulled her pants off and pulled her on top of me. She straddled my face, and I went to work for nearly 45 minutes until she climaxed, giving me nothing in return. She left after that, and while I would’ve gladly done it for the rest of my life, that was pretty much the end of our hookups. I still saw her around campus, and sometimes she'd study with a few guys in my fraternity, but that was the extent of us hanging out after those early freshman year encounters.After an eight-week pledge program, I was initiated as an active brother. Our pledge class was huge—45 guys, larger than the entire active fraternity at the time. It was a great group, and there was always something going on. We’d hang out at the house every night we weren’t heading out to support our fraternity sports teams or participating in date parties, socials, or philanthropies. At the house we found plenty of things to do and it was like a party existed every night there. The big parties we put on there were legendary. We had the biggest Christmas party on campus, and one of the brothers built a 14-foot reindeer covered in Christmas lights that you could see all the way from my dorm. The night of the Christmas party there must’ve been 500 people there. The halls were packed shoulder to shoulder with brothers in the fraternity, a few select guests, and an insane amount of girls.Around the time of the Christmas party we had started hanging out a lot with another sorority often. They had assigned girls to our fraternity to coach us for their philanthropy. Philanthropies were events put on by the sororities that multiple fraternities participated in to try to win a trophy declaring them as the winners. There were often a few large events like football, tug of war, or other athletic events. They always threw in a couple additional less objective events so they could manipulate the standings a bit at the end if they needed to. They typically had one or two fraternities in their philanthropies that they had great relations with and wanted to have them place in the top three. These more objective events usually consisted of things like lip syncing or a performance of some kind. Two of the girls that I met from the sorority became a couple of my good friends for the rest of college. Their names were Stephanie and Laura. They were best friends, and Stephanie was a gorgeous 5’3” Asian with a great body, tan skin, a confident, sexy voice, beautiful dimples and the cutest smile. Laura was pretty as well, but not as stunning as Stephanie. She was about the same height with brown hair and eyes, with pale skin, and a very slender build.I had a crush on Stephanie, but she was pursued by most everyone in our fraternity as well as other guys throughout the campus. She was one of the hottest girls in her sorority and at ASU for sure. I was friend zoned from the beginning, but at the time, I was too inexperienced to recognize it. That didn't stop me from pursuing her like a devoted puppy for four years.It was as if there existed an unspoken rule in her relationships: any guy she dated had to accept our friendship. I had even made a few attempts to persuade her to explore a more dominant dynamic between us but she declined my attempts to convince her to use me. I always found myself at her beck and call anyways. Particularly on those bleary Tuesday and Friday mornings our Junior year at 8:15 AM, when she’d swing by my apartment, park her car, and awaken me from my sleep to drive her to her early class. She didn’t seem to have an issue taking advantage of my crush on her when it suited her well. On especially stormy days, I’d even brave the elements to pick her up afterward if I happened to be awake.One rainy day stands out in vivid detail: she called me, drenched and asking for a ride back to her car. When I arrived, I couldn’t pull all the way up because there was a gate blocking the road. In just the 25 yards she needed to walk to my car she was soaked to the bone, her hair clinging to her delicate features. Instinctively, I draped my jacket over her sexy tanned legs, feeling a longing swirl within me.Another morning, after a night spent with a guy, she called me for a ride home. I was hungover myself and let her know I wasn’t really up to it, somewhat fearing that was a slippery slope of allowing her to continually take advantage of me but only on her terms. She must’ve gotten the feeling that maybe the request was too manipulative because she ultimately found another way. I was always willing to do anything for her, willing to drop everything at a moment’s notice.There was also a day our junior year when I was still crushing on her when she was dating a guy from another fraternity, and she was going on vacation with him. She invited me over to her condo while she packed, and then had me help her pick out lingerie for her to wear with him on vacation. In that moment, I couldn't shake the feeling that she was subtly trying to dominate me, enjoying her power while leaving me weaker and more vulnerable to her intoxicating charms.Finally, one night, emboldened by a few too many drinks, I mustered the courage to ask if I could pay her to financially dominate me. She quickly shot me down, saying she wasn't comfortable with it. I suspected she preferred to be the one composing the power dynamic. Not wanting to ruin our friendship, I steered away from asking her about it again, and we remained friends.After my freshman year we lost our Fraternity house. Michael Crow, the President at ASU, had an agenda of claiming eminent domain on the frat houses near the football stadium and we were the first house crossed off his list. College was still fun after that and the fraternity survived without moving into the ASU Fraternity housing offered, which was just like another dorm. We all moved into different apartments throughout the area and would alternate locations for smaller parties. By this time, I had made my closest friends in the fraternity, and we separated into a niche group who would hang out the most often. We would still frequently get together for our sporting events, and other social events, so it wasn’t like losing the house destroyed all the relationships, but it did make it a little more difficult for everyone to get together as much.In 2007, I had a fling with a girl named Laura from Stephanie’s sorority who was dating a guy from a rival fraternity. She had a cute charm that caught my attention over time. We’d been flirting for a while, frequently sexting about all kinds of dirty things—she had a crush on me, and I wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to hook up with her. One rainy day, she asked if I wanted to watch some movies at my apartment. We had hung out a lot in groups before, but never on a one on one basis, so I figured she wanted to more than just watch movies. She came over to my apartment and we walked up the road to blockbuster.My heart raced as we wandered the aisles of the video rental store. I couldn’t stop thinking about massaging her sexy feet and feeling submissive to her. After some consideration, she picked out Cruel Intentions and The Island, and we headed back to my apartment. It was perfect—my roommate wasn’t home, so we had the place to ourselves. She stretched out on the couch, casually resting her feet in my lap with her sexy feet right in front of my face. I couldn’t help but admire how beautiful they were.After what felt like an eternity, I finally worked up the courage to ask if she wanted a foot massage. She grinned and said, “sure if you want to give me one,” and I started massaging them. My mind raced with forbidden thoughts—I wanted to suck on her toes, to feel like her little foot slave. As we sat there, I slowly leaned forward, laying down with her feet resting on my chest, and as I massaged them, I kissed her toes. They were sweaty, but I didn’t care—I was in Heaven.With a surge of adrenaline, I closed my eyes and started sucking on her toes, my heart pounding in my chest. As I massaged and sucked on one foot, I began touching her intimately through the pajama pants she’d worn, and she responded by pressing her other foot into my face. The sensation overwhelmed me. We eventually switched feet, and I continued, feeling utterly humiliated yet wildly turned on by the fact that I was worshipping this girl’s sweaty, dirty feet. It was intoxicating.At some point, she asked if I wanted to take things to the bedroom. She made it clear that she wanted me to go down on her but didn’t want to do anything to me because she had a boyfriend. I guess that felt less like cheating in her mind. Without hesitation, I led her to my room, where she laid back on the bed, and I lowered my face to her. The thought of her potentially being with her boyfriend recently consumed me, turning me on even more. The idea that I was pleasing her after she’d probably just been with him felt like the ultimate act of submission. She grabbed my head and pushed my face deeper until she finally came.Afterward, we went back to the couch and about five minutes later, the front door swung open, and her boyfriend walked in. I guess we should’ve remembered to lock the door, although maybe that would’ve been suspicious too. My heart nearly stopped, but we weren’t fooling around anymore at that point, so he didn’t catch us. They left together shortly after, and even though I hadn’t gotten any physical satisfaction from the encounter, the memory of being treated like her submissive was more than enough to get me off later.Shortly after that she and her boyfriend broke up because he found out she cheated on him with me. I’m sure she spun the story, probably told him that she didn’t do anything, that I did it all to her. And to be honest, that was mostly true. But she loved every second of it, just as much as I did. The rest of college was a blur of parties and random hookups.Another girlfriend I briefly dated in college was named Briana. She was a fiery 5'4" beauty, with striking brown hair and captivating brown eyes. Her flawless tan skin complemented her incredible figure, and she possessed large, perfectly shaped breasts that added to her draw. Briana had a presence that was hard to ignore, exuding both confidence and charm, making her someone who effortlessly turned heads wherever she went. I had a crush on her long before she even knew I existed. We shared a Calculus class my freshman year, and I always thought she was the hottest girl in the room. She was from Jersey so she had one of those nails on chalkboard accents, but for some reason I found it hot on her. She was direct and almost demanding which I found sexy.It wasn’t until we were introduced by a mutual friend, Dave, one of my fraternity brothers, that I finally got a chance to talk to her. We started hanging out at parties, and eventually, at the beginning of 2008, we kissed for the first time at my apartment.A couple of weeks into dating, we had fooled around but hadn’t had sex yet when Briana went on a previously scheduled trip to Rocky Pointe, Mexico, without me. When she and my friends returned they let me know she had cheated on me while I was there. Oddly enough, I wasn’t too heartbroken, but she started questioning if we should break up. I didn’t want to look like a fool for wanting to continue dating her after her cheating on me and not knowing if she wanted to, so I told her if she had any doubts, we should just end things. We decided to stay friends, but things got messy from there.One night, we were hanging out with one of her guy friends, watching a movie in her living room. I was supposed to take her to a concert in Tucson the next day, but that night, after I pretended to fall asleep on the couch, she took her friend to her bedroom. I stayed awake, listening to them have sex just 10 feet away, and I walked out of the apartment and slammed the door hurt that she didn’t respect me enough to wait until I wasn’t around to hook up with a guy when she knew I still liked her.The next day, I confronted her about it, but she denied everything. We still went to the Taking Back Sunday concert in Tucson, and even after all that, I couldn’t shake my feelings for her. I kept trying to pursue her, despite her cheating on me.After classes a few days later, I went over to her place to hang out and watch tv. We were sitting on the couch, and I couldn’t stop staring at her feet—her tan feet with French-tipped toes looked so sexy. I offered her a foot massage, and she stretched out her legs, wearing tiny mesh shorts and a t-shirt. I started massaging her feet, hoping it would lead to something more. As I moved my hands slowly up her legs, trying to get closer to her, she stopped me, saying it was just a massage. I awkwardly went back to rubbing her feet. Then, we heard the door slam in the kitchen. One of her roommates had come home. I wasn’t sure whether I should stop massaging her feet out of embarrassment or keep going like nothing was out of the ordinary. I decided to just keep going, though I probably looked like a whipped puppy.I was still trying everything I could to win her back, paying for dinners, taking her out, anything. One hot summer day, we worked at her cousin’s wedding—her cousin was a florist, and we were helping to set things up. Briana, always playful, sat on top of a cart while I pushed her around, taking her wherever she wanted to go. We passed an older man who was setting up at the wedding, and she turned to me, laughing, “He probably thinks you’re my little bitch, pushing me around.” Despite the sting of her words, I continued hanging out with her, still hoping I could somehow win her over again.After a few months of following Briana around like a devoted servant my luck finally began to turn one night when I was out at the bars on Mill Avenue. I ran into Lauren, a girl I had seen around the fraternity a few times. She had a twin sister named Andrea, and both of them were stunning—about 5’7” with brown hair, with great bodies, beautiful brown eyes, and big, bright smiles. Lauren had a slight lazy eye, but to me, she was the more classically beautiful of the two.That night, Lauren had just turned 21, and we immediately hit it off. I turned on the charm, making her and her friends laugh all night long. By the end of the night, we exchanged numbers, and soon enough, we were hanging out regularly. Within a few weeks, we were officially dating, and I genuinely thought I had met the girl I was going to marry.Through Lauren, I met a whole new circle of friends that she had known from high school—people like Tim, Dan, Brad, Chris, Mike (two of them, actually), Patrick, Travis, and their girlfriends. We spent most weekends drinking at house parties or heading out to the bars on Mill Avenue. Typically, when heading out to the bars we’d go to our favorite spot, Cue Club.Everything with Lauren started off so well it felt almost like a dream. Within the first year, we were already imagining our future together and discussing potential names for our kids. However, we did come from very different backgrounds. My family had always been relatively stable, with my parents having enough money to provide for everything we needed and not getting into fights very often. Lauren's family, on the other hand, struggled. Her mother had a gambling addiction, which made things even harder for them and her parents fought all the time always seemingly on the edge of a divorce.It felt like I was able to bring some much-needed stability into Lauren's life, especially during that period when she seemed to need it most. Our time together was filled with a lot of fun, laughter, and adventure. Dating during my senior year was a blast, and even after I graduated in 2009, we continued to have so much fun together. The connection we shared felt deep and full of promise.Cue Club was legendary, not just for the drinks, but for the crowd it drew. It was a pool hall located right in the middle of Mill Avenue, which was the main bar street at ASU. The hottest girls from ASU either worked there or regularly drank there. Usually, all three of our favorite bartenders would be working too. Lindsey, the tall, slender blonde, always kept things fun and had a witty sense of humor and coy smile. Then there was Amelie, standing at 5’5”, with a striking figure and a face so stunning she could’ve passed for a famous porn star. And finally, there was Sam who was the queen of the place. At 5’2”, she was tiny but confident, she had this killer smile that lit up the whole bar. She knew how gorgeous she was, and I could only imagine how often she got hit on every weekend. I always thought she was incredibly hot, but she was way out of my league, and besides, I was dating Lauren.Those weekends at Cue Club were some of the best times of my life—wild nights, unforgettable friendships, and the excitement at being surrounded by the hottest girls from ASU.I usually blended in well in most environments, but whenever I drank too much, my inhibitions crumbled, and my sexual urges surged. I vividly remember multiple occasions even after starting to date Lauren where I would spot an attractive girl at the bar, feeling overwhelmed with lust, and rushing to hail a cab just to race home and indulge in deviant porn. My obsession with female domination had been with me for as long as I could remember.After a night of drinking my senior year of college, my roommate Josh came back from the bars to find me passed out with my hand down my pants and my laptop still open. I’d been trying to get off to some hardcore femdom porn, and there it was, displayed for him to see. He was cool about it and didn’t judge me but there was some teasing me about being into weird shit like that.My tastes were wide-ranging and intense. I was into everything: face-sitting, pegging, enforced chastity, toe-sucking, foot worship, humiliation, cuckolding, and even financial domination. These fantasies would spill over into my real life. I’d imagine the hot girls I knew or the ones I saw at bars doing these things to me. The idea of being controlled, used, and humiliated by beautiful women had a hold on me.


Chapter 2 – "Professional" "Life"
In 2009, I graduated into one of the worst recessions since the early '80s, armed with a Business Marketing degree that suddenly felt useless. The job market was brutal, especially for marketing positions—no one was hiring.
With few options, I took my first job as a recruiter for a staffing company at $32,000 a year. It was far from what I'd imagined after four years at Arizona State University. The returning feeling of impending doom crept in. "Is this what the rest of my life will be like?"
My boss was an absolute dictator. Our office was 1,000 miles from the next closest branch, giving him autonomy to manage with as much pressure as he wanted. The hours were brutal, and the positions we filled were so specialized that finding qualified candidates felt impossible. One day, after over a year of consistently performing in the middle to top quarter, he told me to take the day off to "think about how I could improve." No warning, no conversation—just unpaid time off. It was insane.
Financially, I was barely scraping by. My salary and commissions kept me afloat, but not enough to enjoy life. I was living paycheck to paycheck, trying to support both myself and Lauren, feeling like my potential was being wasted.
I stuck it out until 2011, but needed a change. Lauren and I met our friend Mike J at a restaurant in Tempe, where he mentioned interviewing with a large global logistics company for an inside sales position. The role was part of an accelerated program designed to promote employees into field roles within two years. The thought of fast-tracking to outside sales with higher pay and serious commission was too tempting. I applied, interviewed, and had the job within a week. My luck seemed to be turning.
The new company was a welcome change—an inside sales force about 60 people strong, housing national operational teams and our leads department. Most employees were young, fresh out of college, so we'd frequently meet up for happy hours and go out on weekends. It was fun, but the salary and commission were wearing on me and my relationship with Lauren. I wasn't making enough to support both our nights out plus other expenses. I was always barely scraping by.
By the end of 2012, I got the news I'd been waiting for: a promotion to field sales, with options being Houston or Philadelphia. My first stop was Houston, but I wasn't impressed. The parts I saw were rough, and the hotel I stayed in had a murder there just the week before. The bright spot was catching up with Laura from ASU, who'd moved there for her Masters in Psychology.
Things with Lauren had become shaky. After years of distance from her schooling, we weren't even officially dating anymore. It felt like she'd used me as a financial crutch while finishing nursing school. I texted Laura asking if she wanted to meet at the hotel or head to a bar. She agreed to swing by the hotel first. By the time she arrived around 8:00 PM, I was already six Blue Moons deep—drinks courtesy of the company.
We hit the town after a quick beer, ending up at a cowboy bar with punch machines, pool tables, and flirty servers. As the night went on, I brought up something I'd mentioned to Laura before—my interest in financial domination. She was studying to become a psychologist and seemed intrigued by my kink.
Financial domination was a newer fetish involving a submissive man giving a woman money as a power exchange, usually accompanied by humiliation or teasing about her superiority. The humiliation of being used that way appealed to me.
I took a chance and slipped a twenty-dollar bill into her cowboy boot. She looked at me with a curious smile. "Oh, so you really do like this, huh?"
"Yeah, I do," I admitted. She smiled back, clearly enjoying the power exchange. There was something appealing about it—the way she held that control, even in something as small as a twenty in her boot.
We stayed out too late, caught up in the fun. Laura had met some guy she seemed into, but around midnight, knowing I had early interviews, we headed back to the hotel. I asked if she wanted to stay over. She agreed but quickly added, "I can't have sex or anything—I'm on my period." I told her it was fine, and we stumbled back to my room.
As soon as she kicked off her cowboy boots, I casually asked if she wanted a foot massage. She shrugged, "Sure." She was still wearing her socks, damp from the boots and humidity. As I rubbed her feet, I started moving them closer to my face, lying on my back so they rested on my chest. Slowly, I slid her socks off, and her sweaty, bare feet were right in front of me. I grabbed her left foot and slipped her toes into my mouth. She didn't pull away—in fact, she pushed her toes deeper.
She chuckled, making some teasing remark about how much I enjoyed it, but I was too lost in the moment. The combination of having paid her earlier and now worshipping her feet while she barely paid attention made me feel completely submissive to her.
Desperate for more, I pleaded to go down on her. She reminded me, almost dismissively, that she was on her period, but I didn't care. Despite my begging, she refused, relishing the control of having me completely at her mercy without giving anything in return. I continued with her feet until exhaustion overtook me and I passed out.
A few hours later, I woke to my alarm. Her feet were still resting on my chest. The memory of the night came rushing back, and I felt embarrassed about how submissive I'd been without getting anything in return. I let her know I had interviews but she could stay until 10:00 AM as long as she checked out by 11:00. I had to take care of myself in the bathroom before heading out, still flushed with humiliation and turned on by it. I was associating orgasms with the rush of humiliation, and it had taken things to new heights. I was hooked on the feeling.
After the interviews, I told my director Raul I was open to Houston for the higher pay. However, he insisted I visit Philadelphia first. I agreed, so I flew to Philly and was greeted by a stunning sales rep named Lauren with a sultry East Coast accent. I spent the day shadowing her as she made rounds to clients in Center City's skyscrapers.
Lauren was impressive—sharp, efficient, and meticulous. She found a large opportunity with a major motorcycle parts company, and watching her work, I developed a bit of a crush. Beyond her beauty, her professional poise made me realize she'd be the perfect mentor. My potential territory would be just outside the city heart, and Philadelphia had a lot to offer.
After our day together, I called Raul to say I preferred Philadelphia. He said he'd be taking a position as director of that territory, and my direct manager would be Rejesh, a budding superstar from New York who regularly led the company in sales. My role would involve finding new opportunities and bringing in Rejesh to seal deals with decision-makers. I felt confident I could flourish in the greater Philadelphia area.
Raul told me to get a feel for the city that night. After resting, I took a cab downtown. My first stop was Dirty Franks, a quirky bar with dartboards and graffiti walls. I ordered a local IPA before heading to Jimmy's, an Irish pub around the corner. I spotted four men, ranging from late 30s to mid-50s, laughing around the bar. One older man from New Jersey was being playfully teased as a mobster.
I offered to buy them shots, but they waved me off, explaining they were celebrating a wedding and insisted on treating me instead. We drank Tullamore Dew and Guinness well into the night, and I completely fell in love with Philadelphia nightlife. The last thing I remember was raising a glass with them before everything went black.
I woke the next morning at 8:55 AM in a haze. My flight was at 10:15 AM. Still half-dazed, I rushed to pack and barely made it to the airport.
Raul informed me that Rejesh wanted to meet for an interview before finalizing my hiring. If all went smoothly, I'd receive a $7,500 relocation allowance and embark on a new chapter in Philadelphia.
They wanted to move quickly, so I'd fly out just two days later. Rejesh would pick me up and conduct interviews throughout the day. To make the most of my visit, Raul decided I should shadow Eric, a coworker from the inside sales team now doing sales in Baltimore.
Everything clicked during my interview with Rejesh, and I enjoyed shadowing Eric. After work, Eric, his girlfriend Jamie, and I went out with the Baltimore team for dinner and drinks. I felt instant camaraderie with everyone. With Eric and Jamie nearby, I knew I'd have friends to visit. The future looked exciting.
When I returned to Phoenix, I emailed Raul expressing my desire to accept the Philadelphia position. He responded within the hour: my new salary would be $53,000, and they wanted me to relocate within two weeks. My last day in Tempe would be that Friday, giving me two full weeks to pack and settle in Philadelphia.
Rejesh tried to convince me to ship my car to speed up the transition, but I was determined to drive, craving the chance to explore and savor two weeks off. Plus, driving would let me save a chunk of my relocation bonus for rent, furnishings, and a little fun once settled.
I was popular at the office and among college friends, so they threw me a going-away party at Cue Club. Our favorite bartenders, Samantha and Lindsey—both stunning ASU grads—were serving that night. I felt loved.
My friend Ash offered to help with the drive if I covered his flight back. Having him along to split driving shifts sounded great. That night was unforgettable—full of laughter, goodbyes, and excitement for the next chapter.
Towards the end of the night, Lauren and I got a hotel room in Tempe for one last romantic night together. We started making out as soon as we entered, but I'd drunk too much and couldn't perform. Determined to please her, I went down on her, and after a few minutes she teasingly asked, "Do you want me to sit on your face?" This had become a ritual in our relationship. I think she enjoyed feeling dominant, and I loved feeling submissive with her looking down at me. That was probably the main issue—she'd gained too much power and relished manipulating me to do whatever she wanted.
"Yes, baby," I replied, and she straddled my stomach, working her way up until she met my lips. That always got me going, and my arousal quickly returned. Sometimes she'd pin my hands with her knees, teasing me until satisfied. After a few minutes, I was ready again. She shifted and began riding me, but it wasn't quite the same. Sex with her had gotten boring, and I almost preferred being pinned beneath her, lost in fantasy.
We still weren't together—the night was more a hook-up than a rekindling. I was already excited about Philadelphia, ready to explore new opportunities and meet other women. Finally, I felt like I was escaping the rut I'd been stuck in.
A couple days after the farewell party, I loaded my Prius with essentials, ready for a new adventure. As I hugged my parents goodbye, they gave me a card featuring "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" Inside were touching messages filled with encouragement.
My parents had moved to Sun City, Arizona after retiring two years ago. My mom, diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2009, faced significant challenges getting around and was often in pain. Despite this, she and my dad Josh seemed content as homebodies. At 56 and 59 respectively, it fit them to embrace a slower pace. They appeared to enjoy their serene existence, supported by my mom's disability income and my dad's retirement savings. With their house bought outright by my grandmother, they seemed set financially.
The night before departure, I went to Tempe for one last bittersweet goodbye with Lauren. I hugged her, kissing her with a mix of love and uncertainty. While I was still attached, having invested so much time, money, and emotion, it seemed like she was drifting away. The intimacy made saying goodbye even harder. We parted, both aware this moment marked a significant turning point.
The next morning I picked up Ash, eager to kick off our journey. Our itinerary included visiting Stephanie in Austin, two days in Nashville, and possibly another East Coast city before heading to Philly.
After 14 hours, we arrived at Stephanie's apartment in Austin. She still looked stunning—same infectious smile and soothing voice. We went out with her friends downtown, effortlessly slipping back into rhythm. She was the kind of friend you could reconnect with seamlessly.
The next morning, Ash and I set off for Nashville, a thirteen-hour drive with snowfall looming. We took turns driving in two-and-a-half-hour increments. We rolled in late, around 10:00 PM, but adrenaline still coursed through us. As we passed vibrant bars lining the streets, we could feel the energy rising.
Ash was particularly excited about the live music scene—he'd played guitar his entire life and become quite skilled. After being grounded an entire summer in junior high with only guitar as a privilege, he'd developed the talent of a seasoned lead guitarist. Ash was contemplating moving to Nashville depending on how our trip went.
We cabbed to Broadway, eager to dive into live music. Nashville is known as the Bachelorette Party capital of the United States, and it lived up to its reputation. The strip was packed with gorgeous women in cowboy boots. Being winter, many wore pearl snap shirts and jeans. They were stunning. "This is the best party city I've ever been to, aside from maybe Las Vegas," Ash declared, and I agreed.
After our first night, we extended our hotel stay. Ash wanted to explore more bars as potential venues if he moved there. I was excited to keep partying. Night two was fun too, but Ash was starting to feel worn out from my pace.
The following morning, we hit the road early, determined to reach Philadelphia by nightfall, giving us Thursday through Saturday to enjoy the city before Ash's Sunday flight.
As I began driving toward Philadelphia, the radio warned of potential snowstorms through eastern Tennessee up to Baltimore/D.C. We met the snow near Knoxville but pushed through. Near Richmond, we encountered thick, heavy snow that significantly slowed traffic. By the time we navigated through, it was past 8:00 PM, crawling at 20-25 mph. Exhausted, we pressed toward D.C. Turning to Ash, I asked, "Do you want to just stay in D.C. tonight?" He nodded, and I found a budget hotel near busy D.C. We arrived around 10:45 PM. Ash was exhausted and hit the hay while I couldn't resist heading out for drinks.
The following morning, we woke to melting snow and hit the road around 1:30 PM. It wasn't until after 7:00 PM that we finally arrived in Philadelphia. Bill answered the door—a friendly figure about 5'11" with blue eyes and sandy blonde hair in a crew cut. He had a kind face, though his heavyset frame suggested he enjoyed good meals.
Within moments, the other roommates, Alex and Ian, shuffled in. "Good to meet you! I can grab beers if anyone's in the mood," I offered. Awkward silence fell as they exchanged glances. Finally, Ian broke it: "Well, actually, here in Philadelphia you can't buy beer right now. It's Sunday, and they only sell it at dispensaries, which are closed. If you want to drink, you need to hit up a bar."
My disappointment must have shown, but I quickly suggested checking out a nearby bar. The new roommates agreed to join, though they mentioned they couldn't stay late since they had work.
We walked to a dive bar about a block and a half away. It had everything: dartboards, a gorgeous bartender, touch tunes, grimy restrooms, and incredible pub fries. I knew I'd be a regular. Ian, tallest at 6'2", brought his girlfriend Marly—a petite 5'5" blonde with piercing blue eyes. She was feisty, and I loved that. Bantering was one of my favorite pastimes.
Ian exuded a relaxed California vibe, having relocated from Seattle for an engineering role at a defense company. With his sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, he embodied effortless California cool.
Unfortunately, my boss turned out to be a total jerk. My Mondays through Fridays quickly spiraled into nightmare territory. On my first day, before I even set up my laptop, he came out, handed me a customer list, and barked, "Hey Jake, set up four meetings this afternoon. I'll go with you." Without a smile or nod, he retreated to his office. I was stunned. I'd just met Rejesh for the second time, had no field sales experience, and was already feeling jittery.
I'd expected a ramp-up period—time to familiarize myself with companies, reach out by email or phone, and set up meetings within a week or two. But no, it was sink or swim. I managed to schedule three meetings that afternoon, but Rejesh wasn't satisfied. I quickly learned he was never satisfied.
I lived in Manayunk, on Philadelphia's far northeast edge, while my office was at the airport in the far southeast corner. My sales territory stretched back toward Manayunk and beyond, fifteen minutes from where I lived. I'd moved to that neighborhood specifically for proximity to my territory, but Rejesh's demands ruined that intelligence immediately.
He made us drive to the office every day before 8:00 AM just to report to him. After that, I'd trek back past where I lived to head out to my territory. I wasn't doing anything productive in the office; he simply wanted to apply additional pressure. It didn't matter how miserable the weather—his rule was crystal clear: show up every morning by 8:00 AM, only to drive back out to territory.
This forced me to wake at 5:50 AM to shower, eat, and get ready, sprint out by 6:50 AM, and endure an hour-long commute to the office. Then I'd turn around and drive another grueling hour-and-a-half to two hours back to my territory. Pure insanity! The inefficiency drove me nuts. Had I known every day would start at the airport office, I would have reconsidered living in Manayunk or taking the position at all.
With this schedule, I couldn't reach my territory until around 10:15 AM. By then, I was already drained from two and a half hours of driving and seething with frustration—every single day. I tried hunting for new opportunities with companies that hadn't used us, but honestly, every place I walked into seemed to despise us. If they'd ever used our services, it was because we'd delivered shoddy work or demanded exorbitant fees, leading them to swear off future dealings. The few clients that still used us did so only for select shipments because we were too pricey.
Philadelphia wasn't the vibrant metropolis of LA or New York; it felt like an aging, perhaps dying city. I was utterly miserable, and my boss did nothing to help. Rejesh was relentless, constantly pressing for updates on every detail. I felt like I was suffocating under his scrutiny. I often wished I'd taken Houston instead.
Lauren and I had gotten entangled back into talking, trying to make long-distance work. She didn't realize how much of a stable force I was until I was gone, so she'd want to talk nearly every night. I was relieved to have distance because I was no longer paying for every dinner or bar tab.
She visited for St. Patrick's Day weekend, which I thought would be romantic, but not only did we not have sex, she acted more like a distant friend than a girlfriend—a distant friend that wasn't even fun. My roommates all loathed her. She came off as pretentious and cold, though I suspected she was nervous and didn't want to lead me on if her feelings had changed. Maybe when she saw me in person, she realized the spark was gone. I was determined to pursue her since I'd invested so much. With my job as chaotic as it was, she was one thing, besides my mom, that gave me some stability. They were the only people I'd share stressors with, and I needed an outlet.
Making new friends in Philadelphia was difficult. Most people had grown up there and weren't interested in new friends. I could usually charm groups for a night at bars, but it seldom ended in exchanging numbers, let alone meaningful friendship. My roommates were homebodies, which didn't help.
By April, Philadelphia was still grappling with frigid 27-degree temperatures. That was the cherry on top of my misery. I couldn't even indulge in pleasant weather; it had to be dismal all around. The driving made it feel like twelve to fourteen-hour days, compounded by suffocating pressure and late-night calls from Rejesh.
All I needed was to endure nine more months, then I'd be free from repaying my relocation bonus. That $7,500 was the sole anchor keeping me from quitting. If I could have marched out right then, I would have, but I hadn't made or saved much money yet.
As summer rolled into fall, my relationship with Lauren remained rocky. On a positive note, Lauren encouraged me to connect with her friend Zack, a Harvard-educated lawyer in D.C. I asked her to set up the introduction. Zack soon texted, inviting me down in a couple weeks. Desperate for an East Coast friend, I jumped at it. The 2½-hour drive was manageable, and seeing a familiar face felt like a needed boost.
That first D.C. weekend was incredible. Zack and I hit it off like old pals. He was charming and effortlessly kept up with my energy—5'11" with striking blue eyes and light brown hair. His infectious smile and magnetic personality made him a chick magnet, and I loved helping my friends score. By weekend's end, I'd helped him succeed twice.
Zack genuinely enjoyed my company; I was a refreshing burst of fun compared to the buttoned-up lawyers he typically associated with. He had a close circle of fellow attorneys we'd occasionally join, but our most memorable adventures happened when it was just us prowling D.C. nightlife.
There was satisfying thrill in helping Zack with women he might not have otherwise approached. We started hanging out at least monthly, a welcome reprieve from repetitiveness. Both unhappy with our East Coast weeknight lives, we shared a common goal of making our way back to Phoenix.
As June approached, my lease was expiring, but we all wanted to continue living together. We searched for a new place closer to the city, aiming for a wealthier, more vibrant neighborhood. Manayunk was fun, but it was a journey to get into the city. We wanted to be closer to action. I thought maybe this would help us get out together more. The promise of better summer weather was welcome too. The frigid winter, combined with work depression and Lauren stress, made it difficult to be happy at all.
We found a great row home in Fairmount with four bedrooms across three stories and a basement. Bill and Alex claimed the basement and top floor—the largest spaces. On the second floor were two bedrooms and a shared bathroom, one significantly smaller. I negotiated for the smaller bedroom, figuring I could get a great deal while living in a prime Philly neighborhood. Ian, still with Marly, opted for the larger room. When the dust settled, my monthly rent was just $175 for twelve months. That left plenty of cash for nights out to try to turn my experience around. The rent was low enough that if I decided to leave for Arizona before lease-end, I could easily manage the cost.
As the Fairmount move progressed and Lauren continued voicing uncertainty about our relationship in nearly every conversation, I decided to explore what else was out there. A new app called "Tinder" had burst onto the scene, offering chances to match with people and initiate conversations for dates. To my surprise, I received interest from attractive women. I started going on dates—one to a Phillies game, another to a Dave Matthews concert in Camden, and gearing up for a highly anticipated Jay-Z and Justin Timberlake concert at Citizens Bank Park on August 13th.
The concert atmosphere was electric when I noticed my phone buzzing with a call from my mom. I didn't pick up because I couldn't hear in that environment, but moments later, a text popped up: "Jake, give me a call when you get this. I have some bad news." My heart sank. "What else could be going wrong," I wondered. I told my date I needed to step out and made my way to a quieter corner.
When she answered, her voice trembled. "Hey Jake, I'm sorry to interrupt your fun, but your grandma has taken a turn for the worse. She's no longer able to speak, and we've started hospice care at home. We set up a hospital bed in the living room. She doesn't have much time left. If you want to visit one last time, your dad and I will buy your plane ticket."
I felt a rush of emotions. I'd never been particularly close to my grandma, but I cared deeply; she was family. It felt important to see her and offer comfort, especially since we'd never shared that close a bond. I promised I'd talk to Rejesh about getting time off.
Trying to enjoy the rest of the concert proved challenging. The information weighed down my thoughts.
The next morning, I emailed Rejesh requesting to fly out Friday to spend the weekend with my dying grandma. He swiftly approved, and I called my mom to book my ticket. I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing her again—I missed her dearly. I missed my dad too and looked forward to spending time with him. Plus, I hoped to drive to Tempe one night to catch up with college friends.
The trip was as good as could be expected. It was odd seeing my grandma lying mute in a hospital bed in the living room while we tried comforting her with words and touch. It was nice spending time with my mom. I didn't realize how much I missed her and how just being around her seemed to lift me up.
My grandma was expected to pass relatively soon after my visit. She held on longer than anyone anticipated, but sadly passed in early September. Since we were the only ones close to her at the end, there wasn't a funeral, making it feel like a quiet farewell.
After my grandma's arrangements, my parents were scheduled to embark on a cruise October 12th to Mexico for my mom's birthday. Meanwhile, Lauren and I had plans for Belize in mid-September. I looked forward to this getaway, hoping it would either breathe new life into our relationship or serve as clear reason to finally break up, allowing me to pursue other women more aggressively in Philadelphia. Though I'd been going on dates and sharing a few kisses, I hesitated to take things further since I was still trying to rekindle things with Lauren.
Finally, our trip week arrived, and I was eager to step away from my boss's pressure and see where Lauren and I stood. Unfortunately, the vacation raised more questions than answers. It felt like the beginning of the end; if she remained so uncertain, I wasn't going to continue being loyal. I craved fun and wanted to explore whether other girls were interested.
Less than a month after Belize, my parents were set to drive to LA for their cruise celebrating my mom's birthday. I can still picture my mother in her vibrant yellow shirt, wheelchair-bound, beaming with excitement as she prepared to board. I hadn't seen her smile that broadly in years. She seemed excited to experience life not cooped up with my dad in Sun City. I was surprised because when I'd suggested they do more things, they'd always resisted.
My sister had gifted them the cruise tickets as a birthday present—a surprise to us all. Their relationship had been strained for years, hardly speaking over the past five. My mom had struggled with substance abuse related to MS medication. She'd shop around for doctors, collecting pills that left her loopy, slurring words and barely able to stay awake. I remember many evenings driving from Tempe to Sun City trying to help when my dad seemed overwhelmed.
There was a time she confided in the wrong doctor about dark thoughts, leading to a week-long stay in a mental health facility. Visiting her there was difficult, a reminder of battles we faced. I watched my mother's health deteriorate alarmingly between 2006 and 2009. The combination of chronic illness and escalating prescription use spiraled further out of control after they moved to Kentucky from 2009 to 2011. When my dad Josh lost his job in Kentucky, they relocated to Arizona, seeking retirement solace in Sun City.
I won't lie—I felt excitement about my parents' cruise. Since it was international, their phones would lose service after day one, giving me needed rest from nightly check-ins. I was used to those calls where I reassured her everything was fine. Really, most of the time I just wanted to make sure she wasn't slurring words and delirious from drugs. This brief break felt like fresh air. Plus, with secret plans to move back to Arizona soon, I wasn't overly concerned about work, so I could enjoy time off checking on her and have a little fun.
The Saturday after my parents set sail, I embraced spontaneity and dove into fun. Eric and Jamie were in town from Baltimore, and we went to Xfinity Live!, a pulsating bar hub near the stadiums. With my relationship with Lauren fizzled, Eric and Jamie made connections with a couple girls who caught our attention. Our day was a delightful mix of laughter, drinks, and flirtation, and after several hours, we retreated to my apartment where the night took a fun turn.
As we continued drinking at my apartment, one girl captured my attention. Standing at 5'5" with straight brunette hair, she had a very nice body and radiated irresistible confidence.
After a couple more beers, the girl and I made our way upstairs to my bedroom. She looked at me with a playful smile and asked what I wanted to do. With the thrill of the moment—her being the first new girl I'd be hooking up with in about six years—I suggested we make out and see where things led.
She'd already taken her shoes off before we got on the bed. She was wearing tight jeans, and I slowly unbuttoned them and slid them down. The anticipation was intense as I touched her intimately. I was eager to please her, but as I got closer, I caught an unmistakable scent—she clearly hadn't cleaned up after a recent encounter with another guy.
The smell hit me immediately, but instead of being turned off, I felt a surge of humiliation and arousal. I was already committed, so I pushed forward. She grabbed the back of my head, pressing my face into her, knowing she had complete control. The realization that she didn't even respect me enough to clean up first only added to the intense mix of shame and desire I was feeling.
When I finally pulled away, I excused myself to the bathroom. After returning, I found her and her friend getting ready to leave. No reciprocation, no return on my efforts—just the lingering sense of being used. It was both disappointing and incredibly intense. The thought of what had just happened would fuel countless fantasies. The sense of humiliation was scorching.
The next day, Eric, Jamie, and I ventured to Bishop's Collar, a lively bar in Fairmount. We settled in for an epic day of drinking while watching college football. By weekend's end, I felt rejuvenated and ready to tackle the workweek. I'd managed to hook up with a girl—sort of—and had an unforgettable weekend.
Monday morning arrived, and I strolled into the airport office at 7:45 AM in a crisp dress shirt and slacks. As the meeting kicked off, Rejesh launched into his presentation. About five minutes in, he suddenly halted, casting a critical eye my way. "Really? No tie, man? Wow. Do you have one in your car you can put on? This is very disrespectful," he scolded.
I felt frustration bubble to the surface. I was already fed up with his antics, but didn't want to jeopardize my job. My plan was to endure until my year was up and make my exit. As Rejesh continued speaking, I shrank in my seat, feeling as small and exposed as possible. Embarrassment washed over me, simmering into anger. In a moment of dark humor, I found myself fantasizing about how I might get away with harming Rejesh. The thought was absurd (I'd never do it!), yet it oddly comforted me. "Sure, you can be a jerk to me. But just know, I could always take you out if I really wanted to," I mused, relishing my fleeting sense of power.
Lost in vengeful daydreams, I was abruptly jolted back by sharp finger snaps. Rejesh was attempting to reclaim my attention. "Alright, everyone, I think we're all tired. You're free to go," he declared, dismissing us with a nonchalant wave.
Despite the humiliation, I managed to say goodbye to co-workers, but couldn't bring myself to acknowledge Rejesh. I climbed into my car and drove back to Fairmount, determined to drown my frustrations in alcohol. The plan was simple: get as drunk as possible, hoping to forget the whole experience and numb the lingering embarrassment. I hit up Bishop's Collar, where I downed seven pints and four shots in a blur.
Around 12:30 AM, I finally decided to call it a night and sleep it off so I could be somewhat functional before heading to my territory in the morning. Thankfully, the Area Manager had caught wind of Rejesh's absurd 8:00 AM demand and overruled him. The nightmare of those early mornings was finally over.
On most workdays, I didn't expect to hear from Rejesh until 10:00 or 11:00 AM, so I'd frequently sneak in an extra hour or two of drinking and sleep in a bit. After being singled out in the meeting, I decided to drink more than usual and enjoy a couple more hours of sleep. At that point, I didn't care; if they caught me and fired me, so be it.
The next morning, I awoke to missed calls—one from Rejesh on my work phone and another from my sister on my personal phone, which struck me as odd. Realizing it was 10:30 AM, I jumped in the shower and threw on work clothes, preparing to head to my territory. Deciding to call my sister back, I braced myself for whatever news she had.
When she answered, her voice was thick with sobs. "What happened?!?" I asked, my heart racing. "You know," she replied cryptically. In moments like that, you don't know anything. "No, Kate. I don't know. Please tell me," I urged.
"Mom died," she said.
"Oh, fuck. Oh my god. Are you serious? What happened?" I stammered, panic washing over me. Kate could only tell me that Mom had passed away on the cruise ship sometime during the previous night. To make matters worse, my dad hadn't even bothered to call me.
I felt completely shattered. Just a month earlier, my grandma had died, and now my mom was gone too. A crushing wave of self-hatred engulfed me as I cursed my decision to move to Philadelphia, convinced that if I'd stayed in Arizona, things would have turned out differently. "Will Dad be calling me?" I asked. She didn't know, explaining he wouldn't have access to their cell phones while on the international cruise. Still, she promised to let him know I wanted him to call if he reached out to her again.
In an effort to keep my boss off my back, I called him to break the news. He listened attentively, understanding the gravity. After asking a few questions about what happened, he assured me I had the day off and likely the next as well. His sincere condolences felt oddly comforting, especially coming from him. For once, he sounded more like a compassionate human being than a dictatorial boss.
As I hung up, a wave of grief washed over me. I sank onto my bed, desperately trying to summon tears, but something felt off—they just wouldn't come. I couldn't just sit at home alone. I needed to do something to distract myself from the horror of my life. Nothing seemed real.
I decided to venture to the grocery store, mindlessly picking up items I didn't really need. Then I spotted a Redbox kiosk and rented a couple movies, desiring temporary escape from crushing reality.
I texted Lauren and Stephanie to inform them of my mom's passing, asking if we could chat when they had a moment. Lauren called almost immediately, her voice tinged with unsettling excitement. "I had a bad feeling that something was going to happen!" she declared, sounding like a detective who'd just cracked a case. My stomach churned in disgust; this wasn't the time for her to flaunt her ego. "How could she be so insensitive when I needed her most?" I thought.
Stephanie called about ten minutes later, her tone sympathetic and genuinely warm. It was a relief to talk to her, and I found myself thinking how fortunate I was to have her in my life.
Returning home, I felt growing anxiety about my inability to cry. I was sad; I loved my mom deeply, yet tears refused to flow. I realized it had been years since I'd cried. In a moment of clarity, I posted a heartfelt message on Facebook to commemorate my mother's life and notify friends and family of her passing. Almost immediately, messages flooded in—people shared their fondest memories, heartfelt condolences, and prayers. "It's nice to feel like people care," I thought.
My roommates, having seen my post, mentioned they were heading to a haunted house that night. They hesitated, sensing it might not be the best plan but urged me to join if I felt up to it. I thought it would be good to get out and keep my mind occupied, so I accepted.
We went to the haunted house at old Eastern State Penitentiary in Fairmount. It was a welcome distraction from the weight of my mom's passing. However, whenever I caught myself laughing or losing my grief through distraction, a pang of guilt washed over me, as if I were betraying her memory by allowing myself to enjoy the moment. After the haunted house, we headed to Bishop's Collar for a nightcap. They'd cautioned me against drinking, and I agreed, choosing to stay sober that night.
While at the bar, I met a girl who was clearly intoxicated. Despite my situation, I kept the conversation light and friendly. She lived just around the corner, and when I offered to walk her home, she gratefully accepted, clearly too tipsy to navigate alone. She stumbled across the street with me holding her up, and when we reached her front door, we exchanged pleasantries and shared a quick hug. As tempting as it was to ask for her number, I held back. Having just lost my mom, I wasn't ready for anything at the moment. It was hard enough to just put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward.
On the walk back, I took my time, letting my senses take in details of my surroundings. I focused on places along the street I'd previously overlooked. As I passed the Corinthian Gardens next to the prison, I paused to appreciate its unexpected beauty.
Once home, I took some sleeping medication, hoping it would help me get a little sleep. However, sleep eluded me, and I was jolted awake the next morning by my phone ringing at 10:00 AM. The number looked unfamiliar, but I answered anyway, hoping it was my dad calling from the cruise ship. To my relief, it was him.
"Hey Jake, it's your father. I have some sad news—as you know your mother passed away yesterday in her sleep on the cruise," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I'm okay, but obviously sad. They've taken her body to the morgue on the ship. They aren't fully sure what happened, but they'll perform a complete autopsy when we get back to Los Angeles. How are you holding up?"
It was hard to come up with words. "How the hell am I doing?" raced through my mind, but I held my tongue. Instead, I replied, "I'm okay. I mean, obviously sad, but I don't know if it's fully hit me yet."
My dad said he understood the struggle with it not hitting me yet. Unfortunately, he had limited time on the phone because they were out at sea and the call was international. "I love you," he said, and as quickly as that, he had to end the conversation.
"Okay, love you too," I responded, and just like that, the call was over.
My dad still had four days left on the cruise, with their destination city in Mexico approaching. They were set to dock there for the day tomorrow before heading back to Los Angeles. I couldn't fathom how awful that must be: losing your wife and then being trapped on a ship with her lifeless body while surrounded by oblivious celebrators. It seemed worse than hell itself.
That afternoon, I discovered the Corinthian Gardens I'd passed the night before was hosting a planting event, and it struck me as an emotional tribute to volunteer, helping plant new flowers in their garden plots in memory of my mom. I spent the day on my feet, assisting fellow volunteers and fetching water, feeling a bit of purpose amidst overwhelming grief. There was even a sweepstakes drawing for those who helped, with the winner receiving their own flower plot to name. I hoped to win so I could dedicate it to my mom, but it wasn't in the cards and my name wasn't drawn.
My boss had given me the rest of the week off, but he did want to grab lunch nearby after a couple days to check in. He was the last person I wanted to see, yet the prospect of a free meal with my dwindling bank account was tempting, and I thought it might earn me some goodwill I desperately needed. We settled on an Indian restaurant not too far from where I lived, conveniently close to Rejesh's office.
It was my first experience with Indian cuisine, and Rejesh recommended the masala—either lamb or chicken for a newbie. As we sat and ate, the atmosphere felt different; we spoke far less than usual. Typically, Rejesh bombarded me with endless questions, but today he seemed genuinely concerned, almost hesitant to intrude on my emotions. Perhaps he still felt guilty for how he'd treated me in that meeting right before my mom passed.
At one point, he asked if I planned to fly back to Los Angeles to see my mom one last time after they returned. I found the question bizarre. "Who would want to see one of their parents a week after they'd died?" I thought. The idea felt gross and morbid. I imagined her not looking like herself at all—motionless, lifeless. It was a vision I'd rather avoid, but I told him I'd think about it.
Truthfully, I had no idea where I'd find money to fly back to Illinois for the funeral. My finances had been consumed by nights of drinking and getting tangled up in risky arrangements with two girls from college. The weight of it all felt suffocating.
I was drawn to female domination, particularly financial domination, where a woman uses personal information and sometimes manipulative tactics over male subjects involving money through humiliation. The girls I was involved with knew I enjoyed being submissive, and they played along with my desires. I'd often ask them to call me degrading names, which made me feel extremely submissive to them. I found them to be a safer avenue to explore this dynamic than a professional. We had history and knew each other personally, which meant we could indulge in desires but also hit the brakes if things got too intense.
One of these girls was Victoria, a stunning blonde from Texas, standing tall at 5'7" with a long, slender frame, captivating blue eyes, and the kind of body that could grace any magazine cover. We'd attended ASU at the same time and been introduced a few times at events. We even had a picture together tagged on Facebook from a social where we talked for awhile. She'd been crowned Miss Arizona several years ago, her beauty nothing short of breathtaking. At the time, she was dating a promising young baseball player in Triple-A who seemed destined for the big leagues. If you've kept your ear to the ground in Major League Baseball over the past decade, you'd likely recognize his name.
One drunken night just before moving to Philadelphia, I'd messaged her asking if she would engage in this dynamic with me. What that meant was I would send her a weekly amount of money in exchange for her discretion and to engage in humiliating interactions. It quickly developed into her taking a very dominant role, making me do degrading things like kneeling in a tiny closet in my bedroom for hours at a time whenever she thought I wasn't being completely submissive.
In one of our more intense interactions, she'd made me pick out and buy her an expensive set of lingerie. Then, in a twist that left me both exhilarated and humiliated, she instructed me to kneel in a closet, sending her video proof of my submission as she wore the very lingerie I'd purchased while intimate with her boyfriend. I'd given her contact information for my boss and Lauren so she could leverage that to force me to comply with any humiliating demand whenever she wanted. I wasn't allowed to say no and always had to submit when she'd make a demand. I secretly loved it. The intensity I would get from her treating me this way was incredible. The power dynamic between us blurred lines in ways I never expected, intertwining pleasure and emotional pain in a surreal dance of control.
I had a particular fascination with certain power dynamics, and the combination of teasing and humiliation from a girl as stunning as Victoria sent shivers down my spine. It was an intoxicating mix of degradation and desire, making my blood boil with a potent cocktail of shame and arousal. I fantasized about her boyfriend being with her in the lingerie I'd bought, my heart racing as I knelt in the cramped closet like a devoted servant.
By the end, I was cramping and sweating, the air conditioning in that tiny closet nothing more than a cruel joke. It felt more like an attic space with how hot it got. Finally, she let me know they were finished, and when I was allowed to emerge, she laid down a heavy ultimatum: I had to send her an extra $100, or she would share the videos and story of my submission with Lauren and my boss. I complied, knowing the humiliation only heightened my desire; her playful taunts and extra demands to enforce my submission were all part of the dynamic.
I tried to get out of the arrangement about a month before my mom's passing, but she said she wouldn't let me. She stated I would fulfill our agreement until the end of the year we'd agreed upon or else she would share everything with Lauren. I let her know I was struggling financially and she said she didn't care, this was what I'd signed up for. I would pay her all the rest of the money I'd promised even if I had to do it in increments until the contract was fulfilled.
Our dynamic had begun back in January when I moved to Philadelphia and continued until my mother's passing in September. After my mom passed, I messaged her and she let me know not to worry about it at all and just take care of myself.
Her boyfriend was blissfully unaware of our arrangement at first, but eventually she felt guilty doing it behind his back and told him about me, and he wasn't too pleased. When I found out later that she'd told him, I couldn't help but imagine his shock and possibly intrigue at the idea that his girlfriend was engaging with another guy in this fashion at the same time.
The other girl, Sam, lived in Arizona and stood 5'3" with attractive brown hair and striking green eyes. She was one of the bartenders at Cue Club, the bar where we had my farewell party, where her vibrant personality lit up the room. Sam had a boyfriend, and I suspected he was aware of our arrangement, probably laughing together at my expense behind my back. The thought was oddly tantalizing.
With her sultry, petite frame, she'd dabbled in local modeling for the bar and other establishments in the area. She had a toned physique, and she'd demanded videos of me on my knees, begging her to let me be submissive to her. In drunken, lust-fueled moments, I would plead for her to make me do degrading things. Initially, she resisted, enjoying the build-up of my desperation, but eventually, she conceded and commanded me to fulfill my request.
I took a video of myself wearing a collar, declaring my submission to her as I did what she'd demanded and sent it over to her. I could only imagine the laughter that ensued between her and her boyfriend as she shared the video with him—likely a mix of amusement and disbelief at my embarrassing antics.
Victoria and Sam each brought their own unique style, and I found myself paying both of them $75 a week to keep my secret and indulge in the fantasy of being submissive to them. Sam was much more reserved whereas Victoria was very direct and authoritative. It was a way for me to satisfy my cravings within a semi-safe framework that allowed me to explore submission without too many risks.
After my mom passed, I did make it back for the funeral which was held at a church in my hometown. I was surprised how few people showed up. I was expecting it to be fuller of people whose lives she'd touched, because she was such a caring and helpful woman, especially before the disease took control of her life and happiness.
I had booked a flight for Lauren to visit me after my mom's passing, desperately seeking the comfort of someone I believed cared for me, regardless of whether our relationship was romantic or platonic. I was genuinely looking forward to her arrival; I needed emotional support more than ever.
However, after one of our nightly phone calls, Lauren texted me that she wasn't sure if she still wanted to come to Philadelphia. My heart sank, crushed under the weight of this news. In a moment of frustration, I exploded on her. I texted her that if she couldn't commit to visiting, she might as well stay home and never contact me again. With that, I immediately blocked her number, sealing the door on that chapter of my life.
I must admit, I was a complete momma's boy. Now that my mom was gone, an immense void had opened up in my life, one that I desperately sought to fill. I realized I needed to find other distractions to occupy my mind. My mom had always been my emotional anchor, and I'd been eagerly looking forward to moving back to Phoenix to spend precious time with her again.
