Hacked Life

During his regular Wednesday afternoon 10-minute guided energy-cleansing meditation session, the following message flashed on the inside of Brydon’s eyelids:


Thanks to a programming flaw in the neural chip implanted in your brain, we have hacked it and essentially your life and extracted the databases cataloging the entirety of your being.

How did this happen?

Our team of experts has found a backdoor vulnerability within your brain chip that we were able to exploit, allowing us to access your credentials and extract your entire database, the information of which has been moved to an offshore server.

What does this mean?

We will systematically go through the process of destroying your reputation. Secrets? You no longer have those. Your life has just become an open book. The portion of the database containing all the damaging skeletons hiding in your closet will be leaked or sold to the highest bidder to use as they see fit.

Next, if there are any salacious or negative thoughts or dreams about family, friends, or coworkers, they will be forwarded to all parties involved. Committed a crime that you thought you got away with? The local and perhaps even federal authorities will be notified.

And in case you’re not worried about this hack because you lead a good, honest and innocent life, you will want to take note of the fact that we will invent scandals that will turn your life into a living hell. You will be shunned by family and friends, fired from your place of employment, run out of town, face the possibility of imprisonment, and be forced to notify your neighbors that you are a registered sex offender.

How do you stop this?

We are willing to refrain from destroying your reputation for a small one-time cryptocurrency fee:

  • The amount: $30,000
  • The Address Part 1: Xliehhviwwmw1313qsgomrkfmvhperijmvwxlsywisrxlipijx
  • The Address Part 2: Mjcsyaiviefpixshigmtlivxlmwevir’xcsyxligpizivpmxxpigpsknywxxcti
  • The Address Part 3: “sverkitiipneddferh”mrxligsqqirxxspixqiorsacsygvegoihmx

In order to remit payment, you will need to manually copy + paste Part1, Part2, and Part3 in one string with no space between the parts that begin with “X” and end with “x” – This is the actual address where the money must be sent.

Once you have met our demands, we will automatically be informed of your payment. Please note: It is imperative that you issue payment within 72 hours of receipt of this message, or else the database leak WILL BEGIN IMMEDIATELY!

How do you purchase cryptocurrency?

You can easily buy cryptocoins via several websites or even offline from a Crytocoin-ATM.

What if you decide not to pay?

If you unwisely choose not to pay, we will begin the attack at the indicated date and uphold it until your payment is received. Please be advised that there are no countermeasures to this. You will only end up wasting more money trying to find a solution. We will completely destroy your reputation with people and oraginzations in your past, present, and even your future.

This is not a hoax! Do attempt to reason or negotiate with us! Payment in full is your only recourse! Upon receipt of your payment, we will discontinue our malicious act and you will never hear from us again!

Please note that crytocoin is anonymous and no one will find out that you have complied.

So, what are you waiting for? The clock is ticking!

Not. The. End.

At Last, The Destination

Although the sun sat high in the midday sky, the figure who approached me was draped in a shadow so complete as to let no light escape the boundaries of its form. Its frame was crisp but the features blurred and I knew in that instant that none who lived was allowed to view its terrifying countenance.

“You have come for me?” I asked, my voice betraying the courage I strove to display.

“Come?” the figure said in a voice neither male nor female but not wholly unpleasant. “No, my dear, I am always present.”

“But you surely do not deny that you are the Grim Reaper?”

“The Reaper I am, yet not so grim. And I pose no danger to you for Death is not to blame for death. If it offers you some measure of comfort, think of me as the ultimate destination of your lifelong journey.”

The Reaper spoke without guile. Its words, a wave of tranquility, washed over me and suddenly I found myself in the embrace of a satisfaction I had never known in all my days. This newfound contentment was accompanied by the realization that I had overcome insurmountable obstacles and completed a near-impossible task, and as I accepted the Reaper’s hand, warm and soft to the touch, I slowly exhaled all the limitations of the physical world and welcomed the painless transition into the final stage of existence.

The King of Wretches

I do not have a favorite season, per se, but whenever summer rolls around, my head swims with near-endless possibilities of how I can alter not only my reality but the reality of existence itself so that I am finally able to live a life in which my head falls on the pillow with no worries and I awaken in the same manner.

But at this moment any life other than my own would be an improvement. You must understand, when you live in the gutter, climbing up onto the pavement can feel like reaching Shamayim, the first heaven, but there is not much chance of climbing that high. My wings, or what is left of them, have not been able to bear my weight for quite some time now.

And I am not alone. I lie here amongst the other bodies that convulse on a human Richter scale that makes it impossible to pray and have those prayers heard. My lips, dry and cracked haven’t kissed another in a century of lifetimes, though I myself have been kissed by a fate who cruelly calls my name and announces my presence, the King of Wretches Among Wretches. This fate who comes down from on high feigns love for me, lifts my head slightly, and kisses me deeply and passionately before abandoning me without uttering a word.

So here I exist, an enemy of sleep as I am cursed to remain awake and endure, trying to mask my terror because I was instructed to know no fear but I feel my reserve crack and my secret dreads are beginning to seep through. Left for dead but not truly dead, I sometimes raise myself to my full height and threaten to leave but Those Who Know realize this is an empty threat. My soul is anchored to this spot and even though I can beseech the wind to lift away this all too fleshy carapace, what would I be without that which makes me unique? What sort of life would a soulless one be?

