2020.10.16 04:09 _Finding_my_Light_ Voyeur hidden camera sex
In two days, it will mark 1 year from when you finally crossed the line one too many times. You fucking broke me. It took me a long time to realize why I fell into such a deep depression and suddenly stopped feeling anything for you. I had been hanging on by a thread for so long anyways. But it all started with that event, that night. And the feelings for you never returned.
That night you asked for sex as you usually did, via text message after ignoring me all night and gaming. I postponed until the next night, and we went to sleep. I had only been sleeping on my back for a few weeks. I thought my teeth might be shifting a bit because I always slept on the same side of my face, turned away from you. I woke up in the middle of the night from a dead sleep to see you leaning over me and feeling you fingering me while I slept. I woke up in an instant terror, and half-asleep I said something like, “What the hell are you doing?!” I rolled over, facing away from you, and tried to go back to sleep.
The next day, I gave you the silent treatment. Something I almost never initiate, because that’s your game not mine. A couple days later you finally asked what was wrong with me. I told you how upset I was about waking up to you basically sexually assaulting me in my sleep. I told you how it scared me and made me feel like I was being raped. You apologized, said it was stupid, and we moved on. Like always, I tried to just get over it.
This event that may have meant little to you was the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I feel like you literally broke me. I started to remember something that had happened at a party in high school. I had fell asleep on the couch at a party and woke up the same way. I ran upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom until he left. I hated the fact that you gave me that same unsafe and violated feeling as some drunk asshole who touched me in my sleep at a party.
The fact that you apologized and said you wouldn’t do it again meant next to nothing. You had said that about the hidden camera voyeurism shit, and that went on for so long, longer than I even knew about. I thought to myself, “So is this just the next new fucked up thing you’re going to start doing now?” Unsafe and violated. A husband shouldn’t make his wife feel that way. It was just another reminder of your perversions and sexual boundary crossings. It wasn’t until later I accepted the fact that this all was sexual abuse.
The depression stuck around for such a long time and was nearly debilitating when I was at home. I had no motivation to do anything, and I just couldn’t understand why. This was just another shitty thing you did to me that I was supposed to repress and try to forget. Only I couldn’t. In all my confused sadness, one thing that was consistent was that I couldn’t stop thinking about how unhappy I was with you and how unhappy I had been for such a long time.
I searched your phone looking for something, as though the unconscious sexual assault wasn’t enough. I knew I would find something, and I did, remnants of your previous voyeurism: photos that were never erased, photos taken after you had finally “stopped” doing it, and pictures sent to your new phone just a few months prior. This only fed the depression and detachment even more. I tried “fixing” it like I always have, so I upped my antidepressants. You had convinced me that it was just the depression talking. It wasn’t.
Violated, unsafe, disrespected, that’s how you made me feel. I hated the realization that I now had a new fear to worry about. I had already been affected by the voyeurism, still searching for hidden cameras years later. I didn’t feel safe to undress in my own home, never knowing if you might be secretly filming me again. Now I couldn’t even feel safe while I slept. You gave me that feeling.
I had a thought the other day, and it was painfully bittersweet. Tomorrow, you will be served divorce papers. I’m actually doing this. And I realized that and I won’t have to live in fear of being violated like that anymore. I will never have to let you touch me ever again.
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2020.09.18 14:47 BuckRowdy Voyeur camera sex hidden
This is an updated and edited version of a post I originally submitted at /redditcrimecommunity. It's been updated with the latest info.
I used to search to see if I could find out Jared's salary or his net worth because to me it seemed like he had the easiest job in the world. Just stand there and smile, hold up the giant pants, shake a few kids hands at store openings and other corporate promotional events; essentially play the character of Jared from the Subway commercials.
The Midwestern everyman who once weighed over 425 pounds and lost it all by eating at Subway every day. Of course the fine print at the bottom of the screen gave the wider context to his weight loss routine, but there was a much wider, much darker context to Jared's story that would only be revealed years later.
Jared started working for Subway in 2000. By 2005 they had stopped featuring him in commercials and their sales declined by 10%. They quickly reinstated him and he was a fixture ever since.
It is true that Jared did lose the weight, and he did do it in part by eating at Subway.
At this point it would be reasonable to ask how did he get the money as a college student to eat all his meals at Subway?
Because he was running a porn video rental business out of his apartment at the time and had an extensive collection. You've got to remember that this was in an era where media of all types was more difficult to obtain. You didn't have everything at your fingertips back then.
Subway opened up on the ground floor and Jared was lazy so he started eating all his meals there.
The rest of Jared's story is marketing mythology. A friend wrote an article in the student newspaper that got published in Men's Health which caught the eye of Subway's marketing department. Jared started working for Subway in 2000 and up until about 2007 it appeared to be a marketing master stroke. That's when the reports started trickling out. In 2007, TMZ published the story about the porn rental business.
We'd learn later that as early as 2008, Subway had received serious reports about Jared from a franchisee in Florida that Jared had befriended at a few store openings. Cindy Mills, the franchisee said:
"He would just tell me he really liked them young," she says. Fogle and Mills had a sexual relationship, which lead Fogle to disclose disturbing details of his criminal activity in lewd text messages. Jared was up to no good for years, but his world really started to crumble in 2015 with the arrest of Russell Taylor. Taylor was Jared's partner in his non-profit charity and he was just as bad as Jared if not worse.
Mills says she tried to blow the whistle by phoning ad executive Jeff Moody — then CEO of the Subway Franchisee Advertising Fund Trust (SFAFT) — after Fogle had told her that he had sex both in Thailand and the US with child prostitutes between the ages of 9 and 16 years old. According to Mills, Moody stopped her mid-conversation and said, "Don't worry, he has met someone. She is a teacher and he seems to love her very much, and we think she will help keep him grounded." Mills also claims she spoke with two more SFAFT execs after Moody, but ran into more dead ends.
Russell Taylor, the former director of Fogle's anti-childhood obesity foundation, was arrested in April [of 2015] on three counts of possession of child pornography, three counts of child exploitation, and three counts of voyeurism. Taylor had gotten in trouble for texting a woman a picture of bestiality and suggesting such between the two of them. It's a sick thing to think about, but that's just what Jared and Russell were up to.
In one of those text messages, according to the affidavit, “Russell Taylor asked her if he and another adult female she identified could come to Jane Doe’s residence and engage in” an act of bestiality. The woman did not agree to that request, but told investigators “you could tell (Taylor) was serious.” She also told investigators that “she received an image file via text from Russell Taylor that depicted (another act of bestiality).” Jared's house was raided and the rest quickly became history. Subway dropped him. Sharknado 3 dropped him. Jared accused Taylor of fraud and sued him. One quarter of the funds of the charity were unaccounted for, and the only money they ever paid out went to Taylor's $73k salary.
I'm no professional but it's hard not to draw the conclusion that Jared was paying Taylor to produce child porn with a non profit charity.
The world found out about Jared in 2015, but in 2007 and 2008 two women were finding out a lot about Jared.
Jared had met a franchisee in Florida and started a sexual relationship with her. She called the FBI when Jared started texting stuff like this:
In one series of texts sent from April 2008, Fogle tries to convince the franchisee, a woman, to advertise herself for sex on Craigslist. She could make $500 per act he explains and he could watch her have sex with other men. Fogle then goes on to apparently admit to paying for sex with a 16-year-old girl off Craigslist.
The woman franchisee writes: "Is this the same website you found that 16 year old you that you f---ed?" the woman replied, according to an affadavit.
Around the same time, Jared met Rochelle Herman Walrond, a journalist who initially remained anonymous, who came forward and said that she got suspicious about Jared when he called middle school girls hot
According to the woman, Jared would often visit schools in Sarasota County, and allegedly told her numerous times that, 'Middle school girls are hot.'" She contacted the FBI who asked her to wear a wire. She went on to record Jared over a nearly 5 year period, pleading with the FBI to go ahead and arrest him with them always saying that they didn't have enough evidence and needed more.
So she tried to get Jared to incriminate himself. Over that 4.5 year period they talked about a lot of stuff, like that Jared wanted to fly to Thailand to have sex with children.
"I would fly all three of us clear across the world if we need to,"[Jared] says on the tape. "It would just make things a lot easier — if we're going to try and get some young kids with us. It would be a lot easier probably." He gave her grooming tips:
"Well, if we get them segregated out ... you know, start talking or whatever ... and we get a little closer, and a little closer and a little closer and before you know it ... it just starts to happen," the man's voice says. "But I think that girl from the broken home could be a possibility, you know." He daydreamed on the phone:
"Do you want to watch me f— a young girl, too?" the voice of Fogle asks. "Will you f— a young boy?" When Herman-Walrond asks if that would turn Fogle on, he responds with a whispered "yeah." He also, allegedly, asked her repeatedly to let him install hidden cameras in her kids’ rooms.
