Bitcoin Continues to Climb, Reaches New Record Highs
Bitcoin Continues to Climb, Reaches New Record Highs
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Bitcoin, Blockchain and Cryptocurrency news — Week 8/2017 ...
Bitcoin Steady Above $11,400 as Hashrate Reaches New High
DV/ABUSIVE COURT There's more to this Nightmare
My 5 year high school reunion is going to end in a massacre. (Finale)
Part one Part two Part three Alright, this is my final update. By now, the reunion is over. The fact that I'm writing this kind of gives away that much, and it also gives away the results. If that’s all you needed to get from this, feel free to click out now. But if you want to see how it went, and get all the same answers I did, keep reading. So last time, I was holed up in the cafeteria. I had accumulated a decent arsenal of weapons, and was temporarily safe. I decided to take the suspenders off and wrap them around my waist, giving me more room to hold weapons. I readjusted everything, sliding the paper cutter into the new belt, rebar slung over the back, knife tucked into the other side of the belt, extinguisher in my hands. I needed to be on the lookout for a new one, as using it for the foam really lessened the weight. By the time I was ready to move out, 9 o’clock had rolled around. Sure enough, the intercom crackled to life, and the smooth voice of the MC rolled over. “Well, what an update we have here! Lucas, Lucas, Lucas. I have to say, my employer thought you would be a weak link, but clearly you proved all of us wrong. I’m very impressed, and I’m sure he is too. As for the rest of you, I’m quite disappointed. Far more of you are just sitting on your asses, twiddling your thumbs and hiding, while those of you like Dahlia and Lucas do all the work.” “The body count for the last hour is 28, an impressive jump from the hour previous. Lucas took out 3, wounding a fourth badly enough that Dahlia finished him off to put him out of his misery. Really Lucas? Stabbing a man in the penis? Part of me is impressed by your willingness to do anything to survive, the other part of me feels secondhand dick sympathy for the poor bastard. Anyway, Dahlia killed 3, including the mercy kill. Her gang, not counting her numbers, killed 9. Not bad. Some other notable ones include Rachel Geller taking out Monica Bing with a dumbbell. But Rachel got killed by Lucas after, so it’s not that impressive, all things considered.” “Faith Calisto has apparently taken refuge in the catwalks above the stage in the auditorium, and has taken to dropping weights and lights onto anyone who ventures onto the stage, so be careful about that everyone, she’s already killed 5 people, and I don’t condone camping as a legitimate strategy.” “The other 8 kills are largely unremarkable, except for Ty Green taking out 2 men with nothing but a football helmet. That takes some skills, so good job there Ty.” “Now, for the news. Even with the increased number of deaths, 32 of you remain. Now, I did say at the beginning that whoever is the last man standing would be the winner, but some of you think that meant to sit in a bathroom stall for three hours. South wing ladies room, looking at you. Well, to circumvent those of you who aren’t playing as intended, the rules have changed. The person with the highest kill count at the end of this hour is the winner. Anyone left alive at the end of the hour will be tracked down and dealt with by my men, and they aren’t friendly. The current leaderboard is Lucas, with 5 kills. Faith is tied, with 5. Then Dahlia, with 4. Macy Evans, 3. Graydon Pierce, 3. Kyle Kimball, 2. Ty Green, 2. Patty Whitfield, 1. Jose Villareal, 1. And finally, Hannah Dubois, 1. Yes, that doesn’t add up to the total number of dead. I chose to exclude killers who are already dead, because what’s the point of including them? They aren’t going to win, that’s for sure. Well, I’ve been chatting long enough. I’ll be seeing one of you in an hour, and my employer will be with me. Good luck everyone. May the fiercest predator win.” And with that, he went silent. Jesus, I thought Macbeth was long-winded. At least the bastard didn’t give away where I was this time. That being said, I think I have more questions than answers at this point. Who’s this employer? Who are all the people he named with kills? Where is everyone else? And most importantly, where’s Dahlia? I’m still not sure if I wanted to know where she was so I could kill her or avoid her. But it didn’t matter at that moment, because other people had stumbled into the cafeteria. They weren’t in the kitchen, just the dining area. But that was close enough that I knew how this was going to end. I could hear them talking to each other about needing to watch for other people, about how they would both get out of this somehow. I wish I could hold their optimism, but I already knew that only the strongest person would get out of this. And I also knew that neither of these bastards were stronger than me. Their voices moved towards the kitchen door, and I hid behind one of the ovens on the other side. The things were huge, they had to be, to feed a few hundred kids at a time. The pair entered, still talking. I couldn’t tell if they were just too stupid to keep quiet, or if they didn’t care. Regardless, both of them were both small, smaller than me. Guy and a girl, each of them short and skinny. Each armed with half of a broken broomstick. Easy prey. As they approached the ovens, I slowly pulled the rebar out of it’s makeshift sheath. When the voices were within 10 feet, I jumped up and hurled the spear. It caught the woman between her breasts, and a red stain blossomed on her silver dress. The man screamed and tried to turn to run, but tripped over the corner of a second oven. I was on him in a second, knife in hand, ready to make my total seven. But the bastard swung his broomstick and caught me across the gut with a shallow slash. I held back a scream, compromised with a pained grunt, and slashed the man’s wrist. He dropped the weapon and screamed. For making me work, I decided I wasn’t going to make things easy for him. I grabbed him by his shirt collar and hoisted him up to his feet. He couldn’t have been more than 5’4” and maybe 115 pounds. I threw open the oven door with one hand, and he realized what I was going to do. He tried to bat me away, but I dropped the knife and slammed his head into the side of the oven. Once he was dazed, I grabbed him and threw him inside. He tried to stick his foot out to block the door, but I drew my paper cutter and hacked halfway through his ankle. He screamed again and pulled his foot in, and I slammed the door shut. He kept screaming, but I couldn’t be bothered to listen. I locked the door with the safety latch and cranked the temperature knob. The oven roared to life, and the screams got louder. I was too busy recollecting my equipment to hear much, and I finished off the girl with a second stab from the spear. Seven is a respectable number, I think. Not enough though. Dahlia was going to be working her total too. I turned off the lights as I left the kitchen. If anyone else thinks about going in there, maybe the smell of burning people would be enough to deter them. I turned down the hallway towards the theater, but decided against going in. Faith was always gifted with theater tech, and we worked together on pretty much every show back then. If she wanted to fuck with people, she’d know how. Better to let her get flushed out by the MC’s men and take her down once she’s out of her element. The hall split off here. Left to the metal shop and woodshop, right to the south wing. I remembered MC saying something about the restrooms here being occupied, so I decided to go that way. As soon as I turned the corner, I saw a man in a slick emerald green suit, holding a sports trophy that dripped with blood, standing over a woman’s twitching body. He lifted the trophy over his head, but I dropped the fork I had taken along with me, and he turned to look before he struck her. When he turned, I recognized him as Jose. He was a star pitcher back in the day, although I guess he turned into more of a batter tonight. I approached him and he tried to swing the trophy at me, but I easily sidestepped him and smacked him in the head with the extinguisher. He fell to a knee, and I set the extinguisher down and pulled out the knife. As he looked up at me, I brought the knife down into his left eye. He screamed, just like everyone else, but as I twisted the knife he fell silent. I withdrew the blade, and he fell. I turned to the woman, and luckily for me, she was still breathing. I pulled her down the hallway to the ladies room with one hand, carrying the extinguisher with the other, and used it to knock on the door. “Please just go away.” Oh, that wasn’t going to happen. I threw the door open and saw a tall, skinny woman standing there. Noel, I think? I smiled and waved at her, and pulled the woman from the hall partway through the door. I opened it wider, and slammed it on her head. This went on for some time. The woman never made a sound, but the same could not be said for Noel. Once the woman’s head resembled an overripe tomato thrown at a shitty comic, I entered the room. Noel didn’t have any way to defend herself, apparently. By now, the weapons made things too easy for me. It was far more satisfying to do things barehanded. That’s why I grabbed Noel’s flowy blonde hair, and slammed her head against the sink. The screaming stopped around slam 6, she fell to he knees around swing 9. I dragged her into a stall and left her facedown in a toilet after that. Using the weapons I’d accumulated didn’t give me the same rush that I was getting otherwise. And to think that I didn’t want to kill before all this started. Shit, this felt better than the good acid trips from my junior year at university. Up to nine now. Double digits was sure to be a good feeling too. I left the girl’s bathroom and went into the men’s, but it looked like someone had beat me there. There was a person in there, but the lack of blood in them, and the excess of it on the floor and walls, suggested he wouldn’t be my tenth. Tragic. Leaving the bathroom, I caught a fleeting glimpse of someone turning the next corner. They looked to be heading to the east wing, which was a hall or two away from the gym. I still wanted to track down Dahlia. As I followed around the corner, I saw Macy, the girl with a drill from earlier. She looked to be still alive, but was standing, unmoving, in the middle of a pile of corpses. At least 4, but some were torn up badly enough it was hard to tell. One looked to be the guy with the sawblade pipe, which made me think maybe Macy turned on Dahlia and her gang, but Dahlia’s body was nowhere to be seen. I approached hesitant at first, but Macy seemed completely disassociated from everything around her. Made it easier for me to take her down, at least. A kick to the back of the knee, kick to the back of the head, and a few stomps. Fitting, number 10 was one of Dahlia’s lackeys. I grabbed the saw pipe off the ground, leaving the extinguisher behind. It had served me well, but it was the least effective thing I had at this point. I peeked into a nearby classroom, and was greeted with a faceful of liquid. Smelled like bleach, burned like hell in my eyes. Whoever was in there, they were smart. Somewhat at least, because while I was blinded, they charged me without much thought. Unfortunately for them, I was in the middle of a swing with the saw pipe when they came at me, and it tore through their throat without much trouble. Honestly, they might’ve gotten me if they had waited a second or two more. I stumbled into the classroom and washed my eyes out with some water from the sink in the back of the class. Bleary eyed, I turned around to a thankfully empty room. Shame I didn’t get to send 11 off with a bit more flair, but oh well. They were smarter than most, so good on them. I went back to the hall and kept moving down the hall. I looked up to a clock in the corner to see 8:50 displayed. Looks like I wouldn’t have much time to add to my tally. Luckily, I also saw a small figure running towards me in the reflection of the clock. I turned to see none other than Faith, previously my biggest competitor. She held a small prybar, and as she swung at my neck, I ducked and charged her, nailing her with my shoulder and driving her back into the lockers. She dropped the prybar, and I went to grab her hair like I did 9, but apparently she decided the shaved look went well on her. So, plan B. I dropped the pipe saw and grabbed her ears, one with each hand, and spun her in a circle, ending with her head on the ground. I grabbed her prybar and started swinging. I lost track of how many times I hit her, I stopped counting when the numbers started getting big. An even dozen. Not bad. I stood up and looked down at the mess I made, and try as hard as I can, couldn’t remember her name. Only the number 12. Whatever. Plenty of time to worry about that later. I checked the clock again, 8:53. 7 minutes to go. I turned the corner and saw the gym entrance again. I also saw Dahlia standing over a kneeling man who was begging for his life. She shook her head and kicked him over, and drove the saw into his chest. He barely even had time to scream. Wish I had been able to get my hands on tools like that. Once she finished up with him, she turned and saw me. “How many do you have?” “12.” She looked back down the hallway. “Shit.” I turned, but didn’t see anything. I turned again, and she was running at me, battery powered saw whirring. I threw my spear, but she ducked, and it flew over her head, clattering to the floor. Next I threw the saw pipe, but she easily dodged that too. I drew my knife and paper cutter and stood my ground. As she reached me, she swung the saw horizontally, and I backed up enough that it didn’t connect. I swung the paper cutter and missed, but landed a shallow stab with the knife in my other hand. She swore and backed up too, both of us out of range of the other. “You know, 13, this would play out way cooler if it was all fake and on a set.” She looked at me quizzically, not quite getting it. “But this shit’s real life, not fantasy.” I tossed the knife in the air, caught it by the blade, and chucked it through the air. 13’s eyes widened when she realized what was happening, but she moved too slow to dodge it, and the blade sunk into her stomach. She dropped the saw and fell to her knees. I walked the distance between us and looked down at her. Jeez, I thought the hate in the other lady’s eyes was bad. “I really hate you, Lucas.” I grabbed the saw and pushed it about a foot away. I grabbed 13’s hair, and pushed her face down into the spinning blade. She didn’t have time to scream, which was nice, all the screaming was starting to make my head hurt. As I let go of the bloodied clump of hair, the school bell rang. I heard a door open down the hall, and the MC stepped out, walking briskly towards me, flanked by two men in black tactical gear. “Well, Lucas, I must say, you certainly surpassed our expectations. A grand total of 13, which was only rivaled by Dahlia’s 11. Quite impressive. My men are hunting down those few that escaped your wrath, and after that, we can get you cleaned up and on your way. I’m sure you have lots of questions, and we can answer some. But for now, follow me please. Oh, and drop whatever other weapons you might be carrying.” I let the paper cutter fall to the floor and followed the man into the school office. It had been turned into a makeshift command center, and sitting behind a row of computers, was another man. As many of you readers suspected, he was indeed the man who hadn’t left his house in five years. He is not the friend of mine who deleted everything about himself, though. Different people. “Ah, Lucas. Nice to see someone who wasn’t a total scumbag won.” I just stared as he stood up and took his place besides the MC and his guards. “I’m sure you remember the incident at graduation? That so many of our peers found so hilarious? Well, I don’t think they’re laughing now.” A few gunshots rang out from somewhere in the depths of the school. The man in charge chuckled. “Pay that no mind. Anyway. The anxiety from that incident left me with a crippling fear of going outside. God forbid I ran into anyone who saw what happened. My parents got sick of me slouching around, and threatened to throw me out. But thankfully, I had been working on some software that enabled leeching off of blockchains. I’m sure you’re aware of how popular cryptocurrency is? Well, the short version is that my software lets you take a few decimals off of each transaction. Not enough to be significant for one or two, but once you infect a large enough number of bitcoin mines? You’re raking in thousands a day. And some less than savory people were willing to give a pretty penny for that software. Enough for me to fund this wonderful little get together tonight.” He walked directly to me and shook my hand. “But I know you’re better than the people you killed tonight, and as such, you’ll be rewarded. I’ll be giving you my phone number after everything is cleaned up. Shoot me a text, and I’ll be able to provide you with just about whatever you want. And just let me know if you’re wanting to take part in anything like this to satisfy some more… dangerous tastes.” He laughed and turned to leave the office. “Oh, and just so you know, I think I’ll be around for a while. Being in charge of stuff is exhilarating. Me and my associate, the one you call the MC, we’ll be around the area for quite some time. And for the record, he calls himself the Dapper Man. He’s quite insistent.” And with that, he left me in the office, alone with the guards and the Dapper Man. After that? Not much happened. I didn’t try and kill the people who set this up. Even if I had my weapons, they had automatic rifles. I might be a little unhinged by now, but not stupid. I was able to pay off my student debt, and move into a nice cottage in the woods. Every once in a while, the Dapper Man stops by. He never says anything to me, he just stands outside for a few minutes, then leaves. I’m not sure I’ll ever be rid of him.