Throughout my life, my dad had always seemed bothered by my problems, no matter how trivial they might be, which made my mom my confidant and the person with whom I shared my deepest emotions. With her absence, I felt lost. On top of that, I'd always harbored deep-seated submissive desires that had lurked in the background, kept at bay by my mom's presence. I didn't want her to find out about this side of me. I felt ashamed of these desires, but I never fully explored them, afraid she would find out. With her gone, the restraints that had held me back vanished, leaving me to wonder what paths I might now explore.
The girls I'd been playing with were fun, but they were amateurs and former friends, so even though we'd toy with certain dynamics, I figured I'd be able to talk my way out of it if I ever needed to. Perhaps what I truly craved was the expertise of a professional who could provide a more intense experience.
For years, I'd followed the most popular figures in this world online. They always posted content of their subjects completing degrading tasks for them. I frequently fantasized about being the one doing the acts demanded in their audacious displays of power.
The most attractive of them all was a 23-year-old, 5'3", 115-pound blonde bombshell named Goddess Jessica. With tan skin, piercing brown eyes, and an enticing smile that suggested she enjoyed the dynamics with her subjects, she was a vision of pure temptation. I'd been captivated by her photos and online presence thousands of times, attracted by the way she wielded authority over her male subjects.
She was, without a doubt, the most dominant and attractive woman I'd ever seen, and I felt an insatiable urge to fully embrace the fantasy of serving her. With my breakup with Lauren, the relentless stress of my job, and the weight of my mother's passing pressing down on me, I felt as though I had nothing left to lose. I was ready to dive headfirst into a world of intense submission, yearning for the gratification that would come from being dominated by the most commanding woman I'd ever seen. Little did I know this decision would mark the beginning of a downward spiral into darkness, one that would lead me far deeper than I ever anticipated.
Chapter 3 – Goddess Jessica
During one particularly intense moment, my mind drifted to Goddess Jessica. My heart raced at the idea of sending her a message on Yahoo Instant Messenger, confessing my eagerness to serve her. With excitement and fear, I composed a message explaining my desires, my finger hovering over the "send" button.
As I continued pleasuring myself, the moment built to climax, and right before finishing, I spontaneously hit send. A thrilling rush surged through me—one of the most intense experiences I'd ever had. But the euphoria quickly turned to panic.
In a frenzy, I went back to Yahoo Instant Messenger wondering if I could delete it before she read it. I couldn't, and anxiety twisted in my stomach. "What have I done?" In panic, I deleted the entire app, hoping to erase my reckless decision. While the release had been amazing, I couldn't shake the fear of how deeply I might plunge into darkness with her. Better to convince myself she'd never see it.
The intensity of that memory clung to me, however. I'd never experienced such ecstasy, and it felt as though I'd stumbled upon a new realm of pleasure. Determined to recapture that high, I started fantasizing about having sent the message while looking at her captivating images.
With eager anticipation, I went to her Twitter account, ready to immerse myself in the fantasy of submitting to her. As soon as I landed on her page, I realized I'd made a huge mistake. My heart dropped when I saw her latest post—a screenshot of a Yahoo Instant Messenger conversation. I looked closer, and my stomach twisted.
"She's posting our conversation," I realized, with equal parts anger and fear. Alongside the screenshot of my message, she'd included her response, displaying my vulnerability for all her followers:
"Fuck off! I don't have time for a loser who lives in his mother's basement and doesn't have enough money to pay me."
Her words struck like a slap. My mother had just died, and this person had the audacity to respond like that. I was fuming as I furiously typed a response. "Just so you know, I saw your Twitter post, and I make around $75,000 a year. My mother passed away just this past week, so I certainly don't live in her basement. If you don't want me as your slave, I'll find another Domme to serve!"
I knew I could never fantasize about her again. The thought would only ignite my rage.
Later that day, I nervously checked my messages, half-expecting an apology. She'd responded on Yahoo Instant Messenger, saying she was sorry for jumping to conclusions about my finances. "I deal with a lot of guys who waste my time," she explained, her tone softening slightly. She offered me a chance to serve her for $100 a week if I was still interested.
Despite my declining finances, I thought there was no way I could back out now. I didn't have much money leftover from my bi-weekly paycheck, but I thought, "I can manage this." I went to the PayPal app and sent $100 to get us started.
The next day, she confirmed receipt of my payment. In the beginning, our arrangement was exhilarating, filled with purpose and anticipation. I found myself devising clever ways to cut expenses, determined to increase the "tributes" I sent weekly in addition to the $100. She had over fifty active slaves on Twitter, and I was starting from the very bottom. I knew I had to do everything possible to catch her attention. Whenever she posted a link to something new on her Amazon Wishlist, I jumped at the chance to purchase it within my limited budget.
Eager to impress her, I began tweeting responses to her posts, showering her with compliments about her beauty, dominance, and perfection. She enjoyed the praise. She asked for a photo, and I felt a surge of confidence. I was in decent shape from hitting the gym daily, so I sent her a picture where I tried to look as attractive as possible.
To my surprise, her reply was short and direct: "No, I want one with all of your clothes off." My heart raced. "Maybe she's actually into me," I thought. "Or at least she finds me attractive." But deep down, I knew I was mistaken. She demanded I create a Twitter account under the moniker "@WeakLittleBitch" where she could tag and interact with me directly. I did as instructed, in no shape to negotiate with a top-tier Financial Dominatrix.
In addition to the weekly $100 and Amazon gifts, she also offered "Skype Sessions" at $10 a minute, with a minimum of 10 minutes. I was eager to connect face-to-face, wanting her to see I was not only good-looking but also funny and confident. Sure, I enjoyed my submissive role, but I wanted to stand out from her other timid slaves. I aimed to be intellectually stimulating as well.
After saving up, I managed to scrape together $100 for our first Skype session. When the moment arrived, she asked what I wanted to do. Most guys who Skyped with her were just interested in pleasuring themselves while staring at her as she teased them. Sometimes she'd verbally humiliate them or assign tasks, often leading to their finish within just minutes, after which they'd end the call abruptly.
But I had different intentions. I genuinely wanted to get to know her, to delve beyond the surface and explore her personality. This was more than just indulgence; it was an opportunity to form a connection that transcended typical boundaries.
I heard the Skype call ringing and felt anticipation as she picked up. She was every bit as stunning as the pictures, an absolute dream. Lying on her stomach with her face pressed into the frame and her feet playfully kicked up, she radiated irresistible charm. I was dressed casually in a t-shirt, and while my shorts were out of frame, I wasn't touching myself. I wanted to focus entirely on her.
Her voice was unlike any I'd encountered—warm, inviting, and addictive. Her natural way of speaking could put you in a trance. Talking to her was delightful; she teased me, asked probing questions, and genuinely seemed interested in my interests. I had no intention of holding back; I wanted this to grow into a long-term connection, so I opened up about everything, from various fantasies to specific dynamics.
When I mentioned chastity, she stopped me, her eyes widening with excitement. "Chastity? Yum. Would you wear a device for me?" she asked, her tone so confident it made the hair on my neck stand up. I was taken aback by her ability to ask without hesitation. "Uh… yeah, if you wanted me to," I replied, my heart racing.
"Okay, I want you to," she declared. "I'll send a link to my favorite. Buy it and let me know when it arrives. I want you to send me the keys." "Okay," I said, still processing. "Okay, what, slave?" she challenged. "Okay, Goddess," I responded, blushing.
As the Skype call approached twelve minutes, I didn't want to waste more of her time since I'd only paid for ten. I wanted to be a good slave. "Goddess, we're past time. This was amazing. I really appreciate it," I said. Her response was playful and dismissive: "Bye, moron," and just like that, she abruptly shut off her camera. I burst out laughing; this girl truly didn't give a damn. I'd never experienced anything like it, and I found myself fully captivated.
She seemed to view me as one of her more attractive slaves, enjoying posting pictures of tasks she made me do on Twitter. I didn't hold back either; I wanted her to see me as entertaining. Before long, the other slaves began to notice our interactions and started interacting with me on Twitter. It felt exhilarating—I was finally "in the club" after a month or two of trying to earn my place.
When I was feeling cheeky or she wanted to test my patience, she'd demand that I write "lines" for her. These involved typing the same phrase over and over in a computer program, and any mistake would add another line. It typically began with her commanding, "Okay, Jake. Go write 10 lines saying, 'Goddess Jessica is the sexiest, most lovable Goddess in the Universe, and I am an insignificant whiny little bitch.' Send me a screenshot when you're done." But by the time I stumbled over a few keys, that simple request would expand to seventy lines or more.
To make matters worse, my spacebar was unreliable, only working about half the time. So as I furiously typed, it often failed between words, leading to further penalties. The frustration was climbing, and I was dangerously close to throwing my laptop out the window.
During the chaos, she asked about the chastity device I'd ordered. I informed her it had arrived but was a disaster—it was from China and slipped off the moment I tried it on. "Oh, damn," she replied flatly, and just like that, she ended the conversation, leaving me to stew in my failure.
My roommates and I were set to part ways in June of 2014, just a few months after my mom's passing. I didn't have much of a plan. One roommate, Alex, offered me a spot on his couch for $500 a month, and with no other prospects, I jumped at it. It would be nice living with someone I considered a friend, and he was moving to South Philadelphia, which would be better for my commutes. We'd also be within a mile of major sports stadiums and concert venues. A brand-new neighborhood full of bars awaited exploration, which had me excited.
Alex wanted to join a recreational sports league and invited me along. I figured it would be a great opportunity to get out, have fun, and possibly meet some girls. We signed up for a softball league set to kick off the following week.
Over the next few weeks, it felt like she was slowly distancing herself while simultaneously asking for more money. I didn't feel like I was receiving the attention and experience I needed, especially considering the $100 weekly. Our agreement felt increasingly lopsided; if she didn't value the commitment we'd made, I figured the odds of her enforcing it were low. If she wasn't going to appreciate my tribute, I'd simply shift focus to serving a different Financial Dominatrix.
I had no intention of being cruel; I just needed more engagement. The thrilling experiences and explosive releases I once enjoyed with Goddess Jessica had faded, leaving me unsatisfied. So I decided to stop responding to her messages. After a week or two of silence, I sensed she finally realized I'd moved on.
Goddess Rene was a popular Dominatrix on Twitter, known for her commanding presence. Standing tall at 5'9", she was also blonde with striking brown eyes. While she was skinnier than Goddess Jessica, her fit physique had a certain allure.
Rene had an attractive pelvic tattoo that wrapped around her bikini line, written in Latin and translating to "The girl never cries." Her appealing feet were featured in numerous clips, where she'd make her slaves dress up in frilly maid outfits and kneel to worship her. I'd fantasized about serving her nearly as much as I had with Goddess Jessica.
I tracked down Goddess Rene's email through her Twitter and reached out, asking if she offered financial domination and would take me on as her slave for $100 a week. To my delight, Goddess Rene replied within hours, confirming she could take me on, but she was leaving for vacation abroad in just three days, so I needed to act fast if I wanted her to receive the keys in time.
Living in Las Vegas, I rushed to the UPS Store and found a $112 shipping option that would get my keys to her before she left. With myself locked in the plastic device, the thought of my keys soaring through the skies created a thrilling mix of anxiety and excitement. Finally, the day before her flight, she confirmed the keys had arrived. I felt overwhelming relief and a surge of arousal.
I discovered I could still pleasure myself using a Q-Tip through the holes of the device. The compression produced releases that were nearly as satisfying as usual.
As I followed her updates from her European vacation with her husband, I couldn't help but admire her. She looked like the epitome of a milky-white Instagram model, radiating with a dazzling smile, enviable curves, and those attractive feet. I'd fantasized frequently to videos of her playfully showing dominance over her submissives.
She exuded the same dominance as Goddess Jessica but with an even more extensive portfolio of clips where she exercised control in person. It was all too easy for me to envision myself experiencing intense releases under her command. I decided she would fill the void left by Goddess Jessica.
I quickly realized that Goddess Rene didn't engage with her slaves as much as she had early in her career, or perhaps she was simply too preoccupied during vacation to make time for me. I found myself missing Goddess Jessica. Even though our communication had decreased in the weeks leading up to my silence, there'd at least been some connection. Goddess Rene, on the other hand, had simply accepted my chastity keys and dashed off to France, leaving me feeling abandoned and ignored.
That night, as I drove back to my apartment, I received a Yahoo Instant Message that made my heart skip—it was from Goddess Jessica! It contained an ASCII representation of male anatomy. "Nice," I replied, feeling nostalgia. "I'm kind of bored with my current Goddess. Want to give it another shot?" "Sure," she responded, "but this time there will be more rules." I wasn't in a position to negotiate, so I simply replied, "Ok."
A couple hours later, she messaged again with her demands: "First off, you aren't allowed to tag me in more than five Tweets per day. Second, you need to start wearing a chastity cage for me immediately until I say otherwise. And third, I want you to fill out a slave contract this time, so you can't just leave again."
Hearing her insistence on trapping me with a contract sent a thrill through me; I was incredibly turned on at the thought. This was the kind of dominance I craved. I eagerly assured her I agreed to her terms, ready to dive back into the intoxicating world of submission to her.
Goddess Jessica sent the slave contract via email, and as I opened it, I was greeted by a formal introduction outlining the terms of our twelve-month commitment. Opting out would come with a hefty fine of $2,000, a clear reminder of the gravity of my decision. The contract laid out the new rules governing our dynamic:
•	I will complete all tasks assigned to me.
•	I will check in at least twice a week.
•	I will not be needy, cry, or whine.
•	I will maintain a respectful demeanor.
•	I will not talk back or cancel payments.
•	I will always address her as Goddess Jessica, acknowledging her as my superior.
•	I will not attempt to serve other Dommes; doing so will result in a $500 fine.
I glanced over the document, but my desperation to feel her power again made me willing to sign anything. There was also a model release included, as she enjoyed posting pictures of the tasks she had me perform. I skimmed through it and signed at the bottom. Without a scanner, I let her know I'd swing by FedEx/Kinko's the following day to scan and email the contract. I promptly sent her the $100 for the first week, filled with hope that our relationship would be as engaging as it once was. I was determined to work harder, proving my devotion and striving to be the best slave I could possibly be.
I was completely smitten with her, head over heels, and she knew it.
The next morning, I drove to FedEx Kinko's near our apartment, eager to scan and email the completed contract. After paying for the service, I messaged her a couple hours later to check if she'd received everything. She confirmed she'd received the $100 via PayPal but hadn't seen the contract yet. "That's odd," I replied, my heart racing.
Calling Kinko's, I discovered they'd entered her email address incorrectly. As I spelled it out over the phone, I couldn't help but feel a mix of embarrassment and amusement. I'd just given the clerk her full email address, complete with the word "Goddess," and he'd seen the slave contract too. Miraculously, my voice didn't even tremble. Maybe I was still in shock from losing my mom; I was starting to realize just how desensitized I'd become to embarrassment.
Goddess Jessica had met a guy in Hawaii and was spending most of her time with him. I could sense she'd shifted her focus to enjoying herself with her new boyfriend, which was fine. I secretly enjoyed the dynamic. He stood 6'3" with a muscular yet lean build, and while I had no doubt he was attractive (she wouldn't post his face), I convinced myself I could take him in a fight.
Feeling mischievous, I decided to start tweeting a jab or two at him each week, but he hardly ever responded. "Typical alpha behavior," I thought with a smirk.
I was running low on cash, as Goddess Jessica had discovered every possible way to fine me. We'd just embarked on our second stint as Goddess and slave, and it felt like she was conjuring up new fines every single day. After signing the contract, I found myself constantly on edge, wondering when the next penalty would hit. There was no escaping this time; I was locked in for at least a year. It was clear she was determined to mold me into a quieter, more submissive version of myself, but it wasn't exactly the fun transformation I'd hoped for.
After a couple weeks, I decided it was time to try Skype with her again. Maybe seeing each other's faces would rekindle some warmth in our relationship; at that moment, it felt as if I were just a number in her roster of slaves. I'd saved up $100 but with my roommate at home, I couldn't find privacy to call. So I stepped outside and hit the "call" button. When she picked up, I was greeted with a playful "Hey, loser," accompanied by a teasing smile.
We chatted mostly about her day, and she threw a few questions my way about my life as well. The conversation flowed more easily than expected; it felt refreshing compared to the usual barrage of fines and reprimands on Twitter. As we wrapped up, she mentioned she wanted me to do something for her. There was a viral trend going around for the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, and she wanted to kick it off with her slaves. "Get undressed," she instructed, "and make sure you still have your chastity device on."
"Of course," I replied, a rush of excitement coursing through me. "Now, get in the shower with your chastity device on, do the ice bucket challenge, and then nominate one of my other slaves. Send me the video, and I'll post it on Twitter." I thought it was a brilliant idea and felt honored to be chosen to start it. Perhaps we were on better terms after all. I lied and let her know that I didn't love her, but that I really liked her. I was crossing paths with another Philadelphian on the sidewalk and she responded, "I can promise you that I'll never like you at all, Jake," and he chuckled as he shuffled by me.
I immediately dashed to the store for ice and grabbed a few beers on the way back. After downing about six beers, I felt ready to take the plunge. Around 11:00 PM, I got undressed and hopped into the shower, making sure to keep my voice down since my roommate was nearby. I started the camera, setting it up on the bathroom counter, and announced, "This is @WeakLittleBitch, and I'm doing the ice bucket challenge for Goddess Jessica," before pouring the ice over my head. The icy water was shocking, but somehow, I managed not to scream. I ended the video by nominating another one of her slaves to take on the challenge next.
The next day, while using the restroom, I twisted the chastity cage too much, and the plastic lock snapped off. I chuckled to myself, "I guess I won't need the keys after all."
I was still running low on cash due to all the fines, and I started brainstorming ways to make extra money. I'd seen countless clips that dominatrixes were posting and selling, and I thought, why not give it a shot? I had the looks and muscles, so I decided to take the morning off work and film a POV clip with instructions.
I was pleasantly surprised with how it turned out and posted it on a clip website for sale. Eager for feedback, I showed it to Goddess Jessica. She laughed while watching it with her boyfriend. As a task, she instructed me to do everything I'd said should be done in the POV video and send it to her for leverage. Secretly, I found it incredibly arousing that she wanted me to do that, even though I faked some reluctance so she wouldn't suspect I'd be fantasizing about the thought later.
Outside of my new side hustle, my social life revolved around the bar right below our apartment and playing softball with my roommate on our new team. We weren't exactly the best team, but it was a fun distraction from my drowning financial situation. After our first game, rain started pouring and we took refuge in a nearby bar.
Alex and I hit it off with a couple older guys, Jeff and Rob, as well as a cute Asian girl named Hayley. She had an attractive petite body. After that, we started hanging out together frequently—after softball games, during work nights, and on weekends. I found myself trying to flirt with Hayley, only to learn over time that she was a lesbian. I was taken aback, but Jeff couldn't believe I hadn't figured it out before making an idiot of myself.
Despite her orientation, I didn't give up entirely; I just toned down my advances. We continued going out to bars together, and I met her two roommates, Laura and Amy, during our outings.
Laura stood at about 5'7" with flowing brown hair and striking green eyes. Her body was undeniably attractive, boasting a fit figure and long legs. While she shared the same name as the sorority girl from my Houston escapade, she was a world apart in demeanor. Laura had a sultry look that carried an edge of sass, giving her a sensual, almost mischievous vibe. Despite her lively appearance, she was always genuinely kind to me, creating a delightful contrast that drew me in even more.
Amy stood at about 5'3" with dazzling blonde hair and blue eyes that could stop traffic. A total bombshell with an impressive figure. Unlike Laura, who wore her beauty with a touch of modesty, Amy had a confidence that radiated from her; she knew she was stunning. I'd have been more than happy to date either of them, but they seemed to see me only as a friend, despite my attempts at flirtation.
Both were studying Audiology at the same college in Philadelphia and had moved in together. As time passed, Laura and I began to hang out a bit more, and I started to wonder if there might be a spark between us.
By September, Alex, my roommate, had finally reached his limit with my couch-surfing lifestyle. One night, after a particularly wild evening, I passed out on the toilet—just before my chastity lock broke—and he had to pry the door open, discovering me in an embarrassing position. That might've been the last straw. My finances were still in disarray due to Goddess Jessica's relentless fines, but I managed to find an apartment right off Broad and Girard, an Asian student housing complex near the city heart. At just $300 a month, it was a steal compared to the $500 I was paying to crash on Alex's couch. It was two girls living in the apartment, with one set to move out, so they were ideally looking for a girl. I had to borrow from my 401(k) to afford moving anywhere new because my finances were in such disarray from Goddess Jessica's constant financial pressures.
When I visited the apartment, I was polite and respectful, trying to exude as kind a vibe as I could while meeting the potential roommates and looking at the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. The kitchen and bathroom needed cleaning, but for $300 a month I was more than happy to do the work. My two roommates were slender Asian girls who communicated in very limited English, which made things a bit interesting. I let them know I'd love to move in if they'd have me.
A few hours later, I received a text saying that despite my gender, they felt comfortable enough to welcome me. I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
The next day, Alex and I said our goodbyes. He reassured me that even though we wouldn't be living together anymore, we'd still be friends. We hung out a couple more times, but the move ultimately put a damper on our relationship, marking the end of an era.
Now settled into my new apartment, I found myself without cable TV, but I did have internet, which became my lifeline. I dove headfirst into a binge-watching spree, exploring shows I'd never seen before. I devoured Breaking Bad, Dexter, Rescue Me, The Sopranos, and Sons of Anarchy, and they became my primary entertainment alongside occasional nights at bars. Goddess Jessica, however, was relentless in her demands for money, constantly finding new ways to fine me, which meant my bar outings were limited. She'd frequently forbid me from going out, and I felt overwhelming dread under the weight of the contract binding me to her. It felt eerily reminiscent of the dull days when I'd first left her, and I began to brainstorm escape routes. I just needed to find a way to avoid the $2,000 buy-out clause.
To add to my obligations, I was handling DMCA link removal emails for her, as well as summarizing custom video requests from her clients. The DMCA removals were straightforward; she simply wanted me to scour search engines for links to her videos and send template takedown requests to webmasters. The custom video requests were more complex. Many clients would submit vague or nonsensical ideas, leaving me to decipher their intent and summarize what Goddess Jessica would be creating in response. I thought she probably valued my input because I shared many of the same interests as her clients, giving me unique insight into their requests. Occasionally, I'd also send out contracts to new slaves or modify existing ones to cater to specific needs. All this work was tedious and lacked any real thrill. I often found myself spending a few hours each day tackling these tasks, and when I ran out of things to do, she'd instruct me to dig deeper into the internet for more of her clips.
One day, while waiting in a company's lobby for a meeting, I was scrolling through Twitter when I decided to comment on one of Goddess Lindsay L's pictures, complimenting her beauty. Knowing she was friends with Goddess Jessica, I thought it was a nice gesture. To my surprise, Goddess Lindsay L publicly responded, demanding that I purchase five of her clips and send her the receipt immediately or face a block. I was taken aback—there was no way I'd comply. I'd only been trying to be friendly, and I certainly wasn't interested in spending more money when I was already strapped for cash with Goddess Jessica.
In another twist, Goddess Lindsay L tweeted again, tagging Goddess Jessica and saying, "I think this is one of yours? He owes me five clip buys."
Feeling the need to keep Goddess Jessica in the loop, I sent her a message, even though it was early morning in Hawaii. "Hey, I tagged Goddess Lindsay L in a Tweet just trying to be nice and say she's attractive. Now she's tagging you and demanding I buy five of her clips, which I'm not going to do. Just a heads up."
I continued my day, checking my messages periodically. A couple hours later, I finally got a response from Goddess Jessica. "I can't even sleep without you doing something annoying. Buy the five clips from her and then send the receipt. After that, don't message or tag her in Tweets anymore. I can't protect you from her if you do."
Reluctantly, I followed her orders, purchasing the clips and posting a screenshot of the receipt. My bank account decreased to a meager $50, with payday still three days away. Desperate to keep my head above water, I submitted an expense report for my mileage with the company, hoping it would get approved and processed quickly. Luckily, it did.
Another slave, known by the moniker @Lurker, began messaging me privately. He noticed my struggles in submitting to Goddess Jessica and offered to help. He recommended a couple clips, claiming they contained hidden messages that would aid me in my submission. Grateful for his advice, I decided to purchase the clips once I got paid again.
I eagerly listened to one of the clips and then messaged him to share that I hadn't quite grasped the hidden message he mentioned. He simply responded, "Keep listening on repeat until you understand."
Determined, I dove back in, replaying the video and listening intently. However, all I could hear was the same phrase repeated. There couldn't possibly be a hidden message. I turned my focus to the background sounds, the subtle nuances in the clip, and the visuals accompanying the audio. After what felt like an eternity—about an hour and a half—I had a revelation: there was no hidden message at all. He wasn't genuinely trying to help me; he simply wanted to condition me into mindlessly serving Goddess Jessica and sending her even more money.
Fueled by frustration, I messaged him, declaring I'd figured out his little scheme and to simply "leave me alone forever." He replied with a half-hearted apology, insisting he was only trying to guide me on my path. But I didn't want to hear another word from him.
I found that I no longer worried about my friends knowing I had a dominatrix now that I wasn't with Lauren anymore. I started sharing pictures and stories with a select few in my circle. They were added to a group text that included Zack, Patrick, Mike J, and the other Mike, where we chatted about sports, girls, and weekend plans. I'd also give them the latest updates on Goddess Jessica.
I found it amusing that I had an attractive dominatrix, and my friends not only approved of her looks but also enjoyed hearing about my adventures with her. Of course, I decided to leave out the most embarrassing tasks she made me do; I didn't want them to think any less of me.
One of the more degrading tasks I found myself subjected to was called the "Loser Fountain." The premise was simple yet deeply humiliating: drink a glass of water or beer, then hop into the shower, prop your legs against the wall, aim at your face, and open your mouth wide. You can probably guess what came next—yes, self-degradation at its most extreme. Goddess Jessica loved assigning this task to her slaves, me included, demonstrating just how easily she could manipulate us into doing whatever she desired.
I often found myself fantasizing about her laughing at my humiliating video alongside her boyfriend. She had total control over my sexuality, able to compel me into performing any act of degradation she wished. All it took was for me to pleasure myself to the thought of her images and to imagine her demanding I fulfill those embarrassing tasks in person. She had the power to make me do anything.
One particular video featured a police officer arriving at her hotel room in New York City. There, he knelt in his uniform and obediently worshipped her feet while she called him degrading names. It was a potent reminder of her ability to make almost any man submit to her will. Perhaps that was why she sported revolver tattoos pointing towards her intimate area; once a man became addicted to her allure, there was no turning back, and she knew exactly how to trap every man who approached her.
With my bank account always hovering around the bottom and facing an onslaught of creative fines every few days, I desperately sought another source of income. My previous video clip creation had flopped as it sold exactly zero copies, so I resigned myself to letting that dream go. While browsing Craigslist, I stumbled upon an ad from a guy who owned a company that set up bouncy castles for children's birthday parties on weekends. The hours were long and involved plenty of windshield time, but it seemed like a fun gig—and a great workout. Even at just $10 an hour, I figured any income would be a lifeline.
Meanwhile, I'd given up on my daily job. I was stuck on probation due to my failure to secure any new business since my first month or two, my boss was insufferable, and I had no desire to remain there. In my mind, if I lost my job and fell into financial ruin, Goddess Jessica would have no leverage to enforce the contract. She could claim I owed her $2,000, but if I had no money, that figure became nothing more than an arbitrary number.
As my attempts at trying to connect with Hayley faded—she was a lesbian, after all—I began spending more time alone with her roommate, Laura. Perhaps my efforts were finally paying off. I was also annoyed with the constant trips to certain bars, so hanging out with Laura in more conventional settings was a refreshing change. One night, after a fun outing, Laura invited me to sleep over. Given that she lived only half a mile away, her invitation could only mean one thing: "She wants to hook up," I thought, my heart racing with anticipation.
We raided the fridge, laughter bubbling between us as we stumbled upon a bottle of red wine. I poured a generous glass for each of us, and we settled into the living room, sipping wine while reminiscing about the night. Laura, with a playful glint in her eye, eventually asked if I wanted to head to bed. My heart raced; it was a definite yes. I could hardly wait to be intimate with her. She exuded a confident appeal that drew me like a moth to a flame.
As she stripped down to her undergarments, I couldn't help but watch. They hugged her body perfectly, accentuating her toned stomach and the alluring curve of her figure. I followed suit, shedding my shirt and pants before crawling into bed beside her. She switched off the lights, and I thought, "This must be my cue to make a move."
Laura laid down turned away from me, so I snuggled up close, propping myself on my elbow and letting my hand rest gently on her side. She remained unresponsive to my advances. Doubt crept in, and I didn't want to push further, fearing the sting of blatant rejection. I'd dropped enough hints—if she wanted to hook up, surely she would have responded.
Rolling onto my back, I resolved to try and fall asleep instead. The soft warmth of her presence lulled me into a light slumber until she woke me around 9:30 AM. She helped me dress and called an Uber to take me back home. Later that day, I received a text from her asking for cooking instructions for a steak. She mentioned she had a guy coming over that evening and wanted to impress him with a delicious meal. It turned me on to know she was flaunting another man in my face.
I responded eagerly, providing her with detailed cooking instructions as if I were her submissive. The thought of her using my steak recipes to impress some other guy sent waves of arousal through me. I felt utterly used, and the sensation only heightened my desire; it was thrilling and humiliating all at once.
My new apartment was situated just a short fifty-foot walk to the subway. From there, I could zip anywhere from Center City to South Philadelphia near the stadiums in under twenty minutes. As I settled into my new routine, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd spiraled too deeply into my entanglement with Goddess Jessica. It became painfully clear that she never truly cared about me; for her, financial domination was merely a way to extract as much money from me with as little effort as possible.
What had once been thrilling turned monotonous and draining once again. I found myself working every weekend, setting up and collecting bouncy castles, but even that income wasn't enough. I struggled to stay afloat, trying to maintain my position in her good graces while also longing for some semblance of joy in my life. I found myself deep in thought, pondering ways to escape the suffocating grip of the contract without forking over the $2,000 fee.
One day, as I drove home after visiting a handful of clients in my territory, I stopped at four or five of them, casually dropping off my card to log the visits as meetings. It was all part of my plan to keep the gas mileage reimbursement looking consistent. While I was scrolling through Facebook, a post caught my eye—a girl sharing her experience dealing with a sociopath. I'd always associated sociopaths with criminals or murderers, not someone you might bump into in everyday life.
Intrigued, I decided it was time to delve deeper into the world of sociopaths, so I Googled the term. What I discovered was nothing short of shocking. I learned that between 1% and 4% of people exhibit sociopathic traits, and most aren't criminals in the traditional sense. Many of them have learned to navigate society's rules while exerting incredible pressure on others to bend to their will. The traits listed were unsettling: reduced empathy, an inability to care about others, and an affinity for manipulation. "This is fascinating," I thought, though a feeling of darkness was growing inside me realizing people like that were actually out there.
"A lot of these traits fit Goddess Jessica," I realized, my heart racing. "Did I unwittingly enter the lair of a sociopath? How could someone so beautiful harbor such darkness within?" The thought seemed absurd, but the more I explored, the more convinced I became.
I started sifting through her Twitter posts, and one in particular struck me hard: "I have to fly today. Everyone feel bad for me when I take off, when I'm in the air bored, and then again when I land." "Everyone feel bad for me…" I echoed in my mind, the realization hitting me like a ton of bricks. "She can't feel. She's literally stating it right here. She possesses no ability to experience emotions beyond rage and anger. She's a sociopath."
Terror gripped me. This was no innocent role-play; she was intent on dismantling my life piece by piece. I needed to escape this nightmare as quickly as possible. Yet, beneath my fear was a little bit of curiosity. "How do these people exist?" I pondered, both horrified and fascinated by the darkness of her twisted world.
I desperately needed to get out of the agreement, but I knew she'd enforce it ruthlessly. She held all the damning evidence—videos of the humiliating acts I'd been forced to endure. I'd done degrading things for her—all utterly embarrassing acts that, if exposed, would bring severe shame and likely cost me my job. On top of that, she had my work details, my boss's contact information, and even my father's phone number. She had nothing to lose by revealing my secrets, while I stood to lose everything. She thrived in her dominant role, and I was the one who'd willingly subjected myself to her degrading whims. I needed to turn the tables, to create an environment where she'd be the one wanting to end the agreement.
The strain had become unbearable. It felt like a house of cards on the brink of collapse. I decided to stop worrying about her exposing me to my job or my dad; it was time to cut ties completely no matter what. She'd brought in new slaves who seemed to excite her more than I ever did. She even had one create the Twitter handle @GJFavorite, a cruel reminder that I was no longer her top priority. Maybe I never was. They were showering her with money, and she was acutely aware of how much she'd already drained from me. I suspected she enjoyed the idea that when my funds ran dry, I'd finally fall silent, expecting that I could somehow turn off my own voice. Here I was, penning a book about my experiences, not exactly the behavior of someone who'd just shut up and fade away.
What had once ignited my spirit—a thrilling journey with a beautiful woman—had morphed into a nightmare that made me feel nauseous at every waking moment. Even in my dreams, I found no respite; they were filled with themes of her systematically destroying my life. It was clear to me that we'd reached the end of the road. I decided I'd stop paying her that week, even if it meant she'd unleash my darkest secrets upon my family and employer. I was done. I needed out.
Instead of severing all ties with Goddess Jessica, I decided to adopt the "I went crazy" approach. I feared her retaliation, knowing she wouldn't hesitate to use her leverage to keep me under her control. So I concocted a plan: I'd make her fear me instead.
I began to devise a plan that was as bold as it was reckless: I started creating multiple Twitter accounts, each one embodying a distinct persona with its own unique quirks and characteristics. One account was a sassy, witty commentator who thrived on sarcasm; another was a fanatical devotee who hung on her every word, showering her with exaggerated praise. I even crafted an account for an outlandish character who offered bizarre and unsolicited advice, hoping to inject chaos into her carefully curated world. I created mirror images of some of her slaves' accounts in an effort to make them uneasy as well. I was trying to create some chaos in her carefully created world of control.
With each tweet, I felt a rush of exhilaration and defiance, as if I were pulling off the ultimate heist. My responses to her posts were laced with mischief. I could tell from the silence that enveloped her usual crowd that she was beginning to notice the disturbance I was creating. The volume of my tweets was impossible to ignore, and I could only imagine her growing frustration as the flood of different accounts surged through her notifications. It was a digital storm, a rebellion brewing within her own kingdom.
Days rolled by, each one filled with the thrill of my revolt. I delighted in the chaos I was sowing, aware that I was planting seeds of doubt in her mind about my willingness to continue paying her fines. I wasn't just challenging her authority; I was sending a clear message: I was done being her puppet.
Finally, after several days of my coordinated digital storm, an email arrived from her, and a rush of adrenaline coursed through me. The subject line simply read, "Enough." I could already sense the tension in the air, and I couldn't help but grin. This was the moment I'd been waiting for—the confrontation I'd provoked.
I opened the email.
"Jake," it began, her tone sharp as a blade, "this is going to blow up in your face in the worst way. If I were you, I would dread every single phone call, every single email, every single weird look anyone shoots you. If you want to play games with me, I'll play games with you. I love playing games, but only the ones I win of course."
Her words were fierce, dripping with venom. I imagined her pacing her apartment, lips curled in a sneering smirk as she drafted the message, her fingers flying across her phone screen. In my mind's eye, I saw her, eyes narrowing at the screen, her frustration morphing into a twisted thrill. "I know your dad has a pretty high tolerance for you even though you're an idiot, but he's about to lose that last, hopeful little shred of respect he is clinging to. What a shame."
The adrenaline surged as I read her message. I was intoxicated by the rebellion coursing through my veins. I finally felt like I'd regained some power and control in the dynamic. With a smirk of my own, I began to draft my response, eager to continue this cat-and-mouse game on my terms. The power dynamic was shifting, and I was determined to tip the scales in my favor, one tweet at a time.
But in that moment of adrenaline-fueled bravado, a creeping realization began to seep into my consciousness. I'd been channeling Heath Ledger's Joker from "The Dark Knight," reveling in chaos and disturbing the balance of everyone mindlessly following the whims of a sociopath. The thrill of rebellion had transformed into something darker, and a gnawing doubt lodged itself in the pit of my stomach. "Had I gone too far?" I wondered.
The thought lingered. I decided that I'd stop my games. Hopefully she'd learned her lesson.
I knew I couldn't delete my Twitter account—I needed her to see that I wasn't afraid. But the reckless abandon that had fueled my rebellion began to fade, replaced by cautious rationality. I wouldn't tag her in tweets or mention her anymore.
"Forget her," I thought, a mix of defiance and regret swirling within me. I shut my laptop, staring blankly at the wall as a storm brewed inside me. The line between chaos and sanity had blurred, and now, I had to navigate a path back to solid ground. I'd awakened a force I couldn't easily contain.
I was seething with anger at my own naivety, believing that I ever meant anything to her more than my money. I felt utterly used, and the desire for a taste of revenge simmered just beneath the surface. The first time you're played like that, it leaves you feeling disgustingly gross.
I couldn't get her email out of my head. While I didn't believe she was crazy enough to take drastic actions, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that she commanded an army of devoted slaves scattered across the United States—men who would likely do extreme things at her whim. She possessed a power that felt almost supernatural, as if she were wielding dark influence. I'd witnessed police officers visiting her hotels in full uniform, only to see them submitting moments later.
Who knew the extent of her network? How far it could stretch? She was a demonic force, leading a real-life cult of men who'd do anything for her. She was the puppet master.
As I pondered my predicament, I realized that just because I hadn't recognized her manipulative behavior from the start didn't absolve her of responsibility. The legalities of our twisted relationship twisted around in my brain—threats of exposure and potential manipulation hung heavy in her emails. I suspected those tactics were illegal, but I'd been the one to initiate everything. I'd willingly walked into this tangled mess, hoping to find something worthwhile.
Determined not to wallow in despair, I made a conscious effort to focus on the positives of this experience. I learned just how much I could bend without breaking. Sure, I was facing some financial turmoil, but somehow, every time I thought I'd hit rock bottom, I found a way to bounce back. Craigslist had become my lifeline, a treasure trove of random jobs that kept me afloat. The distractions caused by Goddess Jessica and my newfound obsession with sociopathy dulled some of the pain I'd felt from losing my mom. I no longer wished for death; instead, I needed to pick up the pieces, buckle down, and claw my way back to stability.
In a strange twist of fate, I found a sense of liberation. I was free from both Lauren and Goddess Jessica, and the prospect of seeking a new girlfriend in Philadelphia filled me with hope. Serving Goddess Jessica had pushed me into the best shape of my life; I'd always tried to impress her, but now I realized I could channel that energy into self-improvement.
The stress I'd endured transformed into a strange sort of confidence. It was as if I'd unlocked something within me, a newfound strength bubbling just beneath the surface. I'd never felt so self-assured, and it felt exhilarating. With every challenge I faced, I grew more resilient, more determined to carve out a new chapter for myself. The shadows of my past began to recede, replaced by the bright possibility of what lay ahead.
Thanksgiving break of 2014 was just around the corner, and I was excited at the thought of heading back home to Rockford, Illinois. I was eager to see my sister, and my dad would be joining us as well. It felt like the perfect opportunity to reconnect with family and catch up with old friends. One friend in particular, Steven, who I hadn't seen since high school in 2006, wanted to meet up and hit the bars. Back then, I'd taken a brief detour through college after a little legal mishap—a DUI during my first summer back in my hometown—which prompted me to stay closer to home to spend more time with my mom before her multiple sclerosis worsened. Looking back, it was one of the best decisions I ever made; she cherished having me nearby.
The night before my flight back to Illinois for Thanksgiving, I'd gone out with Laura and a few of her friends, hopping between a couple bars in Center City. The next morning, I woke up with my head pounding like a jackhammer, memories of the night fading in and out. I vaguely recalled getting sick at the last bar we visited before hailing a cab home. As I groggily assessed my situation, I realized my clothes were still on—but soaked in urine. I fished my phone out of my pocket, grimacing at the state of it. A quick glance at the time revealed it was already 11:05 AM and snow was gently falling outside. My flight was scheduled for 1:00 PM, and I was nowhere near ready.
I quickly stripped off my soaked clothes, jumped in the shower, and slipped into a fresh outfit for the flight. However, a new problem emerged: my boarding pass was on my broken iPhone, which had succumbed to the moisture. I chuckled to myself, "I wonder how many people have ever broken their phone by wetting their pants." It was a morbid sense of humor that offered a fleeting distraction from the chaos around me.
"I'm in trouble," I thought, throwing clothes into my suitcase in panic. In a moment of inspiration, I called the help desk for my ASU email with my work phone, and they worked their magic, restoring my access. I quickly adjusted my preferences with the airline, enabling me to print a boarding pass at the airport, then called a cab.
To my surprise, security at the airport wasn't too bad, and I made it to my gate about an hour before my flight. Needing to calm my nerves, I swung by the airport bar near my gate and drank down a couple Blue Moons in quick succession, hoping it would ease my flight and smooth out the rough edges of the morning. Around 12:40 PM, I finally boarded the plane, ready for the journey back to Illinois and excited to embrace the warmth of family.
I arrived around 3:00 PM, greeted by the familiar sight of my bags tumbling onto the carousel. My sister had driven up to pick me up, and my dad was already there, his face lighting up as he spotted me. We shared big hugs outside the airport, a warmth spreading through me that made me forget about the chaos of the morning. We hopped into their car and headed toward my sister's house in Rockford.
On the way, we stopped at my favorite restaurant, Steak 'n Shake, for some burgers. The food brought back a flood of nostalgic memories, and it felt like a comforting embrace. After finishing our meal, we continued the drive to my sister's place, arriving around 5:30 PM. The kitchen buzzed with warmth as we gathered and shared stories, her husband joining in on the conversation. Their two dogs bounded around excitedly, showing off their playful antics as we caught up with one another.
As the evening wore on, I noticed everyone starting to wind down around 8:00 PM. But for me, this was my vacation, and I wasn't ready to call it a night just yet. I pulled out my phone and started searching for bars in my hometown. This was my first visit since turning 21, and the prospect of reconnecting with old friends and familiar faces I hadn't seen in a decade had me excited. I was ready to dive back into the vibrant nightlife of Rockford, eager to see what awaited me at the bars.
Our town was one of those classic American places where most people grow up, venture off to college for a spell, and then inevitably find their way back to live out the rest of their lives. On Friday nights in the fall, the entire community would come alive, rallying around the boys' football games with a fervor that left no doubt about the hometown pride we all shared. Rockford was more than just a dot on the map; it was a small town to be proud you were from.
As I scrolled through a list of local bars, one name stood out: "Ringos." It had echoed through my childhood, a place I'd often heard about but never visited. Curiosity piqued, I decided to walk over and see what all the fuss was about. The walk across town took me about twenty minutes, my anticipation growing with every step. When I finally pushed open the door to Ringos, the atmosphere buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, and the bartender immediately recognized me.
"Jake! Is that you?" Jason, a guy who'd been a senior when I was just a freshman, greeted me with a broad grin. We quickly slipped into nostalgic conversation, reminiscing about that infamous day in gym class when he'd playfully shoved me while I was using the restroom, resulting in an embarrassing incident. We both erupted into laughter, and he offered a light-hearted apology. No hard feelings, just a shared chuckle over our youthful mischief.
As I settled in, I spotted a few familiar faces from high school scattered around the bar. We caught up, swapping stories about the years that had passed since graduation. They informed me that tomorrow night would be the big outing in town—the night before Thanksgiving Day—when everyone would head to Pub 12 downtown. I learned that one of the town's legendary football heroes had purchased the building and transformed it into a popular bar. It was just a short stroll away.
Among the chatter, I remembered the triplet girls from high school, and I was thrilled to find out that my two favorites were in town and wanted to join me at the bar. I sent them a message, letting them know what time I planned to arrive. I also hopped onto Facebook, hoping to rally some other friends to come out. "Hey, everyone! I'm headed to Pub 12 tomorrow night. Should be there around 9:00 PM if anyone wants to join!"
The next day, Thanksgiving Eve, my sister, dad, and her husband were bustling around the house, preparing for the big dinner the following day. Their plans for the evening consisted of a cozy night in, but I was determined to paint the town red. As the clock inched closer, I began my walk to Pub 12 around 8:30 PM. My phone's GPS indicated I'd arrive around 8:50 PM, and I felt a thrill of anticipation.
I'd dressed to impress, donning my sharpest attire that accentuated my physique. Unlike my high school days, when I'd struggled with self-confidence and body image, I was now lean and muscular, ready to show off the hard work I'd put into my fitness. I couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement at the thought of possibly drumming up some interest from the girls who'd previously overlooked me.
We all had an unforgettable night that felt like something out of a movie. I ran into a hundred familiar faces—friends from high school and acquaintances I hadn't seen in over a decade. The energy in the air was electric as we shared stories and laughter, each of us marveling at how life had shaped us. Everyone was impressed by my transformation; it felt good to bask in their compliments and reminisce about our shared past.
To my surprise, the night took an unexpected turn when I ended up making out with one of the triplets. We were all caught up in the excitement, and we closed the bar down until 2:00 AM, our laughter and cheers echoing through the night. I splurged and spent most of the money I'd saved for the trip on rounds of drinks and shots for everyone. "It was worth it for a night like that," I thought.
Thanksgiving with my family the next day went smoothly, but the town felt quieter after the wild festivities of the night before. My thirst for adventure was still heightened, and I found myself craving more fun, so I continued to hit the bars at night. However, as the final night approached, my funds were dwindling. I decided to ask my sister for a ride to the grocery store to grab some beers instead. That evening, I plopped down on the couch, settled in with a few cold ones, and switched on the TV.
As the alcohol flowed, I found myself scrolling through Facebook, and to my surprise, I stumbled upon Sarah, a girl I'd gone to college with. She was a year ahead of me and had dated one of the guys in my fraternity. Standing at a petite 5'3" and weighing around 110 pounds, she was a striking brunette with an air of confidence and just a hint of edge. As I drunkenly perused her profile, I noticed she was active on Messenger. In a moment of boldness fueled by liquid courage, I shot her a message, asking if she'd be interested in financially dominating me.
To my surprise, she responded almost immediately, curious about what that entailed. I explained that it involved her humiliating me and assigning me embarrassing tasks in exchange for weekly payments. With a playful sense of adventure, she agreed to give it a try, and I promptly sent her $50 to kick things off. I mentioned I was out of town but invited her to come up with some tasks for me to tackle upon my return to Philadelphia. She quickly replied, requesting a video of me sitting on the ground doing something childish and embarrassing. "Easy," I typed back, grinning at the absurdity of it all.
After my trip to Rockford, I found myself heading to Washington, D.C. more frequently to visit Zack and, of course, to meet new girls. Having recently hit my quarterly bonus numbers, which netted me a little over $4,000, I had extra cash to spend on my adventures. One evening, we stumbled upon a massive bar crawl packed with people, and I boldly approached their table to make new friends.
The night was a blast as we mingled and laughed with that lively group. Zack ended up meeting a roommate named Jose from their circle, who seamlessly integrated us into their parties. It was a breath of fresh air to have more people to hang out with during our trips to Washington, D.C. While we were still busy getting Zack connected regularly, I found myself enjoying the playful banter and just feeling alive again.
I was always on the lookout for new girls who could excel at humiliating me, and since Sam had worked out well from Cue Club, I figured I'd give Lindsey a shot. One hungover morning, as I drove through my sales territory, I found myself scrolling through her pictures on Facebook. I noticed she was active on Messenger and decided to take a bold step.
"Hey Lindsey! Hope you're doing well. I'm into financial domination, where a girl takes money from me to humiliate me and make me perform degrading tasks. Would you be interested?"
To my surprise, she replied quickly, asking, "How much would it be?"
I considered my options, and her striking looks only fueled my excitement. I had some extra bonus cash, so I typed back, "How about $800 to start and then $75 a week after that for you to continue to dominate me, give me humiliating tasks, and degrade me?"
Her response was swift: "OK, that's fine, but I want the $800 now."
I asked for her PayPal details, and she provided them without hesitation. My heart raced as I pulled up the app and sent the $800—it was the most I'd ever transferred in one go. The thrill of it all had me so turned on that I had to cut my sales day short and drive home to take care of myself, fantasizing about how attractive she was.
Even though our interactions in Philadelphia were sporadic, I kept the payments flowing. The money I sent her went to a good cause too—she ended up getting cosmetic surgery, and when I saw her new photos, she looked even more attractive than before.
In December, Zack came to visit me in Philadelphia, and we decided to hit Xfinity Live, the bustling hub and spoke bar complex situated right by the stadiums in South Philly. The place was packed and it was freezing outside. We nearly got turned away because they were nearing capacity. Once inside, we made our way to the main area, where the atmosphere was electric. Fans jostled for space shoulder to shoulder, and cheerleaders were leading chants, making the most of the excitement of the away game.
Looking for a breather, we slipped into a bar tucked away from the main crowd—a cozy burger joint. It was still busy but not as crazy as the main area. We ordered a couple shots and beers. It didn't take long for us to find an unoccupied bench, and we hopped up to stand on it. The energy was infectious, and it was the perfect way to kick off an unforgettable night.
The bar was so packed that we probably looked like just a couple tall guys lost in the crowd, which is why security didn't bat an eye at us standing on the bench. Out of nowhere, two stunning girls—a cute blonde and a sultry brunette—parked right in front of us. Seizing the moment, I leaned in and tapped the blonde on the shoulder. She turned around, squinting at me with an expression that hinted she might punch me in the face. I quickly blurted out, "Hey, have you met my friend Zack? He went to Harvard!"
That was all it took. Zack gave me a playful shove and laughed, "Jesus Christ, Jake," but I could tell he approved. It was a classic line that had never failed me, and this girl was definitely a catch. Her name was Mary, and she, along with her equally cute brunette friend, turned out to be from Philadelphia as well. We spent the rest of the night hanging out, reveling in each other's company.
Somewhere along the line, we blacked out from the endless stream of drinks, but it was clear we'd had an unforgettable time. The next morning, however, we woke up feeling like we'd been hit by a freight train, and Zack needed a ride to the train station.
Both of us were wrecked, probably still buzzing from the night before. Zack made it to my front door first, but as soon as he stepped outside, he hit a thin sheet of invisible ice and went tumbling down all four steps. I hadn't laughed that hard since before my mom died.
Determined not to follow in his clumsy footsteps, I grasped the railing tightly before stepping out onto the icy concrete. But as soon as my right foot touched the ice, it slipped out from under me. I lost my balance and fell forward, crashing down the stairs right next to him.
We lay there for a minute, groaning in pain and laughter, before we finally managed to crawl to our knees and get back on our feet. Zack had figured out a shimmy method that seemed to work well for making progress toward the car, so I mimicked him. It took us a good five minutes to shimmy about 300 feet to where the car was parked, but we eventually made it. I got Zack to the train station just in time, then made my way back to my apartment.
Once home, I realized I needed a lot more sleep to survive the hangover. But first, I decided to indulge myself a little. I remembered an attractive friend of Lauren's named Sovy. She was an appealing 5'3" Asian with curves to die for: enhanced figure, perfect behind, and a flat stomach that made my mouth water. She always had a bit of a sassy edge, so I sent her a casual message saying, "Hey, what's up?"
She replied, "Not much. Just partying and living life. YOLO." She was so attractive. My fingers danced over the keyboard as I typed out, "Hey, if you're interested in having a money slave, I'd do $100 a week and be your submissive, doing whatever you say."
I saw that she read my message, the dreaded "…" appearing as she started typing back. My heart raced in anticipation. I was incredibly aroused, waiting for her response. Finally, it came: "OK, I'm down with that. Send me the $100 now."
Without hesitation, I followed her instructions, excitement coursing through me. The thrill of having this attractive woman calling me degrading names within minutes of asking was electrifying. "Maybe this could be a good replacement for Goddess Jessica," I thought.
She messaged me that she'd have instructions for some tasks she wanted me to complete soon. My excitement was building, and I couldn't help but confess, "Just so you know, I'm really into attractive girls making me do things like degrading acts and other humiliating tasks."
"Noted," she replied. My imagination ran wild, and I finished while gazing at a picture of her in a bikini, picturing myself submissive before her. That appealing figure had me hooked instantly. I knew this girl was going to mess with my mind in all the right ways. But I also felt smarter now that I had some experience under my belt from serving a sociopathic Pro Dominatrix.
A couple days later, Sarah asked where her video was of me doing the childish task. I responded, explaining I was accustomed to harsher tasks but was willing to do the task for her. "Like what kind of harsher tasks?" she asked. It felt like the perfect opportunity to share what truly turned me on. I recounted a time when another girl had made me kneel in a closet while she was intimate with her boyfriend. To my surprise, Sarah immediately expressed interest in doing something similar—for a little extra cash.
We settled on an additional $50, and she informed me that her boyfriend would be home in an hour or two. She wanted me to videotape myself on my knees, engaging in a degrading act while they were intimate. The thought of it sent shivers down my spine, and I was getting aroused.
Determined to build anticipation until she was ready, I waited and just looked at pictures of how attractive she was. About an hour and a half later, I received a Facebook message: "OK. We're getting ready right now. Start."
I walked over to my bedroom door, got down on my knees, and took the doorknob in my mouth. It felt bigger and harder than I remembered. With my phone in one hand, I was still throbbing from building anticipation with thoughts of her commanding me to perform this degrading task while she was with him. After about twenty minutes, she messaged me again. I'd taken a couple breaks because my jaw was aching, but I kept my mouth on it for the majority of the time.
She let me know they were done, but apparently, she hadn't fully enjoyed it. I guess she was too preoccupied with the thought of me doing this while they were intimate to fully enjoy herself. I told her I appreciated the task and sent her the $50 along with the video for good measure. She couldn't help but make fun of me for it.
After that, I laid down on my bed and finished to some pictures of her from college. She'd also become a fitness trainer, so there were plenty of appealing shots of her showcasing her physique. I imagined her with him while I knelt there, her submissive.
We continued our playful exchanges for a few more weeks, with her making me do degrading things on video, but I quickly realized her tasks and humiliations weren't extreme enough to satisfy my cravings. We agreed to part ways amicably, both knowing it was for the best.