“I had a little boy. It was amazing,” Fogle reportedly said, in response to a question about being with children. “It just felt so good. I mean, it felt—it felt so good.”
“I had two young children at the time, and he talked to me about installing hidden cameras in their rooms and asked me if I would choose which child I would like him to watch,” she told Inside Edition. The audio recordings can be heard at this link. She reported him to Subway in 2009 and nothing happened.
At the same time this was happening, Jared was flying to New York to pay for sex with minors. He asked the minors who he paid for sex if they knew anyone else they could recommend, always stressing younger if possible.
Also, according to the charging documents:
Fogle received "images and videos of nude of partially clothed minors engaged in sexually explicit conduct," which were allegedly recorded by Russell Taylor, the former director of the Jared Foundation. Taylor was in possession of 400 videos of child pornography upon his arrest.
Taylor secretly filmed some of the minors in his home using hidden cameras that captured them changing clothes and bathing.
In 2011, someone else reported Jared to Subway via their website and yet nothing happened.
All this came raining down on Jared in 2015 when his house was raided and he was arrested and later charged with 14 acts of sex involving minors. He was ultimately sentenced to 15 years in jail and had to pay restitution to his 14 of his many victims totaling $1.4 million. His wife divorced him as quick as she could, Subway cut ties with him and the dominoes started to tumble.
All of a sudden the past reports about Jared came to light and Subway didn't have an explanation. Lawsuits started flying. Jared's now ex wife accused Subway of covering up Jared's pedophilia even from her because their marriage made Jared more grounded and more marketable.
It's now a sick joke, but at the same time of jared's arrest, Subway was trying to rebrand him as a family man.
So why didn't Subway act on the various reports it had gotten about Jared over the years? As this site puts it, it was a story bookended by laziness. Jared's laziness brought him to Subway, and their laziness in vetting stories led to the end of the Jared era with a lot of human misery left in his wake.
Subway has waffled in its response. Rather than taking the path of clear messaging and communication, and aiming to transparent and authentic throughout this terrible situation for the victims and Fogle’s family (as well as the brand), the company hasn’t been clear about where it stands in the midst of this crisis. What message was Subway sending to its employees and franchisees by keeping Fogle around for as long as it did? As soon as he went to jail he instantly gained 30 pounds
In 2016, he filed an appeal which was denied. The DA's office argued:
[that] Fogle's text messages to a woman, in which Fogle stated he would "pay big" if she could procure 14-year-old children, and that he "craved" underage Asian girls. In these text messages, he also expressed sexual interest in young boys, although there is to date no evidence that he paid for sex with male children. Later that same year, a brawl broke out and Jared was nearly killed in an attack meant to send a message to all pedophiles.
Other than that, rumor has it that Jared has it pretty easy in jail which is disappointing to hear given all that he's responsible for.
In 2017, Fogle tried to pull the Sovereign Citizen defense and claim that the feds didn't have jurisdiction over him which I imagine gave the feds a good laugh. The motion was dismissed.
In 2018, Jared sued to void his conviction going so far as to name the president (among others) as a defendant. It was unclear how the president was involved and Jared was forced to remove him as a defendant.
he was wrongfully allowed to plead guilty to conspiracy to receive child pornography, claiming that conspiracy doesn’t apply to such an offense. His suit was dismissed.
That same year a woman pen pal of Jared's sold their racy letters to Radar Online. Seen here and here. She also sold a recorded phone call where she and Jared discuss porn and his sexual preferences.
If he wanted to appeal to a parole board, surely sending hand-drawn pictures of his genitalia that later end up on radar online is not a good strategy.
In March 2020, three of associate Russell Taylor's child pornography convictions were overturned for ineffective counsel. He still faces trial on 9 other charges.
In the five years since Fogle was arrested, Subway has been reeling. In 2015, their co-founder passed away and a new CEO was brought in. Internal reports indicate that customer traffic is down 30%. They've laid off over 400 people from the corporate HQ and this summer they had to revoke a promotion due to a franchisee revolt over the pricing.
Subway was associated so long with Jared it may take time for customers to form a new association. They tried to drop him once, struggled, and re-hired him. Clearly Subway lived in denial while Jared was their spokesman and looked the other way as business boomed. The new marketing strategy involves athletes. Time will only tell if they can recover from one of the worst scandals to ever hit a sandwich chain.
As of September 2020, Russell Taylor was being held at a federal prison in Yazoo City, Mississippi; Fogle was being held at a federal prison in Littleton, Colorado.
submitted by BuckRowdy to TrueCrime [link] [comments]
2020.07.28 05:27 _Finding_my_Light_ Journal Entry: July 27, 2020
I know it isn’t good to dwell in the past and continue to feel the victim mentality. It makes me feel weak and ashamed. At the same time, as I become stronger, I find myself thinking from time to time, “If he stops the sexual abuse the rest wasn’t that bad, right?” It was.
So tonight I’m going through the entire relationship and briefly reminding myself: YES, it was abuse. YES, you were unhappy for a very long time. YES, you will remain unhappy by staying, even if he has made some changes to his behavior.
2020.07.21 07:41 21Julhouston Hidden camera sex voyeur
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2020.07.18 14:19 18Jluldacket Hidden sex camera voyeur
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2020.02.02 00:33 Rubberout Voyeur sex camera hidden
Once the swing door passed, Juliette was assailed by the heaviness of the atmosphere, invaded by smoke from incense. Father Mairain had a heavy hand with regard to the offerings to the Lord. The church was empty as it should be … only the solar rays came to illuminate the biblical scenes, represented on the stained glass windows.
Here, Juliette felt good, at peace … finally freed from the demons who chased her, at any time of the day or night.
She trusted Robert, but it had to be said that her methods of making him recover the Way of God were particularly singular! However, thinking about it, it started from an irreproachable logic.
She had turned so far from her human nature, from her role as a woman, from her humanity, that she had to work hard to find them … otherwise she would experience the loss of her soul and her Salvation! Certainly, but everything that Robert made him do was disturbing! To walk naked under her clothes was confusing to say the least … and did the Church allow it?
Currently, Robert had ordered him to go to the church, completely naked under his beige overcoat … and there, Juliette wondered if all of this was really good, in accordance with the dogmas of the Holy Church!
But at least here, she was going to have the enlightened and neutral opinion of a true clergyman!
Father Mairain, a holy man if ever there was one, was busy replacing the candles on their candlesticks. When he saw this brunette with curly hair, thin and slender, stuck in his beige overcoat, his hands in his pockets, his eyes painful and his face closed, he thought that something was wrong!
At 63, after almost 40 years of officiating in different churches in France and Navarre, he had met some funny parishioners … he had a lot too.
He had noticed the attraction of a lot of women for ministers of religion … and for some like him, “ass” too!
Certainly the famous tendency of women to go towards the forbidden, the impossible … wanting to conquer impregnable fortresses … in appearance ?!
Anyway, the abbot had noticed that the most sluts, were at the start the most pious and boring of his parishioners, after a little psychological manipulation nevertheless. As if we had created a fault in a dam, having retained too long a large amount of unfulfilled desire and perversity, and that once the fault widened, everything came at once!
In short, the stuck brunette of about forty … he could smell her. – Hello, father, are you changing the candles?
– Not stupid, it is to square you very deep in your little pussy of giant clam frog, he wanted to answer! Instead:
– What can I do for you my child? Which way of Providence brings you to me, so early in the morning?
– Well indeed, I have a big case of conscience my father … and may be things to blame me!
– Come to my office.
She followed him and he made her sit in an armchair, opposite him, sitting behind his desk. He had a mini-camera arranged to have the vision on the crotch of these ladies … of which he could feast the eyes, thanks to the small monitor on his desk.
Unfortunately, the dildo kept the legs tight. No bottoms anyway, the legs were bare … he would have imagined her naked, in garter belts under her raincoat … you had to have confirmation. He got up, offering her a cordial, and already a hand on her shoulder, offered to remove her coat.
The woman stiffened, and cautiously surrounded her arms as if to protect herself … bet won! He was now sure she was completely naked under the raincoat. He gave her the cordial, which she swallowed quickly, and, giving her another, advised her to let go and relax … she was here in good hands!
As he had pushed the heating to the bottom, and the alcohol was starting to heat it up a little, the woman had to loosen the belt of her overcoat, and unbutton the top, revealing the top of her chest! Father Maurain was starting to get excited and bend hard!
– So my child, this problem of conscience?
After having related the episode of the bible which burned in her fingers, of its handling by her director of conscience, she stumbled to explain what consisted of “practical work”. The abbe felt that she was hiding something not very Catholic.
Not insisting, he proposed the confessional, where the beautiful could pour out on the wounds of his soul. Everyone, separated by the wooden partition, with the small trellis, the abbot could nevertheless see everything that was going on thanks to the two hidden cameras, above and below … there was some stuff in this confessional !
