Weaponized

The trouble started when I let a friend live in my tumbledown village house, or perhaps when I fixed another friend's computer, having fought Sality, tricked Photoshop, and made peace between NOD32 antivirus and Comodo firewall. Later, the village guy fixed my house and brought me food and medicine, and it's that particular computer I use to post this.

What a fantastic coincidence.

Non-reciprocity was the thing that got me into trouble. When the tenants caught whiff of me doing stuff for free, they pronounced me retarded and decided to steal my room and village house (To keep things in perspective: the house and the 0.14 acres of land on which it stands cost $10,000; the 56 square ft. room costs $300,000 - and falling, since a five-storey garage is being constructed between the house and the picturesque river with the leisure-vessel river port on the opposite bank.) People get murdered for less every single day.

They didn't want me murdered. They offered me a choice between Option One (a false report to the police, the courthouse and, as they gently put it, "fat lesbos fingerbanging you in jail all year long") and Option Two (a nice comfortable room in the madhouse where I can rest and relax for however long I like and be perfectly happy). Naturally, I chose the third option and ran the fuck away. They didn't expect this. They believe in fairness, parity and market prices. According to their calculations, I had nowhere to go. The house should have been ruined by now, and a fixed computer wouldn't buy a night's sleep.

"True friends should help each other," they said. "Do your friends help you?"

Fuck yeah they do. Not because they should, they're just being awesome.

"What would they say if they learned you attack children with knives and beat disabled ladies bloody?"

They learned the answer the hard way. You just don't pull a fast one on a celebrated journalist. I don't like random strangers to know about my troubles, but I'd rather be pitied for bad luck than reviled for a retarded whore's bullshit lie.

I know my memetics. People are reluctant to change their opinion. They'd rather be wrong forever than admit having been wrong.

Don't lie to a celebrated journalist. Don't piss off a rock star. Don't be a greedy fuck.

The tale grows in the telling. One day, the whore would tire of entertaining herself by punching unremarkable masochists in the nuts* and decide to make it big on the Scene. And the Scene is waiting, with spotlights and rotten tomatoes at the ready.

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*I have all her dox, including chatlogs. My friend's son asked me why I use the Windows trashbin instead of speedy deletion to nowhere. This is why, kid. People who never attempted to fix their PC themselves do not know a portable hard drive, unlike a thumb drive, has a trashbin. This is why.