The wonderful and horrible thing about this modern world is that everything has a price. For a thick wad of folding money, I found myself at the door to a special cell while my host opened the digital lock.
"Cameras off for fifteen," he told me in his clipped accent, and touching his cap, walked away, trying to hide the American greenbacks in his waistband.
From inside the cell I heard soft weeping.
My victim lived in perpetual mortal terror at this point. He broke when his enemies had encircled him, ensnared him, and then made it clear that his family would pay the price for his transgression.
They also didn't seem to care if I helped him pay that price.
I pushed aside the heavy security door and looked at the pale man before me.
He crouched on the floor, and looked at me in total confusion as I sprayed a fentanyl-based aerosol into his face. Soon he relaxed in a semiconscious position, still watching me with those uncannily vacant eyes.
Digging in my backpack, I took out the video camera and set it up on the sink so it owuld film us. The mask descended over my face, and the rest of me was dressed in formal black, with gloves -- I even had a black condom on my seething member.
"Assange," I said. "More like AssAngel." I moved in for the kill.
It wasn't hard to rip off Assange's civilian clothing, then force his head down into the toilet while I squirted lubricant into his rectum. I keep a bottle with a chemical heat stick in it so that I never have to waste time waiting for it to warm up.
As he struggled with one feeble hand to get out of the toilet, I punched him hard at the base of the neck. Howling in glee, I penetrated deep through his protesting anus into his quivering large intestine. He gasped in pain and fear, perhaps disgust, and writhed in terror. I kept closed-hand punching the side of his head until he kept the writing to a manageable level.
I desecrated his rectum with violence and lust. Pounding away so hard that his lip split on the toilet seat and one eyebrow tore against the painted brick walls, I whispered to him as I smashed hard into his prostate.
"I'm going to open source this video, and post it on Twitter. I'll have a dozen backup servers. Information wants to be free, and guess what's now out of the bag? Everyone you know will see me raping you. You will forever be known as anally raped Julian," I said.
At that he made a strangled sound and twitched violently. I thrust with greater frequency, my joy and feverish desire culminating as his despair grew vast. As he made strangled sound, I reached my apex and spent myself deep inside of his digestive tract while he writhed.
I threw him down on the floor and laughed. He embraced the cold concrete like a saviour or lost child. The bravado I had seen on the news was gone, as was the anger. I had freed him from himself with this rectal desecration.
"So who's mighty now?" I said, and zipped up, then withdrew into the cold of the night, anonymous forever.