“Speak my child, it is God who listens to you through my ears. So this young man helps you to find the Way of Salvation. Good, but how does he do it?
– He explains to me that I had distanced myself from Humanity by conceited conduct, and that to find my soul, I had to plunge back into certain aspects of Humanity.
– Like what ?
– I’m a little ashamed … I think I made big mistakes. At the time, after a certain anxiety, I liked that, but now, in this church in the presence of you, my father, in the presence of God, I have the impression of having made a terrible error of judgment !
– Well my daughter, what exactly did you do? said the abbot, who was starting to get angry, about the woman’s lack of communication.
– I can’t bring myself to tell you about it … I’m too ashamed!
– Look, I think I understand your problem. What you have done is nothing, compared to what I see on your Path of personal life.
– Ah well, and what do you see my father?
– Hell under your feet, my poor girl! You are confessed, you do not trust me, and therefore you have no feeling of redemption. The Lord will hold it against you. I am beginning to understand what your thought director is trying to do.
You are so haughty, self-confident, individualistic and limited, that no more only Christian feelings pass through your soul. Pride is perhaps the greatest capital sin, which drives man to rise to the rank of God.
The vulgar creature tries to put itself at the level of its Creator. Do you understand my words well? If you persist in this lack of dialogue and openness, you are doomed to Perdition! Now describe to me the practical work, which your director of conscience advised you, to bring you back to what you really are: a poor creature, bogged down in guilty arrogance! “
The sermon had been so violent, and it echoed Robert’s arguments so well, that Juliette allowed herself to be destroyed by the validity of the priest’s declarations. Yes, indeed, she was bogged down in her Error. And she felt like she was sinking little by little into the hell of hell! Wiping a few sobs, she put on a face, and decided to confess everything to the abbot, in the smallest detail.
– My father, Robert, my director of conscience forces me to recover my humanity, and for that he engages in erotic games with me.
– Ah! We are coming. So what did you do with him, said the abbot, who was starting to heat up … once again his instinct had not deceived him! The fish was hooked, and he felt that the giant clam would soon open his thighs!
– He asked me to undress, installed me on his thighs and caressed my breasts. I felt a great shame, but also an ambiguous feeling of pleasure.
He ordered me to walk naked under my clothes, and spread my thighs to show him my cock, when we ate family, under the table.
And yesterday, after shaving my cock, he ejaculated on me, after asking me to masturbate, and then take me in the shower.
– So ? said the abbot, who had taken out his penis, and was beginning to caress himself, did you experience pleasure?
– Uh, yes my father. Lots, although this is all new to me!
– Perfect, you become human again. But now you’re going to leave your overcoat …
– But I can’t!
– Good, you will find yourself naked! And so, isn’t it the original nudity of Adam and D’Eve? Anyway, I can’t see you!
– How do you know ?
– I see through consciences, my daughter. Now, get down on your knees on the floor, facing the wall, spread your thighs and grab the little latch in front of your face! “
Juliette had indeed undressed, despite the fairly cold temperature of the church. She felt at the same time ashamed, but excited. After all, his abbot could only want the salvation of his soul.
She pulled on the latch which opened a hole ten by ten centimeters, and there appeared the abbot’s phallus in all its glory. Having understood what the abbot wanted from her, and taking advantage of yesterday’s lesson in the bathroom, she grabbed the scoop of flesh, and began to caress and manipulate it back and forth. A long moan answered his gesture:
– Now take it in your mouth, my daughter, and use your lips in a sucking reflex, as if you were eating an eskimo, amuse the glans with your tongue, and continue this delicious movement of your fingers on my penis. And keep going until I tell you to stop! Not before !”
She ran her fingers over the priest’s penis Even if she had to do it clumsily, at least he seemed satisfied. As for taking his phallus in his mouth, that she had never done, but as she felt confident, and that after all the argument of the priest stuck word for word with that of John, it was not done pray … and then she said to herself:
– But what does it feel like to have a man’s cock in his mouth … and when he ejaculates? As John did to me yesterday, on my breasts and my face, “she thought.
She told herself that she was making great progress to recover the path of her Soul! And also, she felt like a ball which weighed down in her stomach, as well as a tension at the level of her nymphs, which she had started to know well since two days!
– Name of God, but what a good sucker this Juliette! I was not mistaken … this small giant clam is easily malleable, and has the skills of a professional slut! But let’s not go too fast. The prey should not be startled. At this rate, I will not be long in letting go of the mash! “Thought Father Mairain.
And indeed, Juliette, who caressed the sex with one hand, while the other traveled more precisely on the abbot’s sex, was invaded in the mouth by a beautiful discharge of sperm! At the time, that made her cough and she had a little gagging, but very quickly she could feel the pleasant contact of this rod, which pulsed in her mouth, less and less powerful jets!
This put her in a kind of erotic trance, and she wanked the mold squarely, polishing her little button that had grown well, as well as her big lips. She moaned softly, eyes closed, mouth dripping with sperm, all her attention fixed on the pleasant sensations of her sex in heat!
The abbot, himself, was recovering from his extreme enjoyment, concentrating on the small monitor, located on his side of the confessional, which showed him a full and whole view of Juliette’s crotch; a Juliette on her knees, thighs wide apart, her cock wide open, her slit dripping with love juice, while her fingers took possession of her little treasure!
Finally came the long-awaited Ecstasy: Juliette enjoys as it had never happened to her, she uttered a shrill cry and collapsing on the floor of the confessional, she moaned continuously while hoarse complaints formed in her throat.
The abbot was amazed: never a girl from Burgundy lacking in sex and faith knew such enjoyment … and yet he had passed sluts in the process of being formed!
We needed a final to this little exercise, and above all to see the degree of obedience of the fucking apprentice. He then ordered him to leave the confessional:
– And all naked, my child!
– How? ‘Or’ What ?! Exclaimed Juliette, terrified of leaving the secret sanctuary, where she thought she was not being observed, and who gave her a certain impunity to cover her veil with shame:
– Yes, you understood me correctly …
– N … no, please!
– Good, then my chick, you go out or I come to seek you by the point of the breasts !! You have understood that you are speaking to a representative of God on Earth! He gave you strong enjoyment, now you have to thank him! “
Petrified, Juliette therefore left in the simplest device, in the nave of this church. She felt the icy stone under her bare feet, as well as a vicious air flow that came to touch the top of her legs, and cool the glowing star that still shone between her thighs!
The abbot was feasting on shamelessly ogling this sinner, and he appreciated their fair values the heavy breasts with taut nipples, the flat stomach, the wide hips, the pubis with its metro ticket of black hairs, and the very red lips carmine sex.
“A beautiful little batch,” thought the priest!
So viciously, he made him travel the 12 stations of the Passion of Christ. And arriving in front of each, she had to kneel down, recite a Pater noster, while signing herself, before going to bed belly and breasts against the very cold church floor, as a sign of penance. She did not rebound, and the abbe even noticed that after the first shivering due to the cold, and the shame justified in being naked in a church, she seemed to float in a mystical and sexual trance. She seemed to languish in front of each image of Christ, even to identify with him!
Then the priest made her come before the Altar, and there he made her lie down on it, thighs wide open, in the direction of the East, towards Jerusalem! He presented the censer, which released the bewitching vapors of the incense, almost passed it over Juliette’s skin, so that it was sanctified and slightly heated by the craft!
Then he left it against the woman’s cock. It began to feel intense heat against her vulva, and she began to moan with pleasure and suffering. The father, raising his arms to the sky, facing the devotee naked before him, exclaimed:
– Oh Lord our God, I dedicate to you this creature which regains possession of the Temple of its body. She will enjoy all the pores of her skin in honor of your Name … and in her orgasms, she will be able to capture the beginning of the beginning of your Almighty, and generosity towards your creatures, poor men and women of flesh and blood, that we are. Praise be your name, Lord! “
He then grabbed the censer, which was starting to get very annoying for poor Juliette, the last penance for the sinner in the making! And grabbing the jug of mass wine, generously poured the contents in her mouth, on breasts, belly and sex of Juliette. Then he also took a good swig!
– This is the Blood of Christ, welcome it in your mouth and in your sex! “
Then seizing a host, he plunged it into Juliette’s slit, took it out coated with Cyprine and wine, cut it in half, and placed half of it in the mouth of the new lady, and the rest in his own:
“And this is the body of Christ, regenerated by the source of Woman’s Life!
“Amen,” said Juliette. “
On the way home from her sister-in-law, Juliette felt light. All her doubts were gone, she again felt the ecstasy of walking in the footsteps of Christ! A sheet of paper in the pocket, with all the abbot’s instructions, for his next initiation session to the Regenerated Christian Religion!
The next day, pressed by her sister-in-law Clara and her husband Julien, Juliette invited her niece Marie to pose nude, or “assimilate”, in the small artist’s office where Clara had tried some sketches.