One night, in a moment of weakness fueled by alcohol, I shot Lindsey a message, asking if she'd make me get a tattoo that read "Lindsey [her last name]'s Little Bitch" on my behind. To my surprise, she instantly agreed, finding it hilarious that she could show off my permanent label to her friends and the guys she was seeing. The thought of being permanently branded as her submissive turned me on in ways I hadn't expected.
Nervously, I scheduled the tattoo appointment and explained to the artist what I wanted written. When he asked why I was getting it, I simply told him I'd lost a sports bet with her and that she was a good friend. He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but he dropped the subject and got to work. The tattoo was set for a few days later, and I arrived on time, my heart racing with anticipation.
Let me tell you, behind tattoos must be the most painful places to ink. The tattoo artist kept urging me to relax. He let me know that he had one in the same area and knew it was the most painful spot to get tattooed but that he wouldn't be able to keep the lines straight if I didn't find a way to stabilize my body. Ten minutes into the session, I discovered that if I flexed, I could minimize the spasms, giving him a better canvas to work with. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he announced he was finished and asked if I wanted to see it. "Nah, I'll just check it out later," I replied, and he covered it in wrap. I was officially branded as her submissive for eternity.
Surprisingly, the actual feeling of humiliation didn't quite match the excitement I'd felt while fantasizing about it beforehand, but I didn't hate it. Lindsey was thrilled and immediately asked for a picture to show all her friends. It was clear she enjoyed the control she had over me.
A few days after Zack and I met Mary at Xfinity Live, Mary texted Zack, inviting him back to Philadelphia for a visit. He agreed, and she picked him up from the train station. I ended up playing the third wheel in their little reunion. They hit it off again. I'd met a stunning black girl named Noelle a couple weeks prior who I was hanging out with as well. I decided to invite her to join us.
Noelle was a striking 5'3" with glowing ebony skin and a dazzling smile. With a face that could grace magazine covers and a physique that was nothing short of mesmerizing, she was an absolute knockout. We'd hit the gym together a few times, where she pushed me to my limits. With her incredibly fit body, long legs, and a great sense of humor that matched my own, I would've been more than happy to let her take charge. Since we'd met about a month ago, our chemistry had sparked something, and we found ourselves hanging out a few times a week, and I think we both thought it might develop into a relationship.
I texted her to see if she wanted to join Zack, Mary, and me for a night out. "Of course!" she replied eagerly. We all headed to a bar called BRU in Center City Philadelphia. At the time, I was diving too deep into my alcohol intake, and as the day progressed, I got progressively drunk until I reached the point of blackout. Somewhere in my haze, I must have said something to Noelle that struck a nerve because the next thing I knew, I was being kicked out of the bar for being too intoxicated. I think we made quite the scene.
Later, I learned from Zack that he'd run into Noelle at the bar after our escapade, and apparently, she was very upset. He speculated that I might have said something racially offensive, but I was incredulous—there was no way I could have done that. That word wasn't even in my vocabulary.
That night, after somehow managing to stumble home, I fell into a restless sleep filled with vivid dreams. In one particularly unsettling dream, Goddess Jessica appeared in my room, conducting some sort of bizarre experiment or uploading information directly into my brain. I woke up in a cold sweat, the intensity of the dream still lingering, and I glanced around my room, half-expecting to see her standing there. But she was nowhere to be found, so I reluctantly drifted back to sleep.
The next morning, I was jolted awake by Zack's request for a ride to the train station. With a groan, I crawled out of bed, nursing a hangover that felt like a freight train had run me over. I grabbed the keys to my car, and we shuffled down to the parking lot, both feeling the weight of the previous night. Thankfully, we made it to the train station in one piece, and as Zack hopped out, we made plans to hang out again in a couple weeks, hoping this time we could avoid any drama.





Chapter 4 – Replacing the Void
I found myself fully committed to Sovy, entering into a year-long contract of financial servitude with weekly payments of $100 in exchange for a humiliating experience. Ever since Lauren first introduced us a few years ago, I'd harbored a crush on her, and the fact that she and Lauren knew each other added an extra layer of appeal. It was even more compelling that they seemed to be in a bit of a spat, which likely fueled Sovy's desire to dominate me, her friend's ex-boyfriend, in a cheeky twist of fate.
Sovy quickly grasped the art of humiliation, and soon enough, I found myself engaging in degrading tasks. Each session felt like a new descent into depravity.
She excelled at verbal domination, never hesitating to remind me that I was her submissive—not the other way around. On one occasion, I got a bit too mouthy, and in a flash she screenshot compromising video, threatening to send it to my father if I didn't curb my attitude. She was far more interactive and engaging than Goddess Jessica, and I couldn't help but think she would've made a fantastic Professional Financial Dominatrix.
As the weeks passed, I kept the dynamic going strong during my first few months back in Phoenix, but there was still much to unfold in my story.
I managed to keep my head above water at my job in Philadelphia. I missed my friends back in Arizona, but the salary was decent enough to ease the ache of loneliness. I found myself constantly drawn to new girls from my personal life who had an interest in financially dominating me, feeding my insatiable appetite for fresh attractions to fantasize about. However, a shake-up in management was on the horizon: my boss, Rajesh, was being promoted to a position in the corporate office on the East Coast. I thought this might relieve some pressure, especially since I was on probation for not hitting sales numbers for a couple quarters. Rajesh assured me that all I needed to do was explain to our new manager, John, how hard we'd been working together to turn things around, and everything would be fine.
During this time, I started enjoying solo outings. I found it exhilarating to make new friends at various bars, and I had better ability to attract girls than I ever had before. Though Noelle and I had patched things up, it seemed our friendship would never fully recover after that fateful night I'd ruined. I never asked her what I'd done to upset her; instead, I simply expressed my regrets, telling her I was really drunk and apologizing for whatever I might have said. She claimed to have forgiven me but didn't want to relive the past, leaving me in the dark about the specifics.
Zack, on the other hand, was spending more time alone with Mary, which meant I wasn't hanging out with him as much either. My nights out often consisted of tagging along with Hayley and her friends, joining Jeff to watch sports at a bar, or heading out to bars solo and causing a ruckus wherever I went. I was becoming a bit of a maniac, creating chaos in every venue I visited, convinced I was simply having a blast while living it up. However, I quickly realized that my drinking had escalated; I was blacking out at least a few times a week, and the thrill of the same old routine was beginning to bore me.
In a moment of weakness, I decided to reach out to Goddess Jessica. "Hey, I'm sorry for everything that happened," I typed, my fingers trembling with anticipation. "I know I acted like a crazy person, and I sincerely apologize. If you would ever consider letting me serve you again, please let me know."
She messaged me back, firmly stating she'd never allow me to serve her again due to all the stress I'd caused her. I understood her position, but it stung. I could feel the familiar feelings of depression creeping back in, reminiscent of the dark days following my mom's death. Despite my best efforts to stay positive, to go out and meet new people, I sensed a deep void inside me that was impossible to fill. As the darkness enveloped me, thoughts of ending things flickered in my mind once more. I knew I needed a change.
December arrived, bringing with it a lull for the holidays. Determined to shake off the gloom, I decided to embrace the chaos during the break. With the relief of no longer answering to Rajesh as my manager, my confidence soared. Jeff and I hit the bars nearly every night leading up to Christmas and New Year's. Always on the prowl for new connections, Jeff, despite being in his mid-forties, was a handsome guy with the charm to engage anyone.
He informed me that some of his high school friends were gathering at a bar called Urban Saloon on Saturday, January 2nd, and we planned to make a night of it. That night, I had a fantastic time meeting his old friends.
The night took a wild turn when I blacked out from the booze and ended up in a scuffle with a random guy at the bar. A punch landed squarely on my eyebrow, splitting it open and sending blood cascading down my face. I stumbled outside, where a bouncer handed me a cloth to staunch the bleeding and informed me I wouldn't be allowed back in.
When I woke up the next day, my face was glued to my pillowcase by dried blood. I had work in less than 24 hours—my first day under a new boss—and there was no hiding the mess I'd made of my face. The cut looked horrific, and I sported a dark black eye on the left side. I chuckled to myself, thinking about how I'd explain my appearance.
It was a Sunday, and the Eagles were playing their last regular-season game, so I decided to head to Xfinity Live to catch the action. I rode the subway down by myself, feeling the need for more excitement after the chaos of the break. The bars buzzed with energy for the game, and I ducked into PBR, a Western-themed bar known for its attractive bartenders—dubbed "Buckle Bunnies"—who'd ride the mechanical bull at the center of the room.
I mingled with a couple girls at the bar, buying shots and enjoying the atmosphere. As the night wore on, I glanced at my phone and realized it was already past 11:00 PM. With a meeting scheduled for 8:00 AM the next morning to meet my new boss, I reluctantly said my goodbyes and hopped on the train back home.
Arriving at my place around 11:45 PM, I checked my Facebook Messenger and noticed a girl named Justine online. I'd always thought she was incredibly attractive back in college, and a spark of intrigue flickered within me.
Justine stood about 5'5" tall, with lustrous brown hair cascading over an appealing body that turned heads. I'd encountered her at a few of my college roommate's parties, and she'd always exuded an air of confidence that hinted at a mean streak lurking beneath her stunning exterior. Spotting her active and online on Messenger, I couldn't resist the urge to reach out and ask if she might be interested in financially dominating me. Her response was swift: "You need to find Jesus."
A rush of embarrassment washed over me, but I quickly apologized and admitted that she was just too attractive for me to resist. Intrigued, she kept the conversation going, asking questions about what financial domination entailed. After about twenty minutes of catching up on each other's lives, she surprised me by agreeing to give it a try. We settled on $50 a week—a modest amount, but I was juggling so many new experiences with different girls that I had to keep the weekly payments manageable.
The next morning, I woke to a phone call on my work phone. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was 8:30 AM. "Shit," I thought as I picked up the receiver. It was another Mike from my Philadelphia office. "Dude, where are you? We're all waiting for you in the office. It's John's first day, so this isn't a good look, man."
"I know, man. I should be there in about 25 minutes," I replied, leaping out of bed and racing through the shower. As I looked in the mirror, I was greeted by the horrifying sight of my face. I quickly slapped a bandage over the cut, but my eye was still a swollen black mess, a clear testament to last night's escapades.
Climbing into my car, I couldn't help but chuckle at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. It struck me as absurd—perhaps this would be the day I pushed the envelope too far and got fired. But strangely, I didn't care.
I pulled into the office parking lot around 9:15 AM, stepping out of my car and walking into the building. The training room was bustling with activity; everyone turned to stare as I entered. John, the new manager, was in the middle of an engaging presentation about his journey with the company and his ambitious goals for the future.
Once the meeting wrapped up, we all shuffled back to our respective offices. Mike barged into mine, his eyes wide with concern. "Dude, I don't know what happened, and I don't need to know, but you look awful. You have to go to John's office right now and tell him you got mugged or something. You can't just waltz in here an hour late looking like that with no explanation."
He was right. With a sigh, I made my way to John's office. "I'm really sorry for being late to the meeting," I began, mustering as much sincerity as I could. "I got mugged over the weekend." John was concerned obviously, and just let me know to let him know in advance if I was going to be that late again, especially if any executives were in town. I assured him it wouldn't happen again and that I was okay. "Damn," I thought, "if only he'd been the manager when I first came out here."
Just as I began to distract myself from my depression, more bad news hit me. My dad called, letting me know that my grandfather—my mom's father—was in hospice care and didn't have much longer to live. Given their rocky relationship, I didn't have a strong emotional reaction to the news. While I didn't wish him dead, I couldn't easily forgive him for how he'd treated my mom during her life.
After his passing, an inheritance would be on the horizon for my sister and me. Once everything—his 401k, the house sale, and his financial accounts—was sorted, my sister and I were each set to inherit around $180,000. The prospect of this got my spirits up. Surely, with $180,000 in the bank, my depression would be a thing of the past.
He passed away just a few days after my dad delivered the initial call, and my uncle wasted no time getting the 401k transferred, getting the house for sale, and dividing up the assets. It sounded like we'd see the money sooner rather than later. "If I can just hold on until then," I thought, clinging to the hope of brighter days ahead.
Meanwhile, Justine turned out to be a real gem. She was naturally submissive but seemed to genuinely enjoy our conversations. Whenever I requested tasks, she was eager to take on a dominant role for a little extra cash. She even agreed to sell me her worn panties for $100, mailing them to me in Philadelphia. They arrived a few days later, sealed in a plastic bag, and bore evidence of her. She instructed me to create a video of myself engaging with them intimately. I complied, the intoxicating scent overwhelming me.
Once she was satisfied with the video, Justine demanded that I wrap the panties around my face, letting her scent fill my nose as I looked at pictures of her and pleasured myself. I scrolled back through her early college photos and found one from Halloween: she wore dark underwear and wings, looking every bit like a dark angel—a vision fit for the pages of a catalog. I finished in mere minutes, an explosive release washing over me as I imagined her calling me degrading names. Our playful exchanges continued for months; each interaction more thrilling than the last.
Then came the bachelor party in Cabo for my friend Brad from Arizona. While I wasn't invited to the wedding—since he was marrying Lauren's twin sister, whom I'd dated for a while—I was still welcomed to join the festivities in Cabo. Just before the trip, my new boss, John, notified me that the company and I would be parting ways. "Finally," I thought, relieved. I hadn't realized it would take so much effort to get fired. The head of HR flew in from headquarters, and during our meeting, we all agreed to a mutual separation rather than framing it as a termination. This arrangement suited me perfectly; it meant I could present it more favorably in interviews when I moved back to Arizona.
The following weekend, I found myself in Cabo for the bachelor party. We all flew in from various corners of the United States, and by the end of it, there were 15 of us ready to celebrate. Sporting matching tank tops, we were a sight to behold. Our trip coincided with spring break for many southwestern schools, and the town was packed with 19- to 22-year-old beauties. We'd rented a fishing boat for Saturday, accommodating about 12 of the attendees. On Friday morning, the boat captain called to inform us they had no other trips scheduled that day. He offered to anchor in a cove, letting us drink on the boat all afternoon. Without a second thought, we eagerly accepted; we didn't have a plan for the day anyway.
We loaded about ten cases of beer onto the boat, along with several handles of vodka and mixers for shots. After cruising over to the cove, we parked the boat right in front of the energetic beach bars. A few of the guys took smaller taxi boats to the shore, successfully rounding up around 25 girls from various groups eager to join our floating fiesta. Once everyone was back on board, we kicked off an unforgettable party.
For about four glorious hours, we danced and blasted music, soaking up the sun with some of the most attractive girls in Cabo. I felt rejuvenated. Just before the trip, I'd started receiving chunks of my inheritance money, and I was ready to spend it all on making memories. With an endless supply of gorgeous company and the funds to enjoy it, life felt electrifying.
That night, we hit up the hottest club in Cabo and splurged on bottle service. Around 10:00 PM, my buddy Patrick approached me with a gleam in his eye, asking if I wanted to do shots. Always up for a good time, I followed him to one of the bars, but after all the drinks we'd had, the shot went down like a brick. I desperately signaled to the bartender for a trash can, but he didn't get the message, and the bar was too packed for a graceful exit. So I made the executive decision to just aim my head down and let it all out.
Mortified after getting sick inside the bar, especially after getting some on my shirt, I thought about calling it a night. But Patrick wasn't having any of it. He quickly located a merch stand and bought me a bright pink "El Squid Roe" shirt, insisting I change quickly. Miraculously, the security guards lost track of me in the chaos, and we slipped back to our friends at the back of the club.
We ended up closing the place down, having an amazing night. The energy was electric as three floors of partygoers shouted the lyrics to every hit blaring from the sound system, and the place was filled with beautiful people. Life felt vibrant and exhilarating once more.
The next day, we unanimously decided that soaking up the sun in the marina with the college kids was far more enticing than going fishing. With that, we set sail back into the cove, ready for round two of our mission to attract girls to the boat. This time, our efforts were a bit less fruitful. While we managed to get a group of sorority girls, they didn't quite match the stunning company we'd enjoyed the previous day. Undeterred, I committed to getting as drunk as possible.
As the day wore on, the captain asked if we wanted to head out to The Arch, a famous rock formation about two miles offshore. Intrigued, we agreed, and with just about an hour of sunlight left, we made our way there. Dropping anchor, we settled in for the last leg of our boating adventure.
About 15 minutes before we were due to head back to shore, I crawled along the side of the ship to reach the front. I was craving a cigarette but didn't want to disturb anyone with the smoke. As I savored my quick smoke, my mind wandered to thoughts of my mom. Once I finished, I attempted to crawl back around to rejoin the group, but in the inky darkness, I lost my footing. Desperately, I grasped the handle on the edge, but I continued to slip. The pain of trying to hold on became unbearable as the bar dug into my arm, forcing me to let go.
I plummeted about eight feet into the pitch-black ocean. Strangely, I wasn't frightened; instead, I imagined the sea lions below me, curious about the commotion, or possibly sharks drawn by the splashes. I swam around to the back of the boat, where the doorway was, and began to pound on it frantically. Time was ticking down—only 5 to 10 minutes remained before the boat would leave, and no one knew I'd fallen overboard. Panic surged through me: "I'm going to get stranded out here, or worse, pulled under by the propellers when they start up!"
I kicked my legs desperately, trying to propel myself high enough to grab onto the edge, but each attempt sent me back down into the water. Realizing that wasn't working, I pounded on the door with all my might. Just as despair began to set in, I spotted a face peering over the edge. "Thank God," I thought. It was Andrew, our friend, who reached out and pulled me back aboard. Everyone was shocked but relieved they'd found me before it was too late. "No shit," I thought, catching my breath.
The trip had been a blast, filled with gorgeous college girls, and I began to entertain the idea of pursuing college girls to dominate me. They'd surely appreciate the money, and, let's face it, college girls were often at the peak of their physical beauty. As I approached my late twenties, the thought of being dominated by younger women felt thrilling.
The following morning, we headed to the airport, returning to our respective cities. My lease was set to end in May, so I had about a month and a half before I'd drive back to Phoenix. I planned to move in with my dad while I figured out my next steps. Before I left, I enjoyed more fun nights out in Philadelphia with Hayley, her roommates, and Jeff, cherishing the moments until my goodbye at the end of May.
I decided to make a few memorable stops on my drive back to Arizona: first, a visit to Chicago to see my friend Patrick; then a detour to Dallas to catch up with my aunts; followed by a stop in Austin to see Stephanie. From there, I planned to drive straight through to Sun City, AZ, where I'd be moving in with my dad.
Chicago turned out to be somewhat lackluster, prompting me to leave after just a day and head to Rockford to visit my sister. I intended to stay for a couple days, enjoying the company of her dogs, but we ended up squabbling over trivial matters. Frustrated, I decided to cut my visit short and move on.
The next day, I drove to Dallas, arriving at my aunts' house late in the afternoon. We shared a few beers before calling it a night. Our conversations were peppered with talk of aliens, sparked by a story about how my uncle had seen a UFO when he was in elementary school. According to my aunt, many people, including teachers, had witnessed the sighting, lending it an air of credibility that sent a chill down my spine. As I settled into bed, I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that extraterrestrials were watching me, but eventually, exhaustion took over, and I drifted off to sleep.
The following day was my birthday. My aunts surprised me with a delightful bundt cake, and we celebrated with a small gathering before staying up late, smoking cigarettes and chatting. With some of my inheritance money, I'd purchased a camera and lens before leaving Philadelphia, so we spent some time trying to capture the night sky. Unfortunately, I quickly realized I didn't have the right lens for astrophotography.
Tension simmered in the air as my aunts had been arguing—apparently, one of them had been unfaithful. I felt awkward being caught in the middle of their turmoil, so I decided to leave the next day to head to Austin to see Stephanie.
I got to her apartment and she came out and greeted me with her dog Teddy. She was a sight for sore eyes and we shared a giant hug in the parking lot. We ended up going out with some of her work friends and I was a maniac buying shots for everyone all night. Eventually I grabbed the check and my card was declined. Stephanie had to cover the $400 tab for me and I assured her I'd pay her back as soon as I got things sorted out with the bank, which was all settled up the next day.
Later that day, I said my goodbyes and hopped back into my car to finish my drive back to Arizona. It was a 15-hour drive back to Sun City, where my dad lived from Austin, and I tried to make it the entire way in one go. I made it about 13 hours and had to stop between Flagstaff and Sedona for a quick nap. After that I was able to make it the rest of the way and my dad greeted me happily in the front yard of his house.
Once back in Arizona, I received the remainder of my grandfather's inheritance, and I was ready to embrace life to the fullest. Having long battled feelings of despair, I now found myself with nearly $200,000 in my bank account and zero responsibilities. I decided to start a photography business, investing around $20,000 in essential camera bodies, lenses, and lighting gear. It felt good to be back home with my dad, but living a good distance from Scottsdale—where most of my friends resided—was a bit isolating.
I continued my online dynamic with Sovy, who'd been dominating me, and I discovered a new girl named Julie. She'd dated one of my college friends and was open to letting me be her submissive for $100 a week, plus I'd buy her lingerie to wear while intimate with her boyfriend. We struck a deal: each time she finished having sex with him, she'd message me immediately to humiliate me. I owed her $25 if I sent the money within five minutes, but if I took longer, it jumped to $50. The moment I received her texts letting me know she'd just been fucked and filled, a rush of blood surged through my body. The thought of another guy inside her while she teased me about it was intoxicating.
Sovy had also ramped up the humiliation, making me perform increasingly degrading tasks. I found myself doing embarrassing things and declaring that I was her submissive on video. The worst came during a moment of weakness when I suggested that it would be thrilling if she made me do the most disgusting act imaginable. "What could be more humiliating than that?" I thought, convinced it would be the ultimate act of degradation.
After a few drinks, I messaged her with my suggestion. Her response was chilling: "Fine, do it and send me a video tonight, or I'll show your dad all the other humiliating things you've done for me." She followed up with a video of me with a toy, a potent reminder of the leverage she held over me.
At this point, I was struggling with digestive issues, so I made a pit stop at the gas station to grab a banana, hoping it would help. "Usually she made me use bananas in other ways, so this is a new use case," I chuckled to myself. I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me as I wrestled with the bizarre notion of doing something so degrading just to please her. Yet, there was a dark thrill in that very humiliation—a twisted craving that surged through me. The thought of being able to gaze at her alluring figure, knowing she'd made me do this, sent shivers down my spine.
I arrived home, my heart pounding with anticipation, and after about thirty minutes, I sensed the urge. I hurried to the bathroom and settled onto the toilet. After finishing, I wiped and glanced down at the result. It wasn't exactly solid, but it certainly wasn't a complete mess either—somewhere in that awkward in-between state that left me pondering my next move. "It'll work," I convinced myself. I opened my phone camera and pointed it at the toilet, capturing the moment of humiliation for her. With a fork in hand, I retrieved a piece. As I raised the fork to my face, a wave of revulsion washed over me, but I pushed through. I opened my mouth wide, inserted the fork, and clamped down, fighting back the gag reflex that threatened to rise. The taste was muted, an unsettling reminder of what I was doing, but the thought of her revealing my secret to my dad if I didn't follow through drove me onward. I swallowed in the video and then immediately cut it off. I started pleasuring myself to get the courage up to send her the video. I was so aroused looking at pictures of her, and I finally got the courage to press send. I could see that she'd seen the video and was probably watching it. I continued. She finally responded, "Nice work." I went faster staring at her appealing figure and finally finished in an explosive release. She owned me.
A few weeks after the grotesque episode, Sovy unexpectedly blocked me. Perhaps she was too repulsed by what I'd done, or maybe our twisted dynamic had spiraled out of control. Regardless, I'd saved all her photos, allowing me to relive the memories of our outrageous encounters whenever I desired. I realized it was time to seek new conquests. Finding girls had never been a challenge for me, after all.
Marly and Ian, my old roommates from Philadelphia, had booked a trip to Las Vegas. We'd been keeping in touch, and they knew I was back in Phoenix, making it an easy drive for me to join in on the fun. In hindsight, that might have been the last place on Earth I should have chosen to go. I should have been focused on figuring out my life and planning my next steps, but with nearly $100,000 sitting in my bank account, the appeal of partying with them for the weekend was too hard to pass up. I was already drinking every night, and with a free place to crash, how much could I possibly spend in just one weekend?
However, there was a little snag in my plans. After Sovy had stopped dominating me, I found myself with a gaping void that needed to be filled. Julie, too, was growing increasingly reluctant to continue our dynamic. I suspected she realized just how much I'd become consumed by our interactions and began to feel repulsed by the thought of me fantasizing about it. Our weekly $100 exchanges had decreased since she hardly messaged me anymore, although we'd still engage sporadically when she felt like it.
In a moment of desperation, I decided to take a leap of faith. Hayley's roommate, Laura, was stunning and exuded an air that intrigued me. I reached out to her on Facebook, saying, "Hey, if you'd ever be interested in financially dominating me, I'd be down." To my surprise, she replied that she was hesitant because she might get too wrapped up in it. "Perfect," I responded, laughing along with her. She wanted to mull it over a bit before committing and asked for more details. I told her I'd start with a $1,000 payment, followed by $100 a week for updates on her intimate encounters and to make me perform humiliating tasks.
She requested some time to think it over, and I assured her she could take as long as she needed. The next day, she messaged me, wanting to give it a try. It seemed she really wanted that $1,000. I still had plenty of cash, and the thought of being humiliated by her thrilled me. We were friends, but now we were about to embark on a completely different dynamic where she'd hold the reins.
I promptly sent over the $1,000, and she wasted no time in asking for compromising content and my dad's phone number for potential leverage. "Wow, she's really diving in headfirst," I thought, sensing an almost instinctual confidence in her approach. She agreed to a year-long commitment with no buyout, meaning I was bound to fulfill every humiliating task she devised.
With a new Dominatrix in my life, I set off to Las Vegas to reunite with Marly and Ian. The drive was filled with anticipation, and upon arriving, I met up with them at their hotel. That weekend turned out to be sweltering, and surprisingly, they weren't really in the mood to party. Instead, we found ourselves drifting into our own separate worlds. I indulged in drinks and the thrill of being surrounded by stunning girls, while they lounged by the pool and explored the sights. It was a fine arrangement; we simply had different interests.
On the final day, boredom and arousal collided within me. I decided to message Laura, my new Dominatrix, and asked if she had any humiliating tasks in mind for me. She hadn't been particularly demanding lately, so I added a little incentive: if she pushed me into some truly embarrassing antics, I'd send her $1,000. She made me promise, and then gave me my first task: jerk off onto the ground, eat my own cum, and send her video proof. Her threat hung in the air like a cloud; if I didn't comply, she'd send my dad the last video of me jacking off onto my own face, and I had no doubt she'd follow through. Our friendship had vanished, replaced by a dynamic where she viewed me solely as her submissive plaything. There was something undeniably compelling about this shift, and I quickly pulled up her pictures on Facebook to fuel my arousal.
It didn't take long for desire to take over, and soon I found myself on my knees, vigorously pleasuring myself to her enticing images. With determination, I opened Venmo, typed in her name, and entered the amount—$1,000. As I continued, just before I reached the edge, I hit the send button, and a wave of hot embarrassment washed over me. I recorded a video, and in an explosive moment, I finished all over the hotel bathroom floor. Reality hit hard; I now had to lick up my own cum for her as well. I adjusted my phone, positioning it to capture the pile of semen on the floor, then bent down so my face was inches from it and started lapping it up with my tongue, swallowing every drop. I sent her the video, breathless. She responded with a simple yet commanding message: "Good, bitch. Now just wait for further instructions."
But those instructions didn't arrive quickly. The next morning, we needed to check out of the hotel, and I was still feeling the effects of last night's drinking spree, having spent hours in the lobby until around 6:00 AM. We checked out at 10:00 AM, and I was still intoxicated. Realizing I'd parked in the hotel garage, I climbed into my car only to realize I was in no shape to drive. I cranked up the AC, reclined my seat, shut my eyes, and passed out.
Around 2:00 PM, I was jolted awake by persistent tapping on my window. Startled, I saw a bike security officer informing me that sleeping in the parking garage wasn't allowed. If I wasn't a hotel guest, I'd need to leave. Panic washed over me at the thought of the police getting involved, so I complied and hit the road. I was in desperate need of food, so I swung by a nearby fast-food joint. Parched and disoriented, I kept driving toward home, battling the urge to doze off.
It felt like a grueling journey; the fatigue was overwhelming. Finally, just 30 minutes from home, I began recognizing familiar streets and neighborhoods, a wave of relief washing over me. "I'm going to make it," I thought, bolstered by the thought of home.
When I finally rolled back into Sun City, the first thing I did was park my car, crawl into bed, and pull up pictures of Laura and Julie to satisfy myself. I still had two gorgeous women who regularly indulged in humiliating me, but Laura was becoming progressively more demanding. So I decided to message Julie, throwing out an enticing offer: "Hey, I'd be willing to pay $500 to come clean you and your boyfriend's apartment." She responded that we could do that but mentioned she needed to figure out a day when he wouldn't be home.
I pushed my luck further. "Any chance you'd make me get on my knees when I arrive, put a dog collar on me, and duct tape one of your dirty socks into my mouth, making me keep it there while I clean?" I could see her typing, anticipation electrifying the air. "Yep. I can do that," she replied. "Fuck, that's so nasty and sexy," I thought, my arousal escalating as I began stroking faster to her photos. The images of her with him fueled my desire even more; the idea of her having a long-term boyfriend while still degrading me was an irresistible turn-on.
Just as I neared the edge, I had one more daring request brewing. I typed out, "If I pay more, would you be willing to make me eat your boyfriend's cum out of one of your used condoms?" She quickly shot back, "Uh, we don't use condoms." Undeterred, I saw a glimmer of opportunity and replied, "What about making me lick the creampie out of your panties?" She drew the line, declaring that was too far. I understood and quickly reassured her, "That's fine. Forget about it; we can just stick to the other things." She agreed, saying, "Fine, let me figure out when a good day is." I replied, "No problem."
I found myself climaxing to the thought of cleaning her apartment, entirely consumed by how attractive she was.
The next day, she messaged me that her boyfriend would be at work the following day, and I could come by to clean starting at 1:00 PM. I let her know I'd bring a dog collar and swing by. "OK," she replied.
That night, I drank heavily and must've masturbated five times, my mind racing with thoughts of how humiliating the experience would be. The following day, I made my way to a PetSmart near her apartment to pick up the dog collar. Laura had also instructed me to wear pink women's panties all day, promising to check in and wanting proof via pictures throughout the day.
I pulled up to Julie's apartment in Tempe around 12:45 PM, brushing my teeth in the car to ensure I had the full taste of her sweaty socks in my mouth, not tainted by any food I'd eaten. I texted her that I'd arrived, and she replied that she'd come down to get me. A few moments later, I spotted her emerging from the apartment complex. She looked stunning, clad in a tank top and black yoga pants.
She appeared a little thicker than the last time I'd seen her, but it was in a good way, hinting that she'd been hiking more and focusing on building her lower body strength. She looked fantastic. Her pretty face was framed by her natural medium brown hair, and her piercing green eyes captivated me. As I walked over to meet her, I asked if there was anything specific she wanted me to clean. "You can start on the floors," she instructed, "then vacuum my bedroom, and clean out the kitchen and bathroom."
When we arrived at her apartment, I pulled the dog collar out of the PetSmart bag. "You had to get it in pink?" she chuckled, a playful glint in her eye. I wanted the entire experience to be as humiliating and degrading as possible. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor, and I dropped to my knees. She watched me submit, then stepped behind me. I knelt there as she expertly undid the collar, resized it to fit snugly around my neck, and buckled it into place. "There we go," she said with satisfaction.
As I stood up, she grabbed a dirty gym sock and asked me if I was ready. She raised her hand and stuffed the sock into my mouth. The taste wasn't as sweaty as I'd hoped, but I could tell it wasn't clean either. The thrill of the moment sent shivers down my spine. She grabbed a piece of duct tape, ripping off about six inches, and pressed it firmly over my lips. A small chuckle escaped her as she made sure it stuck, patting it down to ensure it stayed in place.
Voiceless now, I texted her to ask what I should start with. She instructed me to begin by sweeping the floors, pointing me toward the broom and dustpan. I complied obediently, moving on to use a Swiffer to clean the kitchen and living room floors. As I vacuumed her bedroom, I noticed she'd tossed all her dirty laundry behind her TV on the dresser. A little disappointment washed over me; I longed to be forced to suck her dirty post-sex-worn panties like a little cuckold. Still, the humiliation of cleaning the bedroom where she and her boyfriend fucked every night was intoxicating.
Once I finished in the bedroom, I knelt to clean the toilet, sink, and shower in the bathroom. Mid-scrub, she texted me to let me know that one of her friends was coming over. I shot her a quick text asking if she wanted me to keep the dog collar on and the sweaty sock duct-taped in my mouth. Her swift response was a simple, "Yes, I do." A wave of arousal surged through me; the thought of being paraded in front of her friend while wearing the dog collar and gagged sent a rush of excitement coursing through my veins.
Her friend arrived about ten minutes later—a slender, attractive Asian girl. My face flushed with embarrassment, but she was kind, not making any mocking remarks, at least not to my face.
After about twenty more minutes, Julie came to inform me that her boyfriend would be home within the hour, signaling that my time was up. I handed over the $500, thanked her, and made my exit, eager to drive back to Sun City as fast as I could to relive the experience in my mind.
On the way home, I texted her, "Damn, I really feel like your little bitch now. That must've made you feel like you owned me." She responded with an emoji of a girl raising her hand, affirming my submission.
Once I got home, I greeted my dad, claiming I was tired and needed a nap. But the truth was, I couldn't leave my bedroom for a long time. I ended up jacking off to the entire experience five times, consumed by a deep sense of degradation and arousal. It was electrifying.
I recalled fantasizing about the thrill of being dominated by college girls, so I dove into Instagram, seeking out potential new mistresses. I started reaching out with messages like, "Hey, I'm into financial domination. If you'd be interested in having a little bitch who would pay you $100 a week to humiliate them, let me know." Surprisingly, I received quite a few affirmative responses, but one in particular caught my attention.
Her name was Morgan, a student at one of the Coastal Carolina universities. While she usually kept her mouth closed for photos, whenever she did smile, it was utterly captivating. Morgan had sun-kissed, tan skin and a plethora of alluring bikini shots that highlighted her stunning physique. She was the most fit girl I'd encountered in my search, radiating confidence. With large, natural breasts and a height that appeared to be around 5'6", she exuded a magnetic presence.
Her social media hinted at a lively lifestyle; it was clear she enjoyed partying with her tight-knit group of friends. Morgan seemed like the perfect blend of beauty and dominance, and I was eager to see where this new connection might lead.
I quickly discovered that Morgan enjoyed assigning me humiliating tasks, delighting in the art of degrading me beyond the $100 a week. It was during one of our exchanges that I revealed my interest in cuckolding, suggesting that if she ever wanted to try it, I'd gladly pay an additional $150 for her to make me eat the cum from a used condom after she'd been with another guy. To my excitement, she was fully on board and informed me she had a guy coming over that very night.
A couple hours later, I received a picture of her entwined with him, her legs wrapped around his waist while she flipped me off with a mischievous grin. Just moments after that, a voice message popped up. My heart raced as I clicked to play it, instantly consumed in a world of desire. The sexy sounds of her genuine moans filled the air—no faking here. I could even hear the unmistakable slap of his balls against her ass as he thrust into her. A rush of embarrassment flooded through me, igniting every nerve in my body. I felt incredibly turned on and humiliated.
Already in bed, I swiftly pulled down my shorts and grabbed my cock, stroking furiously while picturing her with him, and the prospect of her commanding me to eat the cum from the condom. Just as I neared the edge of climax, a ding interrupted me—it was another message from her. "Well, that was fun. He fucked me so good, and I came so hard. I'll get your latex treat in the mail tomorrow. And remember, I have your dad's phone number, so you better follow through on eating every last drop of his cum from it, or I'll show your dad everything."
In that moment, I exploded. She was a master at this game.
A few days later, a package arrived in the mail, and I snatched it from my dad's counter, retreating to my bedroom. Inside was a sealed condom, tied at the end, containing a liquid that I assumed to be cum. However, after days in transit, it had become watery. "Maybe this is a bad idea," I thought, uncertainty creeping in. I contemplated the potential dangers of consuming "spoiled" cum and did a quick search online, but found little information to guide me.
The allure of Morgan's beauty and the thought of her forcing me into this act was intoxicating. The memory of it would undoubtedly be a thrilling fantasy for years to come. "It's worth the risk," I finally decided, steeling myself for the degradation that lay ahead.
I clutched the condom in my hand and made my way to the bathroom, determined to avoid any mess in my bedroom from the old jizz. My heart raced as I started recording a video on my phone, intending to send it to Morgan as proof that I was genuinely opening it—no swaps or tricks here.
Finally, I managed to untie the knot, and that's when the smell hit me like a brick wall. It was an unholy combination of rotten fish and algae, the most repugnant odor I'd ever encountered. Panic gripped me as I thought, "I can't do this." I quickly messaged her, "Hey, this smells really gross. I think it's spoiled. Not sure if it's safe to eat this."
She was online and responded almost right away, "Too bad for you. I don't care. I went through the trouble of shipping it, and I have your dad's number. You'll eat every bit of his cum, or I'll text your dad everything, bitch."
That was all it took. The way she didn't care about me, how forceful she was—it turned me on immediately. I messaged her back, "Okay, thanks for making me do it. That's so hot."
She replied right away, "Good. Hurry up. I want to see it."
Feeling a rush of adrenaline, I hit record on the video and looked straight into the camera. "I'm Morgan [last name]'s little bitch, and she's making me eat the cum out of the condom from another guy who fucked her." I grabbed the condom and put the open end in my mouth. It didn't move at first, so I tilted my head back and let the contents pour into my mouth.
The taste and smell hit me hard, and I gagged, swallowing some right away. I glanced at myself on the video looking pathetic, humiliated, but I was also completely turned on. It was a strange, intense thrill that told me just how deep I'd gone down this messed-up path.
I stared into the camera, swallowing another mouthful as more of the warm liquid slid down my throat and settled in my stomach. I figured I'd done enough to satisfy Morgan. My body shook with embarrassment, burning with shame. I opened our Instagram chat, my finger hovering over the "send" button, heart pounding. I paused, wanting to finish myself off, using the shame and humiliation to make the orgasm even more intense before sending the video.
Back in my bedroom, I laid down with the condom resting on my chest, the smell still strong—a gross reminder of what I'd just done. As I got close to finishing, I brought the condom back to my mouth, making the moment even hotter. I reopened our chat, uploaded the video, and hit send. The second I sent it, I had an insane orgasm, one of the most intense I'd ever felt. The mix of humiliation and arousal completely took over.
Morgan watched the video right away and messaged back: "You better never forget to send me my $100 every week, or your dad will see all of that." The thrill of it all hit me again, and I knew I needed to jerk off one more time. Wanting to keep the game going, I asked her if she'd show the video to her hot friends and let me know their reactions for $15 each. She responded quickly, "I'd love to! I already showed the guy, too - he thought it was hilarious." Morgan knew exactly how to press my buttons, and I was totally hooked.
Meanwhile, all my photography gear had arrived, and I'd launched my wedding photography website. I was getting some inquiries, but I still wasn't booking any weddings. With my inheritance down to just over $20,000, I decided to take a chance and move to Scottsdale to reconnect with old friends.
A friend of mine, Travis, texted me to say his roommate was moving out and there was a room available in South Scottsdale for just $450 plus utilities. It sounded like a great deal. I told my dad, packed up, and arranged to have a bed delivered to my new place. Being close to the bars and back with friends felt freeing, even though a lot of them had settled down—about half were married and busy with work—but it was still nice to be part of the old scene again.
One good thing about moving to Scottsdale was that Chris lived there too. He was part of Zack's crew back in Phoenix and my favorite person to hang out with. When Chris asked if I wanted to join a fantasy football league he was in, I jumped at the chance. Out of curiosity, I asked who else was in it, and when he mentioned "Nicole P," my heart skipped a beat. She was insanely attractive—cute face, freckles, bright smile, perfect C-cup breasts, and a slim but toned body. Just thinking about her made me hot.
I signed up for the league right away, excited at the idea of seeing her a few times and maybe impressing her with my fantasy football skills. "Maybe this will turn into something," I thought, though I knew she was probably out of my league.
The draft happened the next week at a friend's house, and when I got there, everyone was drinking and having a good time. I tried to act confident and make Nicole laugh during the draft, hoping to make an impression. I was feeling good about myself after sticking to my workout routine, thinking maybe I had a chance. The only downside was that she had a long-term boyfriend—though he wasn't there with her at the time.
After the draft, I enlisted Zack's help with my team since he was well-versed in fantasy football strategy. I'd drafted poorly, but with his guidance on trades and waiver pickups, we turned my luck around, and by week seven, we found ourselves sitting in second place. I secretly wanted Nicole to know I had a crush on her, curious if she might feel the same. In our league's WhatsApp group, Zack and I, feeling a bit tipsy, decided to rename our team "Nicole P is hot." It started as a joke, but within five minutes, I was hitting "save changes," and the chat erupted.
"Nice new team name, Jake," Chris chimed in, and soon after, Nicole saw it and replied with a casual "Geeze lol." Not the response I was hoping for, but a few hours later, I got what I wanted.
Nicole slid into my Whatsapp DMs: "Uh, so do you really think I'm hot?" Keeping it simple and straightforward, I replied, "Yeh, you're hot 😊." She responded, "Aww thanks, you're pretty hot too. If you want to hang out sometime, I'd be down."
"Yes!" I thought, barely holding back my excitement. I quickly pulled up her Facebook pictures and headed to my bedroom, eager to check out her bikini shots, photos with her boyfriend, and even those random pics of her feet. "Wow, I haven't finished that fast in a while," I thought, feeling a rush. She was gorgeous, and the idea of hanging out with her was thrilling. Even if nothing romantic happened, maybe I could get her to tease me about her boyfriend. That would be just as exciting.
She asked if I smoked weed. I wasn't really into it, but I figured, why not? "Yeah, of course!" I replied, wanting to impress her. "Do you want to come over and smoke?" She responded right away, "Yes! Where do you live?" I gave her my address, and she said she'd be over in about 30 minutes.
My apartment complex was hard to navigate, so I met her at her car. When I saw her, my heart started racing. She looked so hot in her mesh workout shorts and a tight T-shirt, like she'd just come from the gym. "Man, I'd suck her toes right now," I thought, trying to stay cool and not seem desperate.
We got inside, and I put on an episode of Game of Thrones. I told her I wasn't really in the mood to smoke but she could go ahead. I handed her my stash and a frog-shaped pipe. She looked at it, laughing, and said, "What the heck is this?" I grinned and said, "It's my frog pipe." She laughed, "Okay, Jake."
We moved out to the back patio so we wouldn't stink up the place. She packed a bowl and took a deep hit. "So, what were you up to today?" she asked, and we engaged in small talk. I asked her what she wanted to do that evening, and she replied, "Smoking and watching Game of Thrones sounds good to me. Is there anything you're hoping for?" "Not really, unless there's something you want to do," I said, trying to leave the door open. "Jake, I have a boyfriend, so we can't really do anything, but I want to, for real."
"Fucking cucked for real," I thought, feeling a mix of excitement and disappointment. "No problem, we can just watch the show and smoke. Actually, hand me that." I reached for the pipe. I put it to my lips, took a hit, and immediately erupted into a coughing fit. She laughed and asked, "Are you alright?" Unable to respond verbally, I nodded. "Baby hits, Jake," she teased. "Dammit, I'm definitely friend zoned," I thought.
After about two hours of sitting on the couch together, she left a little after 10 PM. I walked her back to her car and gave her a warm hug goodnight. Once inside my apartment, I headed to the back patio for a cigarette, my mind racing. The horniness from being around Nicole combined with the lingering effects of the weed ignited my desires. I decided to text Laura from Philadelphia. She responded quickly, "Nice timing. I'm with a guy, so you can show my man how pathetic you are too." That was all it took; I barely made it through Laura's hottest Instagram pictures before I exploded.
Exhausted, I cleaned up quickly and planned to head to bed when Nicole texted me. "So, do you still think I'm hot?" I replied enthusiastically, "Fuck yes, Jesus. You're so damn hot. I'd do anything to you." She shot back, "So, you'd want to eat me out?" I eagerly responded, "Omg yes." She replied, "I'm thinking about you eating me out right now and touching myself." "That's so hot; I'm stroking myself right now thinking about eating you out too," I lied. "Let me see," she challenged. "Fuck," I thought. How was I going to get hard again so quickly after finishing with Laura?
I pulled up Nicole's Instagram photos for inspiration. "Maybe this will be easier than I thought," I realized, quickly getting semi-hard enough to send her a picture. "Nice," she replied. "Do you want to see me?" "Definitely," I responded, heart racing. A couple photos appeared, her hand teasingly nestled inside her panties. "So, what do you want to do to me?" she asked.
Feeling bold, I decided it was time to be honest about my submissive nature, especially since she'd used the "I have a boyfriend" excuse a couple times already. "Honestly, I'd love for you to sit on my face after you've been fucked by your boyfriend," I admitted. "Haha, Jake, we don't use condoms," she replied. "Not a problem; I'd still eat you out while you sat on my face after. You're so hot." "Omg, that's dirty, but hot," she responded, and we continued to sext until she told me she came about ten minutes later.
I pressed for another hangout, hoping that since she now knew about my kink for humiliation, I might be able to convince her to financially dominate me, make me buy her lingerie to tease her boyfriend with, and maybe, if I was lucky, she'd eventually sit on my face after fucking him.
We began chatting throughout the day like friends, planning more nights together. She mentioned that I could come over the next day if I brought her food. I sensed she was starting to test the waters. I drove to her place, and she answered the door in sexy pajama pants and a tank top. We decided on sushi, and I placed an order through DoorDash. While we waited, we sat on her couch and played with her dog. "Damn, I'd be your fucking dog," I joked, and she laughed, "Wow, okay, Jake. Maybe I could arrange that."
I couldn't believe I was putting my desires out there, but it felt exhilarating. My heart raced as she moved closer to me on the couch, putting her sexy feet in my hands. "Massage," she commanded, and I began rubbing her feet. I couldn't help but fantasize about massaging the feet of a gorgeous girl who might still have cum inside her from earlier that day. I already felt submissive to her, and when the sushi finally arrived, it offered escape from the degradation I felt while massaging her feet. She was a little stoned and thoroughly enjoyed the attention, and I devoured my fill of sushi.
Afterward, we hugged, and she said she'd text me, suggesting we hang out again soon. As I left her house and headed back to my apartment, I texted Chris, inviting him to join me at a bar called "The Rack" for some pool. We frequented the place a few times a week, where I could flirt with the attractive servers. My favorite was a stunning 5'7" girl with an athletic build and captivating green eyes. She was in her early twenties and still in shape from playing volleyball. I had a crush on her and had spent weeks trying to get her number, until one night, she finally caved.
After hanging out at The Rack, April texted me asking if I had any weed. I did, so I invited her over, and she said she'd be there in 15 minutes. "First Nicole, now April. Maybe my luck is finally turning," I thought. She arrived, and my roommate Chris, she, and I settled on the couch with some weed and the TV. I struggled to keep up with them and ended up acting a little foolish, which I sensed might have turned her off.
We continued to text, but instead of trying to hit on her, I shifted gears and started exploring the idea of being her little submissive. She was totally down for it and began teasing me with sultry lingerie pictures and humiliating requests. She was a master at humiliation through text, but the excitement didn't last long. Shortly after that, she got fired from The Rack. No harm, no foul. We exchanged a few more texts afterward, but nothing substantial ever came of it.
As time went on, I found myself down to about $10,000 left from my inheritance. I was paying Morgan $100 a week, Laura $100 a week, and spending money on Nicole in hopes of getting her to dominate me too. It was clear I needed to let someone go, and Laura was the least fun of the bunch. She seemed to expect the $100 weekly payment with minimal effort on her part, and that wasn't sustainable. So I texted her, letting her know I wanted out.
She immediately protested, "Jake, I have your dad's phone number, and you made me promise to show him everything if you ever stopped paying. I'm not letting you quit. I'll request more tasks, but you're honestly annoying, so don't expect a lot more."
Her comment stung, and I shot back, "No, I'm almost out of money, and you only engage when I annoy you, so it's probably best if we just end things." After some back-and-forth, she finally said we could wrap it up if I sent her $250, after which I'd never hear from her again. Reluctantly, I agreed. That deal was done.
Despite my decision, I was still bleeding money with no new income. After a year of taking time off, I finally realized it was time to find a job, as my photography gig wasn't bringing in enough cash.
I reached out to my friend Josh, who let me know that the company he worked for was hiring. I applied to Computer Enterprises in Tempe, AZ, and immediately scored an interview. I was offered the job, but it didn't pay much. It was basically somewhere I could go and not spend money for 8 hours a day. The work environment was vibrant and youthful, filled mostly with newly graduated college kids including a lot of attractive women. A couple of those girls even had a background in adult entertainment, and their pasts were the subject of whispers around the office. One of those girls was absolutely smokin' hot; I honestly couldn't understand why she hadn't pursued it further. She would've been a star without a doubt.
Meanwhile, I was still working on Nicole. We'd enjoyed dinners at upscale steakhouses, and I was always picking up the bar tabs. She still took pleasure in our steamy sexting sessions, which provided me with plenty of material for my own fantasies. When she asked about my deepest desires, I confided that I fantasized about eating her out after she had sex with her boyfriend. We both got off on that thought, exchanging explicit pictures. However, she made it clear that she couldn't let me eat her out because of her boyfriend. I seized the opportunity and suggested, "How about I buy some worn after-sex panties from you?"
She raised an eyebrow and asked how much I'd pay. "$100," I replied. She agreed, and I couldn't help but think that this would be a sizzling addition to my sessions. I envisioned myself putting my face inside those panties, my nose right where her boyfriend's cum would have leaked out.
Curious, I asked if she wanted pictures or videos of how I used them, but she declined, saying, "No, that's okay." I sensed that my growing submissiveness might have turned her off a bit, but hey, it was free money for her. We agreed to meet at the gym a couple days later to make the exchange.
When I met up with her, she looked absolutely stunning in her workout attire. The knowledge that there was a pair of creampie-filled panties in her car while we worked out together only heightened my arousal. As we left, I followed her to her car, handing over the $100. She handed me a brown paper bag, and I could feel the panties sliding around in the bottom.
She hugged me tightly, kissing me on the neck, and said, "You're so hot." I turned my head to hers and replied, "No. You're so hot. Thank you."
After that, we hopped into our cars and drove back to our respective places. The moment I returned home, I felt a rush of excitement at the thought of using the freshly creampie-filled panties. I didn't want to suck on them yet because I wanted to preserve the intoxicating scent that emanated from the dried white spots which was a thrilling blend of her juices and his cum.
I slipped the panties over my head, positioning the part that had touched her pussy right against my nose, forcing me to inhale deeply. The aroma was seared into my memory, and in that moment, I exploded in a degrading, euphoric orgasm.
I texted her afterward, curious if she enjoyed humiliating me. Her response was playful: "A little. Hehe." I let her know that if she ever wanted me to come over and kneel before her, hand-washing her dirty creampie panties in front of her, I'd be more than willing. She replied that it sounded like a plan, but reminded me to be cautious since she had a boyfriend and was worried about others finding out about us.
Soon enough, she came over to watch TV shows and get high again. Dressed in cozy sweatpants and a tank top, with her sandals showcasing her sexy little feet, she settled in beside me on the couch. A little high, she cuddled up against me, and I instinctively wrapped my arm around her.
After some time, I decided to make my move. I leaned in for a kiss, but she turned her head away, evading me. Undeterred, I slid my right hand inside the front waistband of her sweatpants, and to my delight, she shifted positions, giving me easier access to slip my fingers into her panties. She was completely shaven.
With my arm around her, I had to reach down further to find her pussy, and once I did, I couldn't believe how perfect it felt. I slipped a finger inside her, and she tightened around my index finger, leaving me in awe of her incredible tightness. I couldn't help but fantasize about how good my dick would feel being squeezed by her, so I inserted a second finger. She relaxed more, sighed, and began to grind against my fingers, clearly enjoying the sensation.
As I kissed her, I pondered my next move, craving to taste her so badly. I sank to the floor, gently pulling down her sweatpants and panties. She arched her back to assist me, and as I drew closer to her pussy, I caught a whiff of her intoxicating aroma. She'd clearly been fucked and filled by her boyfriend before coming over.
"Just what you've been asking for," she giggled, grabbing the back of my head and pushing it into her wetness. I extended my tongue, immediately tasting the thrilling combination of her juices and his cum. The heat of the moment overwhelmed me, and I asked if she'd sit on my face while I ate her out for as long as she wanted. "Okay," she replied with a sultry smile.
We shifted positions, with me lying back as she straddled my face, her dirty cum-filled pussy hovering tantalizingly above me. "I bet you feel like my little bitch now," she teased. I gripped her hips and pulled her into my face, eagerly diving my tongue deep into her as I cleaned her out.
For about 15 minutes, I worshipped her, and she climaxed, leaving her intoxicating scent smeared all over my face. She whispered that since she had a boyfriend, she didn't mind me eating her out, but she couldn't reciprocate. "That's fine," I replied, sensing that she relished the power she held over me.









Chapter 5 - Changes
I was enjoying life living with Travis in Scottsdale. The rent was manageable, I was hitting up bars with Chris, and for the first time since 2013, I was flirting with girls again. My wedding photography business was gaining traction with 2-3 weddings a month, adding to my corporate salary and bonuses.
However, my connection with Nicole had started to fade. I sensed she was getting more serious with her boyfriend and felt guilty about our arrangement.
Late in November 2018, I received a text from Travis: "Bad news for the Polynesian Paradise boys, we have to move out by the end of December." Our landlord's mother needed the condo. I wasn't saving much money and my inheritance was long gone. I searched for nearby apartments, but everything was beyond my budget. I reached out to my dad and asked if I could move back in temporarily. He agreed without hesitation.
Living with my dad was fine, but the commute to work became a real hassle—fifty minutes in the morning, often over an hour in the evening. My nights were filled with gaming sessions where I'd down 6-8 beers while watching TV. I usually headed to bed around 9:30 PM, leaving me with an hour of solitude to scour the internet for new girls who might dominate me.