Alas, I am far too proud to beg, even for mercy. Accepting charity never seemed quite fitting to me, which means I stay in anger and at the dawn of each new day I let the carrion pick away at the bits of me that have gone necrotic from disuse. I curse the fact that when they take to the sky they never steal away the bits that made me the monster that led me to be in this predicament in the first place. It is as if the universe believes its very own balance is better with me assuming this role.

The sad truth is that not all dead are buried in the field with the flowers. Some lie rotting away to nothing, slowly dying from wounds that never heal. The minor injuries you suffer repeatedly every single day that rip the scabs off to bleed you anew. It is the slowest death imaginable. Where you die a little more on each anniversary.

And in time these injuries celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, and even holidays. And you cry outwardly until the tears no longer come, then you cry inwardly and when people cannot see you weep, they assume that you have moved on and think it is acceptable to pretend the bad thing never happened and things can return to normal, without realizing that there is no longer a normal to return to.

The parent of dead hopes and dreams never stops being a parent in their hearts. And you spend the rest of your life gathering the leftover pieces and remnants of a future life well past its sell-by date and inhume it in the backyard of years gone by in a specially constructed box of disappointment.

The Secret

The moment Lavelle stepped through the door, I realized something was wrong. He had just come home for winter recess, head shaved bald and immediately retreated into his room claiming to be exhausted from the trip. When he finally made an appearance at the dinner table, he asked if we could go shopping for some new clothes from the big and tall section. Lavelle, like the rest of my side of the family was thin and vertically challenged so when I questioned him he claimed “it’s the style now, you wouldn’t understand.” It was an obvious lie but I loved my son and went along with the deception.

While selecting stretch fabric shirts and elastic band pants that were several sizes too big for his wiry frame, Lavelle shyly asked if I could take him to see an animal therapist. I could have handled my initial response better but it was such a bizarre request that caught me out of left field. I began badgering him with questions and demanding answers until he broke down in tears and revealed that he had become a werewolf.

We did a joint counselling session with a therapist who took my son’s claim in stride. She gently suggested that Lavelle could only have true happiness if he found a way to be comfortable with his authentic self. Doing my part, I assured my son that I would continue to love and support him. I told the therapist that I was scared for him because I felt with all the torment he was experiencing by holding everything in and hiding the truth for so long, something would cause him to break and harm himself, the way some people do when they reach the final straw.

The odd thing about the whole situation was I was never afraid for my own life. I knew my son would never hurt me. And the only major adjustment I had to make was whenever he visited home during full moon periods, he tended to leave portions of his victims on my doorstep, the way house cats brought glory gifts to their owners when they killed mice, leaving me to dispose of the evidence and follow YouTube tutorials on “biohazard remediation,” but these were the things one does for love.

Dear Madd Fictional: Jacks With Ghosts

Even though it’s a brand new year and a year’s worth of possibility is out there just waiting to be discovered, times are still tough. Not just for me but for everyone these days and as such, I found I needed a side hustle to help make ends meet. I tried everything from Human Fracking to Milky Way Real Estate Developing to Kickstarting The Zombie Apocalypse and they all turned up snake eyes…until I stumbled upon my true calling: Starting An Online Advice Column.

To be clear, I’m not that well-known in the “advice community” yet but the types of questions put to me so far made my editor ask me to share the most memorable letter I received in my role as a Relationship Advisor:

Dear Madd Fictional,

By profession, I am a Paranormal Cleaner and if you’re not familiar with that term, I am the person that paranormal investigators call once they have established that a residence or business establishment is inhabited by entities that have moved on beyond the mortal plane of existence. It is my job to collect the spirits and physically remove them from the premises. In your head, you might be picturing the box trap gizmo from Ghostbusters right about now but the truth is a lot less complicated. The simplest way to capture a ghost is to either use a metal box that contains a layer of soil from hallowed ground (typically a church or cemetery) or a lit candle placed inside an open-lidded glass jar. Once captured, they are covered with a pinch of salt and buried in hallowed ground, which leads to my problem.

Each time I collect an Interactive Personality, Ectoplasm, Poltergeist, Orb, or Funnel Ghost, instead of burying them in hallowed ground, I take them home and release them in my bedroom. When certain urges arise, I strip down, anoint myself in equal parts cinnamon, calamus, cassia, and myrrh, in olive oil (except for my private area), and practice onanism as the spirits swarm around the room. Is this normal?—J.W.G., Pinellas Park, Florida

My response was simple:

Dear Jacks With Ghosts (I’m assuming that’s what J.W.G. stands for)

First, allow me to say that I do not actively participate in kink-shaming, you do you, let your freak flag fly, and all that good stuff, as long as it’s with consenting adults, consenting being the key word there. You haven’t specified in your letter whether the spirits have given you permission to be confined in your bedroom and made to watch you shake hands with the milkman. Also, out of curiosity, do you make them perform lewd acts on themselves and each other to aid in your banister polishing? And better still, do they physically interact with you (which I can only imagine and describe as nulling the void)?

As an answer to your question of it being normal, have you visited adult websites and conducted a search for what you’re doing? If you cannot find content that matches your act, I believe you know where you stand in the kinkiverse.

Happy New Year!