Robert, who was hidden in the adjoining room, and who watched everything that was going on there, thanks to a discreet slit in a molding, had tanned his submissive Juliette, so that she urged his wife to pose naked in front of her.
The two were a little disappointed when Marie , opening her bathrobe, under the spotlights, appeared in a very wise white swimsuit … she sat on the mattress nonchalantly, hands on the sheet. Juliette began to paint it.
In her heart, driven by a new desire to explore the unknown areas of her eroticism, she had hoped to see her young niece naked. This role of voyeur, new for her, would have ignited her new sensuality … but too bad. Her husband Julien, despite all his complaints, had not been accepted into the room, he who said he was a fervent art lover.
Robert was enjoying the fact that he had to work his brakes on not being able to attend the session!
After 20 minutes of a pose that quickly proved uncomfortable and painful, Marie asked for a break. Cursing her mother and her husband, who had almost forced her to engage in this degrading exercise for her, she covered herself in the robe and went to have tea in the kitchen.
On the table, she noticed a cell phone, it was her uncle’s. He started to beep loudly … once, then two and three times. Yielding to curiosity and temptation, she realized that he was in no way protected by a code, so she opened the messages.
What she saw did not put her in a good mood at all.
It was an SMS conversation between Julien and her own husband, spread over several days:
– So, are you going to send me this photo taken under the table? I want to know if you have won our little bet!
– A little my nephew! Here is the photo of your wife’s pussy. You see, thanks to me, she walks her pussy and boobs in the air under her skirt and her blouse! (In attachment a very beautiful visual on the sex still bushy of his aunt.)
– Ah yes, well done young man! What happens next? You are not going to deflate yourself at least!
– Not bad ! You really excited me. You will film the shaving scene tonight! And if you manage to bugger her, I want to come in her ass right after you … keep going!
– Here, this is the little film of what we did in the bathroom, last night. Damn, I shaved her pussy … you will see, you will love the metro ticket! I ejaculated on her, and finally I took her from behind in the shower! (In PJ, the famous movie of the bathroom.)
– Not bad, not bad, but you still haven’t fucked her!
– You’re looking for me Julien! In less than 48 hours, I find that it is already enormous. I did there what you have not done in 20 years with your wife. About “big mouth” … and mine, when do you fuck her? Huh, you bastard ?!
– Soon, soon, young man … I have my little plan!
– I don’t believe you, you will never get there!
– Here, Julien, here are his exploits from yesterday morning in the church, with Father Mairain! A real little vicious one! I’m still waiting for the movie where you fuck my wife! Already, if you can get her to put on a garter belt! (In PJ, the film of Juliette naked in the church, doing the stations before Christ, all naked … and the pagan celebration on the Altar!)
– I’m waiting for Julien!
– I’m still waiting, little dick!
Horrified, Marie could not help drinking the chalice to the dregs, watching the films. Humiliated, mortified by her husband’s vices, her infidelity with her own aunt, and the odious bet that made her a trophy to be shared between the two men, a sob shook her chest.
Then a cold determination took hold of her. She literally ran into their bedroom, rummaged in a drawer and came back down barely 8 minutes later. When she returned to the painter’s studio in a bathrobe, she asked her aunt if she could go and fetch her husband, who seemed to want to attend the painting session.
She also asked him to take his audiovisual recording equipment, as well as the small Polaroid, with which he enjoyed taking small photos for his pleasure.
Confused, Juliette went to get her husband. Meanwhile, Marie sat in front of the table in the mirror, and unpacking her makeup bag, began to compose the face that would perfectly accompany her future performance!
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2020.01.03 21:42 Gintoh David Foster Wallace wrote an essay on how Lynch treats the subject of evil. The essay touches on Twin Peaks
David Foster Wallace was a huge David Lynch fan and I found this excerpt from his essay "David Lynch Keeps His Head" very insightful. The original version of this essay appeared in Entertainment Weekly, but that version didn't include this section. The full version can be found in a collection of Wallace's essays entitled "A supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again." Towards the end of this excerpt Wallace specifically talks about Twin Peaks and Fire Walk With Me; these insights definitely apply to The Return, and I wish he was still alive to give his thoughts on it. I'd recommend reading the whole essay, but this was my favorite part.
The Theme of Evil in the films of David Lynch
One reason it’s sort of heroic to be a contemporary Expressionist is that it all but invites people who don’t like your art to make an ad hominem move from the art to the artist. A fair number of critics object to David Lynch’s movies on the grounds that they are “sick” or “dirty” or “infantile,” then proceed to claim that the movies are themselves revelatory of various deficiencies in Lynch’s own character, troubles that range from developmental arrest to misogyny to sadism. It’s not just the fact that twisted people do hideous things to one another in Lynch’s films, these critics will argue, but rather the “moral attitude” implied by the way Lynch’s camera records hideous behavior. In a way, his detractors have a point. Moral atrocities in Lynch movies are never staged to elicit outrage or even disapproval. The directorial attitude when hideousness occurs seems to range between clinical neutrality and an almost voyeuristic ogling. It’s not an accident that Frank Booth, Bobby Peru, and Leland /”Bob” steal the show in Lynch’s last three films, that there is almost a tropism about our pull toward these characters, because Lynch’s camera is obsessed with them, loves them; they are his movies’ heart.
The claim, though, that because Lynch’s movies pass no overt “judgment” on hideousness/evil/sickness and in fact make the stuff riveting to watch, the movies are themselves a- or immoral, even evil—this is bullshit of the rankest vintage, and not just because it’s sloppy logic but because it’s symptomatic of the impoverished moral assumptions we seem now to bring to the movies we watch.
I’m going to claim that evil is what David Lynch’s movies are essentially about, and that Lynch’s explorations of human beings’ various relationships to evil are, if idiosyncratic and Expressionistic, nevertheless sensitive and insightful and true. I’m going to submit that the real “moral problem” a lot of us cinéastes have with Lynch is that we find his truths morally uncomfortable, and that we do not like, when watching movies, to be made uncomfortable. (Unless, of course, our discomfort is used to set up some kind of commercial catharsis—the retribution, the bloodbath, the romantic victory of the misunderstood heroine, etc.—i.e. unless the discomfort serves a conclusion that flatters the same comfortable moral certainties we came into the theater with.)
The fact is that David Lynch treats the subject of evil better than just about anybody else making movies today—better and also differently. His movies aren’t anti-moral, but they are definitely anti-formulaic. Evil-ridden though his filmic world is, please notice that responsibility for evil never in his films devolves easily onto greedy corporations or corrupt politicians or faceless serial kooks. Lynch is not interested in the devolution of responsibility, and he’s not interested in moral judgments of characters. Rather, he’s interested in the psychic spaces in which people are capable of evil. He is interested in Darkness. And Darkness, in David Lynch’s movies, always wears more than one face. Recall, for example, how Blue Velvet’s Frank Booth is both Frank Booth and “the Well-Dressed Man.” How Eraserhead's whole postapocalyptic world of demonic conceptions and teratoid offspring and summary decapitations is evil… yet how it’s “poor” Henry Spencer who ends up a baby-killer. How in both TV’s Twin Peaks and cinema’s Fire Walk with Me, “Bob” is also Leland Palmer, how they are, “spiritually,” both two and one. The Elephant Man’s sideshow barker is evil in his exploitation of Merrick, but so too is good old kindly Dr. Treeves—and Lynch very carefully has Treeves admit this aloud. And if Wild at Heart’s coherence suffered because its myriad villains seemed fuzzy and interchangeable, it was because they were all basically the same thing, i.e. they were all in the service of the same force or spirit. Characters are not themselves evil in Lynch movies—evil wears them.
This point is worth emphasizing. Lynch’s movies are not about monsters (i.e. people whose intrinsic natures are evil) but about hauntings, about evil as environment, possibility, force. This helps explain Lynch’s constant deployment of noirish lighting and eerie sound-carpets and grotesque figurants: in his movies’ world, a kind of ambient spiritual antimatter hangs just overhead. It also explains why Lynch’s villains seem not merely wicked or sick but ecstatic, transported: they are, literally, possessed. Think here of Dennis Hopper’s exultant “I’LL FUCK ANYTHING THAT MOVES” in Blue Velvet, or of the incredible scene in Wild at Heart when Diane Ladd smears her face with lipstick until it’s devil-red and then screams at herself in the mirror, or of Bob’s look of total demonic ebullience in Fire Walk with Me when Laura discovers him at her dresser going through her diary and just about dies of fright. The bad guys in Lynch movies are always exultant, orgasmic, most fully present at their evilest moments, and this in turn is because they are not only actuated by evil but literally inspired: they have yielded themselves up to a Darkness way bigger than any one person. And if these villains are, at their worst moments, riveting for both the camera and the audience, it’s not because Lynch is “endorsing” or “romanticizing” evil but because he’s diagnosing it—diagnosing it without the comfortable carapace of disapproval and with an open acknowledgment of the fact that one reason why evil is so powerful is that it’s hideously vital and robust and usually impossible to look away from.