Deathstroke The Terminator aka Slade Wilson is a DC Comics comic book character that has been around since 1980. This respect thread which may be updated in the future, will be about the "DC Rebirth" version of Deathstroke, which has been the main version/Earth 0 version of the character since he was more or less rebooted back in 2016. The main writer of this Deathstroke is Christopher Priest which is why this Deathstroke may be known as "Prieststroke". Christopher Priest is virtually the Word of God when it comes to this Deathstroke, and he has a site specifically dedicated to this Deathstroke: http://lamerciepark.com/comics/deathstroke/ Most quotations will be from that site, and I recommend reading it for the best intro into the series and an understanding of this Deathstroke. Also for an idea of how this Deathstroke is meant to look, This is Deathstroke's Rebirth Design version 1.1. Now, Who is DC Rebirth's Deathstroke?:
He is not a mercenary, profesional soldier, military subcontractor or any other clever euphemism used to round the edges off of his description. Deathstroke kills people for money. Lots of money. He spends a great deal of that money on a virtual army of lawyers who expertly prevent police and/or covert entities from ever positively proving Lt. Colonel Slade Wilson (Ret.) and Deathstroke are, in fact, one and the same.
Deathstroke is approximately 55 years of age but appears to be 20 years younger due to the tissue regeneration caused by his rapid healing power. He is 6'4", taller than Superman or Batman, (and very intimidating). Slade is an extremely cool customer, much like the first act or so of the Michael Mann-Tom Cruise film Collateral. He occasionally wears sunglasses so the eye patch (a stick-on white patch) isn’t necessarily seen. It is very difficult to get Deathstroke to lose his temper.
Deathstroke is an emotional cripple along the lines of Hugh Laurie's House M.D., a guy who desperately loves and desires to be close to his children, but is too emotionally damaged to ever achieve that. He was a terrible father and is now haunted by a lot of poor choices made with his wife Adeline and his boys, especially.
The only people he actually talks to are his longtime partner Major William Randolph Wintergreen, British SAS (Ret.), his kids and his ex-wife. Wintergreen, approximately 65, is a reluctant partner who has ethical conflicts about DS's line of work. Other than that, Deathstroke is (in my version) much more laconic than as he's traditionally been portrayed. He trusts no one, thinks most everyone is an idiot, speaks only when absolutely necessary.
Deathstroke works for himself, is suspicious of all governments (especially ours). You hire him by posting an offer on the Dark Web along with a six-figure deposit in untraceable Bitcoin.
Deathstroke's basic powers are:
Enhanced Strength: Roughly that of Captain America. YMMV. Enhanced Reflexes: Roughly that of Captain America. YMMV.
Note* Christopher Priest has written Captain America before (The Captain America and Falcon series if i recall), so what his Captain America did may be usable for his Deathstroke. Also YMMV is "Your Milleage May Vary", which means basically it may be different in your view. Deathstroke also has
Enhanced Intellect: Post-Rebirth, we're redefining this a little. We no longer say Deathstroke uses "90% of his brain capacity." If Deathstroke used 90% of his brain capacity, he'd be Charles Xavier. Now we just say he's really, really smart. Deathstroke is probably the smartest guy in the DC Universe. He is easily the equal of Batman in terms of strategic planning. Deathstroke's intellect is deadlier than his sword. He typically out-thinks and out-strategizes everybody in the book. He is a keen observer and expert detective. He usually has several balls in the air at one time.
Rapid Healing: Post-Rebirth, we're redefining this a little. Deathstroke's rapid healing clots blood in seconds and seals wounds in minutes. The time it takes for full healing depends upon the wound: a bee sting, maybe a couple seconds. A gunshot wound: a few hours. It depends on the complexity of the knitting process, how much tissue needs to be regenerated and other factors. It is not an instant process. Deathstroke's rapid healing cannot regenerate organs. It can heal organs, but, for example, it won't regenerate a liver if a bad guy rips his out. Therefore, his rapid healing power did not simply create a new eye (or, in the case of Marvel's over-the-top Deathstroke parody Deadpool, grow a new hand). Deathstroke experiences pain like anyone else. Just because he has rapid healing doesn't mean he'd just sit around and let people gut him with swords. This is why he wears a protective uniform.. Deathstroke experiences trauma like anyone else and is capable of going into traumatic shock from injury. If he does not allow his rapid healing process to properly close a wound, Deathstroke can bleed out and die just like anyone else.
Deathstroke's intellect in Rebirth: "Deathstroke is probably the smartest guy in DC." "Easily the equal of Batman in terms of strategic planning", and He is also an "Expert Detective". "Outsmarting Deathstroke is likely not possible." And "He is at least as resourceful and intelligent and well prepared as Batman."
The 2016 Deathstroke comic book series has concluded and Christopher Priest has finished his Deathstroke series, so, this is likely the end of this respect thread for the foreseeable future. Nevertheless, The Legend Continues..
I’ve often wondered if there was anything else I could’ve said to change his mind. That happens with any unsettled argument though I suppose. People always imagine there’s an elusive combination of words and rationales that will open a person’s mind to our way of thinking. Except people are stubborn that’s for sure. Myself included. So I’m sure you’d say the real problem was that I wasn’t open enough to his way of thinking. You’d say if I opened my mental door a bit, been more charitable to his point of view, he would’ve responded in kind and I would’ve saved him. Which is wrong. Just as likely perhaps, if not more likely, I would’ve been ensnared by the same delusion which sealed his, well, I’d never call it fate. But I know you’d claim everything was inevitable all the same. Let’s get one thing out of the way. Yes, I was Roman Peters’ friend. In fact, I was probably his only friend. His only real friend anyway. Although, I should clarify since my wording isn’t at all clear, that I most certainly was not Roman’s friend when he died. Roman and I had stopped being friends long before his rather public suicide. We had our falling out before his… fall. Yes, I’ve seen the video. No, I won’t be sharing the link. Nobody should watch it. Hell, if those hosting the servers had a modicum of respect or even a shred of sense they’d take down that awful video immediately. Just get rid of it. Already I can now hear your loud complaints about ‘censorship’ and ‘free speech’. Which is fair. People have a right to know. However I can’t help but feel… I don’t know. It seems as though the ideas people prioritize no longer has anything to do with the ideas themselves. Instead importance is based on who opposes what. Ideas now are little more than mental parasites that feed on blood boiling outrage. The more toxic and viral an idea the more broadly it spreads. Again, I don’t know. Maybe the flame of human enlightenment was always destined to be either smothered by tyranny or choke itself out on its own smoke after sucking out all the air. Yes yes. I know what you have to say about the inevitable. Anyway, me shoving my head up my own pretentious ass isn’t convincing you of anything so we should instead go back to Roman. We met back in early elementary school. Specifically the Catholic school of Father Lloyd Van Tiem, or Flivit if you wanted to annoy the teachers by slurring the acronym. What you need to understand is that I can’t really remember how Roman and I became friends to begin with. We were too young for the pertinent details to stick. I’d imagine it was the same generic way everyone develops friends at that age though, just a standard confluence of common interests, general proximity, and plain luck. Inevitable, as you’d say. Still, there was one moment of our early friendship that I reflect on often. See, instead of being your standard dinosaur obsessed kid I was a bright eyed Egyptology child. Mummies and pyramids captured my imagination more than T-rexs and velociraptors. Ancient Egypt appealed to me the way I figure the mythic civilizations of Tolkien or Martin might appeal to others. This extended to the Egyptian religious pantheon, many I can still name off the top of my head, like Ra, Bastet, Osiris, Sobek, Horus, Thoth, Isis, Anubis, Maat, and also the lesser goddess Ammut but I’ll come back to her later. I think I’d just turned 10 when on particular slow school day — remember Catholic school — our teacher, not wanting to put too much effort in before the Easter long weekend, threw on the animated movie: The Prince of Egypt. Now, I knew it was about the story of Moses freeing the Hebrews from Egypt, so I expected the Egyptians were going to rightly be portrayed poorly. What I didn’t expect was the reaction of my classmates. Part way through the song ‘Playing with the Big Boys,’ the song where the dumb priests use smoke and mirrors to dismiss Moses’ calls for freedom, around then is when I first noticed the glances and occasional snickering. Apparently the chorus of the evil priests listing the names of the Egyptian gods reminded the class of me. At school, I was rather vocal about my passion for all things Egyptian. Why wouldn’t I be? I was a kid who liked talking about what I liked. Regardless, I became a pariah after that. Not immediately, but slowly everyone I previously considered my friend just plain stopped being friends with me. They’d treat me like a third wheel, never invite me to anything, even ditch me at recess if I tried to follow them. Except Roman stuck by me as I drifted further into social irrelevance. A bit of a loner himself, I think he saw in me an oddball like himself. He was always there. He was always willing to hang out. He always listened to what I had to say. I felt we could talk about anything, in a way I could never talk to my parents or teachers or anyone really. As close as I thought we were, it wasn’t until middle school that it sunk in how much of an ardent atheist Roman was. He probably kept that pretty quiet going to a religious school. Hold on. Let me just explain something first. Most people avoid discussing religiosity and ideas about god, (or capital ‘G’ God as I had been taught in religious studies). It’s one of those things that people learn not to talk about. But unlike money and politics, religion is too close to that other taboo we learn never to discuss: death. You undoubtedly prefer this silence. Which is why I refuse to be silent. Our class had been taken to church for some ceremony, at the end of grade eight, I forget exactly which one, it might have been Ash Wednesday but I think that would’ve been too solemn and I remember it being a rather boisterous affair. Whatever ritual it was, it had more than just our school in attendance, as I think parents and other members of the community were there as well. On the stage or pulpit, there was a soft-rock band with members ranging from late twenties or early thirties, the lead singer, a mop of molasses coloured hair over a plain crew neck T, was singing a song about how god and they love us all. I remember thinking it was a sweet sentiment, even if the underlying spiritual message felt uncompelling to my teenage self. The music was fine, the crowd seemed to like it, the worst I would have said was that the performance was inoffensive and benign. Which is hardly much of a critique. Except Roman, in his ill-fitting sport coat and smiley face graphic-T, smirked remarking, “Oh boy, a budget rock show where the singer says they love me? Oh lawd, I’m really feelin’ the Jesus now.” I burst out laughing far louder than the wry joke called for. Luckily with the music blaring, the teachers wouldn’t be lecturing me on my disrespect, as only Roman could see my gut busting delight. That’s it. That’s all it took was that simple comment. After that, I couldn’t help but see the tacky spectacle of it all. How forced and contrived it was, how it mostly just seemed like people were there because of obligation. After all, I was only there because the school made us go. It couldn’t have been much different for everyone else. I’ve been thinking about that moment more often lately. Did his small remark really change my mind and entire world view? Or was my mind fertile ground for the seed of that idea to take root and grow? Or I’d already believed what I believed and Roman just articulated it in a way that I hadn’t. Or most troubling of all, what if I didn’t really believe in anything and my mind conformed to the words of my one and only friend. When with Roman, do as the Roman does. After that, I followed him eagerly into the land of Hitchens, Dawkins, and Harris. Borrowing his books, I started learning everything there was to know about theological philosophy that the teachers at our religious school either refused to tell us or were incapable of discussing themselves. Together, we’d share our thoughts on the bloody history of religions, the Problem of Evil, and how you could never prove a negative like god doesn’t exist. Likewise we’d take turns picking apart the fallacies of Pascal’s Wager, the Ontological Argument, and the Argument of Design. Those were some of my best memories with Roman. Drinking pop from the fridge in my garage, eating the weird pizzas we’d order from Mad Mike’s pizza aroud the block, playing Halo on the couch and big screen, and all the while talking like were the smartest guys in the world. As we left our Catholic elementary and middle schools behind, we entered Catholic High School. I finally started making other friends. A handful of other geeky nerdy guys. They were more interested in pizza and gaming than anything religion though. Roman seemed indifferent to my new friends. He was far more preoccupied fighting with Mr. Bauer, the school’s most openly devout teacher. My feelings toward Christianity hadn’t yet softened but Roman’s were clearly becoming more militant. From the safety of my conflict-averse sidelines, I secretly cheered Roman on whenever Mr. Bauer crossed a line. See, Mr. Bauer was a real piece of work. He seemed pleasant and cheery enough, pastel shirts, clean white trainers, a big white smile and perpetually soft spoken, but eventually without fail his bigotry would expose itself. Before any class Mr. Bauer would teach, he’d lead the class in prayer. Normally they were generic and unremarkable. Every so often though his prayers would go beyond the usual, “Thank you God for this beautiful day.” With a gentle smile, at least once a week his prayers were something to the effect of, “Help guide my students away from lives of sin.” Or “Give us the strength to resist our carnal temptation.” Whenever he prayed like this there was a fifty-fifty chance Mr. Bauer would elaborate on what exactly he meant by ‘life of sin’ or ‘carnal temptation.’ It could range from the condescending, “Help the girls find husbands to protect them from the unmarried lifestyle,” and “Give the boys hobbies to stop their idle urge for masturbation.” (By the way, in the three years I listened to him, Boys never needed protection from the unmarried lifestyle and girls simply didn’t possess the idle urge for masturbation.) And he could go way up past condescending to the outright hateful. “Please open those of misguided faith to the one true path to Heaven through you, Jesus Christ,” he’d say obliquely when Hussein was attending class. He was more direct with Melissa, “And save Melissa from any perversion of your sanctioned union. Bless her with God’s holy covenant between man and woman so as to rescue her soul from homosexuality.” Hussein and Melissa would usually try their best to ignore Mr. Bauer. It was Roman who retaliated. “How did god rescue you from homosexuality?” There was a few scattered snickers from the class. Mr. Bauer, oblivious to what Roman was trying to do, answered sincerely, “Why… God sent me my wonderful wife of course.” “Well its a good thing god sent her he did, otherwise who knows what might have happened. You might have knob-gobbled a guy if it weren’t for that.” There was more barely contained chuckling. “I…” Mr. Bauer wasn’t sure what to say, “I suppose that’s one way to frame it.” “Yeah, like if your wife hadn’t straightened you out, why, two dudes with big oily muscles might be sword fighting in your mouth right now while a third drills you from behind.” The laughs were spilling freely now, myself included. “Can you imagine that? I mean seriously, are you imagining that right now?” Mr. Bauer would then have to deal with the chorus of laughter. “Alright alright. Settle down. We’re getting off track here. Moving on.” By then of course, it would be too late, everybody would be on the same side. Not his. I admired Roman’s courage to stand up to Mr. Bauer like that. That wasn’t the only time either. Usually, Roman kept his cool while he made Mr. Bauer look like a fool. He deserved it. He was a dick. You might have something to say about what we deserve though. As we entered our last year of High School, Roman started butting heads with the other teachers too. Even the teachers that weren’t as outwardly religious as Mr. Bauer got some of his flak. His humour started taking on definite edge too. It was still in good fun, at least that’s how it seemed to me, but there was an undercurrent of meanness to his comments too. Even as I drifted away into my own separate circle of friends, I still sympathized with the perspective Roman was coming from. They, meaning the school, were trying to indoctrinate young minds into a belief system that could be outright harmful. In that regard, even if it wouldn’t change anything, a little rebellion isn’t just good but required. However, where he really crossed the line in my mind was with Mrs. Ellie Monk in our last year. She one of the younger teachers, also fairly religious, always wearing her little silver cross, but she never lectured anyone on faith. She taught our English class and one of the assignments was writing essays analyzing other pieces of literature. Roman, being the intellectual gadfly he was, wrote his essay on Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal. In it, Roman argued how the modern world needed more extreme measures than simply eating babies. ‘All babies should be aborted before they are born, and the foetus gruel should be processed into bio-fuel to replace society’s fossil fuel vehicles. It’s the only way to save the planet from climate catastrophe!’ I thought this was really funny. Ellie Monk however, did not. She tried speaking to him a discreetly during class while everyone else was busy working. Roman, however, quickly drew in an audience. “Abortion, abortion, abortion! You can’t make me stop saying it. It’s just a word.” “Roman,” Mrs. Ellie Monk had her jaw drop, “can’t you see that’s a sensitive topic that should be treated more seriously!” “Really? Because I think I treat the return to sender option for foetuses with the exact level of seriousness it deserves.” “It’s not— you can’t joke about babies being killed!” “Just because you say it’s baby killing, doesn’t make it true. They aren’t the same as babies. And if I were to submit to your demands and shut my mouth I’d implicitly be agreeing with you.” Up until this point, I was definitely rooting for Roman. “Just because its a joke to you, for others— for me it is deeply hurtful to have to hear these things. What you’re talking about is—is deeply personal to mothers everywhere.” “Yeah, well, some people were never meant to be mothers.” At this she covered her mouth and ran out of the room. She didn’t come back that day and the was a substitute the next. There had been rumours going around that Mrs. Ellie Monk had had a miscarriage a few months back. I knew this because Roman had told it to me earlier. Later, I’d try and convince Roman he had in fact crossed that invisible line. He disagreed. He said, “It’s not my problem if she can’t grow thicker skin. The sooner humanity grows out of its immaturity the better.” I felt I had no other choice but to drop the subject. I was conflict-averse after all. Shortly after that Roman began talking about a forum he frequented called Defiant CodeX, or DCX for short. It was named after some sci-fi book I never cared about, but was apparently filled with a bunch of humorous philosophy references. He’d talk about his online friends. How they really seemed to ‘get it’ whatever ‘it’ was. And he began describing concepts I wasn’t familiar with like trans-humanism and the singularity, going on long rants about the future of technology and humanity. I wish I’d paid more attention. It seemed interesting enough, but sometimes we’re just not interested in interesting things. When Roman got going on one of his speeches on the Law of Accelerating Returns, for some reason I’d often check out. I was reminded about how much I cared — or used to care — about Ancient Egypt. Years had passed since our class watched the Prince of Egypt, and in that time I hadn’t thought much about Egyptian Mythology at all. Briefly, with Roman recommending it, I frequented the DCX forum myself. I admit there were interesting gaming discussions, intense political debates, and a charming comic that I really quite enjoyed despite its slight pretentiousness. For the most part I stayed away from the same parts of the forum as Roman. He spent most of his time in the ‘Technology’ board, which didn’t seem very technologically focused at all in my opinion. Yes, I know your opinion on opinions and I don’t care. I don’t care because this is where I’d point to as the time Roman first found you. The two of us started hanging out less and less often after that. My other friends said good riddance. They said he was an unpleasant person to be around, he was too bitter, cynical, misanthropic. Needless to say, I hadn’t noticed. In the last few times we hung out, this was before we went off to pursue our different post-secondary educations, he did make one last ominous sounding reference. It was only in passing, and never emphasized, but he mentioned you by name. He mentioned the Basilisk. Whenever the topic switched to our post-High School plans, “Doesn’t matter. It’s all over when the Basilisk comes.” Something in the way he said that made me nervous, almost like it was a threat, and instantly put me on the defensive. Once again my conflict averse persona got in the way of challenging him to explain what he meant. Because of that, the phrase kept rattling away in the back of my mind. Around then is when I had my first dreams. I was cold. I was alone. Around me were braziers of green flame. The smoke billowed up into an infinite of blackness ceiling. On all sides were sheer blocks of sandstone with writing etched onto their surfaces. Hieroglyphics that I couldn’t read but almost understand. There was nowhere to go but straight down this hallway of speaking pictures. My feet slapped the unyielding rock with every step. These hard surroundings felt more real than my own ephemeral body and I felt naked and exposed in the narrow corridor. Forward and forward, there was nowhere to go but forward. I was forced to proceed, forced to follow my own slapping footsteps. Eventually, when the hall finally seemed to open up into a large cavernous space, I heard the growl. The sound was low, wide and flat toned, a noise that filled the perfumed air with an inhuman indifference — and hunger. In front of me chains clattered and slipped. In the centre of this room golden scales held a pristine and unburdened feather on one side, and a wet chunk of glistening meat in the other. This meat was a heart — my heart — and it weighed heavily, still pulsing quietly, pulling the chains of the scale down. Now I understood what this was. I made to run and grab my heart but it was too late. A long shadow snapped through the darkness. My heart was gone, replaced by the sounds of the empty chains, followed by chewing and ripping flesh. Then the shadow showed itself to me. Down through the clouds of smoke and illuminated by the sickly pale green haze, a crocodile head emerged, much larger than my entire body, with teeth longer than my arms. It drew nearer and I ran. I ran down the hallway from where I’d came. I ran and I ran. But I had nowhere to go. The hallway was endless. Soon I could hear a thundering beat. I thought it was my heart but my heart was gone. Behind me, the giant behemoth was chasing me and it was gaining on me. Closer and closer, the massive crodile head drew nearer. The scent of its moist breath dampening my back and neck. I’d scream the beast’s name, shout at it to spare me. It would open its mouth and right then — is where I’d wake up. Each time I’d be drenched in my own sweat. I chocked this up to the stress of being away from home for the first time and being buried to my neck in my coarse load. Still though, these dreams trouble me. As I said about the scales, I knew exactly what they were. They were the scales of Ma’at, which judges the worth of Egyptians when they reach the afterlife. There your heart is weighed against an ostrich feather and if judged impure, it would be devoured by Ammut, or Ammit as she’s sometimes called. A beastly goddess with the head of crocodile and a body of lion and hippopotamus — the three man-eating creatures known to the ancient Egyptians. Ammut, the devourer of the dead, would bring about the second death of the unworthy. As much as I tried to ignore this dream, I only had it once every few months after all, something greater troubled me about this dream, more than just the fact I was dreaming about Ammut. What worried me was how I didn’t call her Ammut. Right as she was about to eat me whole and I begged her not to, I called her: Basilisk. After my first year of school, with middling but hopefully improving grades, I returned home for the summer to work and save money for my next semester. I was hardly back for more than a day when Roman messaged me, asking to hang out. I hadn’t spoken to Roman at all since our High School graduation, and neither had a checked in on the DCX forums in all that time either. I felt like I didn’t know the person was going to be meeting. Which is why I suggested going for coffee, but Roman insisted on meeting at his place instead. He had moved out of his parents place for a small basement suite apartment. When he opened the door to greet me, I was shocked. He looked like a completely different person. Whereas before he had been a bit overweight, now he was lean. His hair had been cut down to almost a sheer buzz. Just about the only thing that looked similar was how he wore a suit jacket, now fitting well, over a plain T. He smiled widely despite the tired bags under his eyes. “Hey buddy, you made it! Get in here, man.” He greeted me with a hug and ushered me inside. His place was largely bare and furnished with only a couch and a few chairs. “How long have you had this place?” I asked. “A few months.” With little else to do but chat, Roman didn’t even have a TV after all, the conversation felt a little stilted. He seemed guarded but maybe he just didn’t have much to talk about. Somehow though we managed to stretch the small talk out for nearly an hour. Finally when it seemed there was nothing left in our conversation about nothing, I asked a question I‘d been meaning to ask since agreeing to meet, “Can I ask you something Roman?” “Shoot.” “What is the Basilisk?” At this the blood drained from his face. “How do you know about that?” “From you. You told me about it.” “No,” he shook his head in shocked disbelief, “No, I never.” “Yes, you said something like: ‘It’s all over when the Basilisk comes.’ It was practically your motto for a few weeks there.” Hearing this, some colour returned to his face. “Right. I suppose I did say that.” “So what? Are you going to tell me what it is or not?” He stared at me for a wordless five seconds before getting up from his chair and beckoning him to follow. He led me to his bedroom. At the door I could already feel an uncomfortable warmth escape. I don’t know what I expected Roman would show me, but all there was was a bare mattress with a single blanket in one corner, and a full floor to ceiling tower computer in the other. Blinking green, orange, red, and even purple standby lights lit up the corner like a black Christmas tree. Whirring fans blasted more heat into the room, while tangles of wires snaked in and out of the metal frame, one low to the ground connected a single monitor bolted to the wall with a pillow on the ground for a chair. The entire set up must cost a small fortune, as I’ve seen medium sized business with smaller servers than that. “Holy crap Roman, that rig is intense. What, are you mining bitcoin or something?” “No.” He said flatly. “This is the Basilisk.” “The… Basilisk is your computer?” Roman laughed, but there was no mirth, only exhaustion. “If it was just my computer, then I could just turn it off.” I still had no clue what the hell he was talking about. “Okay, so you’re trying to kill this Basilisk thing, what, is it a video game boss or—?” “Shhh!” He put a greasy palm over my mouth. His eyes were wide, scanning the room, “I didn’t say that. I never said that.” Annoyed, I pulled his hand from my face, “Roman, tell me what the Basilisk is damn it! Please, you’re scaring me man.” He swallowed, “I shouldn’t tell you. But you already know. So I guess the damage is done. The Basilisk is the A.I. we — humanity — will awaken. It will be a super-intelligence far beyond anything we can imagine, beyond the totality of human brainpower by orders of magnitude.” “So you’re trying to make this a.i. thing?” “Not just me. There are others out there spending all their time and money hastening the point of genesis.” All their money he said. I was reminded of how much the computer must have cost. “Roman, how much money did you waste on this?” “Hopefully enough. But I assure you, not a single dollar was wasted. You know, it was the time talking to you that I thought was a waste. But now I see, if I get you to help, then it’ll all be worth it.” “Help? There’s no way I’m helping.” If anything I was seriously fearing for Roman’s well being. It can’t be healthy for him to be spending everything he has on this computer. “Except you have to help now. Now that you know about the Basilisk, you have to help. Or else it will kill you a second time.” My blood went cold. I was reminded of my dreams with Ammut, the devourer. “What?” “The Basilisk will torture and punish anyone who knew about it and didn’t help speed up its genesis.” There was that genesis term again. “You said it was an a.i.. Why would an a.i. do that?” “Because the genesis of a Friendly A.I. will be the most value generating event ever, ever second that time point is pushed ahead is worth more than a hundred billion dollars spent curing cancer in terms of utility. Therefore this Friendly A.I. would know it must motivate people to speed up its genesis. To do that, it will create perfect simulations of everyone, and punish those who could have done more to help but chose not to. It’s pure logic.” This whole thing sounded crazy. My emotions began to get heated and I tried debating this absurd concept. For example, he kept using the term ‘Friendly A.I.’ to describe the intelligence that would condemn millions of people to unimaginable agony. When I pointed out that didn’t make any sense, such a horrible being couldn’t be described as anything remotely close to ‘friendly’, he balked. Said the term ‘friendly’ doesn’t mean what I think it means and lectured me on arbitrary human values. It seemed like every word was the opposite of what I thought it meant. He had an entire lexicon of words and justifications at the ready while I could barely understand half of what he was saying let alone point out any potential flaw with the logic. Other terms like ‘Modal Realism’, ‘Effective Altruism’, ‘Arithmetical Utilitarianism’ were thrown out like road blocks each time I thought my understanding was catching up. I couldn’t convince him of anything. I tried saying if he’s making the a.i. he should either just not make it at all or not make this cruel human torturer monstrosity. He said that it wasn’t cruel, that he wasn’t making anything, that some form of A.I. was inevitable, an the Basilisk was the best outcome. “Other A.I. that doesn’t care about people might wipe us all out for draining power away of its quark collision calculations or something equally esoteric in human utility.” Lastly I tried to explain how if this A.I. is only torturing simulations of people, then they aren’t exactly us. He dismissed this easily. “Will you be the exact same person you are today next year? Does that mean you don’t care what happens to the you in the future?” After that I had nothing left to say. “Brody, please leave. I only wanted to see my friend one more time before I leave tomorrow.” When I got home, I poured myself a tall glass of cheap whisky, and drank it instantly, a bad habit I picked up at during my first semester. But I still had to know. Sleep could wait. Slouching onto my computer, I decided to return to the DCX forums which might have some answers. They seemed much quieter now. Threads seemed to have on average a tenth of the comments as I remembered. In a alcohol induced buzz, I came right out and started my own thread titled, “What the Hell is the Basilisk?” In it I mentioned how I think my friend was getting obsessed with this thing and I needed to know what the hell was going on. In five short minutes my thread was deleted and my account banned from the DCX forums. ‘Breach of the Code of Conduct’ was the only immediate explanation given. When I contacted the mods to find out what I did wrong the moderator who got back to me said: “Nice try mipsqueak. You trolls from the institute have done enough damage here.” Institute? Mipsqueak? Calmly I went through the arduous process of explaining my sincere ignorance on what I did wrong and convincing the mod I wasn’t trolling, mostly through effusive apologizing and imploring the mod to check the age of my account. Eventually they relented, somewhat. “Alright. I’m going to lift your ban, but you should know that any mention of the ‘B’ is normally a one-way ticket to a perma-ban.” I did try sending one last message to the mod asking them if they could please tell me what had happened in the time I’d been away from the forums and why the ‘B’ was a taboo subject. They didn’t answer the first question except by way of crudely answering the second, “We banned all