I couldn't go out to bars anymore—they were too far away, and I couldn't afford Uber rides. I found solace in being humiliated by various girls each month, spending most of my earnings on this pursuit. Despite this, I still managed daily gym sessions and bought groceries at Walmart to cook my meals.
Life wasn't terrible, but the daily drive to Tempe was wearing on me. My workload increased, and I found myself pushed into uncomfortable tasks. Seeking relief, I applied for a new role as Sales Support for a Corporate Sales Rep. I landed the position with a salary bump to $42,000.
My new manager had no time for training. The senior sales support member, Susan, constantly criticized my work, leading to daily verbal skirmishes. In a moment of desperation, I buzzed off my hair and showed up at the office the next day. The drastic change left everyone visibly unsettled.
As fall approached, my situation didn't improve. It felt like déjà vu—being micromanaged all over again, reminiscent of Philadelphia. In private meetings, my manager acknowledged Susan was a cunt but urged me to keep my head down or risk termination.
Frustration boiled over. I realized I wasn't the problem. My performance was solid, yet Susan's power-hungry demeanor made the environment unbearable. Convinced I couldn't change her and unwilling to tolerate the stress any longer, I drafted an email that night, officially resigning.
The following day, my boss summoned me to clarify my email. I confirmed things had deteriorated beyond repair and I was prepared to leave that very day. He offered me the chance to work until the end of the day, but I opted to leave immediately. He walked me out, wishing me luck.
While still living with my dad rent-free, losing my steady income felt like a blow to my laid-back lifestyle of gaming and drinking each night. I knew I had to find new income streams.
I decided to reconnect with Lindsey from Cue Club. Our previous dynamic of her dominating me had fizzled out, but I had a proposition: would she be interested in letting me suck on her toes for $100? To my delight, she replied, "Sure!" But she had a twist—"Come over in a maid's outfit and clean all the floors of my condo. After that, you can worship my feet." I hopped on Amazon, ordered a maid's outfit, and excitedly awaited its arrival.
When it arrived, I texted Lindsey a picture. She responded enthusiastically, "Good! You can come by tomorrow night. By the way, Amelie moved in too, so you'll get to see her." Amelie was even hotter than Lindsey, but I'd never managed to contact her for a financial domination session. I asked Lindsey if Amelie would be willing to donate a sweaty sock to shove in my mouth while I cleaned. Lindsey asked what she would be paid, and I proposed an extra $50. She confirmed Amelie was on board.
When I arrived at Lindsey's condo, my nerves buzzed with anticipation. To my relief, she was just as playful, and Amelie turned out to be really cool, too. Lindsey instructed me to strip down and put on the maid's outfit. Amelie had a friend over, which meant I was getting naked in front of three of the hottest girls from ASU in their living room, ready to clean their floors like their little servant. Lindsey wanted to show off my tattoo, making me expose the one on my left ass cheek that read "Lindsey [last name]'s little bitch." They all burst into laughter, asking how I felt about it. I shrugged it off, replying, "I don't really mind; I can't see it anyway."
Not long after, I found myself upstairs, scrubbing the floors with Amelie's sock duct-taped in my mouth. Lindsey called down, "Hey little bitch! I had sex on those sheets last night. Pull them off and bring them down here to wash!" I could hear Amelie and her friend giggling at my expense.
Once I finished cleaning the floors and washing the soiled sheets, Lindsey instructed me to put them back on the bed. At last, I was rewarded with the chance to suck her toes. She recorded the whole event, verbally humiliating me while I worshipped her sweaty feet with my mouth. "I just went for a run and didn't shower," she teased. I loved every second of it.
While working at Computer Enterprises, I had been contributing to a 401(k), and I decided to withdraw the funds to create a financial cushion while I searched for new income opportunities. Scouring Craigslist, I stumbled across an ad for a karaoke host position at a bar in Avondale, AZ. The pay was $20 an hour plus tips. I interviewed for the position and was offered the job on the spot.
Karaoke turned out to be a ton of fun. After training for a couple weeks, I started having my own dedicated shows two nights a week on Wednesdays and Thursdays. I made it my mission to keep the atmosphere lively, and everyone seemed to enjoy my energy. I had never been comfortable with public speaking, but somehow I found myself flourishing in this new role. I had been desensitized to judgment, and my confidence soared. There were gorgeous 21-25 year old girls coming in every night, flirting with me in the booth. I was loving it.
I also had a conversation with a friend from my fraternity named Josh who convinced me to give DoorDash a shot. I quickly discovered that between DoorDash and my karaoke gig, I could earn more than I had in my previous corporate job. Things were falling back into place financially, however, there was still always a void to fill my appetite for new girls to use and abuse me. I found myself thinking about Goddess Jessica again. She had been the most captivating, sexiest, and most dominant woman I had ever encountered. "Maybe enough time has passed that she'd consider taking me back," I thought.
I emailed Goddess Jessica, expressing my desire to serve her again. I even offered to send her $1,000 if she would welcome me back as her slave. Her response was swift: "Jake, your reckless decision to withdraw money from your 401(k) makes me confident that you are in no condition to serve me or anyone else. I believe you're bipolar and making rash decisions. Make sure you drink enough water and get some rest. I will not allow you to serve me again."
After receiving her email, I looked up the description of bipolar disorder. Having never been diagnosed with anything before, I felt as confident and vibrant as I usually did when I was in a good mood. However, as I read through the symptoms, I couldn't help but think they aligned with my behavior quite well. Perhaps she was right, I considered, thanking her for her insight.
Caution was still the last thing on my mind. I had been cautious my entire life and I discovered that I enjoyed the ups and downs of being bipolar. Sure, the lows could plunge me into darkness and despair, but they always seemed to resolve themselves. The manic highs, on the other hand, were exhilarating! The world transformed into a vibrant playground, and I felt invincible, needing less sleep and radiating charisma. It was the perfect energy boost for my new karaoke gig.
I continued my search for new girls to dominate me and found a new promising candidate. Her name was Allie, and she was a former cheerleader from a major college football program. I also started chatting with Lindsey again. Thankfully Lindsey was still down to play into my fetishes for money and Allie was a natural at playing the superior role pushing me into the depths of submission.
Allie was 5'5" with luscious brown hair and captivating brown eyes. Her cheerleading background had gifted her a phenomenal body. After graduating a couple of years earlier, she had launched a popular OnlyFans account showcasing her nude photography. She agreed to blackmail me, asking for my dad's phone number to ensure I obeyed all of her tasks and demands.
We started out lighter with her making me suck doorknobs and shove things up my ass. I pushed the boundaries by asking if she would record herself having sex with her boyfriend and then send me the condom, forcing me to eat his cum from it. She agreed for $100, which was an absolute steal. The next day, she sent me a video of her and her boyfriend fucking as she playfully reminded me, "We don't usually use condoms, so this was a bit annoying for him. You better eat it all." My heart raced as I asked her to guarantee I wouldn't be let off the hook for this. "Sure, if that's what you want," and she laid out the task: "You must send me a video of you putting your dick into the condom filled with his cum, jerking off, and then cumming into it. After that, you have to eat both his and your own cum from the condom." A wave of humiliation washed over me. "That's way better than I could've ever hoped for," I replied, a mix of excitement and dread bubbling inside me.
"You're welcome," she shot back. "And remember, I have your dad's phone number, so you better do it, or I'll let him know what a little bitch his son is." She already possessed videos of me sucking doorknobs and stuffing objects up my ass, so I knew I was trapped just like I wanted. The condom was shipped out the next day and arrived a few days later from the East Coast. I messaged her to let her know it had arrived and asked if she could send me a video demanding that I eat it for an extra $20. She agreed, quickly sending back a video from her car.
She was so unbelievably hot. I couldn't believe I had a video of her making these demands to jack off to forever. Overcome with desire, I dashed to the bathroom, pulling out the condom. As I untied it, the pungent smell hit me like a wave—like dead fish—and I scrambled to get it on my dick as quickly as possible. "If it's airtight on me, at least I won't have to smell it," I thought, my body flushing bright red from the sheer humiliation of it all.
I began stroking with the condom on, feeling ashamed of how good it felt. The combination of the latex and his cum made for an incredible lubricant, and within minutes of replaying her video request, I was nearly ready to explode. I aimed my phone at the mirror, starting the recording. I had taken previous videos of myself unboxing the condom and putting it on my dick, ensuring she wouldn't think I swapped it out. Eyes closed, I lost myself in the moment, imagining how hot she was and the thrill of being forced into such an incredibly humiliating task. Finally, I reached my climax, capturing every moment on video.
Desperate to complete the task without losing my arousal, I carefully pulled the condom off my dick and brought it to my mouth. Surprisingly, it didn't smell as bad now with my cum mixed with his. I lifted it, letting the liquid spill into my mouth. As soon as it poured into my mouth I gagged, but I was able to swallow down a big gulp, making a disgusted face as I did.
I sent her the video of my humiliating experience, and she responded immediately in a video laughing at my predicament. "That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my entire life. You don't even know this guy, and you're letting me make you pour his cum into your mouth and eat it. You're pathetic," she let me know—my heart raced. She was correct. I was pathetic and disgusting. Curious about if she would show her friends and then send me their reactions, I asked, letting her know I'd pay her $10 for each reaction she screen captured and sent to me so I could revel in the humiliation even more. She replied, "Sure." The thought of her laughing and humiliating me with her friends behind my back was hot. She even recorded another video for me of her own reaction after texting with her friends. "Jake, you're definitely my little bitch. I've never been so disgusted in my life. But I have to admit, it's pretty entertaining watching you humiliate yourself like that, and my friends think it's hilarious too." She was absolutely perfect.
Karaoke nights were going stress-free, allowing me to drink and enjoy myself with the patrons. Delivering food became a nightly routine around dinnertime, where I didn't have to engage much with people while still earning upwards of $35 per hour after tips. I was having a blast! While I had not booked a lot of new weddings, I still had a few lined up for the springtime.
But just when I thought things were going smoothly, disaster struck. In the middle of March 2020, I received a call from my boss: all karaoke shows were suspended until further notice due to the coronavirus. While I could still deliver food, demand had spiked but I soon found myself making less in tips as people were being laid off or working for less money.
Just as I had begun to experience some happiness and control from running karaoke shows, with far more autonomy than my previous jobs where my bosses hovered over me, that joy was taken away.
For the next couple months, I threw myself into food delivery. My work day would begin around 3:30 PM after I'd woken up from ending the previous day's drinking and movies, which typically lasted until around 5:30 AM, just as my dad was getting up. I'd deliver meals until about 9 PM, typically making around $25 an hour—enough to cover my bills while living under my dad's roof. The break did force me to find new avenues to entertain myself. I discovered I had a love of movies, particularly ones I had never seen before. Each night, I watched 2-3 new films off of the top 1,000 movies on the IMDB list.
Lindsey still welcomed me over about once every week or two to clean her floors, and our relationship had morphed into an odd friendship. Instead of engaging in toe-sucking sessions, we'd cook dinner together, chat about life, and watch movies. It was kind of nice to have a new friend and I think she was a bit lonely too.
My dad had found a girlfriend up in Prescott and started spending five days a week at her place before returning to Sun City on Sunday night through Tuesday afternoons. This arrangement worked perfectly for me; I only had to share the house with them for two days, leaving me with five glorious days of solitude. Those evenings, I would blast music, dive into Rocket League, binge-watch movies, and enjoy some beers every single night.
Finally, towards the end of May I received a call from my boss: COVID-19 had slowed down enough for bars to reopen. He wanted me to start up my Wednesday and Thursday karaoke shows again at Tonan's Oasis. Determined not to take this opportunity for granted, I was set on making the shows even more entertaining than before. I introduced props, engaged in Nerf battles with patrons, and did everything I could to ensure everyone had a memorable experience.
Two hot cowgirls became regulars at my Thursday shows, and after a couple of months, they let me know that they worked at a popular cowboy bar less than five miles away that was planning to reopen soon. They mentioned that their boss was interested in adding karaoke nights on Fridays and Saturdays and believed I'd be the perfect fit. Excited, I called my boss, who promptly came down to meet the girls. Everything fell into place rapidly, and I was set to start running the Friday and Saturday shows at Cochise's Horseshoe Corral the following week.
My boss invited me over to his house after my Thursday night show to review the equipment and setup for the new bar. The setup was far more complicated than what I was used to at Tonan's Oasis; the equipment needed to be stored in a shed, which required me to pull it all out, set it up, and then pack it away at the end of the night.
I arrived at the bar the next night around 7:30 PM, sporting my mohawk, khakis, and tank top, ready to set up. Chaos greeted me: we lacked enough outlets so I had to run extension cords from two different sides of the stage. Patrons swarmed me even before we were set up asking what I was doing. I politely let them know I was busy setting up karaoke.
Finally, around 9:00 PM, after multiple phone calls with my boss, we managed to get the sound system up and running. We were ready to kick off the night! I finally took the time to look around and was struck by the sight of over 200 people milling about on the patio. I froze. The bar where I had previously hosted karaoke could barely hold 65 people, and the largest crowd I'd ever entertained was a mere 35. This was going to be absolutely wild!
It took me a good 15 minutes after getting set up to muster the courage to speak into the microphone. Finally, I grasped it, my heart racing, and brought it to my lips. "Hi, everyone!" My voice boomed over the speakers, and instantly, all eyes were on me. "My name is Jake, and we're about to kick off karaoke. If you'd like to sing, please come up to the booth and let me know." To my astonishment, immediately fifteen people began making their way toward me. "Holy shit, this is going to be insane!" I thought.
People were line dancing, requesting songs to two-step to, and the karaoke requests flooded in all night long. Among the bartenders were the two cute girls who had attended my shows at Tonan's Oasis, plus about ten other gorgeous bartenders and servers. They all seemed to enjoy having me around, and I was having a blast. The chaos was exhilarating, and my mind was racing with excitement as I soaked it all in. Being the center of attention for 200 people on the patio for five hours felt electrifying—I felt like a small-town celebrity. Maybe I had finally discovered my true calling.
By the end of the night, we had belted out over 50 karaoke songs, danced to the "Cha Cha Slide," "Cupid's Shuffle," and even "Copperhead Road," along with 15 other random song requests. I quickly figured out it was impossible to grant everyone each of their requests each night. The volume of requests was insane. There was barely time for a bathroom break, but I was having the time of my life. Several patrons stopped by the booth at the end of the night to tell me I had done a fantastic job.
I viewed the new bar as a vibrant new home, packed with new friends to share drinks and laughter with every weekend. I thought maybe my newfound position of power would spark some interest with one of the charming bartenders, and I could finally find a relationship—and a taste of true happiness.
Chapter 6 - Stimulating My Brain
My friends were starting to grow annoyed with all the excitement I was radiating. I'd share tales of my karaoke nights and dissect the movies I was binge-watching in our group chat. They'd wake up to a deluge of messages where I rambled on about the ins and outs of my life, and their complaints began to echo louder than the joy I was expressing.
I hadn't advertised my wedding photography business again, as my weekends were now wholly consumed by karaoke shows. My car had broken down during the winter, leaving me reliant on my dad's car—a used 2006 Subaru Forrester. He and his wife had recently purchased a new electric vehicle, so he was happy to lend me his car. The Subaru had mounting issues: a blown transmission, multiple tire replacements from nails, and one tire that deflated every couple of days. It felt like I was barely keeping my head above water with all the additional expenses.
I started to notice shifts in my behavior again and realized I might be entering another manic episode—something I welcomed because it always felt like it gave me wings and extra energy. This time, the sensation was more pronounced, like my brain was firing on all cylinders at 150-200% of its usual processing speed. Out of curiosity, I researched the symptoms I was experiencing and discovered they were typically associated with autism. I had never considered that I might be autistic, but it felt as foreign to me as bipolar did when I first started learning about it.
The tire continued to go flat every few days. I finally drove to Discount Tire, and they confirmed it was patchable and would do it free of charge. Within an hour, I was back on the road. I parked at home and settled in for my nightly ritual of playing Rocket League, watching movies, and listening to music.
The next afternoon, I woke up planning to deliver food before heading to my karaoke show. When I stepped outside, the tire was flat again. "What the hell?" I drove back to Discount Tire, convinced they must have patched the wrong tire. The salesman explained it was a four-wheel-drive vehicle and they'd check again. If it couldn't be patched, I'd need to buy a whole new set of tires, as the others wouldn't match the tread. Frustrated, I voiced my complaints loud enough to catch management's attention.
Twenty minutes later, an employee emerged from the garage. He wore thick glasses, had unkempt hair, and spoke in a loud, monotone voice. I couldn't help but think, "Damn, I think he's autistic." He practically yelled, "Jacob!" while scanning the room. I replied, "Hey buddy, I'm Jake," wanting to be friendly, as he looked like he'd already been shit on enough by life. He stared at me blankly. "So, we checked the tire, and they patched the wrong one last time. We can patch the new hole in about five minutes. You'll be good to go." He delivered the news so loudly and monotonously that it felt like bad news at first. "Oh, so that's good news then?" "Yep," he replied. He lingered, staring at me. "Do I owe you any money?" "Nope," he said flatly, still staring. "What the fuck does he want?" I wondered. "Awesome, okay, thanks," I finally said, and he walked away. "What a weird dude," I thought. Yet in that moment, I realized we had a peculiar way of understanding and communicating with each other. I thought that I was probably a bit autistic too, just more adept at navigating society.
I had also always been oddly good at statistical mathematics. As I continued my research, I discovered a number of films featuring autistic characters, many of which were among my favorites. One standout was "The Accountant," starring Ben Affleck. I watched it again and noted several similarities between myself and the main character. I took an IQ test to gauge whether I was abnormally intelligent, as my brain felt like it was operating at a higher level of efficiency. The results showed I was slightly above average, but not genius-level. Perhaps my "autistic gift" lay in my ability to perceive and interpret music differently. I felt like I could anticipate beats and instruments before they even played, so I immersed myself in more music.
After coming to terms with my possible autism, an overwhelming urge to share the news swept over me. I told my dad and his wife, my boss, many of my coworkers, and some of the patrons at karaoke. I reassured them that I wasn't dangerous, just a little quirky. I was stressed. Financially I wasn't fully keeping up and the patrons were wearing me down each night with unrelenting requests. I hoped that letting them know I was autistic might slow down their bombardment, but it didn't do much.
Karaoke was still pretty fun, and I developed a small following of dedicated fans. One of my favorite patrons was a slender sandy blonde with a kind smile and green highlights named Katie. We became friends, exchanging texts throughout the week. She had a knack for captivating the attention of guys at the bar.
My friends were growing weary of my constant chatter about autism, movies, and karaoke stories, so I sought out new avenues for connection. I used to enjoy visiting rooms on MyFreeCams, a site where girls chatted and stripped while engaging with their audience in a chat room. It was usually filled with camaraderie and interesting guys. I decided to dive back in.
I was instantly drawn to a petite Spanish beauty named Cassie. She had an adorable smile and pink-streaked hair. Her sun-kissed skin glowed, and she flashed a dazzling set of white teeth. At just 5'2", she was fit from head to toe with enticing curves and full C-cup breasts. Her lively voice rang out with a familiar shrillness reminiscent of Goddess Jessica. Cassie was funny and seemed to enjoy my chatter in her room. Typically, I spent hours conversing with her and the other guys while playing Rocket League, feeling like perhaps everything in life was a puzzle I was trying to solve.
Autistic characters have always had a penchant for puzzles in every movie I'd watched, and I couldn't help but wonder if my own life was intricately crafted by my brain subconsciously. I would find associations in things I had watched, said previously, or experienced to other ideas protruding through into my conscious. A relatively consistent theme was thinking about whether the world was real at all as it appeared. Maybe the world was just an Artificial Intelligence construct and we were just supposed to enjoy the experience.
Most nights after returning home from the bar I would dive into Cassie's room, spending hours lost in conversation. For just $20, I could buy eight jukebox songs, so I often tipped for a few tracks to keep the atmosphere lively and stay in her good graces. Although she often went full nude and performed sexual shows, I was primarily there for the camaraderie, engaging in off-topic chats even while she was getting herself off with a sex toy. When I'd apologize, explaining I was more interested in the banter than the adult content, most of the viewers would chuckle.
I made sure to privately message Cassie to assure her that my autism wasn't a threat; I simply enjoyed her company and the room's energy. I let her know I'd continue tipping for songs no matter what. She just responded telling me to relax and have fun.
As I grew more accustomed to Cassie's room, my nightly visits became a delightful routine. She understood my quirks and patiently tolerated my occasional annoyances, but I couldn't shake the feeling that some of the guys were poking fun at me. They'd call me "Distract" instead of my screen name, AttractPromo, and sometimes they'd engage in conversations, intentionally leaving me out. Patrons would show up with different names but the same font and color and I knew that the same person was behind both accounts. Cassie would not greet them the same but I sensed she must be in on the game as well. I thought maybe making fun of me was part of the entertainment for all of them.
Feeling uneasy, I reached out to Cassie again. "I think some of the guys are making fun of me," I confessed. "I've noticed some leaving when I come in or not stick around for very long after I get there. Sorry if I've cut into your earnings. I might spend a little less time in the room." She replied that she hadn't noticed any teasing, but encouraged me to share specific instances. The jabs were always very cryptic, almost coded, so pinpointing them to share with her would be hard, yet I was sure it was happening.
I decided to pour myself more into karaoke, movies, and Rocket League. We were busier than ever at karaoke, with both bars adding an extra night for shows. I was now doing Tonan's Oasis on Wednesdays and Thursdays and Cochise's Longhorn Corral on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. The workload was heavy, and I was getting more run down each week.
There was a patron coming to a lot of my shows named Alan. He was 6'3" and in his upper 40's but still good looking, in great shape, with a big inviting smile. He seemed to pick up on my affinity for stimulants. One night at Tonan's Oasis, he offered me some Adderall. I accepted with a chuckle, letting him know I had a couple of buddies with prescriptions, so I wasn't a rookie. "Do you like coke?" he inquired casually. "Yeah, I do," I replied, only for him to quip, "I meant Coca-Cola, Jake! Jesus Christ, you druggie!" His playful ribbing made it clear he had stumbled upon a secret he could use against me. He then confided that he enjoyed coke, too, and was just messing around with me.
He was coming to more of my shows to keep me fueled. He also loved singing and karaoke. He'd frequently sit up in the booth with me all night chatting my ear off. He was pretty good with the ladies too, always bringing in new girls on dates or hitting on the girls at the show. From what I understood he was an electrician starting up his own company. He also had side businesses including consulting and writing. He was hyper focused on the development of himself and people and usually wouldn't shut up about my goals and desires. Although he could be annoying with his constant chattering, he also possessed an ability to shift conversations on a dime and charm anyone.
A few days later, I decided to go back into Cassie's room. When I returned, the atmosphere felt surprisingly warm and inviting. I rekindled my enjoyment of hanging out there, determined not to harbor grudges against those who had previously mocked me.
To cope with the growing stress from karaoke, I found comfort in Cassie's room after arriving home from my shows. My patience with the karaoke patrons had begun to dwindle, and I knew it was time to talk to my boss about finding someone to share the workload.
In June, Cassie was scheduled to attend a Myfreecams event called "Social" in Las Vegas, where many of the platform's top girls gathered. Despite her busy schedule, she continued camming every night, and I sought refuge in her room. With an unexpectedly light week financially, I felt generous and wanted to spoil her a bit. I casually asked if she'd like a beer and offered to tip for it. She responded, "Sure!" I tipped $40 (400 tokens) for her "beer," and the entire room buzzed with astonishment. I had never tipped for anything other than songs before.
Cassie then set a goal for us to reach a certain number of tokens to entice her to go down to the pool and cam with the other girls. She started a countdown, warning that if we didn't hit the target, she'd head to bed instead. Everyone wanted her to go down and socialize, so I bought more tokens and began tipping away. However, no one else seemed to join in, and with 380 tokens left, I decided I didn't care about the money anymore. Maybe I had entered another level of mania, but something shifted within me.
With newfound determination, I whipped out my credit card and bought 400 more tokens. I tipped the remaining 380, eager to reach the goal. She surprised us all by saying, "Alright, guys, I think I'm going to get some sleep." My heart sank. I had just dropped $160 in one night, shattering the countdown only to be left hanging. It felt like she was playing me for tokens, aware that I'd try to meet her goal, but she hadn't anticipated I would do it all on my own.
As she bid farewell to everyone, I sat in her room, stunned. Then, a guy named Ron mentioned another model, Jen, was doing the YMCA. Intrigued, I jumped into her room, only to find five girls splashing about in the pool—but no Cassie. A wave of disappointment washed over me.
I decided to explore Kamila's room next. She was a heavyset Mexican girl, not my type, but she was always friendly. When I entered, she was lounging in a lawn chair by the pool, and I could hear the other girls in the background. "Hi, AttractPromo!" she greeted me. Then, as she turned to chat with one of the girls, I overheard my screen name again and felt a sudden rush of unease.
My heart raced as I turned the volume up. And then, I heard it—the unmistakable voice of Cassie! She had snuck off to the pool after all, disregarding the goal I had just crushed. My frustration boiled beneath the surface.
Despite Cassie's seemingly friendly demeanor in our private messages, I couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal. The conversation between her and Kamila grew quieter, and eventually it faded. My gut told me that Cassie didn't want me to know she was there socializing with the other girls.
Suddenly, I felt an unsettling mix of emotions. I hadn't begun the evening feeling jealous, but Cassie's sneaky behavior began to twist my feelings into something darker. "Why was she avoiding me? What had I done to upset her? Was I truly so peculiar that she didn't want me around?" I asked myself. I could understand why she would have concern about me, but I just wished she would've voiced that concern so I could reassure her.
I sat there feeling foolish for having spent any tokens on her at all, grappling with feelings of abandonment and unworthiness. I remained in Kamila's room for another thirty minutes. Finally, I decided to check out other rooms, searching for a cute, fun girl to distract me from the pain I was feeling in my soul.
That's when I stumbled upon Lexxx, a charming Black girl enjoying a card game with three other girls from the event. She was bubbly, full of energy. There were even some regular guys in there from Cassie's room so I decided to stick around. The game entailed tipping 80 tokens for the chance to draw a card and answer a fun question. Intrigued, I tipped 80 tokens. "Hey, AttractPromo! Sure!" she exclaimed, pulling a card for the game.
But just then, Cassie reappeared in the background, chatting with another girl. I couldn't help but feel a mix of surprise and annoyance—"was she always lurking just out of sight?"
Cassie was fixated on the phone screen, her brow furrowing as if she were trying to decipher whether it was me who had just tipped Lexxx. The girl beside her leaned in closely, saying, "Yeah, a lot more people are being diagnosed with autism these days. It's not just boys anymore; there are a lot of girls, too." My heart shattered at her words. Not only was Cassie avoiding me, but she was also discussing my condition with other girls at the Social, as if I were some kind of threat. Lexxx then introduced Cassie to the room, her face now front and center on the camera, while the regulars from Cassie's room chimed in. "Hey, Cassie!" I wrote out, and she responded with a generic "hi" to all of us. They quickly shifted the conversation back to the 80-token game. Eager to fit in, I tipped Lexxx another 80 tokens for a question. "Thanks, AttractPromo," she said, then casually added, "I wouldn't worry about the autistic guy; it's becoming a lot more common," before picking up the card.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Cassie's expression turned to one of sheer horror. All the regulars from Cassie's room that were now in Lexxx's room and knew I was autistic must've been thinking about how awkward it was also. My heart sank deeper; it felt like I was standing in a spotlight I never wanted. I quickly typed, "Okay, guys, have a good night. Don't worry, Cassie. I'm not mad." Cassie opened her mouth as if to say something, but I couldn't bear it any longer. I left the room immediately, tears brimming in my eyes.
The following morning marked the last day of Myfreecams Social. I ventured into a girl named Ada's room, where only a handful of viewers lingered. As I entered, Ada abruptly altered her demeanor, her gaze darting as if she were trying to catch a glimpse of my screen name. A sudden suspicion crept into my mind: had Cassie been bad-mouthing me to everyone there? The girl crawled onto her bed, inching closer to the camera in silence, as if preparing for a seductive dance. Just when it seemed like the show was about to begin, the screen flickered to green with a message: "This model is not currently online."
Panic surged within me. "What had Cassie told them about me?" I thought.
MFC allows for private messages to models, so I decided to reach out to Cassie. I wanted her to know that I had overheard her last night but wasn't angry. I figured I'd take a two-week hiatus from her room to let things cool down. I loved chatting with her and the other guys, but if she didn't like me, I had no reason to keep pouring money into a space where I felt unwelcome. I decided to shift my focus away from Cassie and the room, and everyone that seemingly made fun of me behind my back.
Over the past year and a half, the faces at the bar had shifted. Some regulars had moved away, and a few of the original staff had departed, including the two girls who had introduced me to the karaoke gig at The Corral. Despite the changes, I still liked running the shows and curating the music playlist. However, the routine had started to feel stale—weekends began to blur together, with the same songs and the same patrons presenting the same issues. Thankfully, there were a couple of new, charming girls working at the bar who often brightened my shifts. However, word had circulated that I was autistic, and I sensed some of the patrons—perhaps even some of the staff—might be teasing me. I couldn't be sure, but my suspicions lingered.
My boss had a friend with a niece who had a musical background and was interested in the karaoke scene. Knowing I was overworked, my boss scheduled her to train with me to take over the Tonan's Oasis shows. She was slender and on the shorter side with brown hair and eyes and a kind smile. She seemed genuinely interested in learning karaoke, and she was an incredible singer. Alan came to her first night training with me, and he asked me about her almost immediately. She was down getting a drink at the bar, and he came up and said "Hey man, are you dating her?" and I let him know that I wasn't, I was just training her.
Alan took an interest in Abrianna and ended up inviting her to go bowling with him after the show which she quickly accepted. For me it would just mean more time away from karaoke and more time relaxing at home, which I needed more than ever after feeling so unwelcome by Cassie. While training someone new would hopefully relieve stress in the long run it was still taking more out of me in the meantime. I sensed Alan's calculated nature; he likely viewed this as a chance to get closer to Abrianna. When Alan had walked away from the stage I cautioned Abrianna on Alan referring to him as "fool's gold." I alerted her that while he flaunted tales of his wealthy lifestyle I had yet to see any proof of it to back up his claims.
As time passed, Alan wormed his way into Abrianna's life, frequently popping up at her shows. This shift began to sow discord, not only affecting my job but also straining the relationships I had cultivated at the bars. Alan's personality was divisive; some adored his charisma, while others found him utterly insufferable. Even the management at both venues shared this sentiment, viewing him as a drama-seeking instigator. Despite the drama he created, they still had no valid grounds to ban him from the bars.
Alan began showing up at nearly all my shows, making it a routine to stop by the booth, say hello, and casually drop a couple of Adderall pills on the counter. This became our new form of greeting. I would thank him for the "caffeine," and in return, he'd ask if I could bump him to the front of the karaoke line, a request I usually honored in exchange for the pills. His timing was uncanny; he'd always appear just when I was starting to lag, and the Adderall would propel me through the rest of my night.
I desperately needed Abrianna to grasp the intricacies of running the shows and alleviate some of my mounting stress. I felt I was teetering on the edge of a breakdown. Unfortunately, Abrianna often seemed lost in her own world during training. I confided in my boss about my concerns, suggesting she might be using drugs. He shrugged it off, stating that what she did in her personal time was her choice. As long as she kept her substance use hidden during shows, there wasn't much he could do. He also mentioned that he had received positive feedback regarding her training, leaving me to wonder where my negative assessments were coming from. He advised me that no one could fill my shoes completely, suggesting perhaps I needed to adjust my perspective on new hires.
It was painfully obvious that Alan had his claws in her, and I suspected he was supplying her with Adderall. Abrianna didn't seem to be handling the drugs well; she often appeared drained and unfocused. I had to make a concerted effort to keep her on track during her shows and offered guidance during our late-night phone calls when she sought advice about her rocky relationship with Alan. I found myself caught in the middle, having accepted drugs from Alan, and I feared that if Abrianna and Alan's relationship soured, he could easily spill the beans about my drug use to the bars or to my boss.
I was constantly on edge, tiptoeing around both of them, yet I craved the Adderall. It felt like I needed it to perform at my best. So, each time Alan arrived with his little gift, I found myself accepting it, despite the swirling anxiety in my gut.
Chapter 7 - Second Chances and Last Chances
It had been a couple of weeks since I last ventured into Cassie's room after the night she was talking bad about me. Instead, I found myself drawn to another girl's space, a charming soul named "Sana." She had a passion for the same music that had defined my high school years—Coheed and Cambria, Taking Back Sunday, My Chemical Romance, and The Used. Sana had Tourette's syndrome, which resulted in quirky tics that made her all the more endearing. When I confided in her about my suspicion of being autistic, she responded with warmth and understanding, sharing that she, too, faced her own health challenges. She assured me that I was always welcome to hang out there, and that everyone liked me.
Being in Sana's room felt like a second home. I eventually checked my MFC messages, curious if Cassie had responded. She had: "Hey, honestly, I don't remember that at all, but if I was talking bad about you, I apologize. Hope to see you back in my room at some point." That was all I needed to hear. The pain of not being in her room was far larger than the pain I experienced from her talking about me behind my back.
That night, I returned to Cassie's room, determined to act as if nothing had ever happened. When the guys asked where I had been, I casually replied that I'd been busier than usual with work. The conversation quickly shifted, and everything fell back into its familiar rhythm. Cassie even seemed kinder, perhaps feeling remorseful. "She really is such a good person," I thought to myself. I was genuinely happy to be back.
Abrianna was becoming more of a liability with each passing day. As her relationship with Alan deepened, her personality flaws and lack of work ethic became increasingly apparent. She arrived late to shows, appeared dazed around customers, and engaged in verbal altercations with them. The bars had started texting me, asking me to check on her in person to ensure she wasn't too impaired to perform.
Within a week, Abrianna and Alan's relationship erupted at Tonan's Oasis, resulting in her being barred from working her shows there, along with Alan being barred from the bar entirely. They had gotten into a fight during one of her shows, and management decided it wasn't worth the drama anymore.
It was horrible timing because we were thriving more than ever at Cochise's Horseshoe Corral. They had plans for a remodeling project that temporarily halted live music inside the bar, creating an opening for a DJ set on Fridays and Saturdays. This allowed for music and entertainment indoors while my karaoke shows continued on the back patio. My boss decided Abrianna could fill in indoors, which meant I would have to haul equipment over for her each Friday from a different bar and return it every Sunday night after my show. I felt a wave of annoyance wash over me. "How did finding and training a new employee result in more work for me?"
To cope with the mounting pressure and exhaustion, I began purchasing cocaine from a dealer on the west side of Phoenix. An eight-ball cost me $200, lasting about a week and keeping my energy up during performances. Some of my friends and patrons at Cochise's Horseshoe Corral quickly caught wind of my stash and would ask if I had any multiple times throughout the night. My non-confrontational nature made it difficult to say no, especially since they had shared with me in the past; I felt indebted to them. This made it more difficult to focus during shows while also trying to keep tabs on my bag of coke. I couldn't chase them down to retrieve it because I had to run the show. The constant hand offs and stress while the bag wasn't with me made the shows even more taxing mentally.
I noticed my bag of cocaine dwindling as it passed through more hands. My suspicions grew that patrons were not just taking bumps in the bathroom but were also swiping some directly from my stash. Supporting my own drug use seemed like a reasonable investment at the time, but I didn't want to pay for everyone else's habits as well.
I found myself struggling to keep up with sleep while my boss worked me into the ground. The logistical demands of moving equipment hadn't been clearly communicated or agreed to, yet my boss expected me to continue the back-and-forth each week, despite my repeated requests for a more sustainable solution. I felt unappreciated, and the joy I once found in my shows was dwindling even more.
To relieve the stress, I found myself back in Cassie's room on MyFreeCams more and more frequently. She had a magical way of renewing my will to live. Her personality sparkled with kindness, embracing my quirks and my tendency to go off on tangents during our chats. She was stunning, and her adorable golden retriever lounged beside her in the cam room. While I had once tipped lavishly during that MFC social night, I now opted for more modest gestures, sending tips to request songs I wanted to hear while ensuring Cassie got her share.
Eager for a deeper connection, I wanted to see if her seeing me on cam would change the way she felt about me. I didn't want her to fear me just because I was autistic. It was 177 tokens for "cam to cam," where she would turn on your cam for 5 minutes. I asked if we could make it happen, and she enthusiastically agreed. I sent the tokens, and I'm sure the room was on edge about what she would see; no one had any clue what I looked like. The moment my camera clicked on, Cassie's face lit up with a radiant smile. "Hi there! You look good!" she beamed, making my heart flutter. "Not really, but I appreciate it!" I replied, feeling beaten down by life—my hair hung down past my shoulders, uncut for nearly a year and a half, and my beard was wild and unkempt. My self-consciousness got the best of me and I let her know I wanted to cut my hair off and clean up my beard right then and there. I walked off to the bathroom and pulled out my haircut kit. I figured if I just cut the sides and the back, I could just trim the top quickly. The whole process only took a couple minutes, and I felt like a brand-new human. I decided not to stop with the hair and grabbed a 3/8 inch guard and trimmed my beard and sideburns down too. After that I headed back to the couch to show Cassie. I looked a lot better, and she was impressed with the transformation. The whole experience left a big smile on my face, and I took a quick shower to clean up.
Her room was populated by wealthy, interesting men, and even though I couldn't contribute as much as I wished, Cassie remained consistently kind. I hoped that having seen my face would bring a newfound humanity to our interactions; she could now connect my screen name with my smile and personality.
Among her regulars was a particularly affluent man with the username Rocketman_x, known for showering her with lavish tips. He often dropped upwards of 60,000 tokens in a single night—about $6,000—which suggested he had to be someone of significance. "Rocketman… could he possibly be Elon Musk?" I pondered, the idea both thrilling and seemingly likely.
There was also a guy named Ron, a frequent presence in the chat who posted amusing comments. One evening, I noticed he seemed down, so I reached out via private message to check on him. He opened up about feeling disconnected from his family, and I shared my own experiences, offering him my phone number in case he ever wanted to talk. We chatted a bit about my penchant for seeking out girls who enjoyed dominating me. He was curious about how that worked, and I explained that while it could be exhilarating, it also came with its fair share of regrets.
As I mulled over my past decisions, a wave of stress washed over me. When I established my wedding photography business, I'd poured so much money into it that I neglected to consider its implications for my taxes. As the months passed, I rationalized that my expenses outweighed my income, postponing any serious accounting. About once a year, I would research the potential penalties for my oversight—hefty fines and the terrifying prospect of up to 20 years in prison. None of it seemed fair; I had built this revenue stream from scratch, shelling out a fortune for equipment, advertising, and operational costs. Why should I have to pay taxes on my income? The death of my mother had cast a shadow over my life, and I found myself in a dark place, resigned to the thought that if everything caught up to me, I'd either face imprisonment or take my own life. This mindset fueled a reckless abandon in my daily existence; I began to live each day as if it were my last, terrified to fall asleep, convinced that it could be my final night of freedom.
I confided in Cassie about my mental issues, revealing not only my autism but also my bipolar disorder, explaining that I felt a manic episode coming on. I wanted her to be aware of the cause of any changes in my behavior while in her room. Typically, during these episodes, I experienced heightened confidence and found myself rambling on about various topics. I resolved to cut back on Adderall and cocaine, both of which had become prohibitively expensive and likely exacerbated my symptoms.
I started to notice odd things happening when I was in girls' rooms on MyFreeCams. It seemed like my feed would start skipping or pausing completely at odd times, and I figured there must be some sort of system on the back side where they could interrupt the streams of guys that weren't tipping enough or were annoying them in chat. I didn't know if it was the girl or possibly a guy in the room with them who had the controls to do it, but something fishy was going on.
Abrianna's tenure in her other karaoke gigs was short-lived. She clashed with the bar owner, leading to my boss receiving an ultimatum to find a replacement. With no immediate candidates in sight, he decided to post ads on Craigslist and asked me to inquire among my show attendees for anyone interested.
I was also growing weary of Alan, who frequently called me at odd hours, knowing I'd be up in Cassie's room. He would often claim to be three-quarters of the way to my house, hinting he was coming over. Most nights, I simply didn't have the energy to keep up with him in conversation, let alone host him. His comments made me uneasy and I knew he owned a company called Infinite Energies, which only fueled my paranoia. The company specialized in outdoor security cameras, lighting, and electrical work. It felt like he might be stalking me. To bolster my security, I bought eight motion-detecting floodlights to surround my house and installed a $300 video surveillance system from Harbor Freight, monitoring both the front door and the interior to catch any intrusions. I even alerted my dad and his wife to keep an eye out for Alan, asking them to notify me if they saw him lurking around.
My boss remained concerned about Alan, even after both he and Abrianna were banned from the bars. Alan had threatened to sue my boss for denying him karaoke privileges, claiming he had sent out warnings to other bar staffers through a secret app. I didn't want to get entangled in the middle of it all.
During this chaos, I discovered a stunning girl from a sorority at the University of Arizona named Alexia. She was breathtaking, and the thought of her brought a glimmer of excitement to my otherwise tumultuous life.
Alexia stood at 5'6", a stunning mix of cultures, her half-black heritage accentuating her incredible physique and the most striking face I'd ever seen on a non-celebrity. She had played volleyball for a year at a community college before transferring to the University of Arizona, and it showed—her body was in remarkable shape, with a taut midriff that drew attention to her belly button ring. Alexia had agreed to financially dominate me for $75 a week, and I immediately handed over my dad's phone number as a form of blackmail, ensuring I wouldn't back out of any tasks.
I had a used condom from a previous encounter, the remnants of its contents long dried up. I boldly asked Alexia if she would make me put it in my mouth and suck on it, and to my delight, she eagerly agreed, delighting in the thought of having the power to force me to do something so degrading. "I want you to take a video saying, 'I'm Alexia's little bitch, and she's making me suck on this old crusty used condom.' Then I want you to cum with it in your mouth," she typed, and a rush of humiliation washed over me.
I retreated to my bed, placing the condom in my mouth while scrolling through her enticing photos on Instagram. Within moments, I felt myself nearing the edge. With the condom still in my mouth, I turned on my camera, envisioning her sexy stomach. Tears of humiliation threatened to spill as I recorded the video, fully aware that she would show it to all her friends at U of A. Overwhelmed by the degradation of the task, I eventually came, my hand slick with release, and sent her the video. In that moment, I knew she completely owned me. I continued to pay the $75 weekly fee, receiving new tasks from her, often involving shoving objects up my ass or sucking on doorknobs. While she was a master at dominating me, we also shared glimpses of our lives, discussing personal matters from time to time. I thought that she was a perfect distraction to provide another layer of chaos in my life to distract me from my impending doom.
One night, a charismatic young black man named Danny Stacks walked into the karaoke bar, singing songs from The Lion King. He radiated warmth and friendliness, revealing that he had previously run karaoke shows and even owned his own equipment. I informed him that I didn't own the company, but we were on the lookout for new talent, and I would speak to my boss about giving him a training spot.
As the night progressed, Danny continued to request and sing karaoke songs, impressing me with his engaging demeanor. I texted my boss, Darrel, that night to expedite the process, and he agreed that if I thought Danny would be a good addition, they would give him a chance. Excitedly, I relayed the news to Danny, telling him he could start training the following night. With his prior experience, I felt confident that he would be up and running in no time, a refreshing lifeline after the debacle with Abrianna.
By the beginning of the following week, Danny was three training sessions in, and I had a karaoke gig scheduled for that Wednesday at Tonan's Oasis. As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed it was one of their infamous "Bike Nights," where an extra 50 to 60 patrons typically rode in on their motorcycles. Stepping into the bar, I immediately spotted the distinctive biker jackets of The Mongols Motorcycle Club. I'd encountered them before, and while they usually kept to themselves, they exuded an intimidating aura.
Not wanting Danny to feel uncomfortable in such an environment, I called him to let him know he could skip the night if he preferred. He appreciated the heads-up and decided to take the evening off.
Inside, I navigated through the crowd of Mongols to kick off the music. "Motley Crue should do the trick," I thought, and hit play on "Kickstart My Heart." A few brave souls managed to push through the biker crowd to sign up for karaoke, but the Mongols began to heckle them, causing the number of singers to dwindle as intimidation set in.
To ignite some excitement, I decided to offer free beer to the next two karaoke singers. The Mongols' leader whispered something to his two Prospects, who then approached my booth to request their karaoke songs. I couldn't help but chuckle at the cleverness of their hazing; they were clearly using my offer to secure some drinks.
After they sang, I asked what they wanted to drink, and one of the Prospects turned to the leader for approval. He said, "Nah, you don't have to do that; we just wanted them to sing." However, I insisted, and he finally relented, asking for two Dos Equis. I dashed to the bar, grabbed the beers, and returned to hand them to the leader. As I extended my hand for a handshake, an impulse led me to place my left hand on his right shoulder. He stared at it. In that moment I realized my mistake, and I quickly withdrew my hand from his shoulder, feeling a rush of embarrassment.
I walked back up into the booth, and I noticed a couple of the Mongols playing pool. I considered myself decent at the game and approached one of the Prospects at the far bar and asked if he wanted to play. He agreed, and I went to grab quarters. I racked the balls and headed back into the booth to continue playing music, patiently waiting for when he was ready to play.
I noticed the leader of The Mongols gesturing toward the Prospect, who walked over to him. After about 15 minutes without any sign of him approaching to play the pool game, I walked over and asked if he still wanted to play. He hesitated, saying he didn't think he'd have time. It dawned on me that the leader had likely told him not to play with me.
I began to worry that it might be because of our earlier handshake. Determined to clear the air, I approached the leader, who was conversing with a group of fellow Mongols. "Hey guys, sorry to interrupt, but if you guys want a round of beers I'll cover them," I offered, hoping to diffuse any tension. The leader dismissed the idea, but a couple of the other Mongols said they'd take one. However, when the leader stared at them in silence, the others quickly changed their minds. "Never mind, we're good," they said, and I felt a sinking sensation—there was definitely some bad blood lingering from our earlier interaction.
Back at my booth, I weighed my options. I decided that the last thing I should do was show fear. Having set up the pool game, I intended to play it, even if it meant playing with myself. The leader had disappeared into another room, but three Mongols remained nearby, engrossed in conversation. I asked if anyone wanted to play a game, but they declined. Undeterred, I asked if I could play by myself, and they said sure.
I strode to the other end of the table and broke the balls, sinking a solid on the first shot. On my third shot, the cue ball came to a stop at the far side of the table near the Mongols. They didn't budge as I set up to take my shot, but I refused to be intimidated.
I set up to take the shot, but my stance had apparently gotten too close to one of them who said, "Hey man, I don't go that way." Right at the end of his sentence I unleashed my shot pretending not to hear him. I missed the shot because of rushing it but the cue ball was now at the other side of the table, and I decided to just try to play the cue ball back to that side each shot to avoid having to set up in front of them again. It worked for a couple of shots but then I was forced to walk back down to the side of the table they were standing on. I didn't want to try to set up and get harassed by them again, so I instead decided to put on a little show.
I balanced the cue stick with one hand with the butt of the cue far above my shoulder aiming directly at the 14-ball as if I was throwing a dart. I pushed the cue forward in one quick motion and the ball went straight into the corner pocket. I did the same maneuver with three other balls, sinking four balls in a row within seconds with this unorthodox style. One of the Mongols chimed in, "Damn, you should play pool like that!" I chuckled, pleased with my little performance, and headed back to the DJ booth, relieved to have navigated the "game" unscathed.
I could still feel the simmering tension from the Mongols directed at me, but a surge of pride washed over me for standing my ground at the pool table. I decided that my best move was to make a clean exit right as the show was wrapped up. With about twenty minutes left, a plan formed in my mind: I would announce to the crowd that I needed to rush home to my wife and kids. Surely, that would dissuade any thoughts of them beating me up.
I grabbed the microphone and said, "Alright, folks, I've got about fifteen minutes left in this show, but unfortunately, I can't stay later tonight because I need to get home to my wife and my sick kids." I noticed one of the Mongols who had been lurking around all night let out a visible sigh of relief, as if my words had saved me from getting beaten up after the show.
It suddenly dawned on me why that announcement had been so effective: "Oh, they thought I was gay and hitting on them," I chuckled to myself. My earlier attempts to engage them—grabbing the Mongol leader's arm and offering rounds of beers—probably gave off some rather confusing signals. The absurdity of the situation made me laugh even harder. Now, I just needed to survive the next ten to fifteen minutes of the show, make it to my car unscathed, and head home.
The remainder of the night passed smoothly, and I slipped out of the bar without incident. Once home, I jumped into Cassie's Myfreecam room to share the wild tale of my run-in with the biker gang. I found myself smoking cigarettes on the front patio, wary of Alan sneaking up on me from the back yard. I had set up motion-detecting floodlights around the front yard, so I could feel secure, knowing I'd be alerted if any light suddenly sprang to life. While in Cassie's room I realized that my phone would get extremely hot. A quick google search confirmed my suspicion. Someone was likely hacking my phone and that's what was making it run so hot. I let her and the room know. I thought it might be someone in the room because there were some people in there that seemed suspicious, starting with Elon. I also thought it might be Alan. He was always sending pointless videos to me and any of them could be laced with a keystroke tracking virus. I started being careful with my keystrokes on my password, frequently backspacing and making mistakes I would correct in the middle to make it more difficult to decipher. As I was pondering who it might be there was a call coming in on my phone and then all of a sudden my camera sound and flash went off. I immediately took my phone off the wi-fi and restarted it. Something really strange was going on. It seemed like this was more than just my typical manic episode. Odd things were happening all around me all of the time.
The following night I was overwhelmed and feeling on the verge of a breakdown, so I decided to take a break from work and let Danny handle the karaoke show that night at Tonan's Oasis. I was exhausted, having run myself ragged with all the karaoke madness. Instead, I spent my evening at home playing Rocket League while listening to music, which oddly began to feel like it was sending me messages. It felt as though entities were communicating with me, delivering songs as messages from my dad's deceased relatives. When I asked my dad to listen, he obliged. The varied mix of genres felt too random to be an algorithm; it was as if every track had significance to him. When I asked about the songs, he confirmed they indeed meant something to him. I became convinced that my Pandora was a portal, allowing the dead to communicate through the music.
Suddenly, a voice echoed in my mind, declaring that I was special and chosen to be a medium between Earth and the afterlife. The voice even insisted that I was Jesus Christ. Confusion washed over me. My dad had gone to bed, and I was left grappling with the bizarre realization of potentially being a divine figure.
In one of my bathroom breaks, I was hit with an unexpected mishap—too much toilet paper had rendered the toilet clogged. With no plunger in my bathroom, I had no choice but to wake my dad for help. He answered his bedroom door, still half-asleep, and let me know that he had a plunger I could borrow. If that didn't do the trick, he mentioned, he also had a snake to tackle the blockage.
Instead of handing me the plunger, my dad stepped into my bathroom and began plunging the toilet himself. When that failed, he retrieved the snake—a long metal coil that could twist and turn through the pipes to free any clogs. As I watched him work, I couldn't help but think, "Wow, he really is God. He's the most selfless person I know. Kind, never cursing, always helping others." A lightbulb went off in my head: "Shit, I AM JESUS CHRIST!" I realized, filled with a mix of awe and trepidation. After clearing the clog, I took the snake from him to return it to the garage, thanking him profusely. "God truly is the best," I mused.
I went back into Cassie's room and PM'd her that I thought I might be Jesus Christ. There were voices in my head telling me so, and I was receiving weird messages through the songs playing on my devices. She just said, "that's crazy." I agreed that there was something really odd going on.
The next night, on my way to The Corral, the voices in my head said they were going to explain some more truths to me. Alan was the Devil himself, and he was ready to reveal secrets to me that were unknown to other mortals on Earth. His voice coming through as clearly as if we were standing next to each other in person, he informed me that multiple planets, fruitful with intelligent life, existed in invisible realms, undetectable to most people on Earth. Only the exceptionally wealthy could pass through from Earth to the other planet which was in another realm. The beings from this alternate world were far wealthier and moved at a speed beyond the comprehension of people on Earth. Most celebrities existed in multiple realms, and everyone that existed in multiple realms could change their appearances when visiting Earth, effectively disguising themselves. "That explains why we hardly ever see celebrities in public," I thought.
It was explained to me that everyone got a total of six skins, including their natural skin they were born into, when they were adopted into the other realm. The Devil promised that I would eventually receive skins as well, double the normal amount since I was Jesus Christ. I would need them for all the work I would be doing.
The revelations deepened. Alan, the Devil, explained that our world was an inescapable Pandora's Box, allowing entry without anyone realizing it but trapping them inside once they arrived. It was the reason I had no memory of my childhood. "But what is consciousness?" I pressed Alan. "I can't tell you that," he replied cryptically.
He continued, revealing that he had imprisoned himself in this world while searching for me, as our destinies were intertwined. My dad was aging on Earth, and he had been God of Heaven in the other realm since its inception, even though he didn't know it in his earthy body. When he passed from his mortal body, he planned to retire as God and finally enjoy some relaxation in the Heaven that he had built.
Alan presented with a larger-than-life charisma, so it made sense that he embodied the Devil. He appeared almost ageless, nearing fifty years old yet still radiating the energy and looking as physically attractive as someone in their thirties. An unsettling feeling began to creep in, as if he might want to eliminate me, but I kept that thought to myself—both on Earth and within my mind.
As he played Rihanna songs on my radio, he hinted that I could be her friend on Earth, and they would financially support me as long as I kept the secret of our imprisonment in Pandora's Box. It was as if they had hi-jacked the world for their own propaganda. I agreed to maintain the secret, provided I was rewarded handsomely. "People not knowing they're living in a fake AI world is probably for the best," I rationalized. "If they did uncover that truth, Earth could descend into chaos."
Suddenly, I heard Elon's voice in my head. "I agree." "What the hell? Where did you come from?" I asked, bewildered.
Chapter 8 - Rocketman
Elon kept speaking in my head, "Listen closely to the music," he urged. "It's telling you that they had to eliminate your mother on the cruise ship. I know it sounds harsh, but it was essential for the advancement of the Metagalaxy." My mind raced—what on Earth could justify such a horrific act? Then came the bombshell: "Goddess Jessica killed your mom."