Lynch’s idea that evil is a force has unsettling implications. People can be good or bad, but forces simply are. And forces are—at least potentially—everywhere. Evil for Lynch thus moves and shifts, pervades; Darkness is in everything, all the time—not “lurking below” or “lying in wait” or “hovering on the horizon”: evil is here, right now. And so are Light, love, redemption (since these phenomena are also, in Lynch’s work, forces and spirits), etc. In fact, in a Lynchian moral scheme it doesn’t make much sense to talk about either Darkness or about Light in isolation from its opposite. It’s not just that evil is “implied by” good or Darkness by Light or whatever, but that the evil stuff is contained within the good stuff, encoded in it.
You could call this idea of evil Gnostic, or Taoist, or neo-Hegelian, but it’s also Lynchian, because what Lynch’s movies are all about is creating a narrative space where this idea can be worked out in its fullest detail and to its most uncomfortable consequences.
And Lynch pays a heavy price—both critically and financially—for trying to explore worlds like this. Because we Americans like our art’s moral world to be cleanly limned and clearly demarcated, neat and tidy. In many respects it seems we need our art to be morally comfortable, and the intellectual gymnastics we’ll go through to extract a black-and-white ethics from a piece of art we like are shocking if you stop and look closely at them. For example, the supposed ethical structure Lynch is most applauded for is the “Seamy Underside” structure, the idea that dark forces roil and passions seethe beneath the green lawns and PTA potlucks of Anytown, USA. American critics who like Lynch applaud his “genius for penetrating the civilized surface of everyday life to discover the strange, perverse passions beneath” and his movies for providing “the password to an inner sanctum of horror and desire” and “evocations of the malevolent forces at work beneath nostalgic constructs.”
It’s little wonder that Lynch gets accused of voyeurism: critics have to make Lynch a voyeur in order to approve something like Blue Velvet from within a conventional moral framework that has Good on top/outside and Evil below/within. The fact is that critics grotesquely misread Lynch when they see this idea of perversity “beneath” and horror “hidden” as central to his movies’ moral structure.
Interpreting Blue Velvet, for example, as a film centrally concerned with “a boy discovering corruption in the heart of a town” is about as obtuse as looking at the robin perched on the Beaumonts’ window-sill at the movie’s end and ignoring the writhing beetle the robin’s got in its beak. The fact is that Blue Velvet is basically a coming-of-age movie, and, while the brutal rape Jeffrey watches from Dorothy’s closet might be the movie’s most horrifying scene, the real horror in the movie surrounds discoveries that Jeffrey makes about himself—for example, the discovery that a part of him is excited by what he sees Frank Booth do to Dorothy Vallens. Frank’s use, during the rape, of the words “Mommy” and “Daddy,” the similarity between the gas mask Frank breathes through in extremis and the oxygen mask we’ve just seen Jeffrey’s dad wearing in the hospital—this kind of stuff isn’t there just to reinforce the Primal Scene aspect of the rape. The stuff’s also there clearly to suggest that Frank Booth is, in a certain deep way, Jeffrey’s “father,” that the Darkness inside Frank is also encoded in Jeffrey. Gee-whiz Jeffrey’s discovery not of dark Frank but of his own dark affinities with Frank is the engine of the movie’s anxiety. Note for example that the long and somewhat heavy angst-dream Jeffrey suffers in the second act occurs not after he has watched Frank brutalize Dorothy but after he, Jeffrey, has consented to hit Dorothy during sex.
There are enough heavy clues like this to set up, for any marginally attentive viewer, what is Blue Velvet’s real climax, and its point. The climax comes unusually early, near the end of the film’s second act. It’s the moment when Frank turns around to look at Jeffrey in the back seat of the car and says “You’re like me.” This moment is shot from Jeffrey’s visual perspective, so that when Frank turns around in the seat he speaks both to Jeffrey and to us. And here Jeffrey—who’s whacked Dorothy and liked it—is made exceedingly uncomfortable indeed; and so—if we recall that we too peeked through those closet-vents at Frank’s feast of sexual fascism, and regarded, with critics, this scene as the film’s most riveting—are we. When Frank says “You’re like me,” Jeffrey’s response is to lunge wildly forward in the back seat and punch Frank in the nose—a brutally primal response that seems rather more typical of Frank than of Jeffrey, notice. In the film’s audience, I, to whom Frank has also just claimed kinship, have no such luxury of violent release; I pretty much just have to sit there and be uncomfortable.
And I emphatically do not like to be made uncomfortable when I go to see a movie. I like my heroes virtuous and my victims pathetic and my villains’ villainy clearly established and primly disapproved by both plot and camera. When I go to movies that have various kinds of hideousness in them, I like to have my own fundamental difference from sadists and fascists and voyeurs and psychos and Bad People unambiguously confirmed and assured by those movies. I like to judge. I like to be allowed to root for Justice To Be Done without the slight squirmy suspicion (so prevalent and depressing in real moral life) that Justice probably wouldn’t be all that keen on certain parts of my character, either.
I don't know whether you are like me in these regards or not… though from the characterizations and moral structures in the U.S. movies that do well at the box-office I deduce that there must be rather a lot of Americans who are exactly like me.
I submit that we also, as an audience, really like the idea of secret and scandalous immoralities unearthed and dragged into the light and exposed. We like this stuff because secrets’ exposure in a movie creates in us impressions of epistemological privilege, of “penetrating the civilized surface of everyday life to discover the strange, perverse passions beneath.” This isn’t surprising: knowledge is power, and we (I, anyway) like to feel powerful. But we also like the idea of “secrets,” “of malevolent forces at work beneath…” so much because we like to see confirmed our fervent hope that most bad and seamy stuff really is secret, “locked away” or “under the surface.” We hope fervently that this is so because we need to be able to believe that our own hideousnesses and Darknesses are secret. Otherwise we get uncomfortable. And, as part of an audience, if a movie is structured in such a way that the distinction between surface/Light/good and secret/Dark/evil is messed with—in other words, not a structure whereby Dark Secrets are winched ex machina up to the Lit Surface to be purified by my judgment, but rather a structure in which Respectable Surfaces and Seamy Undersides are mingled, integrated, literally mixed up—I am going to be made acutely uncomfortable. And in response to my discomfort I’m going to do one of two things: I’m either going to find some way to punish the movie for making me uncomfortable, or I’m going to find a way to interpret the movie that eliminates as much of the discomfort as possible. From my survey of published work on Lynch’s films, I can assure you that just about every established professional reviewer and critic has chosen one or the other of these responses.
I know this all looks kind of abstract and general. Consider the specific example of Twin Peaks’s career. Its basic structure was the good old murder-whose-investigation-opens-a-can-of-worms formula that’s right out of Noir 101—the search for Laura Palmer’s killer yields postmortem revelations of a double life (Laura Palmer = Homecoming Queen by Day & Laura Palmer = Tormented Coke-Whore by Night) that mirrored a whole town’s moral schizophrenia. The show’s first season, in which the plot movement consisted mostly of more and more subsurface hideousnesses being uncovered and exposed, was a huge smash. By the second season, though, the mystery-and-investigation structure’s own logic began to compel the show to start getting more focused and explicit about who or what was actually responsible for Laura’s murder. And the more explicit Twin Peaks tried to get, the less popular the series became. The mystery’s final “resolution,” in particular, was felt by critics and audiences alike to be deeply unsatisfying. And it was. The “Bob”/Leland/Evil Owl stuff was fuzzy and not very well rendered, but the really deep dissatisfaction—the one that made audiences feel screwed and betrayed and fueled the critical backlash against the idea of Lynch as Genius Auteur— was, I submit, a moral one. I submit that Laura Palmer’s exhaustively revealed “sins” required, by the moral logic of American mass entertainment, that the circumstances of her death turn out to be causally related to those sins. We as an audience have certain core certainties about sowing and reaping, and these certainties need to be affirmed and massaged. When they were not, and as it became increasingly clear that they were not going to be, Twin Peaks’s ratings fell off the shelf, and critics began to bemoan this once “daring” and “imaginative” series’ decline into “self-reference” and “mannered incoherence.”
And then Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, Lynch’s theatrical “prequel” to the TV series, and his biggest box-office bomb since Dune, committed a much worse offense. It sought to transform Laura Palmer from dramatic object to dramatic subject. As a dead person, Laura’s existence on the television show had been entirely verbal, and it was fairly easy to conceive her as a schizoid black/white construct—Good by Day, Naughty by Night, etc. But the movie, in which Ms. Sheryl Lee as Laura is on-screen more or less constantly, attempts to present this multivalent system of objectified personas—plaid-skirted coed/bare-breasted roadhouse slut/tormented exorcism-candidate/molested daughter—as an integrated and living whole: these different identities were all, the movie tried to claim, the same person. In Fire Walk with Me, Laura was no longer “an enigma” or “the password to an inner sanctum of horror.” She now embodied, in full view, all the Dark Secrets that on the series had been the stuff of significant glances and delicious whispers.