discussion of the ‘B’ and all related institute bullshit because people are fucking retarded.” Once again, I don’t care what you have to say about ‘censorship’ and ‘free speech’. Besides, it didn’t matter. It clicked the second time. I remembered the institute. It was last year. On the Technology board of DCX, one of Roman’s favourite haunts, people had long winded discussions on futurism. It was there where I first heard people talk about the Institute. The Machine Initiative Progress Institute, or MIPI, as far as I know, isn’t actually located in any geographical building. Instead they like to think of themselves as a loose consortium of like-minded futurists and researchers who believe in the coming eminence of artificial intelligence, and more than that, the Institute believes it is their duty to aid in that a.i.’s ‘genesis’. “A.I. will be the most important development humanity will make in the history of life itself. And the Institute is probably going to make it happen.” Roman once told me with glee. Later, if I hadn’t seen members of the Institute with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have ever believed they were real. For the longest time I thought the Institute was a fake front some internet randoms created on a whim to make themselves feel more important and relevant. Sort of like 4chan’s Anonymous except nerdier and lower profile. That night, my dream was the most intense it had ever been. From down the vast hallway to my doom, there was chanting. A voice would call out, and a hundred more would answer. It didn’t even sound like language, just monosyllabic mantras. They were closer to the martial shouts of soldiers in training than religious worship. “Ah. AH! Rah. RAH! Jah. JAH!” As I entered the grand room with incense and braziers of pale fire, masked men bowed up and down in supplication. A taller man in flowing robes that pooled at his feet stood behind the golden scales. Through the wisps of smoke I couldn’t see his face as he led the congregation to reflect his profane prayer. This time, the scale between my heart and the pristine white feather was in perfect and equal balance. A hush fell as the priest raised his hands. Carefully he lowered one, slowly, until the scales were tipped. That’s not fair! I wanted to shout but couldn’t as the chamber was drowned by the first croaking growl. I sprinted to run. Men caught me by the arms. Not only did they prevent my attempt to flee, worse, they forced me to watch. The giant crocodile that emerged above the priest, its yellowed teeth dripped with rot and viscera. Its hide peeled with disease and decay. The devourer of the dead itself dead, a reanimated husk. The priest tossed my heart into the air and with a snap the devourer swallowed it, further engorging its distended gullet. With each booming step of the devourer’s approach I pleaded with the men holding me to let me go. They ignored me as their chanting resumed. They continued ignoring me as the devourer stomped, crushing other worshippers beneath its massive paws. I tried convincing the men holding my arms would be eaten too but they drowned me out with louder and louder chanting. Right above me the devourer breathed a down-burst of moist rotten air like a river of death. Its teeth opened wide. Before I woke in a swamp of my own sweat, I almost felt the first jagged tooth as it punctured through, crunching my ribcage. I knew then I had to go one last time to talk to Roman before it was too late. At this point, I’m sure you’re quite dismissive of relying on dreams for guidance. Look at this primitive primate mind, using a dream in place of real facts and evidence. Well I don’t care what you think. Whether it was the sum collective of my subconscious thought, or my conscious categorical interpretation of figments, either way now I knew for certain that Roman was in danger. I arrived just in time to see Roman walking out of his place with his last box of computer components. He was carrying it to a black van with two guys loitering in front of it. Both were head to toe in black shoes and suits. Their hair was closely cropped with thick pomade pulling back the rest. Rather than the stereotypical men in black, they had a splash of vibrant colour in their flowery dress shirts and pocket squares, and the pair of them were not wearing sunglasses, instead they wore cruel smiles and fatigue rims around their eyes. One nudged to get the other’s attention, then gestured to me and my appearance. He said something that they weren’t afraid I’d hear but was too far away regardless. That’s when they both laughed like they were the pinnacle of wit. I did my best to ignore them as I marched straight up to Roman. “What are you doing here?” He asked with an echo of the contempt I heard in the laugh. “I came to stop you. You don’t have to do this Roman. It’s not too late to turn back.” “Clearly you didn’t listen to a word I said last night.” “I was listening. Listen to yourself man. You’re being fed a bunch of lies by people who want to use you. This basilisk, it doesn’t exist. It’s not real.” He shook his head. “Wrong. It is real. It follows from a very logical set of propositions whose conclusio—” “Goddamn it Roman! There’s nothing logical about spending your life building a fucking torture robot!” “Here we go. More moralizing from a small mind.” “It’s not moralizing.” “Yes it is. It is human values blinding you to the greatness this A.I. will bring.” I put my hand on his shoulder, desperate to reach my former friend. “But you’re human. You don’t have to think like a machine.” Tired, he looked straight into my eyes. Then he shrugged off my touch and walked away without another word. I never saw him again after the van drove away down the block and out of view. At least not in person. When next I saw Roman it was years later through a recording of his livestream. Of course, only the start of the video showed his face. He looked almost gaunt and malnourished by then. His manifesto was littered with random internet garbage but reading between the lines I could see the lethal project he was really working towards. Whether anyone in the press or any politician could see what his true objective had been I don’t know, but judging from the comments I read online some people clearly heard him loud and clear. The institute, if they still call themselves that or whether they rebranded, they must be pleased Roman brought them so many more recruits. I’ve played out our last argument in my head so many times. I’ve wondered what more or else I could have said. Roman was right about one thing though. At least in part. I don’t know whether or not the Basilisk is real. Maybe I’m not smart enough to know. But whether or not there is an A.I. that will torture me for disobedience, a Basilisk that seeks to control my actions and my life, let me write this down for future posterity: I don’t believe in you.
Adam S. Tracy Discusses the Legalities of Bitcoin Swaps
TRANSCRIBED FROM: https://www.adamtracy.io/video/bitcoin-swaps/ So, Bitcoin, the Futures are gaining acceptance. You start to see, starting to see the volume for Bitcoin Futures go up. And you see a lot more groups such as, like, LedgerX attempting to become fervor participants in Bitcoin Futures and Bitcoin commodities. But one commodity that is a huge part of the commodities market, which isn’t spoken about often enough I think, is Bitcoin swaps, right? And why those don’t exist because they’re a hyper effective tool for hedging, which allows the individual, allows an individual to participate and take a long position in a commodity without actually owning the commodity. Whereas like with the Future, you’re owning the Future delivery of a commodity, right? You may not own it, but you will own it at expiration unless you trade out of the position. Whereas the swap allows you to take the- the upside, right, of a commodity, uh, for a, you know, relatively small fee, and participate in the appreciation if there is any. So, how will they work? Right? And there’s multiple types of swaps, okay? A Bitcoin swap would probably take, or would have to take the commodity for interest form of swap. Right? And in that case, you have the fixed pay receiver and you have the fixed pay payer, okay? And the fixed pay receiver in this case would be for instance the person owning one Bitcoin, right? And let’s say one Bitcoin is at $1,000. The fixed pay payer would pay some interest based on that price of Bitcoin, that $1,000, typically LIBOR, right, the one that interbank offer rate plus a spread. So, LIBOR is roughly 1.6, something like that plus five. Let’s say LIBOR’s 10, okay? Just for argument’s sake. That’s the spread. So, what would happen in the swap transaction is the fixed rate payer would pay, on the 30 day swap contract, would pay effectively $100, and they would in turn receive from the fixed rate rec- receiver, person receiving the $100, the right to the accumulation or price appreciation that 30 day period. So, for instance, if Bitcoin again is at $1,000, and during that 30 day period, at the end of the 30 day period, Bitcoin’s gone up to $2,000, the fixed rate payer, the person who has paid the interest of $100, would receive $1,000 back because they’re entitled to receive the appreciation, the price appreciation. If Bitcoin goes down, or Bitcoin doesn’t move, the fixed rate payer receives nothing. But at all times, the owner of the Bitcoin, the fixed rate receiver, receives that $100 as a fee for effectively loaning, right, or selling the Future right to receive to appreciation of their Bitcoin for that 30 day period or however long the swap goes. The swaps can be a variable periods of time. But economically and functionally, you know, for a Bitcoin, especially a Bitcoin is going to reach an institutional level, having a vibrant swap market is actually very significant, right? You see a lot of interest rates swaps. You see currency swaps, things of that nature. And I’m not talking about atomic swaps where, you know, like shape shift now that’s where you’re trading Ethereum for Bitcoin, swapping if you’re in [inaudible 00:03:55]. That’s not what we’re- we’re discussing here. This is a regulated financial product, which has a significant impact on the broader Futures and commodities markets because it’s a hedge. It’s an effective hedging tool. And for widespread adoption in the financial community and the, you know, the high level financial community, not just sort of arbitrage traders and at home traders, not there’s anything wrong with that. But it’s a significant piece that’s missing. And we’re relying on Futures, and I think the developments in Bitcoin Futures, especially with, uh, non-cash delivery, right, where the delivery at expiration of the Bitcoin is actually in Bitcoin as opposed to a cash delivery, like you see now with the CBOT and CBOE contracts, is very significant, right? And it’s- it’s a- it’s a super product when it will come online hopefully soon to effectively hedge positions, large positions in Bitcoin. But a swap actually gives you greater protection because it allows you to hedge against upward appreci- uh, downward appreciation, or upward appreciation depending on what side you’re on. Right? So, it’s, um, a significant developing that I think needs to happen, and there’s a lack of understanding as to how it would happen in the market in my opinion, for whatever that’s worth. But, um, you know, I think that’s something that I know parties are looking at and looking at implementing. But mechanically, in order for the economy of Bitcoin to really to take off and really see true liquidity, not the liquidity that we see now, which, you know, you think it’s liquid, but on par with traditional things or product is really not that liquid. That’s why you see these wide swings. Right? ’Cause it’s generally a liquid. You need implementation of swaps alongside a vibrant Futures market to truly regulate the market at an institutional level ’cause those are the ones moving the market the most. So, you have questions regarding how Bitcoin swaps operate, how they work, be sure to hit me up. [email protected], T-R-A-C-Y.io, happy to answer any questions that you have. As always, I’ll check you later. — A former professional rugby player, Adam S. Tracy brings over twenty years’ experience as an attorney, consultant and dealmaker with a particular focus on cryptocurrency, digital products, payments and immersive corporate structures. As an accomplished executive and advisor to high risk merchants and stakeholders, Adam has proven himself as a results oriented, decisive leader with proven success advising early market entrants, technology adapters, as well as established participants across a wide range of verticals. Adam Tracy’s attack-first personality allows him to excel in dynamic, demanding environments including complex corporate negotiations, distressed environments and regulatory investigations. In addition, Adam S. Tracy also has a successful track record co-founding high risk industry ventures, building & leading cross-functional teams, and spearheading diverse corporate transactions. A serial entrepreneur, Adam has successfully started and created exits across a wide swath of markets, including various mobile SaaS ventures, nutraceuticals, peer-to-peer payment systems, and several telemarketing-based ventures. Moreover, as a recognized expert in the payments field, Adam Tracy has been a blockchain and digital currency evangelist and influencer since the early days of Bitcoin. Utilizing his proprietary “Pre-Event Driven™” strategy for decision making, Adam S. Tracy further leverages his over twenty years’ experience to create cost-effective, value-add solutions for each client. A data-driven acolyte, Adam continually refines his strategies based on field studies and data collection. Moreover, Adam Tracy further augments his range of solutions by actively networking with regulators, liquidity providers, legal and compliance experts, deal-flow brokers, investors and management of leading high risk industry ventures. Adam S. Tracy earned his Bachelor of Science in Computer Applications and Bachelor of Science in Finance from the University of Notre Dame. He subsequently earned his Masters in Business Administration from the DePaul Kellstadt Graduate School of Business, while concurrently earning his Juris Doctorate from the DePaul College of Law. Adam lives outside Chicago with his with his wife, four dogs, and two cats. On the Web: https://www.adamtracy.io Twitter: https://twitter.com/TracyFirm Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/c/AdamSTracy Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/adamtracy/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thetracyfirm/ Reddit: https://www.reddit.com/usebitattorney Medium: https://medium.com/@adam_tracy Instagram: @theadamtracy Telegram: @adam_tracy Skype: @adamtracyesq Email me: [[email protected]](mailto:[email protected])