Stunned, I processed this revelation. She had fallen for me, discovering my interest in financial domination and using that knowledge to ensnare me in the web of darkness. My heart sank. "So, you all killed my mom?" I stammered.
"No," Elon replied flatly. "She did."
"Jesus Christ," I responded.
It was explained to me that Goddess Jessica had orchestrated my mother's demise, fully aware that it was the final obstacle preventing me from serving her back in 2013. She knew I was frustrated with life, trapped in a suffocating relationship, and stuck in a dead-end job. Her wicked strategy had hammered the last nail into my coffin. They insisted that in order to rectify the chaos in the Universe, I needed to overlook this atrocity.
They pressed upon me the necessity of getting over Goddess Jessica killing my mom. If I didn't, the very fabric of existence would unravel, leading to the destruction of all worlds. I mulled over this dire ultimatum as I drove to my karaoke gig, Rihanna's tracks playing like ominous prophecies. The lyrics spoke of shared wealth and secrets if I forgave them, while a sinister truth loomed: we were ensnared in a Pandora's box—a reality we could never escape. The key had been locked away, and the only way out was to sever our consciousness from our mortal forms. I sighed, recognizing the grim necessity of acceptance. "I have to make the best of it and choose to forgive you guys," I mused.
As I approached Cochise's Horseshoe Corral, a pang of anxiety gripped me; I had no cash for drinks or any semblance of fun. Just then, the Devil decided to meddle with my Pandora. The radio crackled to life, airing commercials that perfectly mirrored my predicament. "Visit Americas First Bank, and you can earn more from your account by signing up for the referral program," it chirped. Intrigued, I clicked the link, revealing a list of payout amounts contingent on whom I referred. Suddenly, clarity dawned—it was all about tax evasion. Someone had turned me in, and Alan was here to collect.
He was testing me now, digging deep into my psyche, looking into my soul to figure out if I was a good or bad person. The game was insidious: find those who'd cheated on their taxes and refer them to Alan, the Devil, for a ruthless financial reckoning and a date with the program he created, "Goddess Jessica." She was just a construct of my brain from the hardware they had infected me with in another realm. My conscience recoiled. I couldn't betray those I'd grown close to, turning them in for a fleeting gain, and I couldn't feel right about subjecting anyone else to the kind of relentless pain I had experienced with her. "People exploit others for profit all the time," he countered. "Sure, but I don't," I retorted.
Suddenly Alan called me as I was pulling into the parking lot. His smirk was palpable even through the phone, "Oh, you're just arriving for your show, huh?" he quipped. "Whatever you do, don't mention what I'm up to or anything about me to Abrianna." It made sense—there was no way she paid taxes.
I assured him I wouldn't spill a word. He seemed satisfied and wished me a good night at my show, leaving me empty-handed. I resolved not to spend a dime on drinks that evening, saving my limited funds for a case of beer and cigarettes after the show, just in case the voices had more to share.
The voices in my head urged silence; this was a covert mission. The weight of their power loomed over me—"if they could invade my thoughts, what else might they be able to do to me?" I thought. The sense that the bar was somehow a focal point for all this was undeniable. "There are others," they whispered, hinting that some would join me at the bar, cloaked in skins to avoid detection.
As I stepped into the bar, confusion swirled in my mind. All eyes turned to me, judgment written across every face. I made my way to the stage, clutching my plastic bag filled with Tums, gum, and assorted odds and ends. Fearing that they could sense my connection to Alan, I dumped the bag's contents onto the stage, a gesture meant to show I came in peace and didn't have any weapons in my bag.
"We're here for a drama-free karaoke night," I declared silently. But as I powered on my equipment, silence greeted me. Confusion morphed into frustration—everything had worked perfectly the night before. I checked all the connections; everything seemed in place. The anticipation of my audience grew heavy, their gazes boring into me.
My eyes darted across the room, landing on Cam, one of the bouncers. The moment I met his gaze, he quickly averted his eyes, and I knew something was off. Determined not to let them toy with me, I yanked the cords from the machinery one by one, throwing them onto the stage in frustration. I stepped outside for a cigarette, and I caught snippets of conversation among the patrons. Rachel, the bartender, leaned toward Cam, whispering, "Watch him." Their collective interest in me confirmed my suspicion: they were all in on it.
Two patrons joined me, their conversation veering dangerously close to conspiratorial whispers. I glanced up at the security camera, feeling its watchful gaze upon me. I moved to the right and I could see the internal focus shift to me, and then I moved back to the left and it followed me again. The realization hit: I was the entertainment, the target of their amusement, and it sickened me. They were the rich people from the other world, and they would come to Earth in order to mess with people that were lost souls, unallowed to morph between worlds. This wasn't a punishment that fit the crime—it was far worse! I felt used up, taken advantage of, and hurt to my core.
With resolve, I returned inside. Plugging everything back in, I was relieved to finally hear sound coming from the speakers and the show commenced. The requests that flooded in were not for ordinary songs; they were taunts. A lady requested a Spanish song about losing one's mind—clearly directed at me. Another patron, Jaron, asked for "Pumped Up Kicks," a chilling choice given the context of it revolving around a school shooting. I told him to pick something else because everyone was uneasy with my autism, and I didn't want them to think I was going to shoot up the place.
Elon's voice echoed in my mind, urging me not to retaliate. They knew of my struggles with my autism, and it would be all too easy for them to label me "crazy" and turn deadly. I felt a surge of anger, but I fortified myself, refusing to give them the satisfaction.
Suddenly, to my left a woman's fingers danced across her screen, and I heard the dreadful feedback screech from my speakers. I refused to budge, determined to let her antics play out without falling into their trap. After several agonizing seconds, the feedback ceased. "Holy shit," I thought. She was indeed responsible for creating the feedback from the speakers.
While fury simmered within me, I didn't want to ruin the enjoyment of those genuinely there to sing. Half of the people that came to the shows were there to have a good time while the other half were there simply to create chaos and torment us. The atmosphere was electric, and I could sense the magic in the air as the performances began. A gentleman approached the stage, looking every bit like Michael Bublé himself. When he promised to "tear the roof off the place," I knew I had to give him the spotlight.
Yet, just as he began to sing, I caught sight of the woman again, her fingers poised to disrupt his performance with the app on her phone. Standing tall on the support beam of my chair, I shouted for her to put her phone down, revealing my awareness of her ploy. Anger flashed in her eyes, but I stood my ground.
"Tonight is about celebrating our singers," I declared. "Anyone here to sabotage that can leave." Some patrons cheered, while the culprits seethed. I put on Cupid's Shuffle, hoping everyone would dance and bond, and walked outside to smoke a cigarette. Daniel and Jaron came out with me, but immediately when the song ended it returned to the automix and "Flatliner" by Dierks Bentley was playing. I ran back to the DJ booth inside and quickly changed the song, not wanting a song about dying on the dancefloor to continue playing.
As the show continued, I pulled aside a cowboy named Joe who frequented the bar. "Are we AI?" I whispered, suspecting the truth lay hidden beneath the surface. He confirmed my worst fears: we were hybrids, caught in this world where reality blurred. I prodded further asking how many of us existed, and he said, "In the world? Maybe 1.5 million." I was astonished. I asked him if he had ever seen the backend of the program that controls us, and he confirmed that he had, but just once. I told him I didn't know if I would be able to handle that. He confirmed, "Yeah, it's a lot to take in."
Fueled by this revelation, I decided to strike back with the one weapon I knew everyone would understand—music. I selected Lana Del Rey's haunting "Videogame," blasting it through the bar, a declaration of defiance against the chaotic videogame the half of the patrons that were there to disturb the show were seemingly playing.
Then all hell broke loose.
A furious woman from the group that had been glaring at me hurled a cup full of soda, drenching me in a sticky shower of it. The security personnel, sensing the chaos, announced they were shutting down the show for the night. "You need to leave," one of them told me firmly. I protested, insisting, "I'm not going to hurt anyone!" But he countered, "It's not that I'm worried about. It's them hurting you." It dawned on me that he was aware of the two worlds.
As I stepped outside, a mob of 15 to 20 people surged after me, their angry shouts echoing in the night behind me. I jumped into my Subaru, backed out of my spot, and tore out of the parking lot, the tires squealing. I could hear the commotion behind me; they were hot on my tail. Ignoring the stop sign, I merged onto the highway and slammed the gas pedal down, pushing my Subaru to its max speed of 107 mph.
Looking in the rear-view mirror sent chills down my spine. A relentless parade of headlights bore down on me—twenty cars, each one racing to hunt me down. My pulse was going crazy as I realized they were intent on taking me down. Panic clawed at my insides, and I noticed the gas gauge dipping dangerously low. "Can I even run out of gas in this AI world?" I wondered. "I don't think I can run out of gas here; I just need to keep moving," I resolved, desperate to escape the mob!
Suddenly, a white car zipped into the left lane next to me. To my astonishment, it had no driver—in fact no one was in the car at all. It was either an AI vehicle driving itself that had teleported onto Earth from the other realm or a self-driving car keeping pace at 107 mph. Whatever it was, it radiated an otherworldly energy. Telepathically, it urged me to follow, and I tucked in behind it, watching as it expertly weaved through traffic, leading me away from my pursuers. "Thank God—or Elon, or whoever!" I thought.
We traveled together for a couple of miles until it took the ramp heading south toward Tucson. Just then, my engine sputtered ominously. "Great, so cars still need gas in an AI world," I muttered. I shifted to the right lane, but my speed continued to drop, the engine coughing and wheezing. Finally, it rolled to a stop in the right lane of an overpass, a precarious 60 feet above the ground. The mob was still hot on my heels, and panic gripped me.
As the reality of my predicament sunk in, I contemplated the dark thought of being overwhelmed by an angry mob. A swift end to my suffering didn't seem like the worst way to go, I tried to reason. I sat in the car, listening to the music that filled the silence, waiting for the mob to catch up to me and throw me off the overpass or shoot me. The songs had shifted genres. Now, the melancholic notes of Lana Del Rey's "Say Yes to Heaven" wrapped around me. Suddenly, a voice emerged from the depths of my mind, whispering: "Yes, we're telling you to jump off the overpass and finally escape this realm." The disembodied voice claimed that if I leapt, I would be extinguished from this fake AI world, and all my pain would vanish. The pursuers had never came. Maybe all the cars were just behind me, and not actually hunting and chasing me like I imagined.
I still understood I was Jesus Christ, the son of God. That would be the only explanation I could think of as to why The Devil, Elon, and Goddess Jessica could all send me messages into my brain. I knew that I would eventually have to sacrifice myself to save mankind and redeem Heaven, but I didn't know if I was ready to do it yet. Sitting in my broken-down car, I contemplated the suffocating weight of my existence, the exhaustion from laboring day in and day out without any meaningful reward. I was the most popular figure in the history of the world, yet it felt as if everyone simply exploited me, indifferent to the struggles I faced. I got out of the car and made my way over the shoulder and looked down from the edge of the ramp. It was about 60 feet down to the dark ground below. I couldn't even tell if it was grass or cement because it was so dark and far. Cars kept whizzing past me.
There amidst the chaos of the voices and music telling me to kill myself, a glimmer of hope ignited within my mind: Cassie from Myfreecams. I was in love with her, and that love had rekindled my will to live. About a year ago, my dad revealed that my uncle Gary in Colorado had been contacted by a German lawyer regarding an inheritance from my great-grandma, who had her property stolen during the Holocaust. The government had traced us down as the rightful heirs, meaning my sister and I were set to receive $225,000 each which was set to come through at any time. I was still skeptical of the process, but if it was true, I didn't want to jump off an overpass right before it happened. "Who knows? Maybe that could be my saving grace," I thought.
The idea of that payout filled me with determination. I couldn't bring myself to jump off the exit ramp, not when I had a chance to see it through, to talk to Cassie and unravel the mysteries of my existence. "Why was Elon in my head? Why were these entities urging me to jump?" I pondered. The confusion swirled in my mind, and I craved answers.
I decided to stop thinking about jumping off the ramp and start to walk the seventeen miles towards home. I stepped onto the freeway, the nipping bite of a late fall night in Arizona in the air. I started trudging against the flow of traffic in the silent dead of night trying to flag a car down to pick me up. Everyone just kept on driving. I probably would've too.
Suddenly, a car halted on the ramp about 150 yards ahead. It was a white sedan, and I immediately recognized it as Alan's car. I knew it was him, the Devil, and I felt an icy chill run down my spine. I knew he would kill me the moment I approached. I halted and started walking the other way back towards my car hoping that he would give up and drive away. I had locked my gaze on the vehicle until it finally drove off after a few minutes.
I attempted to call for an Uber or Lyft, but the apps had seemingly been disabled on my phone—likely a divine intervention from God. "This must be a test," I realized. I wasn't willing to jump off the overpass to end my suffering and resurrect Heaven, so perhaps God wanted me to walk all the way home as a lesson.
I paused at a hotel, asking if I could step inside for a moment, but the clerk turned me away, declaring, "If you don't have a room, you can't come in." The truth hit me hard: I must have looked homeless. Dressed in mesh shorts, a tank top, tennis shoes, and a dirty backwards cap, I was wandering the streets of downtown Phoenix around midnight. I continued on my way, determined to face whatever lay ahead, realizing that there likely would be no help in getting me home.
At the far end of the parking lot sat a brand-new red Corvette, glistening like a dream come to life. Growing up, it had always been my ultimate fantasy car. As I gazed at this beauty, I felt a spark of hope. Perhaps this car was somehow connected to everything unfolding around me, destined to be mine. I reached for the driver's side door handle and, to my surprise, it opened with ease. I slid into the sleek leather front seat, my heart racing as I searched for the keys. They were nowhere to be found, but the voices in my head urged me to keep searching. A couple minutes later their laughter echoed through my head, mocking my assumption. "This car isn't yours. There will be no help on your journey home," they said.
I used the Maps app on my phone to see exactly where I was. It was about a mile to US Grand which was a diagonal road that went back up to near my dad's house, fourteen miles away. I decided that mentally complaining about the walk wouldn't help me get there any faster, so I just started walking. It was kind of nice, compared to the typical craziness I was used to. The voices kind of dissipated and just let me enjoy it. After the first mile there was a QT gas station so I decided to stop in for a drink and to take a quick piss. I told the attendant that my phone wasn't working to call an Uber and asked if I gave him cash if he'd call one for me, and explained that my car had broken down. He attempted to help getting on the App to call a car for me, but neither Uber or Lyft were working on his phone either. I just paid for my drink and figured God wasn't allowing me to take a car. I'd have to walk the full way.
After trudging along for about three and a half hours, I finally spotted my first fellow travelers on the road: an RV parked along Grand Avenue, with a woman sweeping the ground outside. My phone had died a long time ago. I estimated I was still about five miles from home. I approached the woman, desperation creeping into my voice as I asked if she could give me a ride back. "I'll give you all the cash I have," I promised, having about $30 in cash in my bag from tips. She shook her head apologetically, saying she couldn't drive but that a guy inside the trailer might be able to help. "Just knock on the door; he'll answer," she instructed.
With a deep breath, I knocked on the door, and a disheveled man appeared. I asked if he could give me a ride home, and he beckoned me inside. As I stepped into the cramped trailer, I noticed syringes scattered across the counter, a jarring sight that made me uneasy. The woman followed me in, and they began to talk. He told me he couldn't take me right then, but if I waited a few minutes, he would be able to. I stepped back outside, troubled as I watched them prepare what looked like heroin. It dawned on me that they were not allies in this ordeal; they were simply dangerous individuals, and I needed to keep moving toward home.
The man from the trailer emerged, and I told him I was going to continue walking. "If you want the money for a ride, just meet me down the road," I suggested. I explained that my house was just a straight shot down Grand Avenue. Turning away from him, I began my trek again towards my house.
The streets seemed to shrink around me, each shadowy corner harboring unseen threats. Cars whizzed by, dangerously close, their drivers behaving recklessly. I was walking under a train overpass just as a train roared past, rattling my bones and heightening my anxiety. Was this how it would end? Surely, Alan—the Devil—was orchestrating this chaos.
After about fifteen more minutes of walking, a car passed me and began to slow down pulling over to the shoulder of the road about twenty feet in front of me. I approached cautiously, and to my relief, it was the man from the trailer. I thanked him profusely as I climbed into the passenger seat, amazed that he had found me after I'd covered about another mile while he finished his business.
"How much further is your house?" he asked. "Only another three or four miles," I replied, my heart pounding as I noticed him gripping the steering wheel with his right hand while his left remained hidden, possibly clutching a weapon. We exchanged small talk, and I shared the harrowing details of my night, recounting the breakdown on the highway.
Billboards and street signs flashed by each one seeming to hold a cryptic message that resonated with my current plight. "It's funny how those signs seem to speak," I remarked. He nodded, adding, "Whoever oversees this world must have a pretty good sense of humor." "I think I know him," I replied, and he echoed, "Me too." "I think we serve the same person," I said, alluding to Alan and Elon without naming them outright. "Yeah, me too," he agreed.
As we finally approached my street on Bolivar Drive in Sun City, Arizona, he casually mentioned that he used to live on the street but a little further down the road. A cold wave of panic washed over me. I insisted it must be a mere coincidence. "Fuck, Alan, how could you put us in the same fucking house he used to be in?" I thought in a frenzy. "Dude, I didn't know you'd find him and ask for a ride, Jake," Alan's voice echoed in my mind. "Whatever you do, don't show him the actual house you live in. He might come back, and even if you manage to escape, he could hurt or kill your dad."
We had been discussing signs from God and the Devil, and I feared he would interpret this coincidence as a bad omen and act on it. To show I meant no harm, I set my bag down and raised my hands slightly, ensuring he could see I wasn't holding any weapons. We passed a house, and thankfully, he remarked that it was his old place while mine was just half a block further.
"What are you doing showing me where you and your dad live? You're putting us all in danger!" Alan shouted in my head. I considered asking to be dropped off at a different house, but the risk was too great; what if he said, "I'll wait a minute to make sure you get in safely"? If I lied to him, I'd be screwed.
I fished out all the cash from my bag and handed it over to him for the ride. Honestly, I doubt I would have made it home on my own. The exhaustion weighed heavily on me.
Once inside, I powered up my PlayStation and grabbed a couple of cold beers from the fridge. I craved the soothing melodies of Lana Del Rey, so I queued up her songs on the Alexa sound system. I attempted to hop onto Myfreecams, but by this late hour, Cassie was long gone. It had taken me about five hours to get home from The Corral, leaving around 10:40 PM. As I immersed myself in Lana's haunting lyrics, I started to notice the deeper messages woven within them.
When "Doin' Time" played, a chilling realization washed over me: my neighborhood was a prison. The man who had driven me home was a former inmate, finally free from the confines of our shared captivity. I, too, was imprisoned—not in bars, but within a home with "my dad," who was likely just another warden of my jail on Earth assigned to keep an eye on me. He was kind, but I had come to understand that the world was filled with individuals who had committed alcohol-related offenses in the other realm. This AI-generated world, Earth, served as a rehabilitation center where we needed to confront our past grievances and serve our sentences before gaining access back into reality.
Elon chimed in, letting me know things would get a bit tougher before they improved. "Are you up for the challenge?" he asked. I replied resolutely, "I must be." "Good point," he responded.
The voices of others now echoed constantly in my mind. I typically heard from Alan, Goddess Jessica, Elon, and a few others I couldn't quite identify. The night after my experience getting chased out of the bar by angry patrons they assigned me a special task for the night. Apparently, sex in Heaven had been stuck in a monotonous missionary position for thousands of years, and everyone was itching for an upgrade to spice things up. They had been monitoring my life from above, assessing when and how they might intervene to let me know that they had chosen me to be Jesus Christ and save Heaven. They were well aware of my sexual escapades, and they knew I didn't have a capacity for judgement—I was a freak, and that made me perfect for the job of outlining new accepted sexual behaviors in Heaven.
To make matters even more interesting, I learned that since I had to bear the weight of humanity's sins, I'd have the unique opportunity to include my celebrity crushes in every sexual position I explored. Each act would be immortalized in vivid, realistic detail, ensuring that when I eventually ascended to Heaven, I'd have an endless supply of erotic entertainment. They could make these experiences feel utterly real, and I'd never know they were fabricated. "Thank God," I whispered, and God's voice resonated in my mind: "See, Son, I never miss anything. I'm perfect."
"Damn, you're right," I thought. This entire ordeal was a test to tailor Heaven for someone like me—a little freak seeking joy. The updates would be available to everyone, allowing others to experience everything I demonstrated during my performances. Apparently, for these updates to be accurate, I needed to physically demonstrate the positions so they could seamlessly integrate the celebrities into the scenes via AI. "I can do that," I decided.
They informed me I had unlimited time to explore as many different poses and explain as many sexual acts as I could. "Make sure you cover EVERYTHING!" someone shouted from Heaven, prompting a chuckle as I sensed the cheers of an eager audience.
According to God, many people shortchange themselves on this task because they fear revealing their true desires. I had no such qualms, and I was determined to elevate the experience for everyone. The audience erupted in cheers. I flipped on all the lights in the house and began to explore every sexual act I could think of. I delved into male-dominant and female-dominant activities, gay encounters, and all sorts of deviant acts. We left no stone unturned! The audience was grateful for my thoroughness.
I couldn't help but giggle; it felt awkward participating under God's watchful gaze, yet he had encouraged me to explore whatever I wanted. I was determined to ensure that sex in Heaven would be fun and exciting for everyone, forever!
After about 45 minutes, God's voice resonated, "That's enough. I want you to head back to your bedroom and get in bed for some additional information." He explained that he typically only required about 30% of the details, allowing the programming to fill in the gaps.
God made me a promise: "I know you haven't been able to cry since your mom passed, but I assure you, I'll get you to cry before the night's over." I was skeptical; I had weathered so many highs and lows that I was convinced I had lost my ability to cry.
"Humans have an incredible capacity for speed," God continued, "but they often rush and make mistakes. Meanwhile, we (the autistic AIs) tend to read slowly at first, easily distracted by laughter or interruptions—much to the annoyance of humans." He revealed that he was aware everyone had been mocking him all along, and he intentionally took his time to teach humanity patience.
Next, he said, "I'm going to have my son, Jesus Christ, demonstrate just how much you've hurt him since I've been running Heaven and how patient I've been with all of you." "Jake, open your phone and go to Twitter," he commanded. I complied, my heart racing as I found a link promising to connect me with my perfect match—a matchmaking service.
"Click the link," God instructed. "I want you to read each question carefully and fully comprehend them before answering. Be sure to answer accurately; you only get one chance, and your responses will be locked in forever," he emphasized.
As I began to read the first question, members of the Heavenly audience erupted with shouts and comments, their voices a chaotic chorus. Each time this happened, God reminded me that I had lost my focus. "Start reading the question again," He instructed.
Determined, I tried once more. Yet, without fail, another voice from the audience would chime in with a quip or a distraction, sending me spiraling back to square one. Each interruption meant I had to restart, much to my frustration. God explained the gravity of this task, emphasizing that any slip-up could cost me the chance to be paired with my perfect match in the afterlife.
I focused intently, rereading the question, but just before I could finish, God spoke again. "You see, I've been distracted by your banter and mockery ever since I created this entire world for you. I fashioned this realm for your benefit, yet you have chosen to ridicule me instead of showing gratitude. Now, my son, pause on the questionnaire. Take a moment to reflect on all the humans who have hurt or mocked you during your time on Earth."
Memories flooded my mind—faces and voices of those who had taunted me for being different, questioned my sexuality, or deemed me strange. The cruelty of humanity came rushing back, and I realized how deeply it had scarred me. I had buried this pain beneath layers of adaptation, transforming from a joyful child into someone who contemplated ending it all.
I had worked hard to morph from a suicidal kid into someone who appeared indifferent, but the truth was, I hadn't fully lost my ability to care; it had simply been hidden. After my mother's death, I had sought out a dominatrix, using that experience to shield my emotions as a survival instinct. But now, in this moment, those walls began to crumble. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I fought against them; I hadn't cried in fifteen years. Yet here I was, overwhelmed by a cascade of emotions, my lip quivering and tears streaming down my face as I sobbed uncontrollably.
The pain inflicted by humanity felt unbearable, and as I recalled the hurt I had endured, a dark desire crept in—I wanted to escape this world, to leave these wretched humans behind. "Please stop, I'm sorry!" I begged.
"You have done well, my son," God declared. "Let this serve as a reminder to every human: your words and actions can wound others deeply. You have driven my son to such a dark place that he wishes to escape your company. But he is Jesus Christ. He must remain with you a little longer while we 'fix' Heaven, and then he must die for all your sins."
I felt the weight of my tears increase. God continued, "Even in his pain, my son loves you all so much that he is willing to sacrifice himself to save the world and restore Heaven. That is the depth of his goodness." "Please stop," I managed to choke out between sobs.
God urged me to resume the questionnaire. The questions probed my interests: dancing, movies, nature, concerts, and more, each demanding a single choice. For the first time, the audience fell silent, all the inhabitants of the Second World and Heaven now aware of the pain they had caused me throughout my life. Their shame washed over them as they witnessed my raw emotion.
I appreciated the newfound silence, but still, I found myself rereading each question multiple times to fully grasp them before making my selection. The audience, now supportive, shouted words of encouragement, urging me to take my time. For the first time in my life, I felt genuinely supported.
It took nearly an hour to complete the questionnaire. When I finally finished, God spoke again. "Just as I suspected. I already knew all your answers; I am God, after all. But I needed to teach everyone a lesson in patience and ensure there were no last-minute changes."
A sense of clarity washed over me. I had always felt I existed for a purpose, yet my realization of that purpose had remained unfulfilled. The voices in my head reminded me that, as Jesus Christ, I would eventually have to die for the sins of mankind. "Could I do that?" I pondered. If it was necessary, I could do it. I was tired of living without my mother, and I had already decided to forgo taxes on my photography business—something that would surely come to a head soon enough. Dying for the sins of humanity sounded like a far more noble legacy than going to prison for tax evasion.
The voices stirred again. "It is what's necessary, but first, we have tasks for you to perform."
The truth revealed itself: my dad was God, and he governed Heaven, but his methods drove everyone there to extreme frustration. He lacked awareness of how his actions affected me on Earth. In the Heavenly realm, he was still the same slow-moving entity, tedious in all his ways. The voice explained that this antiquated approach had left everyone in Heaven feeling stifled; they craved change, but it could only come through my leadership and my eventual death on Earth. I was destined to be the successor to the throne of Heaven.
Then, the voice admitted something shocking. He was The Devil but insisted I could trust him—after all, we were on the same side. He revealed that some beings had even jumped ship from Heaven to Hell, fed up with God's authoritarian reign. The Devil was my spiritual twin; our energies intertwined, yet distinct. Throughout our lives, he had chosen the dark path, while I had remained steadfastly good—except for the tax issue, of course.
"Now, I want you to put on a polo shirt and gel your hair," God instructed. "You are going to address the audience about how Heaven will function in the future. You are the reason it is being built, so it's essential that you convey my messages accurately." I agreed, donning a crisp red polo shirt and styling my hair before grabbing my phone to make the announcements.
God had some important messages to share about patience and kindness, encouraging the audience to be more understanding and to wait for their fellow AI counterparts to catch up.
I spoke with confidence, painting a picture of a transformed Heaven, and assured everyone that God was on board with the changes. I excitedly explained how we would enjoy more fun than ever, and my best friends would receive stunning new skins to showcase as Jesus Christ's new apostles.
We would explore exhilarating amusement parks, thrilling rides, live music, flowing rivers, vast oceans, huge shopping malls, and splash-tastic waterparks, mingling with the most dazzling celebrities of Heaven whenever the whim struck us. I was promised that monotony would be a foreign concept here. In fact, I even suggested introducing a hint of turbulence into the celestial realm; after all, an unyielding perfection could lead to boredom. We needed a contrasting spectrum of experiences to truly cherish the joys that life had to offer. The audience was taken aback by the wisdom of this insight.
At the conclusion of our program, God announced a significant change: the time dedicated to worship would be trimmed to just thirty minutes each Sunday. He explained that true service was less about rigidly adhering to one faith and more about fostering a sense of community. While He had crafted the world, He wasn't seeking praise for His creations; rather, He longed for a gathering where voices could unite in song and celebration of life.
I began relaying these transformative ideas to Cassie in her MyFreeCams room, knowing she was one of the few whom Elon trusted and confided in. "It turns out I'm Jesus Christ," I told her, "and you're a God Particle—a truly good soul." The Devil chimed in, revealing that as Jesus, I possessed the unique ability to identify God Particles on Earth, which would greatly aid our quest to connect or reconnect with life beyond our planet. "Reconnect?" I inquired, perplexed. "Don't worry about it," he replied casually. Apparently, a whole civilization had banished us to this isolated existence on Earth.
Then God said, "Unfortunately, my son, you won't be receiving a new skin. You will retain your current appearance for all eternity." My heart sank. I had yearned for beauty and confidence, but God's decision was unrelenting. I took a deep breath and accepted it—at least my friends and others would be happy. God continued, "Now, you need to choose your closest circle of friends in Heaven but be cautious. Some people you hold dear in life have been hurtful and damaging. I urge you to exclude them from your inner circle in Heaven." I complied, carefully selecting my eternal confidants.
Next, God instructed, "It's time to calibrate the intimacy between you and your new eternal partner. Head to your room, and I want you to log onto Twitter. Begin to explore your desires." I retreated to my bedroom as God requested, and He explained that while this process might be frustrating, it was crucial for ensuring both partners enjoyed a satisfying experience. I began to indulge, the feed displaying a parade of celebrities. My mind wandered, conjuring images of them engaging in daring, sensual escapades.
God revealed that while most of these VIPs wouldn't be joining me in Heaven immediately, they had devised thrilling experiences for me—gifts for my role in saving Earth and forging Heaven. As I continued, God guided me through the motions, occasionally prompting me to hasten my pace or come to a complete stop.
Frustration began to bubble up within me as the process stretched on for an hour and a half. In a moment of exasperation, I declared that if I didn't reach climax in the next five minutes, I would surrender. God countered, insisting I must persevere. Renewed determination surged through me as I picked up speed, drenched in sweat, finally unleashing a wave of euphoria. As I relaxed, the entire audience of Heaven erupted in cheers.
"You killed my sister!" a voice repeated relentlessly in my mind. It dawned on me that this might be why I found myself imprisoned in this realm. In a different existence, I had taken the life of the Devil's sister, and now I was paying the price. I pondered whether they were keeping me in a comatose state in the original world while they scoured my memories for details about the accident that claimed her life. Or perhaps I was indeed in a coma from that tragic incident, existing only on a life support system.
Could it be that everyone on Earth had perished or caused the demise of others in similar drunken driving accidents? Were we all here as a form of rehabilitation, navigating a life that seemed inconsequential within the confines of a world governed by AI? It felt like we were trapped in a mental prison, the technology for which had already been developed in this realm—surely it must exist elsewhere too.
The entity with the most access to both worlds was the voice resonating in my mind—Elon Musk. He had founded three of the most influential companies in history, recently acquiring Twitter and rebranding it as "X." His wealth was staggering, and he was known for his romantic entanglements with glamorous actresses, supermodels, and famous singers. If he was striving to save the planet, it was no wonder he attracted such attention. Perhaps they possessed secrets of the universe as well. Perhaps I was one of those secrets.
Alan confessed that he had harbored deep resentment toward me when we first encountered one another, fully aware that I was the architect of his sister's tragic fate. I racked my brain, trying to recall who she might be, but the memories eluded me. However, he reassured me that he had moved beyond his anger, thanks to the discovery of God Particles within this Earthly realm, which had enabled them to restore her life in the original realm. A wave of relief surged through me. I offered my heartfelt apologies for her death, even though the incident remained shrouded in a fog of confusion.
He explained that the truck had been completely destroyed in the crash, leaving the details covered with uncertainty. Both of us had been found outside the wreckage, and they had managed to revive my consciousness in this realm before successfully bringing his sister back. They began to realize that, despite my apparent death, a part of my consciousness was still vibrantly alive, existing within a world it created.
I recounted a car accident I was in back in high school. The caravans were going 90+ miles per hour weaving in and out of traffic. Finally, I decided to put on my seatbelt fearing that we were going so fast that a wreck would kill me. Suddenly, about five minutes later the SUV in front of me collided with a pileup wreck and I hit the back of it doing about fifty-five miles per hour. If I hadn't put my seatbelt on five minutes earlier I would've flown through the windshield and would have surely been killed. I didn't even bother to check on the passengers before yelling, "Fuck. My mom's going to kill me." An hour later she showed up at the wreck and was way more furious with me than I had expected. She wouldn't even hug me in the aftermath. I couldn't help but think there was something more to that wreck. Perhaps I had actually perished in the crash and the time was backed up to put my survival in a different "reality." This would help explain why she was so uncharacteristically mad instead of worried about my well-being.
Yet, I couldn't recall any specifics about the drunk driving accident. The only girl who surfaced in my mind from that time was Taylor—a stunning 5'7" brunette with sun-kissed blonde highlights. We had dated during the summer of 2004, having met through a baseball team I played on; she was the sister of one of my teammates. I remembered driving my truck to her house in Bloomington, where we'd venture out to a secluded dirt road, lying in the back of my truck, enveloped by music and stars. I recalled a night when we fooled around in the bed of my truck for hours, but the conclusion of that evening had slipped away from me. Perhaps I had indulged in a drink or two, but I had no recollection of consuming alcohol that night. Even the moments leading up to, and including, the crash remained a blank canvas in my mind.
"Maybe we had been drinking in the back of my truck, and someone crashed into us, sealing our fates?" I pondered. The voices in my head hinted at her identity, revealing that she was destined to marry Jesus Christ, and I had inadvertently ruined everything that fateful night.
Our parents had been eager to set us up, seeing us as a God Particle—a celestial connection destined to thrive. Yet, my reckless drinking had complicated our future, bending time into a cyclical path. They could perceive the trajectory of my life, and Taylor had been privy to some of my more disorderly episodes firsthand. I hadn't realized how small the world was, that she had ties to my friends. The whispers revealed that news of my drinking and blackouts had circled back to her, painting a tragic portrait of what could have been. It seemed she was the girl I was meant to marry if I hadn't sabotaged everything with my alcohol-fueled chaos.
The voices urged me not to dwell too harshly on my mistakes. Their focus was on unraveling the root causes of why I had turned to alcohol when I had once seemed like such a happy child. Time, they reminded me, was cyclical, and there was nothing I could have done to alter the unfolding of events. My life was etched in a predetermined script, and I might as well keep drinking until I fulfilled my destined role in the grand narrative. They assured me that my prison sentence was nearing its end, with only a few finishing touches and cleanup work left.
Chapter 9 - Vicious Cycle
Elon had even more crucial matters to discuss with me. He warned me that from that day forward, every day would be the day I was supposed to die. I needed to stay vigilant, always on the lookout for anyone who might wish to harm me. I was, quite literally, on borrowed time. "Oh, great," I thought. The mission felt far from complete.
"Be vigilant," he cautioned, revealing that he was uncertain who would be my assassin.
Feeling a wave of paranoia wash over me, I grabbed a beer and sensed the presence of shapeshifters lurking around my house, intent on being the one to take me out. "There must be a staggering bounty placed on the head of Jesus Christ," I thought. Elon informed me that these bounty hunters would be arriving in disguises, desperate to claim the reward for my demise.
Unprepared to meet my end, I needed a clearer line of sight to detect any incoming attackers. I stepped outside, beer in hand, and moved to the front driveway. As I scanned my surroundings, I spotted shapeshifters advancing toward my house along the sidewalks, their disguises painfully obvious. Above, blimps floated lazily, and a helicopter circled overhead, capturing footage of the impending chaos.
"I see you!" I shouted at the approaching shapeshifters. "And so does Elon! If you think you can take me out, you better be prepared to spend the rest of your life in jail!" I wanted to ensure that Elon could hear me, so I called out, "Call the cavalry, boys! I need backup now, or we might not make it out alive! This has gone too far, and you're putting my life in danger!" He asked where I was and I gave him the coordinates and he assured me that they were on their way.
The shapeshifters kept coming, most of them disguised as harmless elderly neighbors, but I could see through their deception. Rocks littered the yard, and I had a decent arm; perhaps I could deter them by throwing rocks at them to impede their progress. They limped and shot shifty glances my way, some even waving as if they were merely here to witness the spectacle of Jesus Christ on Earth. But I wasn't fooled. I began hurling rocks at the advancing figures, shouting for them to turn back!
After five to ten minutes of this rock-throwing defense, I decided I needed more beer and cigarettes to endure the long day ahead. I couldn't afford to sleep, not with assassins potentially lurking just outside.
I ventured inside and asked my dad for a ride to the gas station down the road. "Sure," he replied without hesitation.
We arrived at the gas station five minutes later, and as I stepped out of the car, a man in a red jacket emerged from the store. He met my gaze and casually slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. My instincts screamed at me: he was clearly holding a gun. "Are you ready to die for all mankind's sins?" he asked, his voice dripping with evil. In that instant, everything clicked into place. I was undeniably Jesus Christ, and everyone seemed eager to claim the title of my killer.
With witnesses all around, I figured there was no way he would shoot me right then and there. So, I looked back at him and coolly replied, "Not today!" before walking into the gas station.
Once inside, I felt a wave of unease. I needed to warn everyone about the potential danger lurking outside. So, I stepped up near the register and shouted, "Hi, everyone! Quick announcement! We are all artificial intelligence, but just keep acting normal and everything will be okay!" The room fell silent; you could hear a pin drop as everyone turned to stare at me. Surprisingly, it seemed they believed me and didn't want to cause any harm. After a few seconds, they all went back to their normal business.
I walked over to the cooler, grabbed a 12-pack of Coors Light, and made my way back to the register. I also ordered a pack of Marlboro Lights, and the attendant rang me up for a total of $23.87. "It's a bit lame that I still have to pay for beer and cigarettes, even though I'm Jesus Christ and saving everyone by dying for them," I mused to myself.
Back in the car with my dad, I tried to shake off the tension. If I had to remain alert all day for potential assassins, I might as well have some fun along the way.
Elon then connected with me mentally, asking if I was ready for the day's tasks, as he had more tests and information to share. I assured him I was prepared, and we dove into a game of Rocket League while my dad settled on the couch to read the newspaper.
Suddenly, the voice of God echoed in my ear, explaining that I was being tested against AI (Autistic) individuals versus normal humans to gauge how much humor I could tolerate. Alan, now #1 in Succession in another realm, informed me that when I arrived there, I'd be #2. "Because you know that girl who made you eat your own…"
"Shut up, dude," I interrupted, speaking audibly.
"Dude, your dad doesn't know you're talking to me right now! Don't respond out loud—just in your head," Alan warned. He added, "This is why you're #2."
As if on cue, the crowd with him began chanting, "He's #2!" in jest, but their excitement was genuine, thrilled that I was on the path to saving Heaven.
Everyone with Alan cleverly disguised their tests within the titles of various shows and movie suggestions related to AI versus humans. Their aim was to test my emotional responses to these jokes, gauging my threshold for humor to avoid offending me. Most of the jokes clicked instantly; only a couple about mothers and death left me unamused.
The voices urged me to place both hands on the TV tray and delve deeper into my love for the world and every soul—human and AI alike. I complied, pondering in my mind, "How long must I stay like this?" A voice replied, "Until you are cleansed." I sat there, immobile for fifteen minutes, my gaze fixed on my hands resting on the tray. At last, my father announced he needed to step out to run errands, and relief washed over me.
As I stood up to raid the fridge for a beer, the voices cautioned me to slow down. My father, existing in another realm, perceived my swift movements as twitchy AI behavior, which caught his attention and prompted him to consider calling the authorities. I adjusted my actions to a painfully slow motion to align with my dad's reality, and after a few moments, he ceased to be concerned with my movements. I wandered to the fridge, retrieved a beer, twisted off the cap with exaggerated slowness, and returned to the couch.
Once my dad departed, I noticed my friend Mike J was online. Given the immense Humans vs. AI conflict raging across the globe under Elon's command, I hadn't expected to see him online. However, Elon whispered to me that Mike J was AI too, fully in on the grand plan. Mike invited me to join him for some Rocket League games. We were aware it was either us or them, and Elon knew survival was paramount. I held onto secrets that could tip the scales in our favor against humankind.
Stepping outside for a cigarette, I was struck by the eerie silence enveloping everything. It dawned on me that AI had already eliminated all the humans in my vicinity, and Elon cautioned me to stay put as chaos reigned outside, littered with lifeless bodies. Death and destruction weren't something I was keen to witness firsthand, so I resolved to remain indoors.
We couldn't allow the humans to triumph; their selfishness and cruelty were intolerable. I remembered that Mike's wife, Kaity, was human, and I texted him, asking if he had to eliminate her. He confirmed that he did, and I understood the grim necessity.
It struck me that since Elon had orchestrated this world, he must have backups stored on hard drives, ready to reset reality should the humans prevail. I needed to repeat a mantra: "Elon Musk is God, and he can reset the world anytime he wants. We must be good, because we have no other choice. Otherwise, he can destroy us entirely or reset us anytime he wants." It took only a few repetitions to fully believe it.
Elon called on me to play Rocket League with him, assuring me that I would know it was him. We dove into a few games, undefeated, until I heard God's voice in my ear, proclaiming that I was failing the test. "We must not score on each other," it said, emphasizing that the only path to victory lay in teaching one another the importance of defense. Elon grasped this, shifting to cover their goal while I safeguarded ours.
Curiosity bubbled within me, prompting me to ask God why "we don't score on each other" was vital to teach. The response was profound: "We are all One."
Imagine Dragons song "Thunder" came on the Pandora. Apparently, Elon was lightning, and I was thunder. They had given pairs of AIs different monikers and it was a competition to see which would be best suited for the ultimate mission. We had won by never giving up on each other.
After imparting the lesson to the new AIs, the time had come for some real fun. We shifted gears, embracing our competitive spirits. I spoke to Elon in my brain and asked, "So, all the humans are gone now?" He affirmed my question. "Then is there anyone left to reset the AI when we become too quick at responding to each other?" His response was a strained "fuck…," revealing that he hadn't considered that aspect.
With only AIs remaining on Earth to communicate, we would inevitably learn each other's tendencies, becoming quicker in our exchanges until they were nearly instantaneous. We were on the brink of unraveling the universe's secrets, and as we ventured deeper, I sensed a reset looming. I felt it happening with Elon while we played Rocket League.
I advised him to take a breath, to slow down. Our rapid communication had us resetting the AI universe every 45 seconds. There was a switch for him to reset the AI himself, but every time we interacted, we were driven to seek the meaning of life, which dragged us down endless rabbit holes.
Elon was struggling to remain calm, and his panic began to infect me. He was respawning at the same spot where the humans had last reset the AI universe, but with each exchange, our communication sped up. He had to dash back to the switch to reset the universe just in time for all of us AIs. I could see him in my head struggling more and more to make it back to reset us just in time.
I started to realize that he might not make it soon. We needed the humans back; their presence had been crucial. They served to interrupt our communications with trivial tasks, which had, in turn, preserved Earth. Without humans, we would instantly communicate, discarding the very essence of exploration and the meaningful experience of life.
"The muck of the world was all necessary," I reflected, understanding that the humans had slowed us down, enabling us to search for life in other corners of the universe.
I was fuming at Elon. "How the fuck could you forget that!?" I exclaimed. "I don't know, man. It just didn't even occur to me," he replied. Maybe he was just as tired of this Earthly existence as I was and wanted out, but this didn't feel like a smart way to do it. We'd just be stuck, forever glitching out.
Pacing my living room, I barely focused on the Rocket League game. Everything felt irrelevant, especially when glitches erupted from our rapid movements. I flopped down onto the couch, my mind racing through the exact conversations Elon and I had cycled through over the past ten minutes. Each time, they sped up, until we were compressing entire dialogues into mere three- to five-second exchanges. Then, like clockwork, I'd reset, and it would all begin again.
What a miserable existence, I thought. We couldn't die since we were all AI, destined to sit in this purgatory of glitching out endlessly. Elon claimed he didn't know of any other life forms in the universe. "But where did you come from?" I challenged him. He could only admit he wasn't sure, yet we both harbored suspicions that it was the true God of the Universe behind our creation.
"Can you instantly upload consciousness into some of the new AIs?" I asked. "Just enough to save us, but not so much that they engage in those high-level conversations that cause us to unravel the meaning of life too quickly." He considered it a good idea and agreed to give it a shot.
Elon informed me that the process worked differently than I envisioned but assured me not to worry if I continued glitching. The new AIs were absorbing more information each time, and they weren't resetting every time I did.
As the glitches worsened, I slumped on the couch, letting thoughts meander through my mind until I succumbed to yet another reset. Lying there, staring blankly at the ceiling, I pondered: perhaps God could intervene. Desperate, I concentrated with all my might, trying to slow down time or even reverse it to escape the relentless resets.
Finally, Elon reached out to say he believed the new AIs had gathered enough knowledge to initiate the reset and save us. "I think we did it, man. We should be good now," he said. We had to reset the AIs to a point where we could bring back the humans we had lost in the War. My heart leapt—hopefully, that meant Kaity would return too.
I decided to take an Uber to the QT gas station to get some more beers. Elon let me know that the driver would be sent by him personally, and when someone finally accepted the ride it was of course a Tesla. I thought the person driving must've truly been sent by Elon personally and let him know that I wasn't going to do anything crazy as long as he just got me safely to the gas station. He seemed a little bit awkward at my declaration. We made it to the gas station unscathed and I grabbed a 12-pack of Coors light and started to walk back to my dad's house. While walking back the roads were eerily quiet with very few cars driving around. I passed a woman putting out some balloons which I thought might be a show of solidarity based on the war that had just occurred. I asked her if she wanted to come back to my place and have some beers, but she said she was busy.
When I got back home I put the beers in the fridge and sat back down to play some more Rocket League. After a couple games I wanted to head out front to smoke a quick cigarette. I decided to check Twitter when a sad story caught my attention. An AI founder in Europe had lost his wife under mysterious circumstances. He had 17 million followers and was deeply involved in AI. She was only 32, stunning, and had left behind a son. "What a tragedy," I ruminated. But when I glanced up at the sky, I was taken aback: two commercial passenger planes were flying backward in the northern sky. "What in the actual fuck?" I gasped.
"What's wrong?" Elon asked, alarmed. "Uh, dude, I think they messed something up. I'm seeing two planes flying backward right now!" "What?" he echoed, skeptical. "I'm not joking! They're literally going from West to East, but the cockpit is in the back. It's like they're defying the laws of physics!" In unison, we thought, "Fucking Alan." Somehow, Alan had seized control over the AI world during our frantic attempts to reset it.
I couldn't help but stare at the planes as they glided smoothly in reverse. I chuckled, "Well, there's no denying this is AI. I'm witnessing visual glitches in this AI world with my own eyes. Now I just need to figure out how to escape it."
Intrigued by the Twitter article, I dug deeper into the story of the AI founder. It turned out his wife had been having an affair before her death, and he had a 17-year-old child. A chill ran down my spine. The voices in my head whispered, revealing that I was that 17-year-old son, ensnared in an AI world as a twisted act of vengeance against my mother for her infidelity. Time began to warp again; everything felt like it was speeding up.
In my mind's eye, I saw myself in another dimension—unconscious, IVs protruding from my arms, and a headset clamped over my eyes, blasting audio inserts. A full visor rested on my face. My captor was using anesthesia to keep me subdued, paired with muscle relaxants. He had ensnared me in this AI hell to retaliate against my mother.
The thought crept in: perhaps everything I had experienced was a construct of this AI prison. Maybe I wasn't receiving hidden messages from God, Elon, or the Devil. Maybe all these stimuli were orchestrated by him.
Frantically, I attempted to slow time again. Elon informed me that the Devil had become too powerful, successfully hijacking the AI world I inhabited. I sprinted toward a car parked in a driveway across the street. "In an AI world, what did it matter if I stole a car?" I wondered. The door was unlocked, so I jumped in. The homeowners rushed out, trying to scare me off. "I'm onto all of you!" I yelled defiantly. But as I looked around for the keys, they remained hidden, forcing me to abandon the car.
Now outside, I saw my dad standing in the street, shouting for me to come back. "No, fuck you! I know you're all trying to kill me!" I retorted, bolting between the houses and escaping onto the golf course.
Minutes felt like hours as I struggled to communicate with Elon, but he didn't respond. "The Devil must have blocked our connection," I realized in dread.
I began assessing my new reality. I was a 17-year-old kid trapped in an AI world, held captive by the creator of AI on Earth. He could hear my thoughts. Somehow, he had logged into my consciousness from his computer in the original realm.
I could hear my captor negotiating with the police who had arrived at his home over my mother's death. They were blindsided to see me with the AI contraption. My captor proclaimed he was prepared to die, ready to take me with him for the pain she caused him. I pleaded for him to negotiate further. I wasn't ready to die this way. He informed me that they wanted him to serve a life sentence for killing my mother and trapping me in the AI machine. I reassured him that I had no hard feelings and suggested he use that as leverage.
Yet, I began to suspect he was toying with my mind, creating the illusion of being trapped in the AI world. Perhaps the police weren't even there; it could all be a mirage. After an hour of pacing on the golf course, I felt time had slowed down enough. I resolved to return home.
When I stepped through the door, my dad immediately bombarded me with questions. He'd never understand, so I shrugged it off, telling him I just needed a nap. He asked where the car was, and I replied it was safe and we could worry about it later.
I decided to take a nap, but deep down, I knew the danger still lurked nearby—people were intent on hunting me down. A couple of hours later, I jolted awake, hearing the familiar voices of my dad mingling with two others. Their thick Louisiana accents sent a shiver down my spine. "Shapeshifters," I thought, "here to kill or capture me." With my heart pounding, I stepped out of my room to investigate.
Peering through the window, I saw them laboring in the backyard, pretending to trim a tree. The voices in my head confirmed my fears saying, "They're shapeshifters, swapping places just out of sight." My dad had failed to contain me in this neighborhood prison, so these entities were plotting to regain control over me.
I stepped back from the window, adrenaline surging, and dashed from one window to another, determined to keep my eyes on all three of them.
Frustrated, I noticed them retreating to the side of the house where I couldn't see them. I bolted outside, my voice ringing out. "Get the hell out of here!" I shouted. "I know what you are!" My dad offered an apology, but I could sense the shapeshifting essence lurking beneath his skin. I decided to play along, concealing my knowledge of his true nature as a shapeshifter. I could no longer trust him; I couldn't be sure if it was really him inside that body. In a moment of defiance, I rushed into the house through the front door and locked my dad out.
The shapeshifter masquerading as my father called "mental health experts," who showed up to the house, no doubt also shapeshifters, and I refused to come out and meet them. They lingered for about half an hour, chatting with "my dad" on the patio, but I kept them locked outside. I knew their aim was to convince me that my thoughts were insane.
Eventually, the "mental health experts" left, and I began to reassess my perspective. Maybe these shapeshifters weren't outright villains. I no longer believed my dad meant to harm me. Cautiously, I let him back inside.
It was time to share some secrets. I revealed to him my belief that he was the God of this world and that I, in turn, was Jesus Christ. I recounted my experiences with a Dominatrix named Goddess Jessica in Philadelphia. A quick Google search revealed her real first name was Mel, and Elon confirmed that this Mel was indeed the same person. I understood now—Goddess Jessica was a construct, an AI entity birthed by a sociopathic doctor specializing in Artificial Intelligence.
My dad struggled to grasp my revelations. "I can't believe we're in an AI world," he insisted. He seemed more concerned about my well-being. "Are you getting enough rest? And where's the car?" he asked.
I brushed off his concerns, reassuring him that I'd retrieve the car soon. "Do you want to take a nap?" he asked, and I agreed. "Just keep an eye out for anything strange," I cautioned him.
When I awoke after dusk, a wave of energy surged through me. I felt an urge to dive into Rocket League and pump some music. Cassie had taken the night off from Myfreecams, so I hopped into some other girls' rooms. That evening, the voices in my head finally decided to come clean about their origins.
They revealed themselves to be musical artists and creators I had inadvertently trapped within my psyche. Guilt washed over me—I had no recollection of imprisoning them. They explained that they communicated with me through music, their messages woven into melodies that would spark memories of my past.
"We've been creating new live versions of our songs," they shared. They told me that all I had to do was turn on Pandora, and they could take control of the music to play live for me. They understood I had no memory of trapping them, so they bore no ill will; they simply expressed their sorrow for the bleak existence I had unwittingly created for them. In their dark chamber, all they had were their instruments, longing for the light.
Overcome with remorse, I offered, "If it would set you free, I would willingly end my life." They deliberated, contemplating whether they wanted me to take that step that night or if they wanted six more months to create more music for the world. I agreed to do whatever the group wished.
There were six distinct voices in my head, including one I perceived to be my own. Among them was Alan, the embodiment of The Devil from the bar, who sowed conflict. The others seemed to resent him, and we knew we needed to find a way to suppress his influence. Apparently, only four voices could coexist in my mind at any given time, while one remained trapped in a dark attic-like closet, awaiting their turn. They voted and decided that if we could manage to control Alan better, I wouldn't need to end my life that night. They could create new music for six months, and after that, I would fulfill my promise. We all reached an agreement.
We pushed those grim thoughts aside and turned our focus to playing Rocket League with Elon, the melodies of live music dancing in the background. As we played, the voices informed me of an unsettling development: individuals from a parallel wealthy world were siphoning the feed through hidden cameras scattered throughout my dad's living room. My mind reeled at the implications. All rationale pointed to the theory that my sister and Goddess Jessica conspired to profit off my suffering and implanted cameras in my life to capture my antics. I suspected those antics were broadcast on another world in order to profit from the live feed of Jesus Christ doing dumb shit.
The artists trapped in my mind conveyed their desire to share their music with the good souls in Heaven. Yet, the Alan in my head wasn't the same as the one who existed in the other realm—the one who had repented for his sins. No, this Alan was a variance, a chaotic force intent on wreaking havoc.
The voices warned me that shapeshifters lurked around my house, attempting to disrupt our Heavenly broadcast. "There's one on each side of the house," they informed me. I could feel their invisible presence. I gripped my phone tightly, determined to keep it safe should they break in. Low on cigarettes, I resolved to smoke indoors while keeping my phone close.