This transformation of Laura from object/occasion to subject/person was actually the most morally ambitious thing a Lynch movie has ever tried to do—maybe an impossible thing, given the psychological context of the series and the fact that you had to be familiar with the series to make even marginal sense of the movie—and it required complex and contradictory and probably impossible things from Ms. Lee, who in my opinion deserved an Oscar nomination just for showing up and trying.
The novelist Steve Erickson, in a 1992 review of Fire Walk with Me, is one of the few critics who gave any indication of even trying to understand what the movie was trying to do: “We always knew Laura was a wild girl, the homecoming femme fatale who was crazy for cocaine and fucked roadhouse drunks less for the money than the sheer depravity of it, but the movie is finally not so much interested in the titillation of that depravity as [in] her torment, depicted in a performance by Sheryl Lee so vixenish and demonic it’s hard to know whether it’s terrible or a tour de force. [But not trying too terribly hard, because now watch:] Her fit of the giggles over the body of a man whose head has just been blown off might be an act of innocence or damnation [get ready:] or both.”
Or both? Of course both. This is what Lynch is about in this movie: both innocence and damnation; both sinned-against and sinning. Laura Palmer in Fire Walk with Me is both “good” and “bad,” and yet also neither: she’s complex, contradictory, real. And we hate this possibility in movies; we hate this “both” shit. “Both” comes off as sloppy characterization, muddy filmmaking, lack of focus. At any rate, that's what we criticized Fire Walk with Me’s Laura for. But I submit that the real reason we criticized and disliked Lynch’s Laura’s muddy bothness is that it required of us an empathetic confrontation with the exact same muddy bothness in ourselves and our intimates that makes the real world of moral selves so tense and uncomfortable, a bothness we go to the movies to get a couple hours’ fucking relief from. A movie that requires that these features of ourselves and the world not be dreamed away or judged away or massaged away but acknowledged, and not just acknowledged but drawn upon in our emotional relationship to the heroine herself—this movie is going to make us feel uncomfortable, pissed off; we’re going to feel, in Premiere magazine’s own head editor’s word, “Betrayed.”
submitted by Gintoh to twinpeaks [link] [comments]
2019.10.15 08:16 jpagel Voyeur camera hidden sex
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚁𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝟹𝟸𝟸. 𝚂𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝.
Original 2013 post in /Houston that gave birth to this conspiracy / mystery
My original post
Live Updates from my stay in 322
My Video of my original findings ⬅️ please give it a watch! Not only is this probably the best, most entertaining way to get almost the whole story, I put a metric ton of work into that video, and I’m pretty proud of how it turned out! ❤️
So for those of you who didn’t see the final video I put together, my original attempt in investigating this on the ground was to try to debunk this whole thing once and for all.
Background The gist of it all is that back in 2013, JoeLikesMusic posted photos of an unsettling creepy "secret" hotel room at Hotel ZaZa in Houston, TX. In an otherwise plush, swanky hotel, this was a tiny, cramped, hard, foreboding room with pictures of skulls, a photo of a local houston businessman who had been arrested for allegedly running a ponzi scheme, and what was craziest of all (at least to me) was a giant mirror embedded in the wall directly over the bed, which looked suspiciously like a two-way mirror. The only two documented cases online of someone staying in this room were people that were put there by accident and transferred immediately out of the room, which further fueled suspicion. Evidently, the owner of the hotel himself used to live in this room and it's still his private room that he stays in whenever he comes to Houston. This room was evidently designed with his personal taste which made people wonder, why would anyone surrounded by luxury in his life want such a cold, forbidding, hard, and oppressive-feeling place like this?
More suspicious still... when the post started gaining traction, a brand new Reddit account sent JoeLikesMusic a DM
offering him $1M [It was $1,000, not a MILLION. Jeez. I'm so embarrassed lol, sorry folks I don't know how on earth I made such an egregious error. Maybe my tired brain saw the decimal as a comma?] wired to an account of his choosing if he deleted the post and never speak of it online again. After JoeLikesMusic outed the new account, he cryptically said that they had already met and that the offer was now rescinded.
Rampant speculation ensued from this being a secret sex dungeon, to it being a room designed for collecting blackmail (especially given the possibility of it having a two-way mirror), to having a connection to the Skull and Bones society, etc. The original post kind of blew up and got picked up by several outlets like the Houston Chronicle, The Daily Dot, Houston Press and VICE news.
Years go by... and other than the occasional discussion post on subs like this one, nobody really made any headway on this. Just more theories and speculation.
Then last week, I was watching a video by YouTuber Barely Sociable who brought this back into the light. Notably, in his video, he called the Hotel and confirmed that Room 322, known as "Hard Times" was not a room meant to be public knowledge. It is not advertised on the list of themed rooms on the hotel's website, and when BS asked if the website had a definitive list of the rooms, he was answered in the affirmative and they made no mention of Hard Times's availability.
My Ground Work I live in Houston and decided to check it out for myself and actually request this specific room and stay the night in an effort to debunk this mystery. I stayed there on Friday, took lots of photographs and video, I did a few tests to see if the mirror was a two-way mirror or not (it's not), and feeling satisfied, I went to bed and slept like a baby, feeling like I had finally solved this thing...
....that is until the next morning.
Right before I checked out of the hotel, I made one final video where I went next door and showed that right next to 322 was a hotel staff room, which to some would seem pretty suspicious since it was on the same side as the mirror in 322. So I opened the door and found what appeared to be a secret padlocked door, PERFECTLY positioned where it could very likely lead to a room RIGHT behind the mirror in 322. Although I was convinced that the mirror wasn't a two-way mirror, I now felt like I had to ask ... "What if it used to be?" What if, after the original post in 2013 blew up and got picked up by news outlets, the cover on the room was blown and they had to seal up the wall?
Further Research in the Days Following This bugged me a LOT. For the past couple of days I've been researching as hard as I can about the history of the hotel, I was speaking with a few employees of ZaZa on background, and digging as deep as I could onto the internet, now wondering was the conspiracy theories right all along??? Although there was no real evidence directly pointing to anything sinister going on with the room, there was so much circumstantial stuff that made it really easy to tell a story that matched up with what we knew about this weird hotel room.
And then I found what seemed like was going to blow this WHOLE THING wide open...
I FOUND A BLUEPRINT OF THE ROOM SHOWING A SECRET ROOM BEHIND THE MIRROR. Not only that, but it appeared that the door to get into this secret room was THE EXACT DOOR I found padlocked inside the hotel staff room. The blueprint image I found was on an obscure blog post from around the time that this was originally making the rounds. And although, it refuted the claim that there was a secret room back there, I felt like they hadn't taken into account the door that I had found! Not only that, but this room didn't appear to have any other way to enter it other than THROUGH THE PADLOCKED DOOR. It appeared to be a bathroom of some sort, which I assumed may have been some sort of cover for the room's true purpose as a possible observation room.
What's weird is that the blog credited a blog written by Cory Doctorow, but when I clicked on the linked article, the blueprint wasn't there. So where did the floor plan come from? So I emailed Cory (it's late so he hasn't answered me yet, and he'll probably be a little annoyed), and I began doing research on how to file a FOIA request from the City of Houston to obtain the full blueprints of the building.
But before I went that far, I decided to dig deeper. I downloaded the floor plan image and then ran it through a reverse image search. It turns out, the blog I had found with the image had linked the wrong article by Cory Doctorow. I had found the correct article. Upon reading the correct article where this blueprint image had originally come from, the mystique and mystery fell apart.
Cory quotes a ZaZa insider who had provided him the blueprint:
That "two-way mirror" in 322 hangs on the bathroom wet wall for the more spacious suite 321 next door. So in the "secret voyeur room" case, you'd be standing in the bathroom next door and looking through a piping chase full of sanitary and domestic water lines. The bricks are a veneer that they decided to stop at the frame of the mirror. It doesn't seem like this room was specially built for secret sex shows or whatnot. At least, no more than any other hotel room with potential for pinhole cameras and so on.So I took a closer look at the blueprint, and sure enough... that secret observation room I was going so crazy to find... it turns out it's just a weirdly placed bathroom for room 321 around the corner. I've marked it up to illustrate how the exact layout is. The padlocked door you can see opens into a small closet, most likely the electrical paneling that the ZaZa employee on background had told me about.