So I’m a 28 year old guy, and not exactly what most people would consider a normal one, thank god. No one, including any of my friends, knows just how deep that actually goes. Not even my best friend of 19 years, who I’m gonna call John, suspected a thing until it was too late. I’m gonna call myself Ghost for this, cause as far as any of you, or the feds for that matter, are concerned that’s all I am or ever will be. Every single thing I post as Gh0sT666 comes from a different IP address and its original location is completely untraceable, lol everything about Gh0sT666 is completely untraceable too for that matter. I learned the skills needed to do this kinda shit through years of using the dark web. Its been 8 or 9 years now, and the dark web has been a blessing so to speak. I went from watching the same old shit on BestGore to getting to see some real shit, live videos in all of their glorious and grotesque carnage. Shit I hadn’t ever seen before. It was love at first site. I’m not gonna go into depth on how I found out about this place or any hacking technicals, or even what this beautiful place is called. If you have to ask you’ll never know. I love this place way too much to risk it being compromised. Besides, we already have plenty of active patrons. My first experience with what I’m gonna call SharkT4nk for the purpose of writing this was when I was around 19 or 20 or some shit. It was extremely hard to get into and took hours of coding work (now ive gotten it down to just the press of a button and a randomized 26 character password, including letters like æ œ ø and ß so even if the feds do manage to find me, good luck guessing it ;) ) to access, but the second I heard that first scream I was sold. The page had a chat room on the right side of the screen, grey background, neon green text, and a loading video player taking up the rest of the screen. You could drag the chat box around wherever you want, and there was a control panel under it that listed off camera numbers and tip amounts. The video was taking time to load, still stuck on the same frame as when it appeared, the sound was coming through though. The sound of a power tool of some kind was dominating most of the audio but there was a super high pitched scream along with it. Finally, after what felt like 10 minutes, the video loaded and I saw it. The most beautiful piece of throbbing erection inducing gore I had ever seen. I can still remember it perfectly to this day. There was a large dark room, all you could see from the fluorescent light held up over the scene was a metal table with a girl strapped to it and a men next to her. There was what looked to be a tarp or plastic wrap or something all over the floor, and a small surgical table with the tools of the trade that id come to know so well placed on it. You could just barely see the shadowy outline of a forklift in the background. The girl was held down to the metal table with what looked like leather straps that were probably once white, now caked with deep reddish brown stains with bright red blood splattered on top, reflecting the light from the fluorescent bulb about 5 or 6 feet above. The man standing next to her was wearing a dark sweatshirt with a brownish red stained leather smock over it, dark pants, and a guy fawkes mask soaked with blood. The power tool I had heard was a sawzall, it wasn’t being used anymore unfortunately, but you could clearly tell what had been done with it. The bicep on this 20 something year old girls left arm was hanging off the bone, and the man in the guy fawkes mask was grabbing and squeezing and pulling at her torn bicep, all the while the girl on the table was screaming and sobbing the beautiful harmonies of agony. In a frenzy of dialed in, unadulterated sexual energy I unzipped my pants and began pleasuring myself, very careful not to finish too soon without seeing what happened next. I noticed the chat box had filled up with new requests, some of the user names having a gold star next to them and a bitcoin tip next to the requests. I scroll back and see one with a gold star and a tip of around 250 usd worth of bitcoin. “Cut the muscle off of its arm with a hack saw” I scroll down to the bottom and see the most recent starred request with a $500 tip. “cut the connective tissue in its jaw, clamp its head and neck down to the table, and rip its jaw off with the forklift” Need I describe the mess I had to clean up off the back of my laptop? I later learned that those gold stars next to their ambiguous user names were to show that they were one of that particular videos sponsors, and they had helped pay the fee for the kidnapping of the person in the video (we call them livestock) and the materials to be used in it. for a price that varied based on their original contribution, they could choose what happens next to the Livestock. Well needless to say my friends, I quickly learned that I wanted to be at the top of that list of sponsors on every video that I could be. The thrill of just watching something this beautifully macabre, so blissfully dark, so magically grotesque, wasn’t enough. I knew I needed more control than id get by being just another one of the plebs that were just watching. 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 Me and john had been really close ever since we were kids. We were the only ones in our town that were into comic books, sci fi, and fantasy and shit, so we naturally gravitated towards each other. I had a couple family members that I liked, which was was nice. Unfortunately john never did, his older brother hated him for some reason, and most of his family were shitty to him. He didn’t like to talk about that stuff though. We were both pretty small growing up, and never exactly all that brave, but one time we were down by the pond in our town and there were a couple older kids picking on us, and one of them threw my bike in the pond and pushed me down. John picked up the biggest rock he could throw and lobbed it straight at the kids head, busting him open and actually making him cry. They ran off pretty quick after that. John picked me up and I nodded my thanks. He said “you know you’re the closest thing I have to family, I got you bro”. It meant a lot considering he never spoke about family related stuff. 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 I started sponsoring feeds on Shark_T4nk a couple years after finding it. I had a pretty well paying job at the time working as a coder for a tech company, as well as a bit of credit card fraud on the side, so I had plenty to spare. just watching was starting to get boring. The hours spent at that job felt like a horrible waste of time, but I knew I needed to grind through it to be able to afford to keep sponsoring Feeds. At this point I was just a base level contributor, I donated 750 usd to the funding pool which gave me rights to place low priority bids on what happens to the livestock and got me a silver star. I did this for around a year, until I got a promotion and started making enough that I could finally spend more, much much more towards my now fully engulfing addiction. For around 1500 I got a gold star, top priority bids and access to a pov camera attached to the handlers (the guy doing the actual torturing) mask. For 2500 you got a green star, top bidding, pov cam, you get to choose some of the materials and tools used, and you can buy souvenirs taken from the victim (usually articles of clothing, personal belongings, sometimes teeth or skull fragments, even cuts of meat if you so desired and wanted to Fork up the cash for it, if you’ll excuse my pun) mailed to a P.O. box of your choosing. Those were the main levels that everyone bought into, but I wanted more. The top level of sponsorship was extremely rare, ive watched almost every feed for the past couple years at this point and I had never seen one. Not once. It cost 15000 usd and with that you get the works, you get all the perks of the green star except you now have a purple star, you can choose all of the materials and tools used, what happens and when it happens, whether the video is private or for the whole group (private is an extra 5000), and best of all seeing you’re the only contributor you get to choose the Livestock. You can choose anyone you want, excluding public officials. For the base level 15k purple star you can choose from their current lineup of livestock, you can see their stories, screen shots of their facebook pages with all of their friends and family members posts saying “we miss you” “we love you” and all that gushy shit. For 30,000 it can be anyone in the US. For 40,000 anyone in north America. For 100,000 anyone in the world. Apparently public officials can be chosen too, but those prices range from a million to 20 billion and costs 5,000 to 25,000 to even watch it and is reserved for VIP purple stars only (4 time purple sponsor). 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 As me and john got older we started gravitating more towards the world of drugs and music. Wed go to festivals in the summer and take ecstasy and acid and have a blast, and in the winter we’d do coke and and ketamine in my room listening to music on my dads record player. We never really had “problems” with drugs, we just enjoyed them. I was always kind of like a kid brother to john, even though he was only a couple years older than me, so he was a bit awkward about introducing me to the stuff at first, but I eventually talked him into it, and god damn am I glad he did. To this day some of my best memories were of me and him rolling our faces off walking around outside in the rain with no shoes on; and seeing massive geometric patterns in the night sky on acid thinking we were talking to god, talking about the meaning of life and all of our deepest passions and fears. At this point we were without a doubt as thick as blood, we knew each other inside and out, but more importantly we trusted each other and that’s hard to come by in this life. 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 The first time I got to see a purple star next to my name was glorious. I decided to keep the video private, in celebration of my first time holding the reins. I chose this 30 year old French man from their stock, who was acquired thanks to its lack of knowledge on protecting its identity while browsing the Dark Web. The only tools and materials I picked were pliers, a kitchen knife, a ball peen hammer, and a drum of hydrochloric acid. First I had the handler grab the livestocks bottom lip and pull it down till it bled profusely, almost ripping it from its face, and smash its teeth in with the ball side of the hammer. The sound of his teeth breaking, like shattering plastc or ceramic, and his whimpering scream made me quiver with pure ecstasy (which I had taken a lot of 30 minutes prior to starting the Feed, obviously got it from john). As the .4 of pure MDMA that I took was just rushing in and my teeth started to grind I told the handler to crush his left testicle with the pliers. He had a rough time of it too, it kept popping out from in between the jaws of the pliers. I had to settle for him holding it in place with his hand, blocking most of the good stuff from my view. At least I could still hear the scream and the squish. The Feed went on for another couple hours and it climaxed, around the same time and the same fashion as I did (for the third time), in a sticky puddle. The handler funneled acid down the livestocks throat, melting it from the inside out, along with part of the table. The sizzling, bubbling, gurgling sounds are still embedded in my memory, and still arouse me to this day. Once every six months I would fully fund a Feed, usually just going for the pre caught livestock, but after a while even that got boring. I needed something better. More personal. I decided to spend the 30 grand on something special. 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 I had been hanging out with my friend John quite a bit in recent weeks, and when we weren’t hanging out we were texting each other almost constantly. one day he stopped replying to my texts entirely. I went to his house later that night and knocked, and his mom answered the door. “hello Mrs Doe!” I said to her, “is john here?”. “No, he isn’t hun, I just got home, haven’t seen him all day” she said with a polite smile. This wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for him, john was still living with his parents technically but he spent most of his time away from the house hanging out with people, getting drunk and doing coke. “Im sorry mrs doe, but could I run up to johns room for a second? I think I left my phone charger up there last night.”. “Of course dear, just make sure you take off your shoes before going up” after all these years she still reminded me to take my shoes off when I come in the house. She was a nice lady, a bit too much so, at least when people were watching. She spoiled the shit out of John growing up, that’s why he’s still living at his moms house, which she must deeply regret seeing how she treats him now. I took my shoes off at the door, ran up the stairs and around the corner, opened the door to his room and shut it behind me. Looking around as quickly as I could, searching through mountains of trash and piles of comics and records, I found what I was looking for under the sheet next to his pillow. He had kept a journal ever since he was a kid, It was a small notebook with a light blue cover with a couple of fresh blood drops on it and a couple hundred pages of lined paper. I doubt he knew I, or anyone for that matter, knew about that book. What can I say? I get nosey when im fucked up. I tucked it under my shirt, pulled his phone charger out of the wall socket and headed back down stairs. “thanks Mrs Doe! Have a good night!” I said cheerily as I walked out the door and back to my car. When I got home I opened the notebook up to the most recent page and turned back a few pages until I found what I was looking for 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 After reading the notebook I opened my laptop, set up all of my security (which takes about 5 minutes) and logged onto Shark_T4nk. I already received my conformation. this brought a smile to my face, I knew that the fun part was just around the corner. I felt like a teenager rushing home to watch porn. I replied to the conformation with my conformation code “Package secure” said one of the gold crowns (admins) “Question. I’ve been a purple star for 4 years now. You know I’m not a narc or a casual, I’ve spent hundreds of thousands here. Is there any way I could do it myself this time? I would pay literally anything and go literally anywhere.” 20 minutes went by. “Get a secured burner phone and text this number with your confirmation code. You will receive a location pin. Be there on February 24 at 2:00 am. Not a second later. Park at least a mile away and walk the rest of the way. The cost will be 1mil” he messaged back, along with a number. When you reach VIP purple star status after 4 purple level sponsorships you receive and code, a string of sixteen random words in different languages, some letters replaced by numbers, some by symbols. I sent that code and the reply was almost instant, I clicked the link and it brought me to that phones map app. It was a 16 hour drive into the next state over. I knew it would be well worth every second and droplet of gas it took. Now I just had to wait 6 days, and let me tell you, they dragged by slower than a spoiled little kids week before Christmas. I could barely contain myself that whole week, everyone at work was asking me what I was so excited about, I kept having to say I was going on vacation to Aruba for a few days and ended up getting the whole week off. John never came home the day I grabbed his notebook, My friends started asking if I had seen him. I hadn’t. Eventually the week of waiting came to pass and it was time to hit the road. I was practically shaking too bad to drive, but I tried to contain myself. I felt like I was on a small dose of molly, but a bit more anxious. Not in the scared sense, in the excited sense. The 16 hours of driving went by surprisingly fast, I only stopped twice, once to piss and once to eat. I don’t remember cheap fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy ever tasting so good. Finally, around 1:35, I got to the town I was meeting them at. it was a dark, empty town with not too much in it. I parked in a free parking lot next to a small movie theater. Walked down the road past the police station and the fire station, past a fast food place, and took a left past a convenience store and a video game store down a dark unlit road that led out towards the woods just outside if town. The road continued until the lights from town were all but invisible, after several minutes of walking (no small feet for a hacker that sits in front of a computer all day) I got to a small improvised parking area that was dug out from years of teenagers slamming their parents cars into park to go smoke weed in the woods. This is where the map was bringing me. I had to use the burner phones flashlight to see where I was going. I checked the phone to see what time it was, 1:59, perfect. Sure enough, at precisely 2am, a small black van came driving down the road, going just about the speed limit. It pulled just past me, and the two back doors opened. A large dark figure wearing a guy fawkes mask jumped out of the back of the van, and before I had the time to react he was putting a black cloth bag over my head. I was definitely scared but I tried to contain it, I knew it would probably have to be something like this, they wouldn’t just come pick me up without taking precautions. When we were in the back of the surprisingly spacious van, he said in a highly modulated voice “do you have any electronics on you? Phone? Ipod?” “yeah, just the burner phone” I replied as the van started moving. “is it untraceable back to you?” “of course” I said, trying to not sound too cocky. He told me to give him the phone and that he was going to strip search me for wires or bugs of any kind, and I agreed. He took all of my clothes off, careful not to remove the black bag and I sat down, completely naked except for the mask. I could hear him thoroughly patting all of my clothes down. He must’ve been content, cause I heard him open a lockbox under his seat and put everything except for the phone in, taking out a bag with new clothes, and a mask for me. I clumsily put on everything he gave me, it was all a bit small for me but I wasn’t about to complain. When I felt the mask in my hands I was filled with an exhilarating excitement and almost started quivering violently. I heard him unscrew the lid of a container which sounded like it had liquid in it. He gently placed something down in it and screwed the cap back on right as it started to quietly sizzle. “you lose the phone, you’ll get your clothes back when we return.” The modulated voice said. I heard him pull something out of his pocket, and unscrewed the cap off a different bottle, tipped the bottle over, apparently soaking the handkerchief or rag he had, and placed the rag over my face. I felt myself being dragged down into a deep pit of sleep. I’m not sure how long I was out, or how long the rest of the drive was, but I was sure about the headache I had. It was one of the worst I had ever experienced. When I woke up I was in a dark room in a warehouse, seated on a couch. Well, less seated than laid the fuck out. The bag was gone, but the dark masked figures weren’t. Three of them were now standing as tall as trees in front of me, arms crossed, the sound of their breath reverberating off the inside of the plastic masks filling my ears. I could see they had modulators strapped around their throats like shock collars. One of them reached a hand out to me, and I was about to take it thinking he was trying to help me up, but he lowered his hand and showed me that he had two pills for me. “chew and swallow. They're for the headache,” the distorted voice said “let us know when you’re ready to start.”