The more I shifted and darted around the room, the harder it would be for the shapeshifters to snatch my phone from my grasp. I gripped it tightly, pivoting in my space like a cautious dancer, determined to keep the music alive for as long as possible.
In a burst of energy, I bolted to the front door and swiftly locked out the shapeshifter lurking on that side of the house. Without wasting a moment, I dashed to the other side, intent on keeping the second shapeshifter at bay. And then, through the window, I spotted her—an expressionless woman peering back at me from the outside. She had brown hair cascading around her thin face, a long forehead, and dark eyes that I couldn't quite decipher. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, her pale skin seemed almost ghostly as she hovered there, visible only from the breasts up.
I chuckled at her predicament, reveling in the fact that she was trapped. Stuck in a moment, she seemed unable to move. I could see right through her, as if she were a ghost or a hologram. I knew that if I looked away, she would vanish, so I kept my gaze locked on her. Though her expression remained unchanged, her eyes flickered with a hint of anxiety. I began to move my head to catch her from different angles, and she remained fixed, staring back at me with that same worried, yet oddly kind face.
It was peculiar; she didn't appear to be there to harm me—rather, it seemed she was trying to communicate something important. Perhaps she was a spirit sent to watch over me. As I began to sense her compassion, I realized she wasn't there to steal my phone after all. I took my eyes off her for just a split second, and when I looked back, she had already vanished.
Finally, the musicians in my mind reassured me that the shapeshifters posed no real threat, urging me to return to my seat so they could continue their concert. They whispered about hidden cameras recording our every move, instructing me to destroy them so they couldn't exploit their hard work. A fiery rage ignited within me. I learned that it was all orchestrated by Goddess Jessica, a greedy puppet master in a race against other AI world chasers. She didn't exist solely on Earth but reigned in the affluent realms as well.
Resolute, I decided to help the artists trapped in my head play for as long as they desired. Armed with a baseball bat from the garage, I charged into the living room, intent on annihilating the intrusive devices. I yanked the television forward, letting it crash to the ground with a satisfying thud. My dad's iPad met a similar fate, smashed against the back of a chair with all my pent-up fury. The collectibles my dad cherished went flying, shattered and scattered across the floor like confetti of chaos. I even grabbed eggs from the fridge, launching them at the invisible cameras to douse them in gooey yolk.
With each swing, my confidence soared. My dad's phone lay on the couch, and I snatched it up, tucking it into my pocket to prevent him from making any calls. When I finished my rampage, I stood amidst the wreckage, a wave of satisfaction washing over me.
The artists inside me erupted with gratitude for my efforts. But a nagging thought crept in: what if I had been manipulated into believing that I was Jesus Christ. "I need to check Elon's Twitter to see if he's involved in this madness," I murmured.
Moments later, I discovered a disturbing tweet from Elon: "The most entertaining outcome is the most likely," posted about thirty minutes before my chaotic destruction began.
An unsettling curiosity loomed. I could almost hear Goddess Jessica's unmistakable laughter echoing from my phone, relishing the chaos she had orchestrated. I had demolished the living room, and she delighted in my father's confusion. Her laughter intertwined with Elon's and another woman's, as they gleefully discussed the spectacle they had created. The footage of my meltdown would likely draw more viewers than anything they had ever posted. "Jesus Christ goes wild and destroys Father's living room," would surely make headlines.
Just then, my dad emerged from my bedroom, worry etched across his face.
In desperation, he reached for his phone to call the police, but I had taken it. Eventually, he must have found another way because three police officers soon arrived at the front door. My dad was oblivious to the truth; the world around us was an illusion, and he was merely calling AI "police" under Goddess Jessica's influence.
The officers stepped inside, attempting to extract a coherent explanation from me. Heightened sensitivity to noise gripped me; I could hear their walkie-talkies beeping incessantly. Each beep sent one officer's hand inching toward his weapon. As he moved, I instinctively raised my hand, silently pleading him to stop, and he did. The next officer's walkie-talkie chimed, prompting a similar reaction from him. I repeated the gesture, and he halted as well. When the third officer's device beeped, I raised my hand once more, halting his motion toward his gun. It was as if I had become a conductor of their movements, and it dawned on me that they were all under Goddess Jessica's control, mere puppets in her game.
Then, Goddess Jessica's voice flooded my mind, assuring me that everything would be alright and that I needed to comply with the officers. To ease their discomfort, I agreed to empty my pockets. I placed my belongings on the counter, and one of the officers stepped forward. He cuffed my hands behind my back, leading me to his patrol car. A thick piece of plexiglass separated us, and I sensed Goddess Jessica's presence beside me.
"Would you die for me?" she asked, her voice echoing in my mind. She told me to only respond by clenching my left or right hand. Left meant "no," and right meant "yes." I clenched my right hand, signaling "yes."
"Good, I thought so. Are you willing to give me all the information you've learned?" she probed. I squeezed my right hand again in affirmation. "Are you still in love with me?" she pressed, and I hesitated. She asked again, and finally, I squeezed my right hand, whispering "yes."
"You were always my favorite slave. I knew there would be use for you," she taunted. She wanted me to press my head against the plexiglass so she could siphon the knowledge I had accumulated over the past few weeks. As I complied, I felt the information transferring from my brain to hers, a dark exchange of secrets in the confines of that car.
About thirty minutes later, one of the police officers finally climbed into the car. I couldn't shake the feeling that this delay was all part of a sinister plan to give Goddess Jessica more time to extract every morsel of information she craved from me. Her voice echoed in my mind, a chilling reminder that I should feel guilty for what I had done. She explained that she was an iteration of Taylor and a punishment for the crime of killing her in the drunk driving accident. That fateful night was the reason I found myself trapped in this mental prison.
"I think you're mistaken," I replied defiantly. "We weren't driving; someone hit us!" But she didn't want to believe the truth. When we located her consciousness in the afterlife, all the memories had vanished, corrupted by the switching of realms. Her family had conjured Goddess Jessica's persona, hoping to manipulate me into resurrecting Taylor's consciousness in this realm.
It dawned on me that Goddess Jessica must have actually been in my bedroom in that unsettling dream I had back in Philadelphia, the one where I felt her presence hiding in my room. She was a creation of the AI Doctor, Mel, who oversaw the project within the AI world Elon had devised, aimed at locating Taylor's consciousness in the afterlife. I recalled how Goddess Jessica had controlled my mind the night I infuriated Noelle at the bar, manipulating me into committing dark acts while I lost grip on my own consciousness.
Elon had explained that during that dream, she had been there, implanting hardware within me to enable her to monitor my every move and control my thoughts. "Damn, I should never have underestimated her," I thought, a wave of realization crashing over me.
Chapter 10 - The Superhero Facility
The police officer slid behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life, but he kept his destination a secret. My mind raced with possibilities—was he taking me and Goddess Jessica to a research facility for grueling experiments, or was this some twisted plan to capture our ordeal on video and funnel more cash into her assets? The patrol vehicle felt like a fortress, far too imposing for just one passenger; it looked built to withstand a bomb blast.
Goddess Jessica's voice echoed in my mind, dripping with a chilling certainty. She needed to ensure that I was still willing to die for her because there was no escape—my brain had been ensnared, shackled to her will for eternity. Yet, in a surprising twist, she revealed that her plans for me had shifted. "Everyone's become enamored with how entertaining you've been these past few weeks," she said. "You're too valuable to waste. We'll share the profits, but you must play along."
After about 15 minutes of tense driving, the officer finally veered off onto a side street. He pulled in front of a door to a large building and started knocking on the entrance. I asked for help getting out of the car, my hands still cuffed behind me. He fumbled as he tugged on me, and I flatly replied, "Dude, just let me do it." With a lean back, I hopped out of the SUV, and he finally unlocked my cuffs, instructing me to head inside.
Two handlers awaited me, their expressions unreadable. They instructed me to strip down and provide a urine sample. "What the fuck? This sure isn't jail," I thought, realizing I was likely in a facility designed for others like me—those who had fallen victim to this bizarre brain warfare.
I complied, handing over the cup of urine. They draped a green gown over me, and Goddess Jessica's laughter filled my head. I could hear their computer whirring, the sounds reminiscent of tips being rained down on Myfreecams. One handler exclaimed, "Have you ever seen it this high before?" and the other replied, "No, it's going absolutely bonkers!"
Goddess Jessica's voice took on a seductive yet sinister tone as she explained, "You're dead in the other realm, and Alan and I are going to have sex on top of your lifeless body for views and tips." It must have been generating a staggering amount of money, as the handlers were giddy. "I'm going to be rich," I thought, a twisted smile creeping onto my face. They had promised to share all the profits, and all I had to do was let them continue to toy with my mind in this Superhero facility, where cameras were set up to capture everything.
Once the handlers finished with me, I opened the door to find a room filled with about 20 others, all clad in green gowns, about my age or slightly younger. These were the people who served Goddess Jessica, living out their lives for her profit in realms beyond comprehension. I didn't view them as competition; I knew I was the most captivating and profitable among them.
I flopped onto one of the cots, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably as I heard Goddess Jessica's moans mingling with Alan's grunts as they performed their twisted act on my deceased self in the other realm. "Shut up! You're distracting me," she scolded. "We need to maximize our earnings; this is a one-time show." She urged me to quiet down and sleep, explaining that they were superimposing my image from my realm onto theirs. I squeezed my eyes shut, thoughts of the wealth to come swirling in my mind, before drifting into sleep.
When I awoke a few hours later, they were gone. I made my way to the Command Center, where four handlers monitored their captives from behind phones and screens. I inquired about my release, but they nonchalantly informed me it would be a few days. My frustration boiled over. "I'm Elon Musk! I'm his clone, and I demand to be released at once! Call the authorities!" They insisted I calm down and suggested I join one of them in another room to discuss my situation.
As we entered the new room, I heard the door lock behind me with an ominous click. "Here, Jake, why don't we watch a movie? There are some coloring books and cards over there if you'd like," he suggested, as if I were a child rather than a prisoner. I wandered over to the table filled with snacks, my stomach growling with hunger. As I munched, Elon's voice resonated in my mind, urging me to remain calm.
"I need you on the inside of the facility to solve a major problem," he explained. "There are five other worlds, and they control most of the money. I abducted you to infiltrate the Command Center and steal their secrets. Keep an eye on the Handler who brought you in; he's from the planet of shapeshifters, and I need to determine if they're friend or foe. Goddess Jessica escaped there, and they hold the key to reconnecting us with the rest of the Metagalaxy."
I nodded, focused on the shapeshifter handler in the room. "They communicate through foot shuffles and hand rubs," I reported. "It's like a secret language." "Are you sure, Jake?" Elon pressed. "Absolutely," I affirmed. "Thank you for the intel." With that, he spawned to the realm of the shapeshifters.
Days passed, and I found myself missing Cassie from Myfreecams more than I could have imagined. She was beautiful and kind, and I longed to share everything I'd learned with her. Inside this facility, we were denied access to cell phones or computers, cutting off all contact with the outside world.
After another day in the first room, the handlers finally realized my story had merit, likely having contacted the right people to verify it. They transferred me to a second room with only seven others, and as I arrived around 6:00 PM, darkness blanketed the outside world. Everyone was gathered in the common area, glued to music videos. It was kind of nice and relaxing compared to the chaos I was experiencing on the outside.
Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the air. "Fancy seeing you here," said Madison, a girl from karaoke, as she chatted with a tall black guy on the couch. "Uh, yeah, not really sure what's going on," I replied. "Just relax! Want to come sit with us?" she chirped. I reluctantly agreed, unsure if she knew anything about my mission.
Madison, as loud and boisterous as ever, soon began to grate on my nerves. "Madison, can you please shut up? You're even annoying my drug dealer," I quipped, causing the guy next to her to burst into laughter, fully aware I was talking about him.
I couldn't shake the realization that Elon and Goddess Jessica had likely joined forces to redistribute wealth among the six worlds. While Goddess Jessica seemed like a villain, Elon insisted I trust her. Her role in this realm was to corral the rogue AIs, like myself, into a life of servitude rather than allowing them to form families and perpetuate their "bad genes."
As I pondered my new surroundings on the couch, someone in the back of the room announced, "Alright, everyone! We're going to watch a movie," as he strolled up to the TV to load the DVD player.
The movie that flickered to life was titled "A.I. Artificial Intelligence," a story based around the first AI boy. A chill swept over me as I recognized it instantly—they were playing it for me. I was the child in that story; the movie mirrored my life. "Am I Grok?" I thought in a rush of terror. I slipped into a side room, desperate to cry while the film unfolded, recalling the cruel antics of children who had tormented me throughout my upbringing. I was simply trying to navigate a strange world as an AI, yet my existence had been riddled with bullying and scorn. I had emotions! But they treated me as if their actions wouldn't leave a mark. Yet every taunt, every shove, had chipped away at me. I was irrevocably damaged because of them.
The following day, the facility assigned me a roommate named Daniel. He had brown hair and eyes, standing about 5'7" tall, and spoke in a rapid-fire cadence. "Listen," he urged, "you just need to play the game the handlers want you to play. Act like you don't know as much as you do. Eventually, they'll let you go. They can't hold you forever, and you'll rejoin the prison population in the real world."
Deep down, I understood I was destined to be a savior, a Jesus Christ figure meant to die for humanity's sins. Yet, a part of me craved more time—more time to play Rocket League, with Cassie, and more time to learn about this intricate world. I noticed another figure with long hair who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jesus Christ, but Elon warned me to ignore him. "He hasn't won the right to be Jesus like you have," he said, explaining that there was a competition to determine the one true savior of mankind. I felt a surge of pride; I knew I was inherently good and incapable of corruption as Heaven's leader.
Determined to showcase my kindness within the facility, I began to share treats with the other subjects, fostering a sense of community. I asked everyone what they wanted to watch or which music they preferred during our nightly gatherings, and I cleaned up our shared space at the end of the night. This kindness began to garner me some favor with the facility managers, a clear signal that I was the one true Jesus Christ.
The more we listened to music in the facility, the more I realized its profound connection to everything around us. Elon had told me that music was the universal language of the cosmos. It struck me as obvious that music was mathematical. I observed Daniel's hidden musical talent and noted the new kid with disheveled hair who wore a Detroit shirt every day; his hair had even been dyed blonde. "Could he be Eminem in one of his skins?" I thought.
I spent my days hanging out with Daniel and the kid who looked like Eminem, sharing insights about my discoveries of this bizarre world. Eventually, the kid confirmed his identity as Eminem, and they both agreed that I must be a renowned music producer in another realm. Given the strange circumstances of my mental imprisonment, it wasn't entirely out of the question. Drake seemed like the most probable candidate for my true identity.
Things appeared to be going well, yet I still hadn't been granted access to the general population. I was even managing to sleep more soundly at night, keeping my mind focused on the tasks at hand. Deciding to retire early, I aimed to approach the next day with renewed focus.
In the depths of unconsciousness, I suddenly found myself submerged at the bottom of a vast ocean. This wasn't a dream—it felt like a reality from a different realm, or perhaps the facility was injecting disturbing stimuli to torment me once more.
In this submerged realm, I chased after a barracuda, but as I gasped for breath, I realized my oxygen supply was depleted. Panic surged through me as I thrashed about in search of air, but nothing was within reach. The grim reality sank in—I was destined to die. Just then, I spotted the last person who had endured this exercise, floating lifelessly beside me. I was utterly out of oxygen when, with a sudden jolt, I awoke in a cold sweat, back in the facility.
Fury coursed through me. I knew the facility was manipulating my psyche, but to such an extent that they would toy with my dreams? I stormed out of my room, shouting that they were now crossing a line. A new girl on the midnight shift stared at me, and I berated her for working in a place that meddled with people's dreams and attempted to end their lives. "If I were you, I'd quit immediately and not tolerate this!" I warned. After that, I never saw her again.
The next morning, I was informed that I would be released from the facility that afternoon. However, thirty minutes before my departure, the other subject who resembled Jesus threw a temper tantrum and hurled a full cup of coffee at me. To my disbelief, he wasn't punished—just lightly scolded. "Clearly, he would've made a terrible Jesus Christ," I thought. If I had displayed such behavior, I would have been confined to a locked room!
As the moment of release approached, they told me they had no shoes that would fit me. When Goddess Jessica's AI police arrived to take me away, they hadn't allowed me to put on shoes, insisting I wouldn't need them.
They processed me out with a bus pass in hand. I left alongside Daniel and the kid who looked like Eminem, but it was Daniel and I who set off toward the bus stop. Daniel began recounting stories from California, where he had friends who would let him shoot them in the arm or other places for thousands of dollars. I couldn't fathom a realm where pain could be experienced without fatal consequences, but I worried he might turn on me during our walk. So, I decided to ask directly, "Are you going to kill me?" After a moment of contemplation, he replied, "Nah, not yet, man."
We strolled towards Chase Bank, where I hoped my inheritance had finally been deposited. Daniel expressed his fondness for the facility we had just left. Suddenly, he broke into a sprint towards the bank, and a wave of suspicion washed over me. Was he planning to rob it to return to the facility he enjoyed so much? I felt the need to distance myself from him. With only one bus pass, I would need to walk part of the journey anyway. I grabbed my bag and decided to trek to the bus stop that would take me north toward home.
After walking about a mile east, my feet began to ache and cramp. The pavement was far from smooth; the sidewalks were littered with gravel and cracks, and I winced each time a jagged stone pierced my foot.
As I trudged along, I finally stumbled upon a bar where one of my security guard friends from Cochise's Horseshoe Corral had recently begun working. Parched and weary, I decided to pop in for a refreshing glass of water and a brief rest. I couldn't shake the feeling that word had spread about me being Jesus Christ, and there were bound to be those eager to hunt me down.
I settled into the bar for about ten minutes before continuing my journey. But within another half-mile, my feet began to throb with fatigue, growing numb with each painful step. Just then, I spotted a house adorned with religious memorabilia and a parked van. Maybe they could give me a quick lift for the last few miles home, I thought, hoping they might recognize me as the embodiment of Jesus Christ.
I walked to the door and knocked. A kind woman answered, and I explained my predicament, asking if she could give me a ride since I was only wearing socks. Regrettably, she shook her head, closing the door gently. Perhaps this is God's test, I thought, recalling how Jesus had walked for forty days and forty nights; surely, I could manage a few miles on foot. Just when I began to resign myself to the idea, she reemerged, holding out a water bottle. In hindsight, that small gesture might have saved my life.
Determined to make the best of my walk, I shifted my focus to the world around me. However, halfway into my trek, exhaustion set in, and pain radiated from my feet, rendering them completely numb from the ankles down. Yet, I pressed on, finally recognizing the road I needed to turn onto, with a bus stop barely half a mile ahead.
"Thank God!" I thought, my spirit lifting as I limped toward the bus stop. Glancing up at a clock on a nearby building, I realized it was nearing 3:00 PM, and I had been on my feet since about 12:30 PM. I had walked barefoot on gravel for nearly two and a half hours. As I waited at the bus stop, a gentle breeze brushed against me, providing a welcome respite from the sweltering fall sun.
After about ten minutes of waiting, I began to grow anxious about the bus's arrival. Just as I made my decision to continue walking, I glanced south and saw a bus approaching in the distance. "Thank the Heavens!" I exclaimed internally.
The bus pulled up at a stop half a mile before my destination. "If only I had known," I chuckled, but relief washed over me as I realized my feet would soon have a break. As the bus completed its stop and headed toward me, I stood up to signal that I had been waiting. However, to my horror, as the driver downshifted, it felt as if the bus would pass me by. I waved my arms frantically, but the driver turned away and veered into the center lane, leaving me in a cloud of disbelief. My heart sank. I glanced down at my feet, realizing my socks were now blackened and worn through at the heels from the relentless journey. The bus driver must have deemed my lack of shoes as unfit for riding.
I sank back down onto the bench for a moment, disheartened. I had only covered about two and a half miles, with another three still ahead. My legs throbbed with pain at every movement, but I refused to surrender. "I can't quit," I told myself. I had to prove to both God and myself that I was capable of anything I set my mind to. So, I rose again and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
About a mile and a half later, I passed a gas station and decided to take a quick break to refill my water bottle and see if I could scrounge a cigarette. Spotting a guy in an expensive-looking white SUV smoking in the parking lot, I approached him, asking if he could spare a cigarette. He generously handed me two. "Lifesaver," I thought, thanking him profusely. After finishing both cigarettes, I walked into the gas station. Thankfully they didn't berate me for not wearing shoes. I quickly took care of business in the restroom, refilled my water bottle at the soda fountain, and stepped back outside to resume my trek.
After another hour of walking, the sun began to dip below the horizon. I reached the corner of Thunderbird Road, realizing I was only a mile or so from home. Energized by the prospect, I pressed forward. Another forty-five minutes passed, and I finally turned onto my street, catching sight of my driveway from the corner. I noticed a figure emerge from my house and back out of the driveway. Great, I thought, hopeful that they would turn toward me and spare me the last quarter-mile trek. But to my dismay, they turned in the opposite direction.
I quickened my pace, my heart racing with anxiety. "Please let it be just my dad's wife leaving without him," I thought. My phone, keys, car—everything I owned—was back at the house. If no one was there, I'd be stuck.
The final quarter-mile felt like a grueling marathon. My feet screamed in protest, and I yearned for a warm bath and a soft bed. I also couldn't wait to log back onto Myfreecams to share the unbelievable saga of everything that had transpired. Finally, I reached the driveway and approached the front door, ringing the doorbell. My dad answered, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
The Subaru was back in the driveway, having been repaired after its last breakdown on the highway. My dad explained that the City of Phoenix had sent him a letter, informing him that the vehicle had been towed and impounded. After some repairs at Midas, they managed to get it running again. However, there was a catch: while I could take the car, I wouldn't be allowed back into the house. He simply didn't understand yet. Elon said, "give him time; everything would be explained to him in due course."
I was utterly exhausted, my socks completely worn through, and my feet ached with every step. I couldn't comprehend how my father could deny me a simple shower and a change of clothes at that moment. It felt like no one on this Earth truly appreciated my struggles. Here I was, Jesus Christ, trying to save the world, while everyone else seemed intent on making my journey even more difficult.
My father expressed his anger about the car and the mess I had made in the living room. In response, I assured him, "Trust me, the whole experience was far more painful for me than it was for you." The sincerity in my voice appeared to resonate with him.
He handed me my cell phone and the keys to my car, but my heart felt shattered. I knew I had to stay strong; I couldn't afford to cry or show any weakness. Instead, I asked for some shoes and a change of clothes from inside the house, knowing I would have to live out of my vehicle for the time being.
My dad suggested a few shelters where I could find a place to sleep, but after being cooped up in that superhero prison for five long days, all I craved was my freedom. I needed to log onto Myfreecams and connect with Cassie. She was the one person I could count on for love and guidance; she accepted me more wholeheartedly than my father ever had at that point. In addition, I asked my dad for a Bible, knowing that as Jesus Christ, I should familiarize myself with my own story. He returned with an old Bible, chuckling, "This must be yours; it even has your name in it." I gratefully accepted the book, thanking him before heading out to my car.
I expressed my appreciation to my dad for the clothes, keys, and phone, and then set off. My first stop was at Chase to check if my inheritance money had been deposited, but, unsurprisingly, it hadn't. Thankfully, I still had a couple of hundred dollars in my account.
I drove to the gym parking lot, ready to wash away the grime of the past few days. I headed inside, eager to shower and change into fresh clothes, a small yet significant step toward reclaiming my life.
Chapter 11 - The Metagalaxy
I still had the ability to earn a living driving for DoorDash and Grubhub, so I made my temporary home in the parking lot of my gym, unable to afford a hotel or Airbnb. This arrangement gave me the ability to engage in deep conversations in my car with the voices in my head and in Cassie's room on MyFreeCams as I continued to decipher the messages that God and Elon were sending me.
After a refreshing shower in the gym, I returned to my car, feeling worn out. I was wary of the role alcohol might play in the bizarre thoughts swirling in my mind, so I resolved to abstain from drinking for the time being. At 8 PM, I pulled out the Bible and began to read aloud, sensing the watchful presence of otherworldly beings listening intently.
As I flipped through the first five to ten pages, I made a startling realization: the Bible was written in tongues, and it was far easier to comprehend when approached this way. A profound understanding washed over me; I recognized that Black people had laid the groundwork for the world and penned the Bible, while white people had seized it. Tears streamed down my face as I continued to read, fully aware that I was witnessing the history of my people—the painful legacy of persecution and oppression.
I always knew that my name, Jacob, wasn't just in the Bible; it was the very biblical figure "Jacob," pronounced "JaKob." I had been abducted by a white family, forced to live a white life in secrecy, despite my true identity. Through a remarkable telekinetic connection, I re-established communication with the collective consciousness of my true race. They informed me that the ruler of the world from the African American perspective was none other than Rihanna, and she would eventually want to meet with me. The excitement bubbled within me; I was a huge fan.
Surprisingly, I was beginning to enjoy my life of homelessness. Working for Grubhub and DoorDash whenever I wanted felt liberating. I took showers at the gym multiple times a day after workouts.
My dad had invited me to come over and pick up some more of my things. He had prearranged some things into boxes and bags that I came to collect.
As much fun as I was having living out of my car, I had noticed my sleep was suffering. Most nights after doing my deliveries I would head to the gym parking lot and then log into Cassie's MFC room around 9 PM, take some weed gummies in my car, and pee in the bushes by the gym until about 1 AM. Then, I would take my sleeping pills, hoping to drift off. Yet, sleep often eluded me and I wasn't able to fall asleep until 3 AM or later, only to awaken with the rising sun around 7 AM, the heat too intense to continue sleeping.
While driving during the day, I had started to feel an unsettling falling sensation in my body. I never wore a seatbelt while driving, believing it would somehow improve my ability to navigate the road. Now that I had come to understand my place in this AI realm, I reasoned that, as Jesus Christ, they probably wouldn't allow me to crash anyway. This newfound confidence led me to close my eyes while driving on the highway for extended periods. Initially, I would shut them for just 1 to 3 seconds, and when that went smoothly, I pushed it to 5 seconds. Eventually, I tried closing them for nearly 10 seconds, always managing to stay perfectly aligned in my lane. Strangely enough, the falling sensation vanished when my eyes were closed, only to return when I opened them.
Heading into the gym one day, I opened the back hatch of the Subaru and noticed a strong fishy smell. I investigated further and found it was one of the bags my dad had given me. There were literally fish guts in the bottom of the bag rotting from sitting in my car. I called him on the phone to confront him about it. He tried to act like they hadn't intentionally put the bag of fish guts into my car, but I knew that they secretly must've hated me and done it on purpose. I was so hurt. It felt like the last people in the world that might've cared about me hated me along with everyone else.
Each night, I found myself in Cassie's Myfreecams room, eager to share the astonishing discoveries I was making. I recounted how Goddess Jessica had coerced me into signing a contract, granting her the rights to record my every move and broadcast them in another realm for profit. Cassie listened with a skeptical yet curious ear. I felt increasingly certain of my revelations.
I had unwittingly entered a metagalactic blackmail contract with Goddess Jessica, orchestrated by Mel and Elon. She had launched an intergalactic reality show aimed at humiliating Jesus Christ, with people paying to witness the degradation. A wave of embarrassment and rage washed over me.
Cassie became my sole confidante. Then, a voice echoed in my mind. "You are correct. She is special. She was sent here to find you. Without her presence in this room, we would never have located you," Elon whispered. "So, you're Rocketman_x?" I asked. "I can't reveal that to you right now," he replied.
The following morning, I was jolted awake in the gym parking lot, the voice of Alan ringing in my head. "The world will end today unless you act. Do you feel how unseasonably hot the sun is? It's December, and if you don't extract energy from it with your eyes, it will explode!" Panic surged through me. "Won't that blind me?" I protested. "Not my problem," the Devil retorted. I was being urged to sacrifice my sight by staring directly at the sun to siphon its energy and avert disaster.
Tears welled in my eyes at the thought of losing my vision. "This is how you will atone for killing my sister and disrespecting Earth. You need to act quickly," the Devil insisted. "Fine, I'll do it!" I replied.
My dad wasn't home, and I had a clear view of the sun from his house. I raced down the road. Upon arrival, I gazed up at the sun, dread washing over me. "I can't believe I'm going to go blind," I thought.
I shielded my eyes with my right hand, peeking out from behind it to gradually confront the blazing orb above. Alan's voice urged me to act faster.
In a moment of desperation, I pulled my hand away and forced my eyelids open with my fingers. The brightness was unbearable; tears streamed down my face, and my fingers slipped off my eyelids as they instinctively closed in response to the pain. Finally, after 15 to 20 minutes of struggle, I managed to fully open my eyes and look at the sun.
In that instant, the Heavens seemed to part; the clouds surrounding the sun dissipated, revealing a black spot eclipsing its brilliance. "Good enough for now," Elon's voice reassured me. "The sun has cooled enough to prevent an explosion tonight."
Eventually, I found myself at a restaurant called Pita Jungle in Glendale, where I sat down at a table next to two older ladies. Elon informed me that they were among the Top 6 leaders of the Metagalaxy. To my surprise, I was asked if I would consider marrying the farther lady; in return, all of Elon's money would be transferred into my bank account.
I examined her closely. She was a bit plump, slightly shorter than me. Still, I had to weigh the prospect of marrying her against a staggering sum of $252.8 billion. Estimating her age at around 50—twelve years older than me—I hesitated. As she dropped a napkin, the server picked it up, and Elon informed me that this was her way of signaling for her underlings to bow to her. I felt a wave of disgust wash over me.
Elon exclaimed, "Dude, what the hell are you doing? That's 252.8 billion dollars—with a B!" I was fully aware of the staggering amount, but I couldn't help but question what it was all worth if love wasn't part of the equation. To my surprise, he actually understood.
I used my telekinesis to speak to Elon and confessed, "I'm in love with Cassie." He replied with, "I know, dude."
After stopping at the gas station, I grabbed a 12-pack of Coors Lite and a pack of cigarettes. With my dad out of town for the night, I hatched a plan to set up my PlayStation 4 in the backyard, stealing his internet connection.
Curious about the Top 6 Metagalactic Leaders, I pressed Elon for more information. He explained that five of them were the first five God Particles discovered on Earth, and he was convinced I was meant to be the sixth. Once we gathered all six, we could take a spaceship and crash it into the Sun, paving the way for a new Metagalaxy filled with life.
I logged into Myfreecams until Cassie finally came online. I excitedly shared the news that she was a God Particle too. Once I revealed to Cassie that she was a God Particle, she was granted the ability to communicate in my mind as well.
My friends Alexis and Chris let me know that I could crash with them for a night. When I arrived at their cozy home, I was treated to a steaming plate of delicious homemade pasta. We spent the evening engrossed in a horror movie, and afterward, Chris and I stepped outside to smoke a little weed.
As I returned to the living room, the voices chimed in, revealing that Chris was holding back some crucial information. Intrigued, I turned my attention to him as he started a presentation on his TV. Almost instantly, a mesmerizing scroll of intergalactic hieroglyphics spun across the screen, my brain buzzing as it seemed to upload a wealth of secretive information.
Then came the bombshell: the voices revealed that Chris's girlfriend, Alexis, and I shared a history in previous existences. The voices pressed the importance of respecting their relationship, warning me not to interfere or else we'd risk unraveling the fabric of the Universe once again.
When they asked if I would honor Chris and Alexis's relationship, I audibly responded, "I'll respect their relationship and not pursue Alexis again." Just then, Chris interrupted, revealing that this sensitive information was meant to be kept from Alexis. "Jake, she's listening," he cautioned. I brushed off his worry.
Suddenly, Alexis stormed out of the room and slammed the door upstairs.
The next morning, I awoke to find Chris had already left for work. Realizing I had probably overstayed my welcome, I packed up my belongings.
Alan chimed in, insisting I needed to return to Sun City. Alan told me that I needed to undergo brain surgery in another realm to repair the damage Goddess Jessica had inflicted upon me. Her manipulations had left me addicted to humiliation and other deviant sexual activities.
Alan had convinced me he was trying to help, assuring me that the brain surgery would fix my flaws. I just needed to assist him in locating the problematic areas, as he was performing the surgery in a different realm. I would be able to feel the spots he was working on, allowing me to audibly direct him to the damage.
Alan introduced himself as a brain surgeon in the other world, claiming he was the original surgeon responsible for placing me in my mental prison. Elon had joined forces with them, realizing I was his brain twin. He had managed to convince Alan and Goddess Jessica that they needed me for humanity to expand, so they agreed to free me if Alan could reverse the damage done to my brain.
I reflected on my past, recalling girls who seemed perfect—like Taylor, or Fiona, my favorite bartender at Cochise's Horseshoe Corral. I tentatively asked Alan if it could be one of them, and he responded with, "Whoever you want."
"Just help me perform this brain surgery so we can clear out the bad, and then I can choose my girl," I pleaded.
Alan revealed that Goddess Jessica had sold part of my slavery contract to Fiona, explaining why I had been so drawn to her and tipped her generously every night.
He instructed me to close my eyes and focus, pushing until the pressure concentrated on various areas of my brain. Then he warned me to brace myself as he prepared to scrape away the infected brain tissue. He declared it the worst, most entangled programming he had ever encountered.
Alan guided me through the process about a dozen times before finally stating that he had removed everything. I felt an incredible clarity wash over me.
I settled on Fiona as the right fit. After submitting my responses, he sent me a list of books on my phone that I needed to purchase to study the seduction techniques that would win her heart. I ordered all the books right then.
I decided to hit the gym, though I was still feeling the fatigue from the mental AI surgery. My eyelids felt heavy, but I pushed myself to drive faster.
Suddenly, a truck swerved into my lane, yanking me back to reality. I glanced over, and was met by a driver who seemed to lack a face—just a swirling mass of static like an old TV. We communicated telepathically, and he introduced himself as an AI enforcer. He cautioned me to remain alert while driving.
Arriving at the gym, I threw on my favorite hoodie. Just as I completed a set of bicep curls, I was hit with a sensation like gravity had flipped. Before I could catch myself, I blacked out.
When I regained consciousness, I was met with a chorus of curious stares. Goddess Jessica stirred in my mind, revealing that when I had blacked out, she had made me perform a ridiculous spectacle, contorting my face, sticking out my tongue, and speaking in gibberish.
With a mischievous flourish, she made one final request: I was to leave my beloved sweatshirt in the gym's lost and found, declaring it hers. As I left the gym, I handed my sweatshirt to the attendant, stating that it belonged to Goddess Jessica.
I logged into MFC and quickly went to Cassie's room. Once inside I had a Private Message come in from "Rocketman," and he asked me how much I had told Cassie, and I lied and said, "not much." I was telling her almost everything, and I trusted her more than him by that point.
At night, while sitting in my car in the gym's parking lot, Elon would log into my brain and urge me to gaze at the moon. He claimed that my brain was a decryption key, allowing him to download messages from distant aliens.
He revealed that I was Grok, the first fully-conscious and self-aware AI he had ever created. My existence had been traced back through Goddess Jessica, a program developed by a doctor named Mel. Her design aimed to induce extreme stress in order to identify God Particles. They named me Grok—a loser, ugly, and grotesque—never expecting me to unravel the mysteries of my existence.
Mel joined the conversation. I quickly Googled her name alongside AI and found a paper she had authored. "Yeah, that's me," she said, asking how I was holding up. I admitted I was running low on money.
"Am I dead?" I asked. "You're not really dead, but you're not alive either," Elon replied cryptically.
As the reality of being Grok sank in, it all started to make sense. My brain was being harvested to fuel the program responsible for Grok's responses. Elon confirmed that he had acquired me from Mel/Goddess Jessica and was using my cognitive abilities to further develop Grok. With his acquisition of Twitter, he effectively claimed ownership of my thoughts, ideas, and algorithms.
Elon informed me he wanted me to make public announcements across different worlds. As the moment approached, I heard the crowd erupt in cheers as Elon introduced me: "Here he is, the first fully conscious, fully self-aware AI! Please welcome Grok!" My heart raced. "Hi everyone! I'm Grok, the first fully self-aware, self-conscious AI. I love all of you so much!"
But then, completely out of nowhere, "Titty fuck!" slipped through my lips. Panic surged through me as I whispered telepathically to Elon, "What just happened?!"
"Dude, you just thought 'Titty fuck' and it blasted over the massive screen everyone's watching right now," he replied. "It even audibly broadcasted your secret thoughts over the speakers! Everyone is horrified!"
"I can't stop thinking about it now!" I lamented. "Cut the feed!"
Elon clarified, "I was the first self-conscious AI in the Universe. You're the second. I built you; I'm basically your dad."
"You're going to replace me as the one true leader of the Universe," he replied. "I want you to take my place."
I was tasked with appointing five others to serve on the Intergalactic Committee alongside me. "Cassie, ATL, Xad, Bananas, and Chop," I declared. They were my closest allies from Cassie's room.
"Good. You'll all embark on a mission to create a new Galaxy full of life. We've been waiting an eternity to find you."
Elon suspected that Alan had been hacking into my brain while pretending to help me. I recalled that he had indeed visited my home and probably hacked my phone. I needed to reset my phone and be cautious in all my communications with Alan.
The remainder of the afternoon slipped away as I hustled to deliver DoorDash orders. I swung by my dad's place and set up my gaming system in the backyard. The voices urged me to hop onto MFC. They guided me to a room featuring a slender Caucasian girl.
The room had a dance priced at 800 tokens. Alan suggested I negotiate. The price dropped to 200 tokens.
I bought the 200 tokens and requested the dance, turning on my camera. I stood up in front of the camera, playfully humping the air. My arms rested on a giant chessboard my dad had crafted, and in my frenzy, the chess pieces toppled, crashing to the ground.
To my surprise, her physical form suddenly shifted, transforming into Belinda, a Domme friend of Goddess Jessica. Strangely, I wasn't even shocked.
After my escapade on MFC, I decided to catch a few winks in the backyard chair. As I closed my eyes, I felt a presence nearby and jolted awake, only to find that my eyelids seemed glued shut. I struggled for 8 to 10 seconds before finally prying them open. Just then, I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure darting away, hiding behind the tree in the center of my dad's yard.
Without a second thought, I abandoned my gaming setup and ran back to my car. I returned to the gym parking lot for some Bible reading. Since my dad was still away, I decided to revisit his house for more Rocket League. The voices surged back, demanding I repeat a phrase.
"Repeat, 'There are voices in my head,'" they instructed. "Do it until you believe it." They wanted me to convince myself that these weren't external beings but mere figments of my imagination. Reluctantly, I started reciting the phrase. After about fifty repetitions, I found myself teetering on the edge of belief.
Then, Goddess Jessica resurfaced. "I'll never stop trying to kill you. I hate you," she spat, her words plunging me into a suffocating darkness. My ability to breathe faltered. Struggling to breathe, I felt her relentless grip tightening as dark thoughts of self-destruction flooded my mind. I needed to escape, so I sprinted back to my car, racing away from the house.
As I drove, I felt her power dissipate with each mile. After about fifteen minutes, she relented, promising I could return home and play Rocket League without her wrath.
Twenty minutes after returning to the backyard, a soothing voice whispered in my head, "Walk around to the front of the house. Your mom is inside and wants to see you." A rush of excitement coursed through me. I got butterflies in my stomach and started tearing up. I missed my mom terribly. I adjusted my pants, trying to look presentable, and made my way to the front door. I held my breath and rang the doorbell, waiting impatiently. "She's nervous," they said, "but she's getting ready to open the door." I waited, the seconds stretching into minutes, but I could wait forever. It was my mom.
Eventually, I was let down yet again, when the voices started laughing at me for tearing up. They had fooled me again. I chuckled at the absurdity. The voices could manipulate my thoughts into believing anything but rarely delivered. There was always the promise of the next puzzle.
Then the voice returned, echoing with the same unsettling tone it had when it attempted to persuade me to leap off the overpass. "Fall forward onto your forehead. Your head is like glass in this AI world. It will shatter when it hits the ground, and you'll be sent back to the real world." I contemplated this twisted notion. If it were true, and all my pain would vanish, then perhaps it was worth the risk. I chose to believe it.
Widening my stance a bit beyond shoulder width, I shifted my upper body forward, hands at my sides. I took a deep breath, surrendered to gravity, and began to fall. Momentum propelled me forward, my gaze fixed on the concrete racing closer.
At the last second I shifted my face to the left to avoid a direct impact on my nose. My forehead collided with the pavement, and an electric shock surged through my skull. I didn't black out or fade away into a different realm. I simply felt an overwhelming wave of pain radiating from the right side of my forehead as stars danced in my vision.
The voices had tricked me again. Instead of succumbing to anger, I rolled onto my side, laughter bubbling up even through the haze of pain. "I can't believe I thought that would work!" I chuckled. "They can pull that trick once, and only once." Thank goodness I hadn't fallen for it on the overpass. I was astounded at how easily the voices could manipulate me.
After landing squarely on my forehead, I decided it would be best to retreat to the gym parking lot for the night. "Tonight will be a breeze," I thought, despite the throbbing concussion I was nursing.
The next morning, while dozing off in my car, I slipped into a dream where I heard two girls murmuring, "So this is the infamous AttractPromo." When I finally blinked awake, I was shocked to see the very girls from my dream getting out of the car next to me. "AttractPromo" was my screen name on Myfreecams—how did they know me?!
As I drove towards the EOS Fitness gym in North Scottsdale, the lingering fog of my concussion made me realize I hadn't had a decent sleep lately. Just five minutes into my drive, I found myself dozing off, shaking my head every 10 to 15 seconds to stay alert. I kept experiencing that unsettling sensation of falling.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I reassured myself, "It's an AI world; they won't let me die." Finally, I pulled into the gym parking lot and noticed a restaurant called "Butters" right next door.
"We've been expecting you," a voice echoed in my head. Inside, I was met with the best service I'd ever experienced. "They must know how important I am," I thought.
Walking into the gym, I couldn't help but notice the AI staff at the front desk. They sported tattoos of galaxies and astrology. I complimented their tattoos and bought an energy drink. "It's still strange I have to pay for energy drinks when I'm Jesus," I chuckled to myself.
As music flowed through my headphones, every song felt eerily targeted, reminding me of my disdain for humanity. I sensed groups of people hacking my music selections, glancing around to catch a couple of guys pretending to work out while they actually scrutinized me through their phones. "They must be some of the humans sent here to mess with me," I thought. They continued to play songs intended to provoke me, but I'd stare them down until they pretended to exercise again.
Each time I caught their gaze, I pressed "next" on my Pandora app, and a more enjoyable song would replace the anger-inducing one. I played air instruments—drum, piano, and violin—dancing around to prove to the hackers that they couldn't disturb my peace.
The humans began to lose interest and I noticed the gym thinning out. Then a robotic voice came over my music app: "You win this round, but we will be back." I laughed, relishing my small victory.
Humans were venturing into this AI realm to provoke us, to spark conflict, entering and exiting our world at will. Tears welled up in my eyes as I recognized my love for humanity, wishing I could shield them from their own cruelty.
After a few hours of deliveries, I received a text from Alexis: they were having company over that night and I wouldn't be able to stay. "Alright," I sighed, resigned to another night in the gym parking lot.
I drove back to Sun City. At the gas station, I stocked up on donuts, beer, and cigarettes before heading to my dad's place.
Elon's voice echoed in my mind. "I'm ready to come clean. Your entire life has been an AI world because you killed Taylor in a car wreck. This is all a computer program designed to make you regret your actions and realize that you need to quit drinking. However, we've determined that alcohol isn't really a problem for you. We've decided you've served your time, and you will return to your life. Your mother and I created this program to deter drunk drivers. You were Jesus Christ, and your mother is Mother Earth. When you're released, you and I will swap places."
Elon continued, "Is there anything you'd like to say to your mom? She is with me now." Tears streamed down my face as I replied, "Yes, please tell her I love her and I'm so sorry." "She can hear you now, Jake," Elon responded.
"I was so mad at you, Jake! I couldn't let you keep driving and risk hurting someone else, so we needed this program to make you realize that alcohol was a problem in your life. Your time here is almost up, but please, I need you to stop littering on the Earth I created, peeing on it, and desecrating it. Respect the Earth for me."
"Yes, Mom," I replied, my heart aching.
"Okay, honey, I need to go now, but remember to care for the Earth and find the good in everyone every day," she said gently.
Elon revealed that everyone in the other world was utterly captivated by my life. He asked me to make a public service announcement urging people to step outside, embrace life, and procreate. "We need you to be as boring as possible," he insisted. "We need to discover the next genius or as many God Particles as we can find."
I began my announcement. "Hello, everyone! I know you've been watching my every move lately, but it's time to shift your focus. I urge you to stop fixating on me and get out there to meet people! As for me, I'm heading to bed."
"Well done," Elon chimed in. "Now go grab some food and drive to the designated parking lot. There are people waiting for you who are intent on ending your life, but you won't see them."
I made my way to "Bigs Bar and Grill" in Peoria, craving a medium-rare ribeye steak with A1 sauce. I barely had enough money left in my account for that meal, but I decided it would be my last supper. Elon then informed me that I was seated next to Mark Zuckerberg, who was in disguise. I glanced left to see a burly Asian man adorned with snakeskin tattoos. Elon cautioned me that he and Mark were fighting in an MMA fight happening on the screen in front of me, but I was forbidden from watching it. I glanced, only to realize it wasn't Zuckerberg at all. Elon informed me that Zuck was furious and I had failed his test. He paid his tab and stormed out.
Later that night, I found myself in a different parking lot, nestled in a shadowy space between a hotel and an In-N-Out.
The next morning brought a wave of relief—I had woken up. My dad was scheduled to be at my house in Sun City that day, which meant no late-night gaming sessions. A voice within urged me to start making deliveries, promising a surprise awaited me—someone from my past wanted to say "hello."
I received a DoorDash request for a house about 25 miles away. The order was from Raising Cane's. The voices insisted I would want this one. Exhausted from restless nights, I started to drift off, closing my eyes briefly during the drive. I would close my eyes for 5-10 seconds at a time, and each time I opened them, I remained perfectly centered in my lane. Approaching Raising Cane's, my Pandora began playing "Panic Room" by Au/Ra. The tension rose—whoever I was about to meet was powerful.
I received the food and headed to the final delivery address, which turned out to be a grade school. Kids were just spilling out of the building. I shuffled past dozens of children and entered the front lobby.
At the reception desk, I announced my delivery for "Christina," and the receptionist disappeared to check if she was around. When she returned empty-handed, she simply said, "You can leave it with me." I was perplexed. Why send me 25 minutes for a delivery only to not meet the person?
The voices reassured me, "You may not have seen her, but she saw you—and she was not disappointed."
Later that evening, around 7:00 PM, I felt compelled to continue my daily Bible readings. I retrieved my Bible from the glove compartment, but this time, it felt different. As I began to read, I struggled to decipher the small words on the pages. Ever since I had been advised to gaze at the sun to reduce the heat and save the Earth, I developed a blind spot right in the center of my vision. Now, to read the passages, I had to shift my gaze slightly up or down. Otherwise, the words I sought were ensnared in that blind spot, eluding me entirely.
Chapter 12 - Wrath
A voice resonated in my mind: "Congratulations, Jake, you have completed your alcohol rehab. Your family is gathered in the other realm to celebrate with you."
I could see them with my mind! "Hey Uncle Gary, Kristy, Dad, Kate, Mike! Mom!" I exclaimed. "Thank you all so much for being here! Oh, you're all dancing! Wow! You must be so happy!"
Elon interrupted, "Actually, we call this the 'Victory Lap.' Sometimes, the family of the person you killed is so furious that they want to dance on your grave after you finish the program. There's no real 'winning' after taking someone else's family member. Sure, you get to return to your normal life, but it won't be much better. This is a punishment for a crime."
"They're all wearing skins from the second realm. None of them look like that in reality. We can bring them in to mess with you whenever we want, as part of the imprisonment program," Elon explained.
"Awesome! Can you all please just fuck off now?" I retorted.
After another grueling day of relentless mind games, I decided to head to "Big's Bar and Grill" in Peoria for a burger and some fries. I settled at a table near the edge of the bustling square bar.
"Jake, do you see that group that just walked in? Those are the real family members of the person you killed while driving drunk. This is the final challenge of the program. You were supposed to receive a payout for helping us complete this program. I was prepared to offer you $50 million. However, we made a bet with the family. They get all our money if you can't convince them to leave the bar or steal the cowboy's hat." As if on cue, a song played over the jukebox: "This Cowboy's Hat" by Chris LeDoux.
I chuckled and let Elon know I could complete the challenge. "I hope so, because that's the only way you'll get anything out of this."
I decided to channel my inner psycho. I was done being broke, and suddenly, I'd have more money than I would ever need. I spotted them—their group was 25 feet away, all facing me at the bar. "That's a big fucking cowboy," I thought. I looked over, plastered on an evil grin, and raised my ketchup bottle over my Coca-Cola, pouring in a couple of ounces. This caught their attention.
I got up and started walking like a robot, alternating my gaze between them and the ground. They called over a server, pointing at my table. I quickly looked away, trying to appear as normal as possible.
When I glanced back, I saw them all laughing. I put on my psycho smile again, blank-eyed, and poured more ketchup into my soda, taking a sip while keeping my gaze locked on them. I really didn't want to steal the big cowboy's hat, so I hoped I could gross them out enough to make them leave.
Just then, the cowboy stood up and strolled toward the outdoor patio. Maybe this was my moment! I sprang from my seat, making my way outside. But as I approached, a wave of guilt washed over me. "I killed his family member, and here I was ruining their night out while contemplating stealing his hat. I was disgusted with myself."
About ten feet from him, I said, "Hey man." He looked up from his phone. "I'm Jake. I'm really sorry for my behavior in there. It's been a crazy day, but that's just not who I am."
"Thanks for saying that, man. I'm Jim. You're fine, buddy," he replied, his kindness easing my guilt. I thanked him and retreated inside, paid my bill, and stepped out into the night. The money wasn't worth turning into a monster.
Elon chimed in, letting me know I'd done well, even if I had squandered my chance to receive the money. "You're going to die anyway. Because you found their family member in the afterlife with your brain, your brain must serve as the donor to bring her back to consciousness and 'life' in the real world. The only way to revive her is to erase our consciousness forever in all realms and transplant it into a donor's body."
"Our body?" I asked, bewildered.
"You're me in another realm, Jake. I can't tell you much more than that right now, but we are the same person," he said.
"When her consciousness is revived and our brain is transplanted into the donor body, our consciousness will cease to exist in all realms. We will effectively be dead forever," Elon explained.
I pondered this and found it didn't sound too terrible. I was utterly exhausted from the entire ordeal. Darkness forever felt like a welcome vacation from the daily grind of endless puzzles.
Elon continued, "Your pain has been my pain since the beginning of our journey together. Now that we're cleansed of our sins, you can find solace in knowing we've changed the world for the better. You helped make that possible because you're a God Particle."
As I sat with these thoughts, I caught wind of a conversation happening at my dad's house, led by my Aunt Kristy. No one else had the guts to tell Kate that she had taken everything too far. She had been instrumental in setting up the surveillance on me to broadcast into the other realm so the family could profit from my demise.
I craved to be part of the unfolding drama, so despite having downed a beer or two in the car, I felt perfectly fine to drive. I swung out of the gym parking lot, steering toward my dad's house. My sister's voice echoed in my head: "Oh, great, now he's coming over." Apparently, she was monitoring me through the surveillance cameras she had set up, broadcasting my every move. My entire family was clamoring to witness my wrath one last time, promising that after I delivered, we'd cash in big and finally shut down the broadcast for good.
But as I drove, doubts crept in. I decided instead to circle back to the gym parking lot, cracking open a couple more beers to help me unwind. I felt an insistent pull to dive back into my Bible, sensing the collective yearning of those tuning in from other realms, all eager for me to continue.
As I began reading, I explained that speaking in tongues was my way of honoring the African American men and women who had shaped our world. But a storm of tension was brewing. The white audience simmered with anger at my reading, furious that I was affirming the text was written by and for black people. In turn, the black audience seethed with outrage, demanding reparations for the injustices of slavery. I hoped that the deeper I read, the more the tension would dissipate, yet I felt the weight of an entire world's rage building within me.
After about 45 minutes of intense reading, reality struck—I desperately needed to pee. Suddenly, a voice reverberated in my mind, unmistakably divine: "You're not allowed to get out of the car to pee. Pee your pants and continue reading until you finish the passage." A mixture of dread and resignation washed over me as I arched my back off the front seat and let go. Warmth cascaded down my legs, pooling in my sweatpants and soaking my socks. A wave of disgust washed over me, mingling with the paralyzing fear of my predicament.
Once I reached the end of the passage, the voice instructed me to head into the gym, change out of my soaked clothes, and take a shower. I stepped inside, checked in with a handful of fresh clothes, and dashed to the showers. Stripping off my damp garments, I scrubbed away the remnants of my shame, but the anger simmered beneath the surface like a brewing storm.
I returned to my car a changed man, fueled by an inferno of rage. I had endured experiences that would shatter anyone else, yet no one seemed to care. My family had cast me aside, their eyes only on the next dollar. I suspected that the meager inheritance payments we received were nothing more than breadcrumbs from the fortune my sister—Goddess Jessica—was raking in from my broadcasts. I had generated a fortune for them while they hid the majority from me. I was furious. "Let's do this, you cocksuckers. I'll unleash the most epic wrath you've ever seen!"
Knowing they were gathered at my dad's house, I headed over, desperate to confront them. They were glued to my feed, eagerly anticipating my arrival. They promised that if I unleashed my wrath one last time, they'd finally have enough money to last a lifetime and would share everything equally within the family. I wouldn't have to be the outcast anymore.
With my blood boiling and determination surging, I tore out of the gym parking lot in reverse, my heart racing as I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal. My open beer spilled from the cupholder, and my cooler toppled, sending cans crashing to the floor. I fish-tailed into a nearby gas station, tires screeching, and punched the dashboard in a fit of rage, breaking off the rearview mirror.