I think it really is just an awkwardly placed and sized room, dictated by adjacent suite and service elevator lobby/shaft requirements. (See attached snippet from floor plans.) The associated balcony sits in a corner, so it is in fact larger than the balconies in the adjacent conventional rooms, as the ZaZa rep claims. I have no explanation for why some owner, architect and/or interior designer thought this would be a good theme for a room, though.
still doesnt explain why the dude's picture was on the wall that's the only thing that still bugs me - blackouttuesdaySo during my obsessive searching, I dug into pretty much everything publicly available on the owner. I found lots of charitable donations (this guy gives A LOT. And frequently.) to a huge amount of really great causes. I also found quite a bit of FEC records of campaign donations. He donates quite a bit as well to Democratic candidates and seems to be very anti-corruption. I personally think the photo of Jay Comeaux was a fun little jab at him, putting him in “jail” since this is supposed to be a jail-themed room. When you think of it that way, it’s a pretty funny subtle joke.
I'm now curious as to how the owner's actual bedroom, and house, are decorated. Still goth dungeon chic, do you think? - StrikingBearSo I was pretty suspicious of the fact that this was Charles S Givens's personal room and I had to ask myself... "Why would a man who is surrounded by luxury in his life choose to stay in such an oppressive-feeling room?" As I looked into him, it seems like he's been married to the same woman for years, and with this room being as small as it is, I found it hard to believe that he would ever bring his wife here, too. Not only is the room weird, but it's tiny and cramped and the bed would be pretty small for two people to sleep in. I didn't think his wife ever stayed with him when he was here. I asked my Zaza employee who was on background and they confirmed that it's only him staying there when he stays at the hotel... so what gives?
I'm still confused as to why that user was offered money to delete his post and never speak of the matter online again. That's the only thing that makes me think there might be something more to this. - ZannityZanI personally think that it was just a troll. A good one, but totally a troll. If it wasn't a troll, it wouldn't make sense because there's clearly nothing to cover up about this room, and most people know that nothing is ever truly deleted from the internet. If the anonymous Redditor was real, they would have to understand that the post being deleted after gaining so much traction and JoeLikesMusic refusing to answer any questions about it afterwards or deleting his account would have hardcore fueled a Streisand Effect, adding more logs to the conspiracy, defeating the whole purpose of paying someone to help cover it up.
Hah! Guaranteed that this particular urban legend lives on in perpetuity, but fun investigation anyway. - YT-DeliveriesHa! Well, you're right I'm sure people who want to be convinced something conspiracy-related is going on will always find a way to keep believing it because, let's face it -- being a wild conspiracy-theorist sometimes means that you'll never be satisfied unless you're proven right about your assumptions, and any evidence to the contrary is a more and more elaborate attempt to cover up "the truth". As for me (and from pretty much all the comments I'm reading in here), I think this is officially a thoroughly closed case. It's all pretty much definitive. I'm satisfied with the conclusion, as do must people here it seems. If someone wants to keep pushing, I don't know under what realistic assumptions it could be, but this seems pretty shut and solidly put to rest at least for me and people with a solid grip on reality.
Uh-huuuuuuuh.I addressed that in a pretty lengthy comment response which you can read if you'd like:
Sorry, not buying this.
The 321 bathroom mirror would be EXACTLY on the other side of the weird 322 mirror. There is no doubt it was once used for spying on 322.
The lame-ass excuse of "it's a themed room": skull and bones aren't jail-themed, neither are any of the paintings/photos in the room. Someone please explain how twin girls relate to prison in any way.
Clearly things have been changed and added to make the story of "it's just a theme room, jeez" more believable: the exercise equipment with "the yard", the framed prison uniform, the guy in the electric chair. None of that shit was in there when the original poster took photos. And as far as the "oh we just had that photo of the man in the suit in prison as a joke!" That makes no sense. If it was a joke for your guests, why not have a photoshopped picture of him in prison attire? Or have other photos of famous people in jail? Why this random man who just happens to be connected to The Friars?
I'd be very curious to know if the wealthy people who "stayed" in this room for weeks at a time ALSO rented out Room 321 at the same time. My guess is yes.
I'm not super knowledgeable about the Skull and Bones Society, other than a cursory Wikipedia search, but from what I understand, its members are comprised of some of the most prominent members of society including George W Bush, John Kerry, etc. Now, it's pretty clear that the group exists, but assuming corrupt intent by its members is a separate rabbit hole I won't get into now.The comment I was responding to also insinuated that there had to be a connection to another secret society called The Friars.
What's important is that all the members of Skull and Bones met at Yale. The owner of ZaZa went to University of Oklahooma I believe. Not only that, he dropped out early and didn't even graduate. Now, someone correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems apparent that you had to have gone to Yale to be inducted into the order. Someone else look up confirmed members of the order and tell me if you find someone that didn't go to Yale.
As I said in the video, the only connection to Skull and Bones is the fact that there is a picture of a skull and that the room number just happens to be room #322. And why is it impossible that the skull is there because when they designed it, they thought, "Hey 322! Skull and Bones! What if we add a few skulls in here and see if anybody gets it?" While both assumptions are unsupported by anything, why would a connection to S&B be the most probable explanation, and assuming there is one, what have you established the conspiracy to be? Even more problematic, if they're a secret society, why would they advertise their connection by using their symbolism? Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of keeping their activities in the dark? And assuming that S&B have their paws on this room and have chosen to advertise their presence, why is the imagery simply categorically related to skulls and stuff instead of pulling outright images referencing their official symbols and imagery?
From what I'm reading, the Friars also have skull and crossbones imagery, but I'm not finding anything that connects them to Skull and Bones society out of Yale. But if we're going to push the Friars or Skull and Crossbones narrative, you gotta pick one. Is it Skull and Crossbones because of the room number and imagery? Or is it Friars? And assuming there is a connection, what nefarious intent is there? To make that jump, you have to make several. You have to assume a crime. Then you have to make that crime connected to that group. Then you have to assume coordination between members of said group. There's nothing I'm finding that points to the owner of ZaZa and Jay Comeaux ever even meeting, much less having a relationship with each other. Each step to connect these imaginary dots has a limited probability of having any merit and all of them have to be true in order to even fit a circumstantial set of facts to support a pre-constructed narrative where you start from the story you want to tell and then cherry pick what you want in order to assemble the pieces into something that resembles the story you want to tell. Just assuming there are only those 3 dots to connect, and each dot is given a generous 20% chance of being correct... multiply (20%*20%*20%) to get a probability of all three of those connections being true to get a probability of 0.8% likelihood of being proven correct (again, being generous)... AND THEN you have to face the fact that all these facts alone create simply a circumstance with no evidence of something to have happened and then you can take those facts to construct whatever outlandish narrative you want to paint the evilest picture you can come up with.Again... I'm not trying to publicly embarrass or shame anyone and I sincerely apologize if anyone feels attacked or hurt, but because the nature of this sub can attract some pretty wild theories and wild conspiracy theorists in general, I think it's important to analyze how we think about things in general. I know I can fall victim to this kind of stuff, too as evidenced by my reaction to finding the locked door, but it's always a good idea to take a step back, take a deep breath, and try to realistically look at the facts and while it helps to have theories and possible explanations, don't get carried away to the point that you start to doubt evidence that doesn't support your original theory.
2019.06.24 12:44 yourlilpeeweeherman Voyeur hidden camera sex
EDIT 2: stop sending messages like these. https://imgur.com/a/gLs3UFG.
TLDR: Got filmed at [email protected] ActiveSG Swimming Complex washroom, confronted the pervert, end up with police.
This happened on 22/06/2019.
It was a rainy Saturday and i was at [email protected] ActiveSG Swimming Complex from 3.15ish.
I went to the male washroom/
changing room/shower area (it was a all in one thing, so from now on i am just going to refer to it as the washroom.) to change into my swimming gear. While i was in the washroom, i saw a man from a bench away. The man who is Chinese have a skin complexion that looks sickly. He was only wearing only a singlet with nothing covering his private parts except a towel. The towel which he remove to expose himself time to time while walking around in a male washroom filled with people ranging from kids to adults. [Point 1]
Nothing happened and fast forward to me back into the washroom for a shower after my swim. The same man was there still doing what he was doing before. I took cubical 13, at the point in time, cubical 12 and 14 which i was in between of was empty.
While rinsing off shampoo of my hair, i caught a hand holding onto a phone angling with the rear camera facing me underneath the gap of the plastic wall separating cubical 12 and 13. The hand immediately retracted once it was within my vision. Which shocked me, so i took a step to the right to see further in between the gap to find that a towel on the floor of cubical 12. Looking back, i think he was laying on the floor filming/
taking a photo/streaming/peeping (i really didn't know what he was doing with the camera but i am just going to say filming cause that was what my account was to the police later.) of me while i was showering while looking at the phone screen so he knew exactly when to remove his phone. That towel was on a floor for a long time before he picked it up.