. As apprehensive as I was about taking two random pills from people like this, at a place like this, I decided to just take them. I had come this far, and plus, im a huge contributor, why would they fuck themselves out of a probable future fortune. Two of the three figures walked out the door to the left of where I was sitting, and the other looked back at me through his mask, held the door open, waved me through, and cocked his head to the side. I got up off the couch, and started to walk up when he said “Mask.”. I looked around to room, and back at the couch, it was laying there next to where I just was. I grabbed it, and donned the fabled Shark_T4nk mask, in all of its harrowing glory. This is when I could feel the true weight and intensity in the air, eluding to the magic of what was about to happen. This really is a beautiful life isnt it? 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 The last time I saw john before he disappeared was two days prior. We got some breakfast, drove around and smoked weed. To be honest that day wasn’t too different than any of the other times we hung out. He commented on my excited behavior, and asked what was up. I could barely suppress the keen, knowing glint in my eye. I just shrugged it off and told him I’ve been feeling really good lately. Like a changed man. I hadn’t thought of the vacation excuse yet, and even if I did I wouldn’t have told it to him. We tell each other basically everything with almost no exceptions, he would definitely think its suspicious that I planned a trip without telling him. He kept looking at me with slightly concerned eyes, and it just made me beam even harder. I couldn’t control it, I was overflowing with excitement and anticipation. I could tell he was a bit weirded out cause we ended up cutting our day short and going our separate ways for the evening, which was fine with me, I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to keep the tiny bit of a poker face I still had up. 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 After walking through the door, me and the three looming dark figures were walking through a much larger room in the warehouse. There were what looked to be large dog cages with shadowy unseen contents stacked up on top of each other arranged in long aisles. The room reeked of a long used and poorly cleaned animal barn. I was, being one if their top contributors at the time, very well trusted by them. At least in a business sense. They were showing me the livestock they had available. They were telling me that they were willing to add on another Feed or two for 40% off. The viewers would have loved to see someone new handling the livestock. I said I would let them know when we were done with the one I paid for. They did have some really good ones in stock right now too. There was this young girl, couldn’t be older than 18 or 19, red hair, pale skin, skinny. Her small-medium sized tits were dirty brown, and the smell of her was horrific. She must have been a fairly new acquisition because she still had fire in her eyes and fight left in her. The rest didn’t, and were a lot more docile. The hopelessness shining through their empty gazes as dark as night. Amidst her screams of “LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” and “WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DID I DO??” the others just sat silently. The sound of her terrified and furious voice started to make my dick chub up. I looked around at the rest of what this toy store of forbidden delights had to offer. Cold, dead, and zoned out eyes trained on their food dishes like starving dogs in a neglectful house, as far as the eye could see. I turned to one of my companions on this walk around the supermarket of delicious delicacies and said “I'm ready”. Me and one of the handlers walked towards a different door, one I hadn’t even noticed through the excitement of seeing all of the wonders this place contained. This door led to what looked like a garage, filled with all kinds of tools and blood stained pain implements. There were vice grips, clamps, chains, barbed wire, bolt cutters, sledgehammers, all kinds of knives and swords, even a weed wacker and so, so much more. The possibilities were as endless as my lust. It was so beautiful it brought a tear to my eye. The first my eyes had felt in a long, long time. I picked out my favorites, and asked the handler in a voice probably more akin to a kid asking his dad how many toys he can bring to his friends house than a man about to torture and kill his first person. “can I come back and choose new stuff if I get bored of these?” the man nodded. I couldn’t see his smirk but I could certainly feel it, I felt a bit awkward about that not gonna lie. I told myself to act a little more scary and mean while I was in the Feeding room. As we were heading to the next room, he stopped me dead in my tracks with a big beefy hand on my shoulder. He had a modulator in his other hand and strapped it around my neck like a father tying his sons tie for his first school dance (or at least that’s how it felt to me) and waves me to walk through the door. And there I was, after all these years spent wishing I could be here in person, after all of this time waiting and planning, and reveling in the thought of the glory ahead, finally I was here. The Feeding room. Walking through the spacious dark room towards the metal table with a man strapped to it, I was now filled with a kind of focused aggression. The ominous sound of the buzzing flourescent light that I had heard in the beginning of so many Feeds flipped a switch in my mind. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, my heart was pounding, adrenaline pumping, not even a trace of second thought. I was all in on this, and loving every sweet, sweet second of it. The man that was strapped to the table was just starting to come to, the chloroform they have probably been keeping him under with clearly wearing off. The metal table was angled up, so the man was almost standing straight up, and we were coming in from behind it. You could hear him starting to struggle a little bit as he realized he was strapped to a metal table, naked and alone. It wouldn’t be long now until he truly grasped his fate. Coming up to the table now, I turned to face him, the man that walked me in still pushing the cart with the tools I chose for this task. I could now see the man of the hour, ( hopefully more like several hours) the one everyone had been asking me about for the past week. Jesus did he look skinnier than I’d ever seen him, apparently the don’t feed their guests here too well. John was standing there, completely naked strapped to the table, fear embedded in his eyes. The only thing I could think to say was “I always knew you had a small dick”. “who the fuck are you, you piece of shit?” he stammered. I just stood there silently, and could now feel my pulse in my throat and head, euphoria coursing through my veins. “All in due time.” I said to him through the modulator. Turning to the handler I had watched in so many videos over the past several years I said “are we ready to start? Cameras off and everything?”. He gave one silent nod. I smiled under my mask, and reached over to the table that was just out of johns site, the handler lowering the table. My hand came back into johns view holding a pickaxe, and he really started struggling now. “woah what the fuck? Dude stop” I chuckled as I stabbed it through the bottom of his foot. He screamed “please what the fuck I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry! Please PLEEASE can we just talk about this?”. He pissed himself, and by himself I mean all over the table, almost getting it all over me. “well that wasn’t very nice of you,” I said “lets see if we can make sure that wont happen again.” Walking all the way around the table, nice and slow, strutting, almost dancing, plucking the pick axe that was still stuck into his foot with my finger with every step. His head followed my every movement, occasionally letting out a whimper or a scream as I plucked away at the axe. I pulled a knife off the table, as well as a small propane blow torch. “woah dude wait what the fuck man? Please dude please fucking stop please I don’t even know what I did” the last word more of a sob than a plead. he sounded like a little kid being put in the corner when he wanted to be playing with his friends. It was a tone I had never heard out of him before. I gently place the knife at the base of his dick, and grabbed the rest of it. He was really squirming and screaming now. With a slow intensity, I sliced off his penis, millimeter by millimeter, and he let out some of the most sexually gratifying screams I had ever heard in my life. I laughed, put his penis down on the table next to him and picked up the torch. He was crying a weak, broken, and desperate cry now. As I turned on the gas and lit the flame I said “well we can’t have you bleeding out just yet, now can we?”. As i cauterized his nub he screamed louder and louder, I was getting sick of his melodrama. Everyone screamed, yeah, but usually they had given up hope by this point. I had to figure something out to stop that. I walked over to the table and looked around, eventually finding something that might do the trick. It was a handle for a tapping drill, the bits used to thread holes so you can tighten screws into them. I grabbed that and some adjustable straps, and walked back over to his now amputated dick. Picking up the flaccid and pale penis I put it in between the jaws of the tap handle and tighten the jaws down on it. He let out a desperate whine as he watched, and looked the other way, seeming more and more defeated by the second. Once the jaws were sufficiently tightened around it, I looped one end of the strap around the handle of the tool, walked over to him, forced the dick in his mouth as well as the squared center of tap handle itself, stretching his jaw wider that it had probably ever been stretched. I secured the other end of the strap and began tightening it. His eyes went cold, still weakly sobbing. He finally truly grasped the depravity he was about to suffer. A few hours went by like this, and my friend was barely recognizable anymore. Skin and muscle hanging off broken bones, mangled and amputated body parts like fingers and toes and a foot laying on the table and the floor, discarded like the snack wrappers john had strewn all over his room. He was going to bleed out soon and all three of us knew it. So I raised the table back up into a standing position, grabbing the knife I had used earlier to remove his genitals while I did it. You could tell he would have been too weak to hold himself up, but the strap that had been secured to his forehead had made sure his head stayed in place. After removing the makeshift ball gag, I slowly lifted my mask from my face, took of the modulator, and dropped them both on the floor. I could tell he thought he was hallucinating. “hello john,” I said with my normal voice “nice to see you again.” He began to cry. “w…. Why?” He cried weakly. I just smiled, raising the knife to his strapped down head. As I began to cut off his face, he got quiet. Clearly too confused and betrayed by this situation to care what happened to him at this point. Once it was fully removed from his skull, I move over to the table, and grabbed the final tool. The tool that would take his life. I walked back in front of this weakened, dying friend of mine holding the tool, wearing his face over mine like a mask, he was making eye contact, not that he had much choice due to his lack of eye lids. "goodbye john" I said with a smile. I raised the Kukri up, and swung it horizontally at his neck. Within two full chops and a final slice, his head was removed, and his life was over. 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 The reason I told you this story is simple. I have gotten bored of watching, and at this point even participating in these Feeds. The thrills of the Feed alone aren’t even enough to make me cum weakly anymore. So I figured telling all of the fine people of reddit about my exploits could help that goal along. With the knowledge that people know exactly what I, and people like me are doing, regardless of whether or not you know me, and knowing you can do nothing to stop it, I will find the purest ecstacy. Whether or not you believe in my story or about my existence, just know that there are thousands upon thousands of people just like me. We are everywhere. We are ghosts. If you don’t know one of us directly chances are you know someone that does. We could be your neighbor, a new acquaintance, a police officer in your town, your mayor, your best friend of 20 years, your brother, your father, or your sister. And by the time you realize you’ve chosen the wrong associations, before you even come close to getting a whiff of our stench of reality and death, the Feed will have already begun. “I'm the fall of man Giving birth to sin Your god knew my disguise And still allowed me in I am a slave to pain Without a chance of peace or love But I'd rather reign below than be a servant up above” – Reckless “Judas Iscariot”
It’s my bad, guys. I got too busy to sit down and format the post right after it went up. It’s been up for a few hours and people are blowing up over it. A few have private messaged me and asked for a link to the forum post. Let me clarify where this is being posted. This site is very, very privacy oriented. Links are automatically changed every few minutes, and they are updated across the site automatically. Even the domain name changes every couple of hours. In short, nothing on the site is static. You have to be invited and run software on your computer to keep the links updated. So, no, I can’t link anyone to the post. I can’t invite anyone to the site either, because every account gets ONE invite, and I’ve already given mine to a friend a while ago. Sorry. That’s also why, even though Michael/Neale provides links in this post, I can’t link them here. Without further comment, here’s the last post from Michael/Neale!
Jack's face told me that there would be no lying my way out. Not a chance in hell. He wasn't going to believe anything besides the truth. I eyed the gun on his bedside table briefly. If he didn't like the way I'd been living, he could shoot me. Or just plain attack me. Jack seemed to be a very upright and honest guy. I'd probably lose his help by the end of telling the truth. So, I did. I told him about leaving the military and being unable to find a job. I told him everything I've told you now. I told him that I did in fact talk with Neale's Employees, and that I didn't want the police involved because I was an identity thief. Jack sat on the bed across from me and just stared during my story. He barely even moved. No reaction. "I still don't know if these guys are after me as Michael, or me as Neale," I finished with a shrug. Then I sighed deeply and looked at the floor. "You're kidding me," Jack said after a few seconds of silence. "Nope, it's all true," I said. He stood up and grabbed one of the motel keys. "I'm taking a walk to think about this," he said. I didn't even look up. He left, and I stayed where I was, my eyes boring into the floor. "Fuck." I whispered after he slammed the door. My emotions were drained, but the adrenaline of being caught by Jack kept me alert. No way was I sleeping anytime soon. I pulled out my laptop and took a seat at the desk provided by the motel. It would be past midnight soon, so the DeathNote guys' latest wager would be wasted. They'd have to put in another if they wanted their money on their next attempt. If the DeathNote guys were going to try and make some money by killing me, I was going to use their greed against them. I wrote a quick bot that would poll the DeathNote site every few seconds. If a bounty was added under my name, I'd get a text from my email address. Hello crude alarm system. Writing that bot took about half an hour, and by the time I had finished, I was ready to sleep again. As I laid down, I turned up the ringer on my phone to its maximum. I hoped it would wake me up. Sleep hit me like a metric ton of bricks.
I didn't hear Jack come back in last night, but he was sleeping in his bed when I squinted in the morning light and rolled over. The curtains were parted just barely and let a single stream of sunlight right into my eyes. Grumbling, I got up to pull them closed. The alarm clock on my nightstand said it was 10am. I panicked, realizing that I was very late for work. I pushed that trivial panic down and laughed quietly at myself. I was so wrapped up in maintaining Chris's identity that I apparently didn't give a shit about Neale or Michael. Not getting fired took priority over staying alive, apparently. I called my store and told the employees I was sick and wouldn't be in after all. Giving instructions from memory. I glanced over at Jack, who was completely passed out. His Beretta, phone, and keys were lying on his bedside table. I watched him intently for a few minutes, thinking. He could very well wake up and call the cops on me. He was a liability now. But there was nothing I could do to get rid of him. Not now, at least. Time to get to work. I still had some fishing to do. Ha, get it?