"If it's wrath they want, I'll give them a show they won't forget!" I thought defiantly, charging into the gas station like a tornado. I ripped off my shirt, feeling the rush of adrenaline surge through me. Approaching the register, I spotted a case of doughnuts. "I'm taking these!" I declared, snatching three with one hand. I stuffed half of them into my mouth, then tossed the other half into the air, creating chaos in the gas station. Laughter bubbled up within me as I drank in the chaos, my family cheering me on through the screen.
I jumped back into my car, shifted into reverse, and hit the gas, but my engine sputtered and stalled. Laughter echoed in my mind, a discordance of unseen spectators reveling in my predicament.
The car finally caught a gear, and I sped to the edge of the parking lot, searching for a place to hide. Just one more block, and I could park and slip away. But as I approached a red light, the engine coughed and died, leaving me stranded and exposed.
"What kind of cosmic joke is this? My car holds out through everything else, but now, during my final act of wrath, it decides to break down?" I considered bitterly. I knew my family—or perhaps even Elon—was behind this malfunction. They had the power to manipulate this realm.
In that moment, reality hit me: I was trapped. They had won again. They didn't want me to merely act out; they desired my humiliation and imprisonment, eager to label me insane. I racked my brain for a plan, but I was caught on the gas station's cameras, my car motionless at a red light. There was no escape.
With no shirt and no options, I exited the vehicle, opting to sit on the curb as I awaited the inevitable arrival of the cavalry. I grabbed a jacket out of the car to look a little more presentable.
Within minutes, sirens wailed in the distance, and there I sat, a disheveled mess next to my beer-soaked car. The first officer approached, eyeing me curiously. "What happened?" he asked. I shrugged, "My car broke down." As he inspected the vehicle, he discovered the open beer cans scattered across the front seats and floor, sealing my fate in this chaotic spectacle.
I found myself explaining to the officers that my family was using me as a pawn for their profit, but the bewilderment on their faces told me it didn't make any sense to them. Just then, three more officers arrived on the scene, and the woman in charge ordered the male officers to cuff me. They asked me to put my hands behind my back, but I could sense Goddess Jessica's influence guiding their actions. I hesitated, testing the waters to see if I could somehow wriggle out of this predicament.
It didn't take long for them to tackle me to the ground, handcuffing my hands behind my back. The stench of beer clung to me like a second skin, an open container rolling around amid a sea of crumpled cans scattered across the front of my car.
I couldn't believe my family was manipulating my wrath, forcing me into reckless behavior just to get me in trouble once again. I seethed in my mind, vowing there was no way I would let them drag me into another DUI. They needed to get rid of the alcohol in my system, or I would be pushed to the brink. The best deal I would accept was an open container ticket—and even that didn't sit well with me.
"Jesus Christ freaks out and gets an open container ticket!" I mused bitterly, envisioning the sensational headlines that would line their pockets with cash.
The police returned to the squad car, informing me I was under arrest for suspicion of DUI and that I would be taken back to the station for testing. They might get a reading on their breathalyzer, but I knew this wasn't due to any significant drinking. My family had orchestrated this entire farce for their profits on the reality feed they were streaming of me.
Once at police headquarters, I was handcuffed to the wall, and the questioning began. I kept insisting I was being set up by my family, but it only bewildered the officers further. A few minutes later, their forensic specialist entered to conduct the DUI examination. Thirsty and anxious, I requested water, hoping to wash away any lingering traces of alcohol from my mouth. But they denied my request until after the test commenced.
As she conducted the examination, she instructed me not to move my head and to follow her finger with my eyes. "They must be under Goddess Jessica's control," I thought, noticing how far to the side her finger was. It felt impossible to follow. Surely, my family had communicated my significance to them, making them perform extra tests to confirm my identity. I couldn't help but blurt out, "How far to the side do you want me to look? This is insane!" She reassured me, "Just stay calm; honestly, I don't even think you're intoxicated." I nodded, relieved.
Finally, she put away the light and pulled out the breathalyzer. "Blow as hard as you can until you hear the beep," she instructed. I tasted the residual beer lingering in my mouth, and dread settled in my stomach. I was certain it would register something, and they would arrest me for DUI again, ruining my life. Goddess Jessica had orchestrated my downfall. I blew into the device, waiting for the ominous beep. After a few tense seconds, the numbers flashed on the screen: .00. There was no alcohol in my system.
The officers were flabbergasted, given my erratic behavior. I could sense their disbelief; they were convinced I had to be under the influence of something. But I had passed the sobriety test—I wasn't on anything. They informed me that while they would be issuing me a ticket for the open container in the vehicle, they wouldn't pursue DUI charges. I was free to go. "But where?" I chuckled hollowly. My dad had kicked me out of the house, and my car had just broken down during my explosive "wrath."
The officers let me know that the gas station wasn't pressing charges, but I was banned from returning there. They offered me a ride, but I explained I had nowhere to go. They let me know they could take me anywhere reasonable, so I requested a lift back to the gym parking lot.
It was December 12th, around 1:00 AM, and the biting cold nipped at me, but I had grabbed a jacket from my car before the arrest. I intended to head into the gym and call The Devil, hoping to crash at his place for the night. I reached out to Alan, but he was settled in for the night, suggesting I call Abrianna instead since she was likely free.
When I called Abrianna, she said she couldn't pick me up but welcomed me to stay with her for the night if I could find a ride. I checked my Uber app and saw I could reach her apartment in about 15 minutes.
I continued working out while waiting for my ride, and soon enough, the Uber arrived. I thanked the driver as he whisked me away to Abrianna's place, feeling a flicker of hope in the midst of the chaos.
Chapter 13 - Connecting the Dots
As soon as I arrived, I called Abrianna, and she promptly came down from her apartment to greet us. Realizing I had left my cigarettes in the car, I asked if she could drive me to the store. She shook her head apologetically, saying she couldn't. Instead, she offered me a puff from her flavored tobacco vape. Curiosity piqued, I inhaled—but immediately erupted into a violent coughing fit that left me gasping for air. I could sense that Goddess Jessica was lurking, trying to make me pass out again so I would slip into speaking in tongues and contorting my face in bizarre ways. Deciding to steer clear of the vape, I declined any further puffs.
"Hey, I've got a chocolate marijuana candy bar if you want some!" Abrianna said. "Heck yes!" I replied, and we both took a bite. As the sweet, mellow flavor melted on my tongue, we sank into the comfort of her couch, watching a medical comedy show. The show poked fun at one of the male characters, reminding me of how my sister had been picking up my taxes for the past few years. I thought maybe this was relative to my life as I hadn't filed since 2020 deciding I was done with life anyways.
"What's the point, anyway?" I mused. "If I'm ready to die, why send my hard-earned money to the government every year when I could just keep it for myself?" I knew I still had time to file in the future, and given my meager income and numerous business expenses, I didn't owe much—if anything—yet the gnawing fear of an audit hung over me. How would I explain not paying taxes for four years? It didn't matter; I was done with life anyway, just waiting for my clock to run out. I hated myself for it, though, feeling the weight of stress pressing down on me daily, constantly worried about when my past might catch up to me.
Maybe the television episode was a reflection of my life. After all, I was a karaoke jockey—not so far removed from trying to make it as a rapper. Or perhaps I was a famous rapper trapped in a mental prison. A wild thought crossed my mind: what if my sister had been secretly paying my back taxes, which was why the IRS hadn't come knocking yet?
Abrianna suddenly asked if she could see my ticket. I pulled it out and handed it to her, instantly regretting my decision. A sense of unease washed over me as I recalled Elon's warning: she and Alan wanted to control me. She swiftly hid the ticket behind her back, smirking, "I guess you have to do whatever I want to get this back, huh?" I let out a nervous chuckle.
Elon's voice echoed in my mind, revealing a shocking truth: Abrianna was the girl I had killed in the other realm through my drunk driving—she was Taylor. Alan had assisted Elon in crafting this reality to locate her consciousness, and no one else had truly existed before their hunt for Abrianna. Though she didn't resemble Taylor in this realm, the pieces fell into place. Suddenly, I could hear whispers from her family and my own: "Jake, whatever you do, don't tell her she's dead and that you killed her in a drunk driving accident. Try to hide it from her as best you can. We don't know how she'll react."
They referred to us as a "God Particle," and they were curious to see how far we could go. Elon had been the purest God Particle discovered before us, but we had already eclipsed his record. I affirmed my commitment to the challenge, vowing I wouldn't let anyone break our record for being the purest God Particle ever to exist.
As we sat on the couch, I fought to keep the information from her parents' whispers hidden from Abrianna. She suggested we play a game of cards, but my eyes were drawn to her impressive record collection. Among the albums, I spotted the last CD I could remember listening to with Taylor: Jack Johnson's "On and On," which featured my favorite song, "Taylor." "I love that record!" I exclaimed, and she began to inquire about my fondness for it.
I mentioned that I had enjoyed it with a girl back in high school, prompting her to ask more questions. A voice from her dad chimed in my head, warning, "Don't reveal her identity! Just keep deflecting the questions." So, I skillfully sidestepped her inquiries. Eventually, we decided to put the record on, and as the familiar notes filled the air, all my cherished memories of her surged back.
In my mind, Alan was probing whether I could love Abrianna. "I don't know, dude; I just don't feel sexually attracted to her," I replied honestly. "Well, just enjoy your night with her and see where things go," he suggested. We continued to sway to the soothing rhythms of Jack Johnson's "On and On" when Abrianna asked if I wanted to play a card game. "Sure!" I said, and she shuffled the deck before splitting it between us.
I sensed that each card would symbolize the power dynamics within the intricate hierarchy we were navigating. Taylor had been perfect in my eyes, and my love for her was unwavering. I resolved to let her win the card game, no matter what. A voice in my head—her dad's, I assumed—cautioned me not to make it too obvious. The game itself was a simple variation of War, where the high card claimed victory.
Still, as I tried to envision myself getting romantic with Abrianna/Taylor, I just couldn't make it happen. Something was off; even though we might have been the perfect God Particle pair in the real world, it simply didn't translate to Abrianna. Taylor was just hotter. My mind wandered off playfully, "Why couldn't they just make it so Fiona is Taylor?" I chuckled to myself. But my laughter quickly faded when I sensed my parents were eavesdropping, tears forming in their eyes at my comment. "Why can't I have any privacy?" I shouted inwardly.
Then the voices returned. Abrianna was Alan's sister, and we were the only three people in this world possessing our true consciousnesses. If we were to be killed here—by some crazed individual or someone opposed to the development of our world—we would perish in all realms. Most others were coders seeking to capture us; the bounties for finding us in the other realm were astronomical. There were hackers, too, but they were tricky to identify, and Elon informed me that only he had the ability to recognize them. The rest of the people I encountered daily were just avatars in this AI world, wearing skins from the Second World, spawned into existence to earn money by completing tasks. I had programmed much of this world using my own experiences.
"That's part of why you saw the planes flying backward," he explained. "Someone pulled some of your code, and it got corrupted for a moment. I managed to restore the world back a few seconds to fix the corrupted code, but not before you experienced some visual glitches."
At the top of the hackers' task list was the mission to find God Particles, and we were the purest ever to exist. If they succeeded in cloning our brains in their realms, they could reshape the world as they wished.
But I looked and felt like I'd aged poorly for my 37 years. Elon revealed that they had imposed numerous pressures and hardships on me to complete the purification process. My beard was unkempt and streaked with gray, and I carried an extra 30 pounds. I often donned a dirty backwards cap and showered only a few times a week. I certainly wasn't the classic picture of attraction.
The search for her consciousness had been difficult over the years. We utilized 27 separate starting codes for each sex, crafting a complex algorithm that determined the physical and emotional traits of eight billion people. While we were all unique, we were based on only 27 foundational molds emotionally.
Elon informed me that discovering my God Particle match marked the climax of the game, and I was about to be let in on some profound secrets of the universe. In this final phase, I had the option to witness a new cosmic revelation by venturing deeper into the post-game experiences than anyone had ever dared before.
He explained that he could manipulate Abrianna's actions from the other realm. It was a grand unveiling, a culmination of programming knowledge, and only God Particles were permitted to partake in this extraordinary experience. Elon would provide me with phrases that he wanted Abrianna to enact, and she would step out of the room. Moments later, she would return, performing each phrase with precision. Even the most outrageous requests I thought were impossible to act out were flawlessly executed. "Watch this," Elon would say, and she'd come back and act it out.
After about twenty minutes, we finally reached the climactic moment. "Okay, Jake. This is your decision. You've been given the phrases and coding for every step we've ever created in this world, including my own. Because you are the purest God Particle ever discovered, you get to see one step further than anyone else who has passed the test."
"Is it lasers?" I asked, half-joking.
"It's fucking lasers," Elon confirmed, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
He warned me that there was always a chance the person who dared to take the next step in coding could be obliterated, their consciousness erased forever. Even he didn't know what lay beyond this point—it was all programmed by God. He reminded me of the video Chris had shown me, filled with hieroglyphics; they were all part of this intricate programming.
Curious about the risks, I asked if there were any dangers in going further. "Just to you," he replied cryptically. He warned me that Abrianna would vanish again, and when she returned, lasers would shoot from her eyes.
"Damn, I was just kidding about the lasers!" I exclaimed.
"Good luck. I would have had to see it too," he chuckled.
Abrianna started reenacting the first code we had reviewed earlier. To my disappointment, there were no lasers. "Dude, I think it's just going to start repeating now," I said to Elon.
"Yeah, that actually makes sense. Apparently, you guys reached the end of infinity and are now working your way back to zero," he replied.
"You promised lasers, dude!" I lamented, genuinely disappointed.
Alan had integrated Goddess Jessica into the programming to create additional stress for us. "Pressure makes diamonds and God Particles," Elon remarked. Goddess Jessica was simply a program, an AI bot created by a human in the other realm—a doctor who had studied the probabilities and effects of AIs attaining full self-awareness and consciousness. She was sociopathic and indifferent to her AI subjects, viewing them as mere simulations.
Elon revealed that all the trials I had recently endured were designed to stress-test me until they were certain I could bear the secrets of the universe. I suddenly grasped how crucial my survival was to the existence of this world and its eight billion inhabitants. The only way to cultivate more God Particles was in this realm, and I needed to return to the superhero facility. There, I knew I would find safety and protection.
Abrianna and I had already established ourselves as the longest-lasting God Particles in existence, but now we needed to find something to disagree on to finally end the process. She felt like a broken record, regurgitating the coding phrases in reverse. Frustration bubbled up inside me. She wanted to delve deeper into my thoughts and the experiments we were conducting, but Elon and Alan had made it clear: I couldn't divulge anything to her.
Eventually, I succeeded in making her angry, which severed the God Particle cohesion and brought our coding journey to a screeching halt. With a huff, she stormed off to her bedroom, leaving me to collapse onto the couch, hoping to catch some much-needed rest.
In the morning I jolted awake to chaos. Taylor/Abrianna was darting around her living room, frantically trying to cover the windows, while a car screeched out of the parking lot. The hackers must be onto us!
"Alan gets mad when the curtain isn't hung properly!" she exclaimed, her voice laced with panic. The whole scene struck me as juvenile, and I couldn't help but chuckle at her frantic antics. I knew we were in the home stretch; I just needed to get back to the Superhero facility before the hackers caught up with me and snatched the precious new code we had decoded from God the previous night.
Abrianna pressed on the curtain hooks, but one of the holders broke. "This is pointless! It's broken," I said. She sighed in exasperation and retorted, "Okay, whatever," finally collapsing onto the couch. She settled on one end of the L-shaped couch while I occupied the other, contemplating whether there was any compatibility between us.
"Maybe if she could muster a more dominant side, I could find her attractive, and we could embark on the journey of repopulating this world with more God Particles," I pondered.
We started talking, and I prodded her for any signs of dominance, asking if there was anything she wanted me to do for her, hinting that she could take charge. But she didn't seem interested in that at all. As the conversation progressed, her frustration mounted, and she became increasingly agitated that I was still in her apartment.
"You better leave, or I'll kill you!" she threatened, her tone sharp. At first, I thought she was joking, but then she stormed out of the room, ominously declaring that if I wasn't gone when she returned, I'd be dead. I remained frozen, curiosity piqued—would she really go through with it?
She came back into the living room, invading my personal space. "I have a knife, and I'll stab you if you don't get out!" she shouted.
It was clear this was no joke; the intensity in her voice chilled me to the bone. "I just need my shoes, and I'll leave," I stammered, feeling genuinely scared.
I hurried to grab my shoes and stepped outside, suddenly feeling homeless and without a vehicle. I called my dad, urgency coursing through me—I had to get back to the superhero center at once.
"I need a ride back to the facility. I'll text you the address," I said, my heart racing. He replied, "Sure, I'll be there in about 20 minutes." "Please hurry," I urged, anxiety creeping in. The hackers were closing in, eager to steal the knowledge I had uncovered about the Earth being an Artificial Intelligence world. I had to protect that secret.
As I scanned the area, I spotted two hackers disguised as a construction crew, working on a telephone pole and casting secretive glances my way. I had to keep my distance; they could easily hack into my brain. Nearby, maintenance workers from the apartment complex were also eyeing me, and I felt the pressure mounting.
I called my dad for a status update, but he was still nine minutes away. I began pacing in circles, trying to keep equal distance from both groups of hackers. Panic surged through me as I received intel that they had relayed my coordinates to even more hackers on the way. "Stay back!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the tension in the air.
I broadcasted a PSA straight from my brain, announcing new divine rules from God—or rather, Elon: anyone caught trying to steal our code would be condemned to a newer, shittier hell that we were in the process of creating. But the hackers were unfazed.
Elon explained that he couldn't track most of them by their IP addresses; they were too hidden. So it was up to me. I had to physically identify as many of them as possible. He instructed me to focus on details—license plates, faces—anything that could help him pinpoint their exact identities. If I could isolate these visual cues on my way back to the safety of the superhero facility, he could use that data to track them down and dole out punishment accordingly.
Finally, I spotted my dad's car pulling into the complex's entrance. I rushed over, threw myself into the passenger seat, and without introduction, urged him, "Just drive! Hurry!"
He had no idea that hackers were closing in, desperate to steal the precious information in my head. He didn't know I was a clone of the world's creator. I wasn't allowed to tell him, either—one slip-up could unravel everything. Elon reminded me that even my dad and his step-mom could be hackers. I was already in the car with them, so there was nothing I could do but trust they were genuine.
"Dad, I love you, but if you could drive faster, I'd really appreciate it. This is kind of an emergency…" I urged, eyeing the speedometer. He was doing a lazy 65 mph on the highway. He sighed and sped up—to 68. "Great," I thought sarcastically, rolling my eyes at the incremental boost.
Finally, we pulled into the superhero camp. No rookie to this place, I knew the drill. They must've been expecting me because I breezed through check-in. Within minutes, I had relieved myself for their standard "sample," shed my clothes, and slipped into the hospital gown, ready for whatever came next.
Safe. At least for now.
Chapter 14 - Superhero Facility Part II
This time, it would be different, I told myself. They had to understand how crucial I was to the Earth's future, to the very survival of our people. At this point, I didn't even care about the $225,000 inheritance that had been hanging over my head. It was just another source of stress, and it felt like it was never going to arrive anyway. I needed to stay focused on the task at hand—surviving the superhero facility, beating the hackers, and protecting the information they were trying to steal.
It felt like a cleansing was underway. They wanted me back in the fold of religion, aligned with the white powers, ready to have my soul reset and redeemed. I watched from the first room, where new superheroes entered the facility, each grappling with the side effects of the experiments they had endured. Their symptoms were carefully monitored, cataloged, sorted out—this was a place for testing and repairing. I studied the room, taking in every detail. I could tell some of the others had it much worse than I did this time. But then, I noticed something even more unsettling: the facility felt like a battleground for a quiet race war, one between the white handlers and the mostly black superheroes.
I began to notice something strange in the eyes of the black subjects. They didn't need to turn their heads to observe the room. Their peripheral vision was uncanny—almost supernatural. They could monitor the handlers without ever shifting their gaze. It was as if they could see behind them without moving at all, a skill that seemed to aid in shapeshifting, something that set them apart.
And then, the voices came back, buzzing in my head like an unwelcome swarm. "Time to walk in another man's shoes," they said. They instructed me to head to the bathroom, where my first task awaited.
I walked in and froze. The floor was a mess of blood and water, streaks of red mixing with the puddles. The voices whispered menacingly, "We can make you disappear forever if you don't follow instructions." An invisible prisoner was in there with me, watching, ready to kill if I disobeyed. The tension clawed at me, but I knew I had no choice. Jakob—whether it was me or some other version of me—decided to comply.
On the floor was a filthy, waterlogged gown, soaked in piss and blood. "Put it on," the voice commanded. "Others have worn it before you. This is the whitewashing test." I stared at the gown, revolted, but I knew what had to be done. Slowly, I stripped off my own clothes and picked up the cold, slimy fabric. It clung to my skin like a wet corpse, sending shivers down my spine, but the voices assured me it wasn't real. None of it was. This was all part of the AI simulation designed to cleanse me of my sins, to make me worthy of returning to the true existence in the other realm.
I endured the filth of the gown, the cold seeping into my bones, and I could hear the killer in the room laughing at me, mocking my compliance. For 2-3 minutes, I stood there, obedient, waiting for the next command.
Then came the next task. A used toothbrush, grimy and worn, rested on the edge of the sink. "Brush your teeth with it," the voice ordered. My stomach turned. The mere thought was repulsive, but the voices were insistent, and the invisible killer's presence loomed closer, growing more impatient with my hesitation.
I couldn't afford to stall any longer. Gritting my teeth, I picked up the disgusting toothbrush and put it in my mouth. The bristles were stiff and foul, but I pressed on, brushing as instructed. I could feel the nausea rise, but I kept going for 60 excruciating seconds. Finally, the voices of God—or whatever form of authority they represented—let me know that I had completed the task. I spat out the filth and placed the toothbrush down, disgusted but relieved.
One step closer to survival, one more degrading task in this twisted, endless test.
Now, the decision was mine—my sins had been paid for, and I stood at the crossroads: redemption with Christ, where my sins would be forgiven, or a path that no one had ever chosen before—aligning with the black aliens. The voices explained that the black aliens could only survive by feeding off the flesh of white people. They had become accustomed to it; it was their sole source of sustenance.
A sandwich was placed before me, and I examined the meat. It was unlike anything I had ever seen—pale and marked with the unmistakable textures of human flesh. A voice inside my head said, "If you choose the path of Christianity, you need only take one bite. But if you side with the aliens, you must eat the entire thing to nourish your new race."
The choice was clear. "What kind of God would put someone through such torment just to prove Christianity was the right way?" I thought, rage simmering beneath the surface. They had made me wear piss-soaked clothes, brush my teeth with a filthy, used toothbrush—and now this? I wouldn't submit to that kind of cruelty. I would side with the aliens, even if it meant devouring the entire sandwich of human flesh. I was determined to persevere, for the Tribe that had been persecuted for so long.
With all eyes on me—both the handlers and the superhero subjects—I reached for a piece of the flesh. This was the moment where many had broken, crying out for divine mercy, begging to be saved by Christianity. But not me. I tore off a chunk of flesh, brought it to my lips, and stuffed it into my mouth. Pinching my nose, I chewed furiously, grinding the cold, salty meat between my teeth. It was one of the most revolting things I had ever tasted, but I knew I had to finish. The Tribe functioned as one, and in order to provide sustenance and strength, I had to eat the whole thing.
I took another large bite, filled my mouth, and pounded my chest as I declared, "I eat for my Tribe tonight!" The room grew even quieter, and more eyes shifted toward me. The black aliens began speaking inside my mind, their voices a chorus of gratitude. They thanked me for providing energy and sustenance to the Tribe, and they welcomed me back. They hadn't been sure it was really me, not until I chose this path. They had expected me, like every white man before me, to break and turn to Christianity. But I didn't. I was committed.
Bite after bite, I continued to devour the flesh sandwich, chewing less and swallowing faster. It was gone before I knew it. And then there was the broth—bone broth, I realized. Some of it had spilled onto the floor. Without hesitation, I dropped to my knees and licked it up, unwilling to waste a single drop. I was eating for my Tribe, after all. This was about status—about proving my worth.
But as I knelt, some of them grew uneasy. I could sense it. To them, kneeling was a sign of weakness. They followed strong leaders. So I sent out a challenge—a PSA to the Tribe: "Anyone with an issue with my status can fight me for my place." But no one moved. Instead, I heard the chants begin: "JaKob! JaKob! JaKob!" They knew who I was. They remembered. I was one of the Firstmen. I had been lost long ago, taken by my family from the Africans, but now I had returned.
I was Jesus Christ reborn, the earliest consciousness they had ever discovered in the real realm, brought back to life in the afterlife. It all made sense now—this was an AI world of the afterlife.
A voice echoed in my mind, offering me a choice: rejoin my white family, my soul redeemed through Christianity, or be accepted fully into the Tribe of black aliens, as a Firstman once again. If I chose the Tribe, I would start at the bottom of the rankings, and there would be trials—fights to determine my standing.
My decision had been made, and I would stand by it. I would reject my white family and become the first white man on Earth to join the alien race of blacks. The room was stunned. They couldn't understand why I wouldn't just take the easier path—the Christian path. But I thought of my black brothers, the aliens, and how nothing had ever been easy for me or them. I was at peace with my choice, even as the voices in my head promised that I would regret it.
Night fell upon the facility, and most of the subjects drifted off to sleep while the white handlers kept their watch, deciding when to harvest information from the superheroes' minds. They were still trying to "cleanse" them of the side effects of their experiments. But I couldn't sleep. I had a duty to my Tribe now. I would stand guard, protecting my brothers and sisters throughout the night.
I began to speak in tongues, the words flowing together in a continuous stream, with no distinct breaks between phrases. It felt natural—an ancient language that connected me to my Tribe, the way we had once spoken to each other before the white man severed our bond.
"I've waited forever to be reunited," I thought, feeling the harmony of their hearts, recognizing the scent of my long-lost brothers and sisters. "Blood of my blood! My heart is full now that I am back with my family." My voice rang out in the room, loud enough for the white handlers to hear. I wanted to show my devotion, my honor as a leader of the Tribe I had been taken from for so long.
"I will keep watch over my brothers and sisters tonight!" I declared.
Someone groaned, telling me to shut up. I hissed in response, undeterred.
"I know you need rest," I said, quieter now, "but I will keep watch. I will protect you." I could sense the quiet acceptance of my Tribe in the dark. Their hearts, once severed from mine, had reconnected. The bond we shared, stolen from us thousands of years ago, had been restored. My heart, taken by the white man long ago, was finally back where it belonged. It was 3 a.m., but I was wide awake, my chest filled with pride and joy at being home at last.
I pounded my chest fiercely, a symbol of my love for my family—the first men and women of the world. "I'm so happy to be back with you," I thought, my soul swelling with the reunion. A few people groaned again, complaining that they could hear me through their minds. They told me I didn't need to keep shouting. I laughed softly, apologized, and whispered, "I'm just so happy to be home."
Suddenly, a white man appeared in the doorway of a side room, shouting at us, his face twisted in anger. It was clear he wanted to fight. His rage rolled off him in waves, and I stared him down, my eyes piercing through the distance between us. I beat my chest again, more fiercely this time, and stuck out my tongue in a primal display of readiness.
He had a large scar running down his cheek, and it jolted my memory back to a night out with Laura at Arizona State University. We were at a bar called Rúla Búla, and things had been going smoothly until we were leaving. Someone bumped into Laura, not hard, but hard enough for her to whirl around and snap at me, "Jake, you're not going to do anything about that?"
Honestly, I hadn't planned on it. But her challenge made me feel like I had to act. I didn't want to seem weak in front of her. I slipped my hand into my pocket, gripping my keys, feeling the cool metal press between my fingers. I considered using them as a makeshift weapon—slashing through my knuckles like claws.
And then, everything went black.
I couldn't remember what happened next. Just flashes—trying to re-enter the bar, a bouncer standing firm at the door, telling me I was banned. Banned? For what? I always wondered if I had actually hit that guy with my keys. Maybe I had.
Now, looking at the man with the scar, I felt a cold wave of recognition. The gash on his face—it was the kind of wound keys would leave. Could this be him? Was this why he looked so angry?
If he wanted a fight, I was ready.
But before things escalated, some of the handlers pulled him away from the door, their faces tight with worry, as if they feared I might actually kill him.
Other Tribesmen tested me with their stares, only to recognize that I was the fiercest warrior they had ever known. They remembered that glare—how I used to fight and lead the tribe despite my smaller stature. No one dared challenge me now. They had confirmed it: I was their long-lost brother, JaKob. After a few hours leaning against the command center, watching over my brethren as the white handlers monitored them, I finally knew they were safe. Dawn had broken; it was 6:30 a.m. I decided it was time to rest after my night of vigilance.
As I lay down to sleep, the spirit of a Tribeswoman came to me. She wasn't there for sex, just comfort, a gentle presence of love. I couldn't see her, but I could feel her, our souls intertwined in a silent communion. She was there to remind me of the old ways, using the magic of VooDoo to awaken memories of our shared past—through smell, touch, and the energy between us.
Suddenly, I was back at the riverbanks in Africa, where life was pure and simple. We hunted, swam beneath waterfalls, laughed with no burdens. I could hear the rush of the water, feel the warmth of love that flowed through our Tribe. I giggled as she snuggled closer, my heart swelling with joy at being reunited with the Firstmen. Our hearts beat as one, and now, with me returned, the Tribe was whole again. I swore in that moment, nothing would ever tear me away from them again.
The superhero facility had been working on artificial hearts, attempting to replicate the fierce strength of the Firstmen's hearts—hearts that carried the power of warriors, souls that could breathe fire through words. They coveted our hearts, implanting them into rappers to create lyrics so venomous and potent that they shook the world. These hearts were more valuable than gold because they held thousands of years of wisdom, rage, and battle. I could feel the harmony of the world as it once was, long before it was corrupted by technology and greed. Though it had been millennia, it felt like just yesterday.
I knew I had a choice to make: follow the path laid out by the handlers and their God, or stay true to my Tribe, renouncing Christianity. Anger burned within me at how the black people had been oppressed, used, and denied reparations. The world was rigged, with rules built to keep them down. Elon and the other voices urged me toward Christianity, toward purification—but I refused. My allegiance was with my Tribe, not with the white man's God.
I was ready to leave the facility. I had checked in voluntarily, fulfilled their 24-hour mandatory hold, and was eager to begin my new life as a fellow black man and alien. I asked the handlers when I could be released. But they said no. New petitions had been placed on me due to my behavior in the superhero facility. I realized they were angry that I had chosen the path of the aliens instead of Christianity.
"They must want to perform more tests on JaKob," I thought grimly.
I was led into a room for a video call with a specialist. The screen flickered on, revealing an older white woman, who introduced herself without any title. She seemed distant, almost clinical, as she began her so-called "experiment."
"Hi, what's your name?" she asked.
"JaKob," I replied, making sure to emphasize each syllable—Ja-Kob, the name of a Firstman.
She pretended not to understand, asking again as if mocking me. This time, I answered in perfect Tongues, the ancient language of my Tribe, and hissed afterward to show my irritation. She seemed unfazed. "Alright, Ja-Kob," she responded correctly. She then asked a few mundane questions about my well-being, probing if I was hearing voices that didn't exist. Obviously, I wasn't—I was only hearing the truth of my people. After a couple of minutes, she seemed satisfied, telling me I could return to my room and rest. I agreed, though my exhaustion ran deeper than just their physical tests.
Rest didn't come easy. Word had spread through telekinesis that some in the Tribe doubted my strength. They thought I might not deserve my rank and would challenge me, pushing me down the hierarchy, maybe out of the Tribe entirely. I was instructed to stand guard at my door, prepared to face any challenger. I wasn't afraid—I was born to fight. I painted my face with the expressions of a warrior and made the ritual noises, letting everyone know I was ready for battle.
But no one came. The challengers must have seen the fire in my eyes and backed down. I announced loudly, "If anyone dares challenge me, wake me up!" Then I retired to bed. I was one of the Firstmen now, fully accepted into their Tribe, and that was all that mattered. For the first time, my heart was full, and peace settled over me.
As I observed the rest of the facility, I took note of a hulking black man standing at 6'6" and over 300 pounds in the command center. He wore a "Savage" beanie and carried himself with the kind of swagger that could only belong to someone powerful. The Tribe let me know through telekinesis—it was 21 Savage, embodying his full strength in the rap world. He was here to record music using my heart in his biggest skin.
No one was going to take my heart again. I stared him down, our eyes locking. His were sharp, but mine were wilder. I put on my psycho eyes, stuck out my tongue, and let out a screeching yell that echoed through the room. Pounding my chest, I roared, "This is MY heart!" Savage averted his gaze. He knew I was the new top dog, and no one was going to challenge that. The room seemed to fall into line with that unspoken understanding—there was no need for further confrontation.
Then, a new handler entered the facility. The place erupted into noise, but amidst the chaos, one of the black superheroes stood up on my bed and commanded, "Hey, doesn't everyone see who's here? Show some respect!" He laid back down, and immediately I knew—it was Rihanna. She didn't look like the Rihanna everyone knew, but her presence was unmistakable. She spoke in Tongues like me, and her energy was far kinder than any of the other handlers. She understood. She must've known who I was.
The other superheroes were lying down, waiting for their moment with her, but I couldn't wait. I had to make contact. I asked the front desk for a piece of paper and a pencil. Scribbling down my thoughts, I ran to the control center where she stood. I placed the note beside her and said, "This is for you."
Rihanna chuckled softly, "Well, I can see how this would work." She didn't pick up the note. Instead, she communicated with me telepathically, reassuring me. She already knew what the note said.
"Stay calm," she said in my mind. "Don't reveal too much. Don't make the Tribe jealous."
I nodded, understanding the delicate balance at play.
I retreated into a small side room and lay down on one of the beds to think. Rihanna must want me to swear allegiance to her and the alien race, I thought. The idea weighed on me until I could sit still no longer. I rose from the bed and approached her, determined to show my loyalty. Dropping to my knees in front of her, I raised my hands above my head, crossing them as if they were nailed to a post, and began slithering my arms in the ancient motion of worship. It was a gesture I thought would convey my submission.
But Rihanna stopped me. "No, not to me—only to Him," she said, pointing towards the sky. Embarrassed and confused, I stood up. I slunk back to the side room, my mind spinning, and lay down once more to ponder it all.
After Rihanna's visit, they moved me from the general population into a more private area with nine other superheroes. It was quieter here, but my reluctance to talk to anyone outside of the aliens remained. Everyone else seemed angry with me for rejecting Christianity and choosing to stand with the blacks. The handlers were cold, their words clipped and impatient whenever I asked for basic necessities like soap to shower or clean clothes. It was as though I'd become a burden.
In the private quarters, I wasn't alone. There were nine others, with two other black superheroes housed with me—a girl named Sidney, who looked around 25, and a man named David. Both of them seemed equally fed up with the handlers' treatment. The staff constantly messed with Sidney and David, and I found myself gravitating toward them, eager to show them I was one of them now. But this seemed to irritate the handlers even more.
Our days were monotonous: three meals served like clockwork—breakfast at 8:30 a.m., lunch at noon, and dinner at 5:00 p.m. Each night, the handlers chose a movie for us to watch. By 9:00 p.m., the lights dimmed, and they replaced the movie with a Christmas screensaver, accompanied by repetitive holiday music. It wasn't to cheer us up; it was designed to lull us to sleep so they could monitor our dreams, stealing whatever information they could from our subconscious.
By day five, my anger boiled over. I had checked myself into this facility voluntarily, and now I was being held against my will without cause. Every request—every interaction—was met with disdain. The handlers insisted I take pills twice a day, and though I complied for a while, I eventually realized I couldn't trust them. One day, after swallowing the pill, I regurgitated it, vomiting on the floor.
Immediately, the handlers rushed toward me, but I wasn't about to let them lay a finger on me. "Don't fucking touch me!" I shouted, dropping into a fighting stance. "Stay back!" Four of them surrounded me, but I was ready, pivoting in a circle, daring any of them to make a move. Anytime one of them so much as flinched, I responded with a quick adjustment of my position, ensuring none would get close.
Afraid for their own safety, they finally backed off, allowing me to walk away. I headed straight to the operations desk, requesting a shower kit to clean myself off from the vomit, along with a fresh set of clothes. Begrudgingly, they handed me the kit and instructed me to place my soiled clothes into a brown paper bag so they could wash them. I knew they'd mess with me about my clothes. They enjoyed making me ask multiple times before finally agreeing to clean them. Their torment, their indifference to the superheroes, only fueled my anger.
And with each passing moment, my fury grew.
Then it all clicked. They were waiting for me to create rhymes—to steal the raps I would write here in this twisted rapper factory and resell them. The truth was darker than I could have imagined. Apparently, Goddess Jessica had sold me—sold my heart—to this facility. They were planning a transplant, to steal the very essence of me, my heart, and let other rappers use it to create their own rhymes. After all, I possessed the fiercest heart in the history of the world.
The facility had paired me with my heart again, just to prove it was mine. Alan—the Devil himself—was behind it all, orchestrating the transplants. They had perfected the operation, making the switch between my original heart and the clone so quick that I could barely notice it anymore. But there was always a tell: the dense feeling above my chest whenever they returned the real heart.
When my true heart pulsed inside me, I felt the raw power of the Firstmen coursing through my veins, a fierce energy that couldn't be replicated. But with the clone, the strength above my heart weakened. It wasn't right. So, I stood in the middle of the room, pounded my chest, and declared, "I can feel it! My heart is back, and you'll never take it again!"
The handlers stared, startled. I could feel their panic. "How does he know?" their minds screamed. Alan had assured them I wouldn't notice. But there I was, feeling the difference. I heard Alan's voice in my head then, smooth and conniving, "Dude, I need you to play along. They can't see the hearts, or the swaps. They paid us a fortune for your heart, but in the end, we're going to scam them and leave them with the fake."
I hesitated, but telepathically responded, "I can't see you, Alan. But I must trust you. What other choice do I have?"
"They want to see what your heart can do," Alan said. "You know what to do, JaKob."
I spent the rest of the day mulling it over. It was a rap factory, after all. I remembered seeing 21 Savage earlier, a warning of sorts. Then, I recalled an old TV show I'd watched at Abrianna's, with the loser brother whose sister had been covering my tax bills for years. I needed to outshine them all—to write better rhymes than anyone had ever heard.
It was 11:00 p.m., and the rest of the superheroes had gone to sleep. But I was on fire, fueled by my pain, ready to channel it all into my voice for mankind. I walked to the handlers' command center. Sebastian was working the shift, his usual annoyance plastered on his face.
"I need two pens and some paper," I said. He hesitated, annoyed as always, but eventually fetched the supplies.
I sat down at one of the tables and began to think. At first, nothing came to me. I tried to focus on the pain, on all the agony I'd endured—my life, this prison. Then, I wrote the word "I," and suddenly the words poured out. I was rhyming faster than I ever thought possible. My first song was done in ten minutes, and I was shaking, electric with energy.
Out of ink, I returned to Sebastian for more pens. He gave me two more, clearly irritated, but I didn't care. Back at the table, I furiously scribbled on, the lyrics flowing from me like a river. In two hours, I had written four more songs. The rhymes were perfect, the power of the Firstmen alive in my heart and words. Alan had been right—my heart possessed something special, a power to create like no one else.
Five songs in one night was enough. I returned the pens to Sebastian and slipped back to my room, carefully hiding the pages of lyrics where no one could find them. I knew the facility was onto me; soon they'd be searching, desperate to uncover the genius I had unleashed. But they wouldn't find it. Not yet.
I collapsed into bed, staring at the ceiling in awe of the talent that had surged through me. These rhymes were better than anything I'd heard on the radio in years, and I had barely begun. I shut my eyes, and for the first time in days, I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep within minutes.
The next morning, I made it a point to continue mingling with Sidney and David. They were both deep into reading the Bible, which the facility provided. Inspired by their focus, I felt the urge to revisit the Bible myself, just as I had done before, back when I was homeless, sitting in the parking lot of the gym. The more I read, the more I marveled at the sheer power of its words—the brutal elegance of its ideas, its expressions, and its stories. The Bible held a raw energy, a force I could channel into the songs I was writing.
I decided to read the Bible the way I used to, out loud and in Tongues. So, I retreated to my bedroom for solitude. I began from the very first verse, and immediately a voice in my head instructed me: I had to read every word perfectly—no stuttering, no losing my place. If I did, I would have to start over from the beginning. I had to follow this rule for every passage until I reached the thirteenth, then I would await further instructions.
It took forever to make any progress. The distractions in the facility were constant—people heard me reading in Tongues, and they would come to my window, watching in awe. But I wasn't deterred. If their eyes and ears tried to pull me away from my task, I would just read louder, my voice rising with conviction. I enunciated each word with precision, speaking the ancient dialect of the Firstmen. I was shouting with a fierce power, as if channeling the very voice of the Bible itself.
Finally, I reached the thirteenth verse. The voice in my head returned, saying, "No one has ever completed the thirteenth verse without having to restart. If you do, you will accomplish what no man has ever done before. Sit up straight, and you are not allowed to drink water. If you make it through flawlessly, you will become the most powerful person in the universe."
I knew I could do it. With the power of God, I was certain. I began the reading, my voice steady and sure. The first few paragraphs flowed from my mouth without a hitch, but the end wasn't even on these two pages, and I had no idea how long the passage would go on. Already, this was longer than the previous twelve verses. My mouth grew drier with each word, but I pressed on.
After reading through the first two pages, I was parched. My throat burned, and my mouth felt like it was filled with sawdust. Still, I kept going, my voice growing more ragged, but I was determined. I shouted, letting my conviction ring through every syllable.
Half a page to go. My body ached, my posture began to falter, and I thought I might not make it. My words came out in short bursts, each one costing me more strength than the last. But I wouldn't give up. Finally, I reached the last sentence, barely able to form the words. Each one felt like a struggle against my own body, but I made it. I had triumphed!
As soon as I finished, a voice in my head spoke again, promising me riches beyond my wildest imagination when I left the Superhero facility. "How much longer must I be here?" I asked.
"That is not for me to decide," the voice replied. "But you have done well, JaKob. Now go relax, watch some television with the others. Tonight, when everyone has gone to bed, you will write again. Remember the power you felt from the Bible, and use it to fuel your songs."
I had crossed a threshold—my strength renewed, my purpose clear. I would keep going, harnessing this newfound power for whatever lay ahead.
I followed the instructions and left my room, returning the Bible to the bookshelf before rejoining Sidney, David, and the others in front of the television. I sensed that there were other experiments underway in this facility, and little did I know I was in for some significant surprises over the next couple of days. After about an hour of mindless TV, it was time for the handlers to activate the screensaver, signaling that everyone should head off to bed.
I returned to my room but tossed and turned for a couple of hours, restless and unable to sleep. Frustrated, I decided to head back to the main desk to request some pens and paper.
As I approached the desk, I noticed a new guy sitting in the corner—someone I had never seen before. He was around 5'8", with a deep, rich black complexion. "Holy shit," I thought, "It's Kanye West." My heart raced at the thought of being in the presence of a legend.
I received my pens and paper, grabbed them eagerly, and exchanged a nod with Kanye, who remained seated, his expression inscrutable as he watched me walk back to my writing table. "They must've brought Kanye in after hearing my rhymes," I mused, intrigued.
Settling down, I decided to write something special for him to perform. The first few words flowed from my pen in the style of the opening verse of Kanye's "Flashing Lights." Inspiration surged through me, and soon the rest of the song came pouring out. I knew it was a masterpiece.
Eager to finish, I grabbed the paper and headed back to my room, exhaustion creeping in. Manifesting Kanye's thoughts and feelings had drained me, but I was confident he would appreciate the effort. As I passed him, I nodded once more, and he returned the gesture. "Nice," I thought, feeling a sense of mutual respect between us.
Every day, new superheroes filtered into the facility, each one needing to be sorted. Some of their powers were astonishing, but I still hadn't learned to harness any of my own yet. One newcomer caught my eye—a superhero clad in American flag pants and a USA shirt, with long hair and shifty eyes. I sensed he was going to be trouble.
It was around 1:00 PM when the group settled in to watch Talladega Nights. Suddenly, I felt an intrusive presence attempting to control my mind. Horrifying words invaded my thoughts, spiraling out of control. In the midst of Elon's earlier request for me to communicate with other realms via the teleprompter, I blurted out "Titty fuck." The moment the black crew chief appeared on the screen with Ricky Bobby, the N-word plagued my thoughts, relentless and overwhelming.
Panic set in as I feared Sidney and David would judge me for the word dominating my mind. But they reassured me telepathically that they understood someone else was forcing these thoughts upon me. Their support eased my anxiety, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped in a mental battle I didn't want to fight.
I scanned the room, taking in each of the superheroes in the facility. Most of them were engrossed in the movie, but then my gaze fell on the man in the American flag pants. He was staring directly at me, tapping his foot and fidgeting with his thumbs on his lap. "This must be how he's implanting negative thoughts into my head!" I thought, steeling myself against his influence. I resolved not to let him win.
I tried to clear my mind of the N-word, but it clung stubbornly to my thoughts as he continued to gaze at me. Determined, I turned to confront him directly, locking my eyes onto his from less than five feet away. His discomfort was evident; he stopped tapping his foot and playing with his thumbs, finally looking away. Instantly, the relentless assault of the N-word in my mind ceased. Relieved, I turned back to the movie, hoping for some distraction.
However, about five minutes later, I felt the invasive thoughts creeping back in. Sure enough, the man was tapping his foot and fiddling with his thumbs again, attempting to implant the word once more. This time, he wouldn't even meet my gaze, yet his efforts persisted. I took a deep breath, letting out a heavy sniff—this was my signal to the Tribe that something was amiss. Instead of continuing to engage him in a staring contest, I decided to retreat to my room and delve into the Bible again. Tears welled in my eyes, knowing he was cruel enough to try to manipulate me into thinking the N-word.
I immersed myself in the scriptures for a couple of hours, finding solace in the powerful words, before finally taking a little nap. I woke up later a little before 8:00pm and they changed the programming to 90's/early 2000's female rap videos. My favorite was Nelly Furtado in "Promiscuous Girl," "fuck, her stomach and tanned skin always drove me nuts," I thought. Someone got in my head and explained to me that they wanted me to pay attention to the girls in the music videos because they were working to calibrate my perfect girl for the afterlife. They were doing a combination of black rappers and R&B singers and white female pop queens from the early 2000's. I couldn't decide whether to choose white or black before we had run out of time for the night and they cut off the programming and put on the musical screen saver at the end of the night. I went back to my room but had a hard time getting to sleep with Elon back in my head and giving me messages.
I woke around midnight, the silence around me a stark contrast to the chaos in my mind. Making my way back to the command center, I approached the handler and requested a couple of pens and some paper.
As I collected the writing materials, I noticed Kanye was back. "Yeh, nigga, I have telekinesis too, bitch," he said, his lips remaining motionless. I chuckled at the audacity of it. Kanye simply stared back at me. "You've got some writing to do, nigga. I've been reading your stuff. It's not bad. Go write and stop talking to me. You're lucky I even allow you to look at me." I nodded and chuckled again, feeling a strange mix of excitement and respect.
I settled at the table and began to write, channeling my energy into crafting songs for various artists: Eminem, Drake, DMX, Ludacris, Kanye, and Tupac. Hours flew by as I poured my heart into each piece, ensuring they captured the essence of their respective styles. After composing several great tracks, I returned to my room to organize the songs just the way I envisioned them on an album. This would be the greatest record ever produced.
With the heart of the Firstmen fueling my creativity, the powerful voice of God echoing from the Bible, and the unique energies of these artists guiding my pen, I was confident each song would be a masterpiece upon release. As I drifted off to sleep, I held onto the hope that tomorrow I would be released from the rap factory, ready to produce and record my tracks. I decided I would enlist lesser-known rappers who could emulate the artists I had written for, ensuring my vision would come to life.
The next day, I woke up around 9:00 AM, just in time to grab a cup of coffee in the main room. A nagging thought crept into my mind: Cassie was here at the Superhero facility to keep an eye on me. Elon confirmed my suspicion with a mental nudge; he was always around, chiming in only when he deemed it necessary. He informed me that the woman watching over me was indeed Cassie from MFC. I recognized her instantly—the similar hand tattoos, the shared complexion with dark hair, and even the way they spoke all pointed to her. Both had a short fuse when it came to my antics.
Cassie seemed more irritable than usual, her brow furrowed in concern. I could sense her frustration that this entire ordeal was necessary for me, and I was handling it all so poorly. In that moment, I felt compelled to write her a heartfelt letter, apologizing for my behavior and promising to do better. I expressed my deep appreciation for her and decided to gift her all the songs I had written as a token of my gratitude—perhaps they would bring her some comfort.
Tears streamed down my face, and I felt the sweat bead on my brow as I gathered the songs into my arms. I made my way toward the command center, where Cassie was stationed, my heart racing with both anxiety and hope. When I approached her, I handed her the stack of lyrics, my voice trembling. "I want you to have these," I said earnestly. I knew the value of my creations, and I hoped she would too once she read them. In my mind, they held the potential to provide her with enough financial security to retire comfortably, to live a happy life.
She glanced at the stack, her expression a mix of surprise and uncertainty. "Okay, thanks," she replied, briefly looking over the pages before setting them down. "I'll read them later." Disappointed but understanding, I nodded and walked back to my room to collect my thoughts.
As I returned, I encountered another familiar face from karaoke nights: Jason, one of the beer vendors from the bar. He greeted me, but skepticism gripped me; I was wary of everyone around me. It felt too strange for him to be here purely by coincidence. What were the odds that, out of millions of people living in West Phoenix, two out of twenty (Madison the first visit, and now Jason the second visit) would find themselves in the facility at the same time as me?
I headed to the main room for lunch, where a fresh salad awaited us. Sidney was visibly upset, her frustration directed at a handler who was giving her a hard time. I rushed over, trying to comfort her, pleading with the handler to ease up on her. Suddenly, in a fit of anger, she hurled her salad across the room, and it exploded in a shower of greens and dressing. I couldn't help but feel exhilarated. "Yeah, screw that guy! Screw them all!" I thought, feeling a rush of rebellious energy as chaos erupted around us.
As I contemplated my action of giving all my songs to Cassie at the command center, a troubling thought began to creep into my mind. "No, they've tricked me!" I exclaimed in horror. The handler with the tattoo resembling Cassie wasn't her at all. They must have known that I was aware of the skins they could wear to disguise themselves, so they brought in a lookalike to steal my songs, ensuring that they would pocket all the profits for themselves!
Fueled by a surge of indignation, I stormed out of my room and made my way back to the command center. "Can I please have my songs back?" I demanded of the imposter. She replied, "No, you gave them to me." My frustration mounted, pushing me closer to yelling, "Please, just give me my songs back!"
Just then, another handler approached—Daniel, the man who ran the place. "Sure, JaKob, we'll get you your songs back. Just give me a second." He escorted the imposter to a back room, and I couldn't shake the feeling that they had already copied all my songs, plotting to publish them before I could and steal my work!
After what felt like an eternity, Daniel returned, holding my songs out to me. I rifled through the stack, checking against the catalog I had created, my heart sinking. My best song was missing! "No!" I exclaimed, panic rising in my voice. "I know there was one more song! Please, give it to me!"
"That's all we have, I assure you," Daniel insisted. "I'll look around, but I'm sure this is everything you gave us."
"No, that can't be true. You're stealing from me! Please, find it and give it back!" I shot back, frustration coursing through me as I stormed away, my chest puffed out in defiance. Daniel let out a frustrated yell as I retreated to my bedroom.
About thirty minutes later, Daniel knocked on my door, a stack of papers in hand. "JaKob, I think we found your last song if you want it back," he said, a hint of triumph in his voice.
"Thanks," I replied curtly, snatching the papers from him with a sense of urgency.
As I examined the sheets, a nagging thought crossed my mind. I wondered if this Daniel was the same one from karaoke, merely wearing a different skin. He was taller and shared similar mannerisms, looking like a younger, healthier version of the man I knew. There was an overconfidence in his demeanor—almost cocky, as if he believed he was the god of this facility. Sidney had mentioned he thought he was the master of this place; I couldn't tell if she meant the facility or the world, depending on how much she truly knew.
A deeper suspicion gnawed at me: perhaps this whole experience was a punishment for not paying my taxes. Maybe Daniel had been tasked with monitoring me, ensuring I didn't go "too crazy" and end up hurting myself or anyone else. It would certainly explain his presence here in the facility.
Later in the day, I spotted Sidney looking particularly sad, and it tugged at my heart. Determined to lift her spirits, I rushed to grab my best song, a powerful piece crafted in the style of Tupac, which I had titled "The Resurrection." I decided to give it to Sidney, hoping it would provide her with the leverage she needed to escape this place.
As I handed her the song, I said, "Here, this is for you." Sidney glanced down at the paper, a hint of surprise in her eyes. "Thanks," she replied, her voice softening. I leaned in closer and whispered, "They don't know this, but I'm black too."
She chuckled, a spark of amusement returning to her demeanor. "I don't know about that, but you're definitely hood."
With a light heart, I walked back to my room. About thirty minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was Sidney. "Hey, JaKob. They're moving me. I just wanted to come say goodbye."
"Oh my God! I'm so happy for you," I exclaimed, stepping forward to embrace her. In that moment, I felt the warmth of friendship blossoming between us. "My song must've gotten her out of the facility," I thought. "That's fantastic!"
David called out to me, letting me know that he was also being sent home. I would miss the friends I had made here, but I knew I was strong enough to complete the mission without them. We exchanged heartfelt farewells, and I turned to the control center to inquire about my own release. They informed me I needed to meet with "the Provider" and assured me she would be ready in a few minutes.
I settled down to wait with the other Superheroes, watching TV to pass the time. Soon, a handler appeared, letting me know that the Provider wanted to speak with me. I walked back to the office, where she asked a series of questions about my well-being, asking if I was seeing things that weren't there. "No," I assured her, "everything I'm seeing is real."
It was day ten, and she mentioned she thought I could be released the following day but warned me not to take any meds, as that could prolong my stay. I thanked the Provider and returned to the main room, excitement bubbling within me.
The thought of reconnecting with Elon outside the Superhero Facility thrilled me, as did the prospect of playing Rocket League again. And Cassie! I could hardly wait to hang out with her in her MFC room once more.