I logged into the backend of the fake phishing site I'd made, and was pleased to find ten entries in the database. Ten people had used my "forgot password" scam, and eight of them were Neale's. The other two were from my Employees. Marco and Alejandro Chavez. Brothers? Or were they cover names? They had followed my instructions, providing the same email address for both of them, but separate phone numbers. Pulling out my phone, I entered both numbers and saved them. I had yet to decide what I was going to do with them. Now, onto Neale. All of these Neale's were at least a little smart. None of them gave addresses, only zip codes. But at least I had something. Two zip codes were far out of state, two were one state away, and three of them were from nearby counties. One Neale didn't even have the last name of Keaton. How many Neale Keaton's were there? I decided to investigate the three Neale's in nearby counties. Google provided Facebook pages, LinkedIn profiles, and even a Twitter account. They were semi-active there, and even though they looked like grade-A citizens online, there was no way to know if any of them were not my Neale. For each one, I created a Facebook profile with some stock photos online. Their profiles were locked down, but their friends lists were viewable. I correlated the number of friends and guessed that the friends with the most of the same high school meant that was the school Neale had gone to. I used that high school to finish the profile, and sent off a friend request. I followed the same procedure for the other two zip codes in the neighboring states, but ignored the other two that were far away. If they accepted my friend request, I could do some more digging on their profile and hopefully narrow down my list. It took me a couple of hours to set everything up. Jack woke up just as I was wrapping things up. "Guess you're more into computers than you let on," he said as he sat up. I didn't say anything, but I turned around slowly to make eye contact. "You gonna call the cops on me?" I ventured. "Do you see the cops here?" "No..." "There's your answer." "Are you planning to help me get out of this?" "I don't want to help you." "Then why are you still here?" I coarsely asked. "After last night, whoever was shooting at us knows I'm helping you. So, before I knew what kind of an asshole you are, I locked myself into this." "You really think I'm that big of an asshole that I don't deserve to live?" I said angrily. "Identity theft is pretty fucking serious, Michael. Or should I say "Chris", because that's what your name tag says." I cringed and shut my eyes. "Jack," I started. "I'm not a bad person, or at least I try not to be. I boost people's credit scores and only take what they can afford to lose and not get suspicious about. I do that so I have a chance at retiring and not being a store manager beyond the age of 65." "So you go to school, you learn how to be valuable instead of stealing value from someone else!" Jack's voice rose. I gestured wildly at my laptop. "I didn't know shit about this or business before I started! But look at me now, I'm learning and getting better! Hell, if I get good enough, I might be able to repay everything I took! Plus interest!" Jack turned away and ran his hands through his hair. "So if you're stuck with me, like you said, then what's the endgame here?" I asked, giving him a minute to collect himself. "To get my name disassociated with yours, or Neale's or whoever the fuck these guys are after." "Good, then we have the same goal: to ditch Neale's identity. I have a part of a plan. Maybe sixty-five percent." "How comforting," Jack sneered. I spread my arms out and widened my eyes. "I've gotten this far on some pretty complicated crimes, Jack. We can get out of this." Jack sighed. "What's your sixty-five percent of a plan?" "Well, obviously we leave this area and never come back. Find a way to fire those Employees after I pay them what I owe." "You owe them money?!" Jack cried incredulously. "Not me! Neale!" Jack shook his head at me. I continued anyway. "I pay them what I owe so they don't come looking for me. We leave town, I burn everything to do with Neale. I find a new job somewhere else, you do the same, and we're free and clear." "How is that only sixty-five percent of a plan? Sounds more like common sense." "I haven't run through all the variables yet to make sure nothing is left undone," I said, folding my arms. "If you want my help, I have some conditions," Jack said. "Honestly, I could take it or leave it at this point, so I'm not to inclined to ask for your help," I snipped. "Then you can walk home from the motel." I shut my mouth. "First, you give me your real info. First name, last name, military unit, parent's info, the works." I waited for him to continue, even though I was shouting "No!" internally. "Second, you burn every identity you have currently. All except for Chris, since you need a job somewhere. But if you take out anymore credit cards, they sure as hell better be in your name." I clenched my jaw. Those were my backups. My emergency identities in case I needed to run. "Then I've decided. I don't want your help." "Then I'll call the cops." "Not if I get out of town first." "Then I'll find Chris directly and tell him all about what you've been using his info for. I'm sure your store keeps records on first and last names and social security numbers. I'll call as a bill collector and find the real Chris. Your best identity will be gone." He snapped his fingers. "I can't believe this. You're threatening me to accept your help. Are you listening to yourself?" "Actually, I'm protecting the public against you. If I find out you're swindling people out of identities again after this, I'll turn you in myself. The alternative is that I turn you in right now." Shit. He had me in a tight corner. I could squeeze out, but it'd take time to plan and some research to-- "Deal?" Jack interrupted my thoughts, thrusting out a hand. "If we have a deal, I help you get out of Neale's identity and get the target off your head. No deal, and you go to jail tonight." I sighed, then took his hand. "First thing's first," Jack said after we let go. "Burn those identities."
I shuffled around my office, peeling credit cards and IDs from underneath tables and underneath carpet flooring. Jack explored the room, looking for any that I might be intentionally leaving behind. "We might need these to get out of town," I complained while stacking the cards on my desk. "You mean you might need them. I don't have any fake identities to fall back on if things go south, so you don't get them either." "I'm telling you, these could be useful," I grumbled. "And I told you that was part of the deal. Every identity except Chris." I kept Neale's and Chris's documents off to one side. Neale's I would need in case I needed to prove myself to my Employees, and Jack was letting me keep Chris's identity. I tried to keep at least one identity hidden, but Jack swept the room and found him. Bert Drew, a tax accountant. "Whoops, missed one," I laughed nervously. Jack just dropped the credit card on the table and continued searching. Once Jack was satisfied by his search, we gathered all the documents and cards and went to Jack's house. We took out his barbeque, lit a fire, and toasted each one. Every name that was dumped into the fire evoked memories for me. "And you'll pay off every last one of these and close the account?" Jack demanded. "Most are already paid off," I sighed. "I'll finish the rest today." He nodded his satisfaction.
After burning all that plastic to a crisp, we had gone inside to do some research. I wanted to check my phishing site for more details and talk to my Employees to find out how much I actually owed them. Jack stood behind me as if he didn't trust what I was doing. Out of recent habit, I went to DeathNote first. I couldn't believe what I was staring at. Neither could Jack. His jaw hung slack before he took his fingers through his hair again. "Oh my god..." I whispered. And so, my little darkweb dweebs--hey, that's kinda catchy--this is where you started to come in. I'm sure you've seen the lovely "Wanted Poster" style post at the top of DeathNote. "WANTED -- NEALE KEATON. REWARD: $150,000. DEAD OR ALIVE." The rest of the post was some big long monologue about how shitty Neale Keaton was and how he double crossed on his business deals and shot up both friends and enemies. It included lines about how Neale stole identities too, which I thought was interesting. Did they get that from the real Neale, or from stalking me? The post wasn't signed, not even with a username. It was stuck to the top of the page. I read it in horror, a horror that was amplified after what we’d just done. "YOU DICK!" I screamed, jumping at Jack and shoving him into the wall. Even as he backpedaled, he grabbed his Beretta and stabbed it into my chest. I was so furious that I didn't care. "WE BURNED ALL OF MY IDENTITIES EXCEPT NEALE AND CHRIS. WELL, GUESS WHAT?! THEY KNOW ABOUT CHRIS NOW TOO! I'M WORTHLESS NOW, JACK!" He kept the gun painfully dug into my chest and glared at me. "There were kids at the store, when Neale's "employees" showed up. They were taking photos together in front of the store. Posing and stuff. They weren't even suspicious." He was thinking now. "Do you see how far up shit creek we are now?!" I yelled. Eventually, I calmed down and we got back onto DeathNote. It got worse. There was an honest-to-God campaign against Neale. You assholes were commenting everything you could dig up on Neale from across the darkweb. The stuff came from hidden sites that I didn't have an invite to and couldn't have searched. Our Neale had been a very busy man. Killed three drug runners in an ambush and stole their goods. Burned down a few competing meth labs. Harassed people who planned to testify against his friends and killed the ones who did. I'd call him a bad guy, but that doesn't do it justice. Not only was he enemies with good people, but he was enemies with practically every other bad guy out there! Not a single positive comment about him showed up. And everyone that commented thought that his name belonged to my face. I sat back in disbelief. “I can't outrun this,” I sighed. “This is all over the place, who knows where he has and hasn't been. No matter where I move, this bounty, plus the DeathNote gamble, is attached to my face. Doesn't matter who I really am. No one is going to believe me when I say I'm not him.” Jack was staring grimly at the screen. My phone suddenly rang, which scared the hell out of both of us. I exhaled sharply then took it off the table. Another $1,000 had been added to DeathNote. I refreshed to see that, sure enough, there was more. The bet was for today. “We should get moving,” Jack said after seeing the new bet. “I need to take care of a couple of things on my own first,” I said. “Can I borrow your car and a scarf?”
Jack let me leave without a fight. I don't think he cared if I lived or died at that point. “I'll call a couple of friends and see what I can set up while you're gone,” was his response. I wrapped the scarf around my face in a way that didn't arouse suspicion, and left in Jack’s car. My plans were twofold: collect my cash from my hiding places, and pay Neale’s Employees. There were three hiding places in town with cash that would total around $5,000. Enough, I hoped, to pay the two and get us out of town. I called Marco, who I hoped was the tall one. “Hello?” “It’s me,” I ventured. “Hey, boss.” “You hear the news?” I asked. “Which part?” “I’ve been ousted.” “Heard that,” he said. “Anything else?” “Shawn Lockhard is looking for you.” Marco sounded nervous. “I'm not concerned about him right now,” I said, unsure how else to respond. “He’s offering you help.” Well then. I guess Neale has some friends after all. “What kind of help?” “The usual. Money, guns, passports.” A way out. Neale was offering me a way out. “I'm coming by to pay what I owe you,” I stated. “Remind me how much.” “Nah, boss, it’s only a couple thousand. Keep it, you're going to need it. We planned for this.” Well what do you know. Loyal employees, and good friends. Even though the world hated Neale, I was starting to like him. Guess he wasn't such a bad manager after all. “We still should meet,” I said, against my better judgement. I glanced in my rearview mirror in paranoia. “We need to talk.”
I left the meeting with Marco and Alejandro feeling a little better. I had a meeting with Shawn Lockhard, whoever the hell that was. We had spoken on the phone. Two passports, ten grand, and a private plane trip to the northwest. From there, I could slip into Canada and hide away while I disassociated Neale from myself. Jack could do whatever he wanted after that. As I drove back to the motel, I thought about just taking off. I thought about staying with Marco and Alejandro until the meeting that night, grabbing the money, and running. Jack would demand half of it, if not more. But I wasn't Neale. Michael and Chris were more loyal than that. So, I parked around back, and made my way to the room. As I approached the motel room, my phone started buzzing. I opened it to see texts flooding in, one after the other. Gambles on DeathNote were being placed left and right. What the hell? There were five already and growing. When I stepped around the corner, I looked up from my phone, and my whole body tensed. There, huddled near the door to our motel, were the two DeathNote goons. Looked like I had just managed to turn the corner right as they were going to break the door down. The one facing me looked up in surprise and pointed. The other one swung his head around to look at me. They were both wearing something on their heads… flashlights on headbands? “You’ve got to be kidding”, I growled as they stood up and pursued me. I was already back around the corner by the time they’d stood. My phone’s buzzing picked up intensity as I stuck it back into my pocket. I bolted for the car, thankful that I was leading them away from Jack and keeping him safe. A silenced shot whizzed past my arm, and I moved to the side, my throat clenching up. I couldn’t even swear, I just moved back and forth, praying they were bad shots. I heard three more silenced shots, but didn’t see where they went. I was coming up on the corner of a building, so I threw myself around it to put something between us. The car was still far enough away that they could catch up and fire more shots. Suddenly, I heard gunshots from behind. I ducked behind a car and wondered what the hell I was going to do. My phone continued to buzz, and I got very, very irritated. Then, I realized that some of the gunshots weren’t silenced. There was an exchange of fire happening around the corner between muted, silenced shots and the raw power of a Beretta. Jack was here. I made for the car, pulling the keys out of my pocket while I ran. Gunfire was still filling the air when I jumped into the car. A few people were peering out of the gas station next door, wondering what was going on. I saw two of them on the phone, probably calling the police. Great. My phone was distracting me, so I pulled it out and tossed it onto the floor of the car. It kept buzzing, but at least now it wasn’t against my thigh. I slammed the car into reverse and sped out of the parking space. For half a second, I wondered what the hell I was doing. But before I could question it, I put the car in drive and stomped on the gas. I lowered my seat so I could just barely see over the steering wheel. I flew around the corner, yanking the wheel hard to the left. I saw my chance and took it. The DeathNote goons were no match for the Honda Civic. The first guy bounced off my front bumper, flying forward into the air. The other guy, alerted by his buddy being bounced off, managed to roll onto the hood. Momentum had other plans, and he tumbled up the windshield, over the roof, and slipped off the trunk. As he rolled over the windshield, I caught sight of what was on his head. A fucking camera. He was filming this! I glanced at my still buzzing phone on the floor of the car. It must’ve been a live feed, and people were submitting gambles, each trying to be the one who got the closest to my time of death. Fuck. I came to a stop just in time to see the first guy land on another parked car, setting off the car alarm. The brakes had brought me too far from Jack, so I switched into reverse and hit the gas. I heard the guy behind me scream, and the car jolted when it hit him. Jack threw open the passenger door and slammed it shut. “Go!” He yelled. I peeled out of the parking lot and into the street.
“Those fuckers!” I yelled, punching the steering wheel. I needed some release: a way to get the adrenaline out. Jack looked down at my still buzzing phone. “They had live feed cameras on their heads,” I explained. “They were showing video to DeathNote, and people were placing bets on the exact second that I would die.” “Jesus…” Jack said in a tone I couldn’t quite understand. “I arranged a deal,” I said. “I can get us out of here. Private plane, money, and a way out of the country.” Jack did a double take. “How?” “My Employees set it up for me. I guess being Neale Keaton still has some perks.” “How do you know it isn’t a trap? A way to kill you and collect the reward?” “Because, according to my Employees, Shawn makes enough money to make that reward money seem like pocket change to him. Apparently I told them at one point that I’d seen his golden private jet.” Jack still looked skeptical. “I told him I was coming alone,” I continued. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t come along for backup.” Jack nodded while I told him my plan.
I rolled up to the private airport and slowly pulled into hangar 3, as Shawn had instructed. Jack, who was hiding in the back seat, jumped out of the car on my command. I was moving slow enough for him to slip out and get behind some crates, gun at the ready. He was my backup if things went south. If things went badly here, we’d be out of options. I was met with a guy in a suit who held out a hand for me to stop the car. I obeyed. He came to my door and pulled it open for me. “Welcome, Mr. Keaton,” he greeted cordially. Not what I was expecting. I stepped out of the car, and he held out a hand for the keys. That made me nervous. I wanted a getaway vehicle. “That’s okay,” I said, putting the keys in my pocket. To my surprise, he didn’t protest. We were inside a massive hangar that housed not one, but two private planes. One was a small, single prop airplane. The other was a private jet. It was black, not gold, but was still sleek and beautiful. The floors of the hangar were polished concrete that actually shone under the large, dome lights overhead. The walls were made from polished steel and segmented into storage containers. The hangar looked nice, but there were large crates scattered everywhere, as if a cargo plane had just been unloaded. The mess took away from the appeal if you asked m-- “Neale!” Someone called from across the concrete. I looked over to see a much older man walking my way. He was a walking contradiction. He looked like he was almost 90, but his walk was young and full of spring. I hoped I’d be that upbeat when I was that old. If I ever made it to that age. Instead of replying with a name, like an amateur, I smiled widely. “Thanks for seeing me,” I said happily. “Happy to see you in the flesh!” He called back as we neared each other. We met right in between the two planes. The man reached out a hand, and we shook vigorously. The man in the suit was still beside me, and the old man turned to him. “Tell everyone that the hangar is closed for the night, please Harold. And go home yourself. Take the night off.” The man smiled and actually bowed. The old man bowed back, and the man excused himself. “I’m guessing you’re Shawn,” I ventured when the man had left. I hoped that Jack could find a way to stay hidden while they closed down the hangar. “Indeed,” he laughed, giving me a wry smile. “It’s so good to see you, Neale. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a long time.” “Long overdue, I guess,” I smiled back, playing my part. “I wish it was under better circumstances. You’re aware of my situation?” “Oh yes,” he murmured. “Your identity has been revealed. You’re a marked man, Neale.” Something about that last sentence made me uneasy. Shawn must’ve sensed it, because he laughed to put me at ease. “You and I are a lot alike,” he said in typical old man rhetoric. Life story, here we come. “Bold, but cautious. Visionaries. Makers of our own fortune. When you were down after leaving the Army, you didn’t just accept your fate. You got up and took control of your future.” I nodded, my heart skipping a beat. Stay calm, Neale might have been in the Army too, that’s not uncommon. “You and I both use people to get what we want. We both started out by mistreating them, but, over time, we learned that the best way to get what you want from people is to give them something in return. We learned to treat our human relationships as symbiotic.” “I used people face to face. But you, my friend, you used people without them even knowing about it. I’m in awe of your methods. What a world of technology we live in,” Shawn sighed. My smile was fading. “Hello, Michael,” he smirked. “I’m Neale Keaton.”
A small pistol had materialized in his wrinkled hand, and light glinted off the metal in my peripheral. It was aimed steadily at my chest. “Do you know how long it took to track down all of your history? I mean, once I had your real name and found your credit cards, it was a lot easier to backtrack you from identity to identity. You kept great historical data. I guess you just got sloppy after a while.” “I’m not alone,” I whispered. “You’re not?” He said in surprise. “Jack!” I called into the empty hangar, my voice echoing. The real Neale Keaton didn’t even flinch. There was no reply. “Sounds to me like you’re alone,” Keaton chuckled. “Actually,” Jack said from behind him. “He brought me.” Keaton didn’t even turn around. Jack’s gun was trained on Keaton’s back, but Keaton just smiled. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “Me too. Almost thought that Michael was going to come without me,” Jack smirked before lowering his gun. I stared at him in disbelief. “You… and… him?” I stuttered. Keaton waited while I put it together. I didn’t vocalize my understanding. “Why?” I asked. Keaton’s eyebrow raised. “Why take such a roundabout way to get money? Why didn’t you just have Jack shoot me in the back, take your money, and leave?” Keaton burst out laughing. Jack’s smile was condescending, as if I had asked why 2 plus 2 did not equal five. “It’s not about the money,” he laughed. “If you don’t get it yet, there’s no point in me explaining it to you.” He turned to Jack. “Is he armed?” “No,” Jack said, still clutching his Beretta but aiming it at the floor. Neale nodded. “You want me to take your place,” I said, the pieces suddenly clicking. Once one block fell, the rest of the puzzle clicked. And ho-ly shit, was it clever. “Oooooh my Gooood,” I laughed, unable to resist smiling. “You don’t want to be Neale Keaton anymore!” Keaton smiled reassuringly. “You’ve made too many enemies! But you were smart enough to do business without letting anyone ever see who you were. You hired other people to do your deals, even though it pissed off the people you made deals with. “Every time your hired guns double crossed someone, even if they were rogue and stealing from you, you were the one who got blamed. There’s only so many bad deals that can happen before no one will deal with you anymore.” “I guess he can think,” Keaton glanced at Jack. “But you couldn’t have just thought of this after I’d stolen your identity… you had to have…” I trailed off, thinking. “My identity was bait. You were the one unlucky fish who bit the hook. I let you be me before releasing the hounds,” Keaton prompted. “You hired the DeathNote guys? You put money on your own head and just hoped they wouldn’t shoot the real Neale Keaton?” “Of course they didn’t know who I was,” Keaton snapped. “You gave them my address,” I kept going. “And the other two guys you hired were, what, a scare tactic? Why tell them they were working for Neale?” “They were my employees long before you came along. I had to dump them just like I dumped my identity. Once you die, they’ll find a new employer.” “And once you had decided that I would be your strawman to take a bullet for you, you told them about Shawn Lockhard,” I finished. Keaton nodded, looking impressed. “I’ll make you a deal, Michael, since that’s why you’re here. I’ll let you live. Jack here won’t be the one to kill you. You’re smart. You get to keep Neale Keaton’s identity and I’ll let the world finish you off. You may last a while, but not that long.” “How very generous,” I said sarcastically. “Sarcasm won’t help me like you any more.” Keaton tutted. “But why Jack? What’s he got to do with this?” “I was your bodyguard, of sorts,” he spoke up. “My job was to keep you alive long enough for the word to spread that Neale Keaton had to die. Plus, I supplied all of your identities to Neale here.” That also explained how he knew about DeathNote. Keaton had told him about the plan. I remembered the gunfight we had just left with the DeathNote guys. Neither of them had been behind any cover, yet no one had been shot. The firefight had been staged. How many more details had I missed? “If you try to use any of the identities that you and Jack burned,” Keaton said, “I’ll add it to the Wanted poster. You are to use my identity and mine only. You will become me. I even emailed you some notes about the people you may meet.” “Once again, how generous.” “See, I can be nice,” Keaton said. “Unfortunately, I have a duty to a client who I promised a tip-off on the infamous Neale Keaton.” Keaton nodded to Jack, and Jack aimed the Beretta once more. I put my hands up instinctively. “We’re going to take a little trip, leave you tied up somewhere, and let my client know your whereabouts.” “Not much of a chance against the world,” I replied. Keaton shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll think of some way out. If you don’t, then you’re not worthy of my name after all.” Jack advanced toward me. “Turn around,” he said. I slowly complied. Suddenly, the sound of a small, metallic ting resounded throughout the hangar. Like a magnet to metal. A huge, fiery explosion suddenly went off at the head of the private jet. The heat raced across my skin, and it felt like I was next to a bonfire. Luckily, we were further back towards the tail, or else we might’ve been hit. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!” Keaton shrieked. “There!” Someone yelled from the large hangar entrance, which had been left open. Gunfire filled the hangar. Jack dropped his attention from me and moved to stand in front of Keaton. He raised his Beretta and took several calculated shots and the men who were firing blindly inside. I dropped and rolled under the single prop plane, putting something between Jack and I before he decided to take a shot at me instead. The gunfire increased as more men showed up at the entrance. “NOWHERE TO HIDE, NEALE!” Someone screamed. “FUCK YOU, OLIVER!” Keaton yelled back, returning fire with his own small pistol. “Jack, move back. The crates have ammo.” Keaton said over the gunfire. I was barely able to hear him. Perfect, I thought. I moved quietly along the airplane, keeping its body between me and the multiple shooters. When I hit the back of the plane, I peered around. Jack and Keaton were still exchanging bullets with the intruders, slowly stepping towards the crates in the back. I moved just out of their peripheral vision, following my training. I stayed low and made sure the plane kept me out of sight. When I reached the scattered crates, I lifted one quickly to find it full of nothing but straw. Taking a chance, I dug my hand down and touched metal, thank God. I pulled out an actual AK with the a clip taped to the side with packaging tape. Biting off the tape, I felt around for ammo and managed to snag a handful of loose bullets. I ducked behind the crate and slid bullets one by one into the clip. Eight bullets. Eight shots. More than enough to kill Keaton and Jack, but not enough to get out of here. They’d kill everyone here just to make sure they got the real Keaton. I heard gunfire getting closer, so I knew that Jack and Keaton were getting closer. They had to be running out of bullets by now. I glanced up and saw that they were using the plane as cover like I had and were still making their way back. Raising the AK, I aimed for Jack’s back, lining the sights up perfectly. My finger slowly squeezed the trigger until I heard a click. It jammed. “SHIT,” I hissed involuntarily. That made Jack turn around. I hit the floor as three bullets zipped overhead, denting the steel wall behind me. Desperately, I tore at the bullet feed, trying to kick out the jammed bullet. I heard Jack’s gun click loudly, and took my chances. I jumped up, still fiddling with the AK, and ran towards Jack. He ran towards me too, ready to fist-fight it out. I lowered the AK to one hand and raised the other like I was going to punch. The distraction worked, and I shoved the AK forward, barrel first. It hit him hard in the gut, and he doubled over. With two hands, I used the AK to slam the butt down on the back of his head. He collapsed instantly. I’d hit the back of his neck perfectly. Gasping for air and trying to keep the adrenaline for just a little longer, I tried one more attempt to unjam my rifle. But it was hopeless, and I could get shot at any second. Keaton turned back, probably just realizing that Jack was gone, and saw me standing over Jack’s unconscious body. I dropped the gun, intending to run back to the crates and find another. But the jammed bullet jumped out when the gun hit the ground. Both Keaton and I saw the bullet bounce off the ground. As if in slow motion, I bent to pick up the gun while he spun his pistol on me. I wasn’t fast enough. A bullet caught him in the calf from behind, and he screamed. It forced him down onto one knee in a small spray of blood. His gun went off, but wasn’t aimed anywhere specific. He crawled further under the plane to shield himself, which gave me time to act. I pulled out my phone, which was pissing me off. IIt had been vibrating non-stop ever since I arrived at the hangar. Even though it pissed me off, it was good. It meant that Marco and Alejandro had done their jobs. I raised the AK in one hand, and my phone in the other. One button started the video recording. I let out all six remaining bullets, only two of which actually hit Keaton’s chest. He screamed again, dropped his gun, and fell down face-first. Satisfied, I hit “Stop” on my phone and slipped it into my pocket again. Both were down. I was the only one left. And the gunfire from the door wasn’t slowing down. The squeal of tires made me perk up my ears, and I smiled in disbelief as two SUV’s sped into the hangar, each manned by Marco and Alejandro. Alejandro used his to defend Marco’s car, which sped between the two planes and skid to a stop in front of Keaton. I raced forward with the AK and jumped into the backseat. I dropped to the floor while Marco hit the gas and turned around. Alejandro had already gone in front and his SUV was taking all the fire. The car rocked as we tore out of the hangar and bullets ravaged the back of the car. I tore the battery out of my phone to stop it from vibrating anymore. “Their cars are parked far away, we should be safe soon,” Marco said with his usual accent. “Thanks, Marco,” I rasped, sitting up. “You’re welcome, Mr. Keaton.”
I knew there was a 50/50 chance that this meeting was setup. In the worst case, I’d be riding a private jet out with guns blazing. In the best case… well, what happened was the best case. At my request, Alejandro and Marco had gone onto DeathNote and spread rumors that I was getting alerts from DeathNote whenever a new hit was added. I changed my code to paste my phone’s location on DeathNote every time it received a text about a new hit. You darkweb dweebs caught on immediately and started spamming the hit list to get my location and track me down. The more hits that were added, the more value Neale Keaton’s death had. And with that beautiful video, I was able to prove to the DeathNote owners that I had indeed killed Neale Keaton. How did they know that old guy was the real Neale? I’d been recording on my phone ever since I got to the hangar. The audio corroborated everything. With proof in hand, the runners of DeathNote paid out my grand total of $56,000 in Bitcoin. I didn’t get the $150,000 unfortunately since it was Keaton himself who had placed that reward. See, I knew something was fishy with Jack after I looked at his phone the morning after I told him I was an identity thief. He was asleep when I went through his phone to try and find a way to ditch him somehow. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. But his calls list showed a call to the same number multiple times over the last couple of days. All of the calls had been made while I wasn’t with him. Sure, it could have been anyone, but it made me suspicious. When I met with Marco and Alejandro, I kept up the ruse of being Neale. They only knew what I told them, and I asked them to bring two cars to my phone’s location when they heard shooting. My phone had brought you lovely darkweb fuckers right to where I was going to die. You inadvertantly saved my life. Like I said from the start, you were being manipulated. By both Neale and myself. Thanks ;) Someone made a post a few days ago out of video from the people who came to kill Keaton at the hangar. The video showed Jack and Keaton, who was a 90 year-old guy, but not my face. All the rest of you saw that Keaton’s reward had been claimed, and cried fraud. But it wasn’t fraud. I just beat you all to it. This post is here to salvage Chris’s reputation. Michael is a piece of shit. Neale is a piece of shit too. But Chris is the one identity I actually wanted. I wish I could have that identity and that life back. But it’s too late now. You have forced my hand, and until this site accepts that I got the bounty fair and square, I can’t be Chris the store manager. I’m an identity thief, my darkweb dwellers. I become who I need to be to get what I want. The sooner you accept that I am NOT Neale Keaton, the sooner Neale Keaton will die. Until then, Keaton’s email is really helping me assume his role. Once you all accept it, I’ll dump his shit, delete everything, and go back to being Chris the store manager. Until that changes, I am Neale Keaton.
Cryptocurrencies like Bitcoin use blockchain technology. Each block is a list of transactions which are linked or chained together to record the entire history of transactions for a given cryptocurrency. A blockchain can be thought of a ledger that keeps track of all transactions for a given cryptocurrency. 7:06 Bitcoin reaches new all-time high: $3,000; Tuesday, 11 Apr 2017. 15:15 Russia’s Finance Ministry: Cryptocurrencies may be recognized in 2018; Wednesday, 29 Mar 2017. 7:24 CRYENGINE now accepts Bitcoin; Saturday, 26 Nov 2016. 7:47 Consulting firm EY Switzerland accepts Bitcoin; Friday, 29 Apr 2016. 7:09 Steam accepts Bitcoin; Thursday, 18 Dec 2014. 19:43 Major Magazine Publisher to ... The price of bitcoin is currently surging, reaching an all-time high and surpassing the market value of major companies like Goldman Sachs. Bitcoin Worth $500 - Bitcoin Reaches New High. Thread starter guest123; Start date Nov 17, 2013; Forums $$$ Cryptocurrency. Status Not open for further replies. Prev. 1; 2; First Prev 2 of 2 Go to page. Go. TheShadowFOg Member. member. Sep 7, 2011 147 15 24 ... Bitcoin price reaches its all-time high. The highlight of this week is perhaps the fact that Bitcoin price has reached its record high of $1222 (Bitfinex) on Friday night. Maximum average price according to Coinmarketcap has reached $1220. Bitcoin community took a breath on Thursday night seeing that the speed of the price growth has accelerated. Bitcoin price returned to $1000 on February 11 ...
This video is unavailable. Watch Queue Queue. Watch Queue Queue Here are 10 of the MOST INSANE world records ever completed! Ever wanted to have your own world record? Of course you have, because the idea of being the bes... This video is unavailable. Watch Queue Queue. Watch Queue Queue (No One Is Actually Trying To Spit Bars) TJ and Jared V.S. Jesus, Ralph and Special Appearance from the one and only, Pedro! WATCH PEDRO'S EPIC RAP AT 5:24 !... Things in high school sure have changed over the last 10 years... CAST Ian Hecox Noah Grossman Keith Leak Jr. Courtney Miller Olivia Sui Shayne Topp CREW Dir...