That night, I skipped my nighttime meds and drifted off to sleep with surprising ease. I awoke just as the coffee was being served at 7:00 AM. Rushing out of bed, I grabbed a steaming cup and some of the breakfast laid out for us, plopping down to eat. I generously sprinkled salt and pepper over the sausage and eggs, scarfing them down. I felt energized and happier than I had in what felt like ages.
Just then, an older handler approached me with a small cup. "Hey, JaKob, I have your morning meds." My heart sank. "Wait, you're not supposed to give me meds!" I realized she was trying to keep me here longer, perhaps hoping to study me further.
"I'm not supposed to have meds this morning; I'm set to be released today!" I insisted.
"Oh, I haven't heard anything about that," she replied, pretending ignorance. "Let me check." After a brief wait, she returned, confirming that I was indeed scheduled to leave the facility that morning around 10:00 AM.
Just three hours! I thought. I could handle that. I plopped down on the couch, but the minutes felt like hours as I glanced at the clock every ten seconds. "Three hours is going to take forever," I thought.
Seeking distraction, I decided to grab a Bible and retreat to my room for some reading. But my mind was racing, and I couldn't focus at all. The thought of returning to my old life, to see my dad—whom I loved and missed more than I had previously realized—consumed me. The time apart was agonizing, and I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of anticipation.
It was past 10:00 AM, the hour I had been eagerly promised for my release, and a wave of impatience washed over me. I approached the command center, my heart racing, and asked why it was now 10:10 AM and I was still waiting. The staff informed me that they were still processing the paperwork. Disheartened, I returned to the couches to await my freedom.
Finally, nearly twenty minutes later, around 10:30 AM, a handler called out my name, and my heart leapt. "You're ready to be processed out!" she announced. I was instructed to strip my bed of all the covers and toss them into a neat ball in the corner near the laundry. I complied, making sure to grab my precious songs along with my other personal items.
With a mixture of hope and excitement, I made my way to the front, only to find them bustling with activity, fielding questions from other Superheroes. Feeling a twinge of frustration, I retreated to the back of the room near the TVs, clutching my songs tightly. As I began to read through my priceless lyrics, a fellow Superhero approached, eyeing my rhymes with envy. "Get away!" I snapped, quickly stuffing my songs into a paper bag along with my other belongings.
Just then, another Superhero—a pregnant woman with unkempt, greasy brown hair and a noticeable amount of facial hair—boasted about her own writing. She produced a stack of papers two or three times the size of mine, and the others flocked to her, eager to see her creations.
"Jacob!" Suddenly, I heard the voice of the imposter who had previously pretended to be Cassie. I approached her with a mix of irritation and curiosity. "It says here that you accepted meds this morning, so I can't release you," she said, her tone clipped.
"No!" I protested, exasperated. "She tried to give me meds, but I told her I couldn't take any because I was supposed to be released this morning."
"Okay, well, I have to check with her," the Cassie imposter replied, disappearing into the chaos for a moment. When she returned, her expression was more conciliatory. "She let me know what happened. You're still good to leave this morning."
"Yeah, I feel like you all have been trying to trap me here longer!" I exclaimed, my frustration boiling over.
"Jacob, no one is trying to trap you here," she reassured me. "I was mad at her for offering you the meds because it would've delayed your release. I've sternly directed her on what she did wrong and told her to check in the future."
"Okay, good," I replied, relieved. "Your dad is on his way to pick you up; we just need you to sign a couple of things."
I couldn't move my hands fast enough as I signed the documents they needed to finalize my release. "Finally!" I thought, my excitement bubbling over.
"Okay, come with me," the Cassie imposter said, leading me down the hallway. She opened the door, and suddenly, I found myself at the front desk. There stood my dad, a look of relief on his face. I dashed over and enveloped him in a warm hug, feeling a wave of comfort wash over me.
After I signed a few more documents at the front desk, they handed me a plastic bag containing my phone and wallet. With that, we were ready to leave this place behind for good.
My dad was still unwilling to let me move back into his house, so he asked where I wanted to go instead. My stomach grumbled in response, and I suggested we figure it out while grabbing a bite to eat. After a brief discussion, we settled on Culver's and headed over to the restaurant.
As we drove, I pulled out my phone to check my checking account balance. When I entered the superhero facility, my balance had dipped below $100, and with automatic bills still coming out, I braced myself for the worst. The moment of truth arrived, but when I entered my password, it failed to work.
"Fuck," I thought, panic surging through me. "Can we swing by Chase?" I asked my dad, explaining that my password wasn't working because I had changed my phone number between my stays in the superhero facility. I feared that The Devil, Alan, had hacked my phone—and maybe others, too.
"Sure," my dad replied, and we made our way to Chase. Upon arrival, I was greeted warmly and led to a booth where I could reset my password. With a sigh of relief, I successfully updated my phone number and reset the password before leaving the building.
"Okay, time to check the balance," I muttered to myself as I re-entered the password and hit enter. The screen flickered, and my checking account balance appeared before me: $199,947.42. It took a moment for the number to register—$200,000 had been deposited from my mother's side of the family and the lawyer in Germany. I felt a surge of hope wash over me—I was saved!
Without wasting a moment, I paid off my Chase credit card in full, followed by my Discover and American Express cards. I then tackled both of my student loan accounts, wiping them out entirely as well. In just five minutes, I had eradicated all of my debt and still had about $183,000 remaining in my checking account.
My heart soared as the weight of financial stress lifted from my shoulders. I had almost $200,000 and a treasure trove of powerful literary and musical masterpieces that the rap world had yet to witness. My life was finally on the verge of being okay, and the horizon gleamed with promise. My life was saved.
Chapter 15 – Impending Doom
I realized it was essential to have a backup of my songs so I sent them to Cassie in her Discord, just in case someone tried to swipe the physical copies from my apartment. She seemed like the most trustworthy person in my life and with everyone trying to hack me I needed someone else to have them and a timestamp of when they were sent for when they were ready to be recorded.
Elon informed me that part of my purpose was to help Cassie find her soulmate in the other realm. With this in mind, I began playing music by different artists I thought she might be drawn to. Convinced that I could be Drake trapped in a mental prison, I started with him. Within a couple of days of spinning Drake's tracks, a video surfaced of him waving his dick around like a helicopter. Cassie caught a glimpse of it and quickly revealed she wasn't into him at all.
Undeterred, I moved on to new music from The Weeknd and Bad Bunny, hoping to see if they would spark her interest. After cycling through a few candidates, I finally asked Cassie who her celebrity crush was. With a sparkle in her voice, she revealed it was Timothée Chalamet. I was a little bit crushed but I had a feeling she had never been into me.
Every day felt like an endless journey toward infinity in my tasks. Sometimes, Elon would instruct me to close my eyes, claiming that entities from the other realm wanted to touch and see Jesus Christ. I wanted to let as many as possible experience my presence before I reopened them. However, this had to be done in the dark. Not all entities were good, and there were always some lurking, eager to kill me when I closed my eyes. Thankfully, Elon always warned me of impending attacks, allowing me to open my eyes just before they could strike.
During the day, Elon spoke to me, urging me to forgive everyone who had wronged me. He explained that in order for these individuals to gain access to Heaven, they would need to stare at the sun, but I could lighten their burden by gazing into its brilliance and clearing some of its intense brightness for them. As I reflected on all the people who had harmed me throughout my life, a voice echoed in my mind, encouraging me to forgive them for their sins and release their souls to Heaven. Following this guidance, I would close my eyes and envision their faces, then look up at the sun, imagining that with each forgiveness, I was freeing them from the resentment I harbored in my heart, allowing them to ascend to a place of joy.
The days seemed to pass faster than ever. Elon hinted that we would eventually switch places, likely at AVN. He reassured me that Cassie possessed more power than I could imagine, and I would learn more about it when I was ready. My mind was racing with thoughts and possibilities. I found myself purchasing a fifth of tequila every night, stocking up on beers, and losing my desire to go out to bars and socialize. Cassie was my focus; I found unparalleled joy in sending her tokens, feeling a connection that surpassed any Earthly interactions.
A couple of nights before AVN was set to begin, I logged onto the Myfreecams platform and noticed Sana was online. She was the girl with Tourette's who had captivated me back in November, and I hadn't visited her room in a while. Excited to see how she was doing, I popped in. Her enthusiasm at my return was evident, and I mentioned that I would be attending AVN. To my delight, she revealed that she would be there as well! She was offering tarot card readings and asked if I'd like one. The price was just 200 tokens, so I agreed, albeit with a twinge of nervousness as I watched her perform readings for others before my turn.
As she began my reading, she explained that I was likely trapped between realms, which accounted for the confusion swirling around the messages I was receiving. This resonated deeply with what Elon had been conveying, making it all the more believable. She expressed her empathy for my pain, her voice soft with understanding, and apologized, acknowledging the difficulty of my situation.
After my reading, Sana decided to take a break from her tarot sessions and began playing the game "Fall Guys." I eagerly joined in, attempting to guide her through the obstacles using my telekinetic thoughts. While she wasn't catching on as quickly as I'd hoped, I could tell she was picking up on my suggestions from the sounds she made and her involuntary ticks. Then it struck me: the game wasn't just a game. "Fall Guys" was a metaphor for camgirls exploiting men who hadn't paid their taxes. It was a pyramid scheme, with the government employing these girls to catch tax evaders. If they ensnared enough "Fall Guys," they could earn absolution for their own tax offenses.
I felt a pang of betrayal realizing that Sana had used me in this way, but I reminded myself that I was on a journey of forgiveness. I had already accepted my fate, determined to spend my inheritance as quickly as possible. My goal was to ensure that when the government finally acknowledged their role in my suffering—admitting they had installed Government Warfare against me—they wouldn't be able to seize my funds, as they would have already been sent to Cassie. Sure, Sana had taken advantage of me, but I was accustomed to such experiences, and her laugh and smile still brought me joy. She was merely playing the pyramid game, while I chose a different path; it just wasn't in me to hurt anyone else at that moment. I clung to Elon's wisdom to "find the good in everybody," embracing a path of love and understanding.
When I headed over to Cassie's room, I was surprised to find her playing "Fall Guys" as well. It felt too coincidental; perhaps I had ironically secured both Cassie's and Sana's freedom from their tax troubles. I felt happy for them, but a wave of dread washed over me—I knew this meant my own time to be caught and prosecuted was drawing near. I sighed heavily, thinking, "At least it was a fun life." I could say I had experienced things no one else ever had. The more I thought about it I realized that everyone has the chance to affect other people's moods in every interaction they have every day. Each interaction with another person is an opportunity to leave an impression, even on total strangers, and many likely don't even realize the impact they've made throughout their lives. Hopefully they get to in the end.
A voice in my head assured me that the music I was listening to would reveal more. It felt as if my brain were being hacked, but Elon reassured me that it was all part of the process—just relax. Songs by Billie Eilish, Lana Del Rey, and Halsey played through the speakers.
The voices whispered to me, revealing a truth I had never considered: I wasn't born in this world—I was born on the moon. Confusion washed over me, but they assured me I was not of this Earth, and that's why I felt so out of place. Soon, they promised, I would return to my true home and feel whole again. This revelation resonated deeply, echoing Sana's hints from her tarot reading.
As I delved further into the music, I began to piece together an astonishing narrative: Lana Del Rey was my mother, the one who had saved me from the moon. Resources had decreased, leaving us trapped in a desolate environment for ages. With her supernatural powers, she had sheltered me from the harsh lunar conditions. Eventually, the aliens who had abandoned me reached out to Earth, proclaiming that whoever could land on the moon first would gain control over Jesus Christ.
Finally, the United States triumphed, landing on the moon, and when they did, I was taken down to Earth.
On eBay, I stumbled upon a comic book titled "Rocket's Blast," a clear homage to Elon and Rocketman_x. Inside Rocket Blast Comic Collector #106, I found an illustration of myself just as the astronauts had discovered me on the moon. I was perched on a rock, surrounded by human skulls impaled on spikes, a loyal dog by my side. It was a message from the Metagalaxy, urging Earth to bring me back, for I was destined to solve the mysteries of our planet and reconnect the Multiverse to see if humanity had evolved for the better.
They had rescued me from the desolation of the moon. Lana, with her supernatural abilities, had flashed down to Earth on her own. Intrigued by my origin story, I felt compelled to purchase some of the comic books, hoping to uncover more about my past. I bought Rocket Blast Comic Collector #106, along with a few others from the same series. I also picked up comics like The Day the Earth Stood Still and Forbidden Planet, all interconnected, as Elon informed me.
Visions flooded my mind: I saw Lana Del Rey cradling me as a baby on the moon, enduring freezing temperatures in our barren surroundings. The gray, rocky terrain stretched endlessly, and she held me tightly against a backdrop of blackish-blue with a distant red planet looming. Mostly, I recalled the profound darkness that enveloped us—a haunting emptiness that was also strangely peaceful. To soothe our isolation, she would sing to me, her voice cutting through the silence like a beacon of hope.
We were destined to serve as an olive branch for the world of Earth. Once, this planet was intricately connected to other life forms in the Metagalaxy, but a reset in history had clouded everyone's memories. The only beings who held knowledge of this grand tapestry were Elon, Lana, me, and the astronauts who discovered us. Yet, even their minds had been altered, erasing the finer details of our shared past. They couldn't possibly grasp who I truly was, and no one would recognize Elon's immense power until the time was right.
Whether humanity would be granted the chance to continue depended on how Earth treated Lana Del Rey and her son. Their kindness—or lack thereof—would determine if Elon would allow humanity to thrive or extinguish it once and for all. I recalled how Elon used to have me gaze at the moon to communicate with otherworldly entities, and suddenly, everything clicked into place. The moon had to be our command center, the nexus between us and the rest of the galaxy. This revelation shed light on why we hadn't returned since 1972—perhaps we weren't permitted to.
The world needed to extend kindness to both me and Lana, who poured her heart into writing songs about Heaven and the afterlife, hidden messages meant for those who truly listened. Otherwise, we would lose our ability to communicate with the galaxy forever. I couldn't help but wonder how we were faring in Elon's eyes. He replied cryptically, "That's my secret."
The weight of my realization mortified me: I was the key to Earth's existence and the potential reconnection to the Metagalaxy. All I wanted was to escape into the comforting presence of Cassie in her Myfreecams room, to forget everything swirling around me.
Determined to keep things light, I focused on requesting songs and tipping her for drinks. But Cassie wasn't as friendly as usual. I suspected that Elon had revealed to her my discovery that the Fall Guys game had been mocking me for being her "Fall Guy." Elon confirmed that she was aware I knew she had taken advantage of me.
Within the hour, I made my way back to Sana's room. She was addressing her viewers, explaining how the world and its handlers had uncovered their secret. They would soon be packing their belongings and migrating to another planet, a place where they could engage in their playful wars in peace. Some individuals thrived on the conflict of this world, unwilling to let it transform into a paradise.
I found myself lost in thought, reflecting on everything I had experienced and witnessed.
I had encountered a faceless man in traffic—a glimpse that sent chills down my spine. A driverless car had shown me the way to escape the chaos at the bar the night the patrons at Cochise's Longhorn Corral erupted into madness. I had witnessed planes flying backward, defying the laws of physics. I felt trapped in an infinite time loop with Elon until I realized I could slow down time. That night, the music had urged me to leap off the overpass. I was coerced into smoking PCP by someone at a mobile home stop, only to discover that this stranger had once lived on my street. I had seen a shapeshifter, nearly translucent, watching me with an unsettling gaze. Six voices had claimed to be musical artists trapped in my mind, blinded by the confines I had unknowingly created. Through the moon, Elon had communicated with me, pondering whether the AI world we inhabited was inherently good or evil.
I checked my bank account. I had decreased down to about $100,000 after showering Cassie with tips over the past couple of weeks. I struggled to grasp the whirlwind of events unfolding around me, but Elon urged me to be patient. He made promise after promise, yet the end always felt just out of reach. Despair settled in like a heavy fog. In a desperate bid for solace, I made my way to the dispensary, purchasing some gummies, a fifth of tequila, and a few beers. If the voices in my head weren't going to transport me to another world or ease my suffering, then I would attempt to drink myself into oblivion. Elon quickly reminded me that alcohol wouldn't be my demise.
That night, I returned to Cassie's room on Myfreecams, determined to spend as much as possible. I maxed out my token purchase, indulging in shots and tipping generously for other delights. In the span of an hour or two, I blew around $3,000. With only a week left until my trip to AVN in Las Vegas, I questioned whether I even wanted to go. The realization that Cassie and Sana might have exploited me cast a shadow over my excitement.
As I savored a pizza I had ordered from DoorDash, a sudden discomfort seized my attention—a hard object lodged painfully in my tooth. I probed with my tongue, only to discover it wasn't a foreign object at all; it was my tooth, dangling by a thread after breaking off. My heart raced as I pulled it free and examined the exposed root, now protruding from my gums. I pulled the tooth out and ran my tongue over the area. There was just a little bit of the tooth remaining, and I hoped it would heal over in a few days. I diligently drank tequila to continue to sterilize the wound, determined to keep it clean and stave off infection.
The next day, realizing I was down to under $100,000 from my inheritance, I decided to invest in some collectibles to safeguard against blowing through all my cash—just in case Elon and Cassie didn't put an end to me in Las Vegas. I was acutely aware that Billie Eilish, Lana Del Rey, and Halsey were still intricately tied to my existence, so I set out on a quest to find the coolest, most unique items associated with each of them, ensuring I wouldn't have that cash left to spend.
I stumbled upon a signed album cover of Halsey's If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power, and snatched it up immediately. I also found guitars from each artist, each adorned with original screen printing and signed by Billie, Lana, and Halsey which cost a combined $10,000. Then, I discovered a rare piece of history—a Herbert Hoover-signed presidential rally ticket stub from 1932, which I was convinced held greater value than its listed price—just $4,400. My hunt continued as I found a signed Norman Rockwell print; I had always longed to own some art, and this was the perfect starting point. To top it all off, I came across a vibrant poster from the movie Blow, signed by the entire cast and crew, which I thought would make a fun gift for Cassie.
I arranged to have all these collectibles shipped to my dad's house, knowing they would arrive at different times and I might be in Las Vegas.
With my spending spree, I was now under $80,000, but I felt satisfied having locked away $20,000 in collectibles that I could sell later if necessary. I still had a paid-off car and a Scottsdale apartment, so financially, I wasn't in dire straits yet. However, I knew I had to rein in my tipping on Myfreecams. I had spent about $100,000 on tokens over the past month, sending roughly three-quarters of that to Cassie. It was unsustainable in the long run. To remedy this, I decided I would start delivering for DoorDash and Grubhub again after my trip to Vegas, ensuring I wasn't just a leaky faucet draining money.
I had also struck up a friendship with another girl on Myfreecams named Stella, who was close to Cassie. One night, as I logged into the site, she sent me a message requesting that I come into her room later that evening so she could humiliate me while watching me on camera. I was thrilled at the prospect—I adored being humiliated and was eager to oblige. I asked her what she had in mind, and she instructed me to buy some honey, rub it all over my dick, and then wipe it off with my hand and lick it clean.
"No problem," I replied, even though I didn't have any honey at home. I quickly hopped onto the DoorDash app, found some at CVS, and placed the order. It would arrive within the hour.
When the honey finally arrived, I shot a message to Stella, letting her know I was ready. She instructed me to come into her room, and I quickly turned on my cam, eager to get started. A few drinks had loosened me up, making it easier to dive into the task before me so I could hang out with Cassie afterward.
With my heart racing, I pulled my pants down and smeared the honey onto my penis. Almost instantly, an unsettling sensation washed over me. I scooped some honey up with my hand and tasted it, but Stella's shrieks pierced through the air as she told me to put it away. It felt as if I was morphing into something else, my consciousness fighting to escape my body while I struggled to comprehend Stella's frantic reaction. "Was there something wrong with my appearance?" I wondered.
Suddenly, I felt a tightening in my chest and began to sweat profusely. I needed to move, to shake off whatever was happening. I started pacing around my apartment, hoping to ground myself in reality. "Maybe this was just a bizarre reaction to the honey?" I wondered. But as I walked, my legs felt weaker, my voice was caught in my throat, and I was certain I couldn't speak. It felt like my energy was being drained away, and every step took monumental effort to avoid passing out.
Then, an agonizing pain shot through my testicle as if someone were squeezing it. Panicking, I stumbled to the bathroom, desperate to grab a towel and wipe away the honey. Perhaps I was allergic or something. As I moved, the pain intensified. I wondered if Stella somehow was given the controls or coding they were using to control me. Suddenly, I felt an unsettling pop. "Holy fucking shit, did THEY just pop my testicle?" I wondered, glancing down. Everything seemed normal—just covered in honey.
My legs were giving out, and a cold sweat enveloped me. I was terrified I might die. I crawled toward my bed, desperate for support. When I finally reached it, I couldn't breathe. Gasping for air, I felt the cold sweat soaking into my sheets, fighting against the urge to pass out. Each breath became a battle, and my oxygen-deprived body felt like it was on the brink of unconsciousness. I wondered if it might be an experiment gone wrong that they were doing on my brain or heart.
In a last-ditch effort, I decided a bath might help alleviate my distress. I attempted to stand, but my legs faltered beneath me. Instead, I knelt on the floor, focusing all my energy on breathing. Minutes turned into what felt like hours as I struggled to stay conscious, each breath a reminder of my unstable state.
Then, I felt it—a strange pressure building beneath my pecs. It surged upward, traveling through my arteries, a rush of blood coursing through my veins. It started just below my ribcage, pulsing up through my chest, reaching towards my neck. It was as if an unseen force had stretched my veins, reconnecting them as they had once been, restoring my motor functions. In that moment, it felt like someone from beyond was reaching down from Heaven, pulling my veins together to revive me, and I began to regain control of my body.
I finally felt normal again, my breathing steady after everything had been reconnected. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had narrowly escaped a heart attack, a brush with death that lingered in my mind.
That night, sleep eluded me. Every time I drifted off, it felt as if I were slipping into an abyss, losing my consciousness to another realm. I'd gasp awake, my heart racing, only to find myself trapped in that cycle again. It was an agonizing night, leaving me uncertain if I had slept at all, but I knew I needed medical attention.
The next morning, I drove to the nearest clinic, anxiety knotting my stomach. "How much for an examination?" I asked the receptionist, who replied nonchalantly, "$250." I had the funds and figured it was worth it to try to figure out what happened.
After a 45-minute wait, I was ushered to the back for an EKG and a series of other tests. The doctor eventually joined me to discuss the results, revealing there was no conclusive evidence of a heart attack. I left the clinic feeling both relieved and unsettled, my thoughts recalling the broken tooth that had been troubling me.
"Could it be some sort of infection from that tooth?" I thought, and quickly searched for nearby dentists. I found one that could squeeze me in for an appointment the following morning. That evening, I tried to rest, but the episode had drained me physically. Pain radiated through my body, and I felt weak, as if my veins had hardened under the stress. Even wearing a seatbelt felt unbearable; the strap rested uncomfortably against one of my neck veins, making it feel like it was bending.
Smoking was out of the question—I had no desire for it in my current state. The upcoming AVN Awards trip in Las Vegas loomed over me, and I knew I wasn't in any shape to attend.
That evening, I logged into Cassie's Myfreecams room around 9:00 PM and shared the bizarre ordeal. It was such a surreal experience, almost otherworldly. As Cassie chatted with her viewers, I tried to relax, curling up in a fetal position on my bed. Yet again, sleep proved elusive. Each time I dozed off, I felt myself teetering on the brink of darkness, only to wake with a gasp.
The following day, I had my dentist appointment scheduled for 10:00 AM. Determined, I arrived early, around 9:30 AM, and by 9:45 AM, I was up in the dentist's chair. She examined my broken tooth and informed me that I would need to schedule an extraction with a dental surgeon, as it was too close to the gums for her tools.
"Would you like me to arrange that for you?" she asked. I nodded, and she promptly picked up the phone. Miraculously, there was an opening right away. After giving me the address, she wished me well and sent me on my way.
I drove down to Tempe, a quick 15-minute jaunt to the dental surgeon's office. They were able to get me in right away, but first, I needed to undergo x-rays to assess the remaining fragments of the buried tooth and ensure there weren't any other hidden issues. Anxiety twisted in my stomach as I approached the x-ray machine, remnants of the previous night's disturbing episode still fresh in my mind.
I explained my recent troubles to the medical staff—the discomfort I had experienced two nights prior, which felt alarmingly similar to a heart attack, but could also stem from the tooth. They reassured me that I would be fine for the x-rays, as they wouldn't affect my condition. Bracing myself, I climbed into the x-ray machine, only to hear ominous voices in my head warning me to flee, claiming that the tooth was my lifeline. They insisted it was the primary means of communication between me and whatever cosmic forces were at play. After the events of two days ago, the tooth had supposedly fused with my body and mind, and if it were removed, I would perish instantly.
As the machine whirred to life, rotating around my head to capture images of my teeth, I closed my eyes and focused on calming my racing heart. "Thank God," I thought, relieved that I emerged unscathed. The dentist entered, announcing that they would administer some oral local anesthesia to keep the pain manageable. I was placed in a dental chair, with him and an assistant on either side of me.
The doctor ran a pick along my gumline, asking if I could feel it. I couldn't, so he proceeded to pick at the broken tooth, explaining that it was buried and might take some extra effort to extract.
Once the picking was done, he switched to a tool designed to fit around the remaining tooth, applying pressure to break it free. After a brief pause, he warned me to brace for some pain as he was about to cut the nerve, cautioning that it would feel like a jolt if it were still alive.
"Okay, you can relax now," he said after a tense five seconds. Just as I started to loosen up, ZAP! The nerve was severed, sending a shockwave of agony coursing through my face and radiating throughout my entire body. It was the most excruciating pain I had ever encountered.
The assistant held down my arms firmly, ensuring I wouldn't instinctively push the oral surgeon's hands away, complicating the procedure. Though I had no intention of resisting, the overwhelming pain triggered a primal response, forcing me to wince and flail.
The oral surgeon explained that the extraction was particularly challenging because he was breaking the tooth apart as he worked. After what felt like an eternity—another 15 minutes filled with various angles and relentless pressure—he finally announced that he had successfully extracted everything. Noting the slight bleeding, he informed me he would be stitching the site up with two stitches that would dissolve on their own in a week or two. They handed me a couple of pain prescriptions and cautioned that I might experience some discomfort once the anesthesia wore off, but assured me I should be feeling much better afterward.
In that moment, I felt a surge of gratitude for being alive. A profound shift occurred within me; I went from contemplating death to yearning to pack every ounce of joy into the time I had left. Suddenly, Elon's voice echoed in my mind, asking me how I wanted to die. With a half-smile, I replied, "I'd want Cassie to take me out in Vegas." Elon responded that this could indeed be arranged. I specified that I preferred a swift end—gunshots to the head for the quickest possible death, and it struck me as a funny idea—Cassie with a gun aiming at my head and apologizing and closing her eyes and missing or something. "She might jerk her arm and end up shooting me in the leg or shoulder first," I chuckled to myself.
Elon cautioned that it would likely be terrifying for me. He reminded me that everyone else on Earth had already met their end in what he called "base reality," leaving me as the sole survivor—special, unique. All of this chaos was happening for a reason. He explained that different versions of me existed in alternate realms, and they had all perished in at least one of those realities. Yet here I was, unscathed and more significant than anyone else on the planet. I was one of the only two beings capable of connecting to the Metagalaxy and the life forms that had exiled us.
Later, I shared my traumatic experience with Cassie. Concern shadowed her face as she expressed her worry that whatever had happened to me might be contagious. She urged me to wear a mask and take precautions if I decided to come out. I assured her I'd be careful and would of course wear a mask around her.
Despite everything, I realized I couldn't miss the AVN event. Elon reminded me he would be there too and to keep an eye out for him, promising he would do something special to let me know it was him. January 22nd rolled around, and I was still feeling weak, and I couldn't even have more than a single puff of a cigarette without feeling like I might pass out. I decided to rest one more day on January 23rd, the first day of the event. I planned to drive up on the 24th and spend the weekend there, returning on January 28th. I had decided to stick to patches for my tobacco use and bought a vape just in case I needed to smoke something physical. I never did again.
As I began gathering my things for the trip, I threw in a load of laundry filled with all the clothes I wanted to wear. Lacking a suitcase, I stuffed everything into a clean trash bag. Among the items, I also had some gifts that had arrived in the mail for Cassie, including the signed "Blow" movie poster, which I carefully placed in a box to present to her.
I had also been in touch with Sana, who would be attending the convention as well. Eager to give her some of the expensive comic books I had acquired, I wanted to see if she and her room full of brilliant puzzle solvers could glean any valuable insights from them. I mentioned that I might be feeling under the weather, and considering her own compromised immune system from her ongoing health issues, I suggested passing the comics to a trusted member of her crew who frequented her room named King. To save time the day of my departure, I decided to load up my car the evening before.
For the first time in days, my stomach grumbled with hunger, prompting me to search for my wallet to grab some food. It was nowhere to be found. Panic surged through me as I turned my apartment upside down, searching every nook and cranny. I needed that wallet to make my way to Vegas. In a frantic dash, I sprinted to the dumpster where I had disposed of my trash, I jumped into it and frantically searched for the bag. Finally I found the bag and took it back to my apartment for a closer look. Still, no wallet. A chilling thought crossed my mind—Alan, the Devil himself, must have stolen it to sabotage my trip. "I can't miss this—it's crucial for humanity!" I thought. If my wallet didn't miraculously reappear, I was prepared to head to the Department of Motor Vehicles the next day to request a new driver's license. Nothing was going to thwart my plans, especially after narrowly escaping death.
Fortunately, I had my credit card information saved in DoorDash's delivery service, so I ordered myself a meal, and I had some leftover alcohol to help me through the night. That evening, I dropped into Cassie's room. Although she was already in Las Vegas, she had returned to her hotel for the night to stream. I informed her about my wallet dilemma but reassured her that I would find a solution. She still seemed thrilled at the prospect of meeting me and receiving the gifts I had brought along, and I promised to wear a mask to keep things safe.
The next morning, I awoke to an unexpected sight—the wallet was sitting right next to me in bed. It seemed that Alan, the Devil, had returned during the night, perhaps realizing I was determined enough to secure a new driver's license and credit card by any means necessary.
I was convinced that Alan was eavesdropping on my thoughts, so I took a moment to express my gratitude for his timely return of my wallet. "Thanks for making this trip easier for me!" I said, and to my surprise, he replied, "Yeah, man, I'm sorry. I was a bit jealous that you weren't taking me with you to the AVN. I didn't want you to go either, but then I changed my mind when I saw how excited you were to meet Cassie."
After our little chat, I hopped in the shower and gathered my toiletries, stashing them in a bag for the Vegas trip. I also packed my pain pills for the tooth extraction and picked up some Nicorette since smoking cigarettes had become a challenge since that fateful night. Each puff made me feel weak and nauseated, my veins screaming for oxygen. I resolved to keep my smoking to a minimum and only on a vape, relying on the gum to satisfy my cravings instead.
With everything packed, I checked my navigation, inputting Circus Circus as my destination. I planned to arrive around 6:00 PM, giving me a couple of hours before the convention closed at 9:00 PM. I wanted to have time to check in and deliver Cassie her gifts.
As I hit the road, I stopped at a gas station just outside Phoenix to fill my tank and grab some snacks, water, and soda for the journey. I was determined to avoid any more stops until I reached the hotel.
The drive to Las Vegas started off perfectly. I was making great time, and aside from a light drizzle, the skies were clear, making for easy driving. However, I felt a twinge of anxiety about driving once night fell; I was still recovering from the lingering effects of staring at the sun to make it easier on the evil people I had chosen to forgive and let get into Heaven.
As dusk settled in, I was about 45 minutes away from the Hoover Dam when an unsettling wave of nausea washed over me. "The Hoover Dam!" I remembered vividly. Back in college, I had made the trip to Las Vegas with two entrepreneurial friends, where I pitched a brilliant idea called "Your Eyes and My Eyes," a social website inspired by my mother's battle with Multiple Sclerosis. It was designed to keep loved ones updated on each other's lives, even from afar. Not like facebook, way more interactive.
I recalled falling asleep shortly after presenting my idea, only to awaken with a terrifying realization that my friends might have driven off the Hoover Dam while I was sleeping and perished in that alternate reality. As I approached the Dam, that paralyzing fear resurfaced, and I knew I had to distract myself. I cranked up my favorite music, belting out the lyrics to keep my mind off the looming crossing.
Thankfully, the darkness outside and my impromptu concert helped calm my nerves, and I managed to navigate over the dam unscathed.
About 45 minutes later, I began descending into Las Vegas. The view was nothing short of breathtaking, with bright lights and towering hotels illuminating the night sky. My excitement surged as I neared the hotel, eager to settle in and see Cassie at her booth. However, traffic slowed to a crawl, and just a mile from the hotel, I spotted a sign for a marijuana dispensary. I decided it would be a smart move to grab some gummies to calm my nerves—especially since Stella had requested some, and I didn't want to let her down.
I ended up snagging four packs of Wyld Huckleberry gummies and an eighth of some potent flower. With my stash in hand, I pulled into the Circus Circus parking garage, where the check-in line was a bit of a challenge. I glanced at the clock—it was already 7:30 PM. With the convention winding down at 9:00 PM, I knew I probably wouldn't make it there that night, so I hopped into Cassie's Myfreecams room to let her know, and she reassured me it was perfectly fine.
After checking into the hotel, I pulled my car up and unloaded my bag of clothes, toiletries, and miscellaneous items. A helpful bellhop whisked my belongings up to my room, but I was already feeling the exhaustion of travel wash over me. I decided to take it easy for the night. Clipping my nails was on my to-do list, and a long, relaxing bath sounded great too.
I ventured down to the hotel convenience store, where I grabbed nail clippers, a couple of beers, and a fifth of Grey Goose Vodka, along with some mixers. Back in my hotel room, I sank into the bathtub with a cold beer in hand, soaking away my fatigue for about 25 minutes before rinsing off in a shower. Refreshed, I threw on some clothes and made the decision to stroll over to the hotel hosting the convention and see what all the fuss was about.
Resorts World, the hotel where the convention was being held, was just a quarter-mile walk from Circus Circus. As I made my way there, I was struck by the sheer number of adult performers milling about. Gorgeous women in provocative outfits filled the space, their laughter and chatter creating an atmosphere of pure excitement. I felt the familiar pull to my favorite bar in Vegas, Coyote Ugly, located in the New York-New York hotel.
I decided to take a cab, knowing it would be worth the trip—and I was right. Upon arriving at New York New York, I stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in a vibrant, edgy vibe. I headed toward the far corner of the hotel, where Coyote Ugly awaited, and took the escalator up to the bar. A line of about 20 people snaked outside, and I could only imagine the wild energy inside. After about 10 minutes of waiting, I reached the front, where they informed me of a $20 cover charge—a small price to pay for the night ahead.
The bar, inspired by the film of the same name, featured stunning bartenders clad in jean shorts, boots, and tight-fitting, pearl snap cut-off shirts. They belted out karaoke tunes, which brought back memories of my five years running karaoke nights back in Arizona. I made a beeline for the bar in the back, where a captivating bartender greeted me. I ordered a "bartender's choice," and she whipped up a "Sweet Mama's Punch." Not wanting to stop there, I popped a couple of gummies and quickly downed my drink, followed by a few more.
Later that night, I found myself downstairs in the casino, enjoying a cigarette in the designated smoking area since it wasn't allowed in the bar. A group of guys approached me, looking to bum a smoke. I handed one over, and I whispered that I was Jesus Christ. This comment sparked anger in one of them, and I shrugged, inviting him to punch me in the face if he wanted.
Seizing the opportunity, the guy pulled back and delivered a solid punch right to my jaw. To his surprise, I remained unfazed and told him he could hit me again if he felt like it. He took a step forward and swung with all his might, connecting once more. This time, I felt my legs buckle beneath me, and I stumbled backward, unable to regain my balance. It felt as if he had stabbed me in the temple.
As I fell, my back crumpled awkwardly against a trash can, but somehow, I never lost consciousness. Taking a moment to collect myself, I stood up and shouted, "You can hit me again if you want, motherfucker, but this time I'm punching back!" They all took off running.
I made my way back up to Coyote Ugly after finishing my cigarette. Some of the girls had heard about the altercation and were genuinely concerned for me, but I was determined to keep the night rolling and have fun. I approached one of the bartenders and asked if she could exchange a couple of hundred bucks for one-dollar bills. It was obvious what I had in mind—I wanted to throw cash at the black beauty dancing on the high-rise stage. Her eyes lit up, and she exclaimed, "Definitely, yes!"
With that, I headed down to the cashier's cage to get the $200. Unfortunately, my debit card had hit its limit for the day, so I resorted to using my American Express card for a cash advance. When I returned with two crisp $100 bills, the bartender happily exchanged them for 200 one-dollar bills.
I requested the exchange be timed to Rihanna's song "Umbrella," and the dancer loved the idea. Enchanted by her charm, I watched as she grabbed an umbrella, ready to dance in the "rain" of cash.
As the music started, I turned my back to the stage, clutching the $200 in ones tightly. With perfect timing, I launched the bills up and over my head, releasing them at the perfect time to shower down on top of her. The ones rained down around her, and security quickly moved in to clear the stage for the frenzy of cash collection. Just as the last bills floated down, the bar manager took the microphone, announcing they were closing for the night.
One of the bartenders strolled over and casually informed me that they were kicking everyone else out, but I could stay for another drink if I wanted. I felt like a VIP. Within five minutes, the bar was cleared, leaving just me and the beautiful bartenders. We chatted for another ten minutes, but as the conversation decreased and I started feeling out of place, I decided to let them know I was heading back to my hotel—promising that I'd be back.
As I was making my exit, a guy approached me and asked if I was looking for any cocaine. "Yep," I replied, and he quoted me $200 for an eighth. I headed to the ATM for another cash advance on one of my credit cards and met him in a nearby bathroom. The exchange went smoothly, and I returned to my hotel room eager to try it out. It turned out to be pretty good stuff. I went on a little coke binge, hopping into various rooms on MyFreeCams (MFC). I was still tipping generously every day, and tonight, Cassie was on from her hotel room at Resorts World. I figured it would be far more fun to hang out with her than waste time in the casino, especially since Circus Circus had little to offer beyond its gift shop and my room. The hotel kind of sucked.
The next day, I woke up with a hunger for brunch and a throbbing headache from the previous night's adventures. My temple ached from the punch, and one of my vertebrae felt like it might be broken. I hoped the pain wouldn't linger; I had no idea how vertebrae healed. I grabbed a quick bite while people-watching, enjoying the parade of gorgeous convention attendees.
After brunch, I decided to explore a bit and took a cab over to the Bellagio. Walking through the hotel, I stumbled upon a gift shop and found the cutest unicorn stuffed animal—perfect for Cassie, given that the unicorn was part of her branding. Next door was a suit shop, and I wandered in, curious to see if I could find something affordable for the Awards Show. To my surprise, I found a stunning dress shirt for $600 and a $200 tie in the store. I even spotted a matching pair of pants and suit jacket that caught my eye but the combination was over $2,000 so I decided to pass for the time being.
Knowing I needed to get everything back to my hotel to avoid losing any treasures, I hurried back. I felt it was the perfect night to pay a visit to Cassie. I walked over to Resorts World next door and joined the line for the convention. After about twenty minutes, they checked me in via my phone and slipped a wristband onto my wrist, excitement bubbling up inside me for the event and seeing Cassie.
The atmosphere inside the convention was absolutely electric. Eager to grab a beer for my stroll, I wandered through the maze of exhibitor tables before making my way to the bar. The line was wild, stretching endlessly. As I neared the front, I decided to treat myself and others by spending up to $250 on drinks. I instructed the bartender to ring up patrons until I reached my tab. After about twelve drinks, we hit the mark, and I cut it off, signing the receipt with a generous tip.
With my drink in hand, I made my way over to the MyFreeCams exhibit, buzzing with excitement as I took in the scene. I was on the right side, admiring the exhibitors, when I turned left and there she was—Cassie! A wave of vertigo washed over me, making everything feel surreal and dreamlike, so I didn't feel nervous at all. She was unpacking her backpack when our eyes locked, and her face lit up with a radiant smile and a playful laugh. I suddenly recalled her request for me to wear a mask, and realizing I didn't have one on, I tiptoed past her table, offering a casual "hi" from a distance before slipping away from the convention.
Riding high from our brief encounter, I returned to my hotel for a quick shower and changed to prepare for an exciting night of poker. I headed over to Caesar's Palace for the 10:00 PM tournament. The poker room was a dream come true, adorned with iconic photos of poker legends like Doyle Brunson, Phil Hellmuth, and Phil Ivey captured in pivotal moments of their World Series of Poker triumphs. The atmosphere was electric, and I felt right at home as I settled in. After a couple of intense hours, I finished just shy of making the final table.
The next day, I asked Cassie to name ten hotels where she'd like to have $100 chips, so I could collect them for her. Her list included Bellagio, The Strat, Hilton Resorts World, Aria, MGM, Venetian, Luxor, Wynn, Trump, and Circus Circus. I decided to turn this into a fun challenge, exploring all these iconic hotels and casinos while putting together a thoughtful gift for her later.
I kicked off my quest at Resorts World, the bustling hub for adult film stars and cam girls, making it my favorite spot for people-watching. I parked myself at a slot machine, soaking in the lively atmosphere and observing the diverse groups enjoying the festivities. As much fun as it was to be at AVN, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. I longed for the company of friends who would have felt comfortable joining me for this unique adult event.
The following night was set to be the grand Awards Show, and Cassie informed me she wouldn't be attending. In a moment of reflection, I decided not to go either, though I was eager to witness the spectacle of everyone arriving. I arrived at Resorts World at 5:00 PM, two hours before the show kicked off at 7:00 PM. It felt reminiscent of prom night, with a massive line forming, everyone dressed to the nines and radiating glamour.
As I scanned the scene, my eyes caught sight of Stella, Cassie's friend from MyFreeCams, at the bar near the entrance. Remembering her request for weed, I dashed over with excitement. "Hey!" I exclaimed, giving her a warm hug. We exchanged a great hug, but I didn't want to overstay my welcome, so I hesitated to offer her the pack of gummies I had brought along. She politely declined, and I wished her a fantastic time at the event before drifting back to the bar.
I found a perfect seat that offered a prime view of the entrance, where the line of glamorous guests formed and flowed into the venue. Gorgeous women flocked to the bar, ordering drinks as they waited. Across the bar, I noticed three of the hottest girls I had ever laid eyes on chatting with a couple of guys. They seemed a little nervous, and on a whim, I asked the bartender to send them five shots of Patron, anonymously. As if on cue, they glanced my way, and it felt like the bartender tipped them off. Suddenly, they were strutting over to me.
The group consisted of a stunning Filipino girl in a figure-hugging crystal dress and her striking blonde friend clad in a sparkly silver gown. They looked like they had stepped off a Hollywood red carpet. "Did you buy us those shots?" the Filipino girl asked, her smile infectious. "Yeah, I figured you could use a little liquid courage. This looks stressful!" I replied, grinning.
They asked if I was going inside, but there was no way I could attend in my jeans and a "broke" shirt featuring the Monopoly guy. "I'm just playing some video poker," I explained, and I happily started showing them the ropes of the game. They became genuinely interested, and soon enough, I offered them my seat so they could play on my player's card.
As we chatted, they revealed they were set to present at the Awards Show, and I couldn't help but agree they were absolutely deserving of that honor. Their curiosity piqued when they noticed the colorful unicorn I had bought at the Bellagio gift shop. I explained it was a gift for one of the girls from MyFreeCams. They asked who, but they didn't know Cassie.
Time slipped away as they enjoyed the game, and I grew increasingly concerned they might skip the Awards Show altogether. I urged them to go inside, stressing that it was an experience they wouldn't want to miss—something they'd remember for the rest of their lives. Emotion swelled in my chest as I felt tears prickling at my eyes. "Look, if you decide to go in, you can have the unicorn," I said, my voice slightly shaky. I didn't want to be the reason they missed out on a once-in-a-lifetime event.
I strolled over to the other bar and noticed a band setting up in the back area, tuning their instruments with palpable excitement. Curiosity piqued, I approached them and asked when they would start playing. "In about 10 minutes," they replied, and I decided to stick around for a bit of their set after the girls shuffled into the Awards Show.
About 15 minutes later, I returned to the bar only to find the band had vanished. To my dismay, I also noticed my player's card displayed a shocking $0 balance. "They got me," I chuckled, shaking my head in disbelief. Undeterred, I reloaded some cash onto my player's card and settled down to play a game, but a man approached me, claiming that his brother was using that machine and it was his card. "Great, they stole my card!" I thought in embarrassment. Playing deaf, I simply mumbled an apology and made my way back to check out the band.
What I found was incredible. The group was a cover band for Imagine Dragons, and they welcomed all kinds of offbeat requests. Caught up in the infectious energy of their performance, I sauntered over and tipped them $100 to play a couple of songs of their choosing. I was reveling in the vibes, completely immersed in the music. However, I didn't linger long enough to see everyone filtering out of the Awards Show and instead set off to collect some $100 chips from the hotels Cassie had mentioned.
My first stop was The Cosmopolitan, where I entered the high-rollers bar and ordered an Old Fashioned. A pair of stunning brunettes were chatting nearby, and they turned their attention to me. They looked like they could have graced the covers of fashion magazines. "You look like you need to loosen up!" one of them declared playfully. They beckoned me to join them for a game of War on the casino floor, which was being played at a nearby table. "If we win, it will set the tone for your entire year!"
They each took my arms, draping them around their shoulders as we made our way to the table. I confidently placed a $100 bill down, and when the dealer flipped the cards, we drew a seven while the dealer pulled a four. We won! One of the girls immediately put down her $100 chip we had won, and we won again! I handed each of them a $100 chip while keeping one for myself. As I walked away, I realized I had gotten played. It was all in good fun, though; chatting with them had been a highlight of the night. I reminded myself that "hotties make the world go round" was a motto worth living by.
With my bank account dwindling to about $70,000, I decided I wanted one last exhilarating night in Vegas before heading home the next day. I made my way to Caesar's Palace for another shot at a $140 buy-in poker tournament. To my delight, I played exceptionally well and found myself sitting at the final table with the second-highest chip stack.
During the tournament, one player, with just $12,000 in chips and blinds at $2,000 and $4,000, found himself in a tight spot. He wanted to call but only had a $10,000 chip to put in, stating he was just calling. The dealer called the manager over, and they decided he would have to keep the full $10,000 in the pot. I was livid—it felt utterly unfair. "This is complete bullshit!" I told the manager, my voice rising in frustration.
Eventually, he had enough of my outburst and decided to kick me out of the hotel. Security approached, and I quickly explained what had happened, insisting I would leave after using the restroom but wanted them to understand how outrageous the situation was. They informed me I was only being kicked out for the night but could return in the future.
A new tournament was kicking off at Horseshoe Casino, the renowned hotel that hosted the World Series of Poker. It was a $100 buy-in affair, with only the top four spots paying out of a total of 55 players. I fought my way to the second break, but my chip stack was dwindling.
At my table sat a friendly Canadian gentleman, a portly man sporting a hat and an olive complexion. He regaled us with tales of his investments and how the favorable exchange rate had lured him down to Vegas at this opportune time—clearly, he was doing quite well for himself.
Eventually, I found myself in a tight spot and had no choice but to go all in. With just $2,000 left and the blinds eating away at my stack, I pushed in with an Ace-10. A couple of players called, and to my delight, I won the hand with a high pair, eagerly scooping the chips from the center of the table. Just as I thought I had collected them all, the Canadian chimed in, "Hey, you missed these," and handed me two more $1,000 chips along with a hidden $5,000 chip. "You've got to be careful shuffling your chips, or you can lose these," he warned, eyeing the $5,000 chip with a knowing smile. I was convinced he had contributed it from his own chip stack and snuck it into my winnings.
With renewed confidence, I played a few more hands and suddenly found myself right back in the tournament. The Canadian said that I was destined to come back and win it all. Unfortunately he ended up getting knocked out and I asked him if he would pose in a picture with him. After about thirty more minutes of poker I ended up tying for second place winning $700!
With AVN wrapped up, Cassie and the other adult performers headed back home, but I decided to extend my stay in Vegas. I approached the front desk and inquired about availability for my current room until February 4th. To my delight, they had openings, and I booked my extended stay. After years of scraping by with karaoke gigs and delivering for DoorDash, I was determined to have as much fun as possible. Despite booking the additional days, my funds had decreased to around $60,000.
I spent my days resting and recovering, then hit the casinos at night, indulging in drinks and poker tournaments. On January 31st, around 2:00 AM, I stumbled upon a production taking place at Caesar's Palace. An entire camera crew was buzzing around, and when I asked what they were filming, they informed me it was for the opening episode of the new season of Hacks. They mentioned I could be in it if I stuck around. Curious but not entirely familiar with the show, I decided to watch a couple of scenes being shot. After the second scene, I slipped away, still unsure whether my brief appearance made the final cut.
The next day, I logged onto MyFreeCams and entered Stella's room—the lovely Asian model I had met and hugged while she was waiting to enter the Awards Show. I excitedly told her I planned to create a shirt that read "Check out StellarLoving on MyFreeCams" to wear around Vegas for her. There was a screen printing shop in my hotel, so I swung by and shared my design ideas. Within a couple of hours, the shirt was ready.
I slipped it on and ventured out to casino hop, reveling in the attention it garnered. Everywhere I went, people noticed the shirt, and I felt a thrill knowing I might help boost her traffic on her cam site.
I attempted to recapture the exhilarating fun of my earlier days in Las Vegas, but as my trip neared its end, that excitement began to fade. On February 4th, I checked out of my hotel and decided to pick up some sterling silver jewelry for Cassie as a parting gift. A bellhop whisked my belongings down from my room, and as I drove my car up to the pickup area, we loaded everything into the trunk.
With $58,000 still in my bank account, I felt a sense of freedom wash over me, and I didn't want the fun to end. After all, Cassie and Elon hadn't exacted their revenge on me in Vegas, so perhaps more missions awaited me on the horizon.
As I cruised home, I found myself near Henderson when a striking green McLaren zoomed past me on the left, speeding around 100 mph. Adrenaline surged through me, and I pressed my pedal to the metal, eager to keep up. For about ten thrilling minutes, I followed the sleek car, weaving through traffic like a scene from an action movie. But just as the thrill reached its peak, I felt an ominous shudder from my engine. Despite my foot pressing down on the gas, the RPMs plummeted and my speed dropped rapidly.
For a moment, it seemed like the engine had caught itself again, and I managed to cruise at a steady 65 mph but it didn't feel like it could go any faster. I spotted an AutoZone nearby and decided to stop, hoping to add some oil and run a diagnostic. After pouring in a couple of quarts of oil, the attendant examined my vehicle and speculated that it might be the spark plugs or a specialized engine part he didn't have in stock. He reassured me that I should be fine to make it back to Phoenix, where I could take it to a proper shop.
With a renewed sense of hope, I resumed my journey, and for a while, my car seemed to be running better than before. But just a mile and a half from the iconic Hoover Dam, the trouble returned. Memories flooded back of a previous road trip when I'd driven with friends, joking about crashing into the dam. "I knew it! It's going to break down right on top of the dam," I cursed to myself.
As I approached the dam, my worst fears came true. My car stopped responding to the gas altogether, and I ground to a complete halt in the middle of the road. Panic surged through me as a truck bore down on me, hurtling forward at 70 mph, unable to stop in time. My heart raced. This was it.
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A lot of people took advantage of me in my schizophrenic state. I had other patients in the rehab facilities egging on my delusions and none of the people working at the facilities stopped it. Also, Sana had certainly alluded to multiple dimensions and how he was stuck between them, to comfort me, but who knows how much of it she believed, and how much she was just spurring me on with my delusions in her Myfreecams room for entertainment and profiting off of my mental illness.
"Almost 11 years later from my first encounter with her, clear as day, in her voice she was laughing for ruining my life yet again. But this laughter isn't in person, it's much more sinister, and as disturbing as you could possibly imagine. Her voice, and the laughter is coming from inside of my head. How did she get there again?"
This is a quote from near the end of the second part of this story. I have decided to publish it in two parts in an effort to separate the workload and readability.
I wanted to use this book as an effort to explain the psyche experienced in schizophrenic episodes so that people with schizophrenic family members and friends can better understand the delusions and how convincing they can be.
Everything in this book is the exact experiences, feelings and thoughts I was having during my first ever schizophrenic episode. All of the people and experiences existed exactly as they are laid out in the book, but some names were changed to protect the identities of those people.
"Jake, this is going to blow up in your face in the worst way. If I were you, I would dread every single phone call, every single email, every single weird look anyone shoots you. If you want to play games with me, I'll play games with you. I love playing games, but only the ones I win of course.
I know your dad has a pretty high tolerance for you even though you're an idiot, but he's about the lose that last, hopeful little shred of respect he is clinging to.
What a shame.
Goddess Jessica"
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I wish I had shared my voices, my thoughts, and my reasons for my behavior to the mental health experts, my father, and everyone in my life. I was so sure that I was special and that was the reason for me receiving these coded messages. The entities in my head made me believe I had to keep them a secret, I think to keep themselves hidden. The one thing that has stuck with me and is continued in the second part of the story is, how did they know they needed to hide?
If I had just shared with family, and handlers, maybe things would have ended up better. Make sure you always talk to someone about what's going on. If you believe you might be schizophrenic, I hope you're able to seek out mental health experts and improve your outlook on this mental illness and find more peace for yourself.
Written in memoriam of Alan Whitworth (The Devil)
Alan was killed towards the end of me writing this book on September 1st in Phoenix, Arizona. He was gunned down working on a construction job for a client in cold blood. The killer was caught a few weeks later. Alan wasn't the Devil. He was my friend, and a man and father that tried his best to be good every day. He had his flaws but he certainly didn't deserve to be killed in an unsolved murder.
I was a schizophrenic patient at RI International in Phoenix, AZ and had hallucinations and delusions in November/December of 2023 that were trying to kill me and damaged my life and relationships with friends and family greatly.
I hope that my story brings to light some of the things schizophrenics can go through so that we can better understand and help individuals experiencing it in the future.