After which i was doubting what i saw but being extra cautious about what happened that may happen again. It happened again while i was rinsing off my body wash so i knew something was up.
Got out of my cubical, butt ass naked slamming on his door, yelling for the man to get out while calling for my friend to help me. To which i only received dead silence from cubical 12 for a long time, so i took a slipper from his cubical gap, so even if he ran out the CCTV will show that a man walking oddly. Thinking about it after, i sense that he knew shit was up so he went to clear off whatever he was doing. After a long time, he came out revealing to be the same man from before with a long scar from the middle of his chest claiming that he just had heart surgery and denied whatever i said about him filming me. Very willingly offered to me his phone to show that there was nothing on his phone, which i didn't bother with and asked my friend to dial for the police.
Fast forward to the part where the lifeguard usher me to their office to wait for the police while the man was held in a room elsewhere. The police took notes from me, their investigating officer came. In the end, i got a card with some information as they have deemed this case worth pursuing. [Point 2]
[Point 1] Point 1 is just my suspicion of what he was doing, in no way am i able to confirm his actions.
The man was cruising for sex in the male washroom. Read about it here [Wiki: Slightly NSFW?]. You can read the behaviors from RiceMedia post about it here or Google about it. There are sites out there that cruisers use. Such as this [Slightly NSFW?]. Not the first time such incident happened at bedok.
What i want to point out here is that this isn't the only pool that such stuffs occur. And that pools aren't the only place that cruising happen. A quick Google search about Singapore gay cruising and you can find a bunch of stuff. Another instance, public toilets [Slightly NSFW?].
I am not saying that only cruisers enjoy voyeurism or that eliminating cruisers would have prevented filming cases. But if actions were taken on it, i could say that my case could have been easily prevented.
With the investigations on going, i can only think about NTU peeping tom, Monica Baey and the Tampines incident which the offender only got 12 weeks of jail.
Looking at how " 'Insulting modesty' law does not apply to men, rules court ". I only can think about how the man who filmed me may get a lighter sentence cause i am a male or even no sentence if the police found no evidence on his phone.
If you read it all to the end, do take action if your feel something was wrong. Call for help, take evidence if you are able to, better yet confront. Cause if you have nothing, the offender got away or police can't find the deleted evidence, it is he said she said.
Sure you can be cautious but doesn't mean it wouldn't happen to you. This is Singapore but it doesn't mean you are safe. You maybe a man but that doesn't mean you aren't a target. May not be a person with a phone but a hidden camera.
Honestly, it was scary to take actions and confront the man who was filming me. But luckily, i felt sick to my gut and i let my anger took over and went batshit violent on the door of cubical 12, not to condone actions taken in anger but if i were to held back, he could have easily slip off.
I am not going to argue how the law should be equal with men and women or about how disturbing it is about cruising, cause honestly i am not even at the age where i can vote yet. But that doesn't mean preying on the young means you can get away with it. I do however, feel things should change.
Edit 1: had to mark it to NSFW due to the photo reddit took from my first link.
submitted by yourlilpeeweeherman to singapore [link] [comments]
2018.08.22 01:02 phunk_munky Sex voyeur hidden camera
Leslie felt tired. He assumed he was supposed to, since this was the way he (and everyone else in his class) had always felt. As he awaited his turn to be called to the front of the stadium—to be branded with a new job, new housing arrangement, possibly a new spouse and pet dog named Sophie—he wondered what his new life would look like. Would he grow old as a construction worker, perhaps? Or an office manager, whatever vague responsibilities that entailed? Maybe a simple cashier at a grocery store, because in spite of new technologies, people still had to eat, and robots were no good at helping the elderly pack their vehicles with groceries.
A quiet groan escaped him. He felt even more tired now. He entertained an unexpected thought: Is this all my life is now? Is this all I can look forward to? A job?
His name was called. Not Leslie Farringer Hill—the name given to him after his great grandfather Farringer—but his assigned name of 2099356. Les climbed onto a stage in the middle of an arena, where a line of stoic elders grasped their wrists and stared at him with grim indifference. Les sat beside dozens of citizens like himself, who sat before the Automated Work Reassignment bot, waiting to receive their new job descriptions.
Les placed his forehead against a wide screen. A message on the screen welcomed him, then a sensor flashed red light on his forehead. The bot’s sensor connected with his Internal Personal Interface, and the screen told Les: Work Reassignment 50% complete… 79% complete… 98% complete...
When it was done, Les and his classmates left the stage, and the elders announced, “Next!”
No applause. No congratulations. Just “Next.”
In school, Les had learned that centuries ago, people could choose the jobs they wanted; and if they were ill-equipped to do the work, or were just unhappy with it, they could be reassigned. At that time, having the option to “choose” implied that jobs had once been in abundance—and, as PAN discovered over decades and centuries, many of them were optional, expendable. Sometimes harmful to the health of the Union economy.
PAN had fixed that little problem.
When the first version of PAN—the Primary Automation Network—was released, there was high demand for workers needing to maintain the program’s vast webbing of databases, neural connections and information flow. Then the tech got smarter, and PAN began functioning on its own, running its own updates and anticipating its own needs. Work done by human hands became outdated. Yet, even as PAN gutted entire work sectors that didn’t contribute to the big picture of “productivity,” the human population continued to rise—for a while.
Then PAN fixed that issue, too. It was good at solving problems.
Nowadays, you got what you got. You didn’t argue or complain. If you did, you’d starve—and they’d let you.
“Hey, Les, what’d they stick you with?” Travis Dollman asked. Les noticed the shifting of his eyes back and forth as he gazed into his Internal Personal Interface, which accessed the ever-expanding layers of PAN.
“Don’t know yet,” Les replied. He wasn’t in a hurry to find out, either; he would have to live with his fate for the rest of his life. “How about you?”
“Reading the job description right now,” Travis said. He sounded distant, lost in the world of PAN. “Looks like… Oh, hey! Not bad! Chief Agricultural Overseer for the… Ah, shit, in the Swamps. Oh well, it’s good pay. Wife Meredith, Doberman Pixie, son named Liam. And triple supply of rations on a private acre. Not bad.”
Travis blinked, logging out of his IPI. “Aren’t you gonna look at yours?”
Les shrugged. “Later. I’m tired. Had to do a double-shift last night, didn’t sleep much. I think I’ll go crash at the apartment.”
“Well, at least look and see if you still have an apartment first.” He grinned slyly, like he was telling a good joke that Les would never get. “Who knows? Maybe you landed a gig with Infinitum. They get crazy-good benefits.”
Les returned a shy smile. “Doubt it, but… Maybe you’re right.”
Les pulled up his IPI and dove into PAN’s universe. His system calibrated updates in seconds, a blinking clock telling him that it was 59 percent complete… 73 percent… 95 percent…
When it finished, a welcome letter greeted him. It read:
Congratulations on your reassignment, 2099356! You have been reassigned to occupation:
That didn’t sound right. It sounded like… well, not anything that Les had heard of, actually. The only thing familiar to him was the word “kill,” which was used when something electronic sparked in a building and the Electrical Technicians had to “kill” the connection. He supposed it could also pertain to euthanasia that PAN deemed medically necessary, which happened when the resources to treat an injury or illness were too great for the projected benefit of treatment. It was sometimes morbidly referred to as “killing time,” a frowned-upon phrase rarely used in public anymore.
But “serial killer” was something new to him. Below his title, an icon of a file folder blinked deep red at him, indicating the position was high level and classified. It meant upper echelon access into the depths of PAN, which very few civilians knew about, let alone explored.
Below that was a list of his benefits package: Fully-furnished housing on a five-acre plot (an ungodly amount of living space in today’s economy), wife Blaise Parkham, a gray Persian named Mufasa, and five times the normal ration supply delivered monthly to his doorstep.
Holy shit, Les thought. He blinked and closed his IPI.
“Well?” Travis asked impatiently.
“Uh… Something in agriculture, too.”
Travis squinted at him. “Something in agriculture? What the hell does that mean?
“Yeah, I dunno. It’s a lot to read and I’m too tired. I’ll… talk to you about it later. Need to rest.”
Les nearly ran out of the building, feeling Travis’s suspicious gaze following him out the door.
“Okay, well,” Travis called, “see you at Social tomorrow?”
But Les didn’t respond. He felt uneasy, his adrenaline pumping faster than he was used to. If he was going to live a high-class life, he needed to figure out what his job entailed, and he couldn’t concentrate with Travis’s never-ending monologue in his ear.
Les walked down the street, passing beneath the mousetraps of tram cars that ran noisily all day and night. Directly outside of Town Hall, a line of Individually Automated Vehicles awaited their passengers. He’d never had a car—had only set foot in one once, in fact. He had always relied on his feet for transportation. The 120-degree heat and omnipresent cloud of smoke lingering in the air had ceased to bother him.
About halfway home, a sleek charcoal vehicle stopped beside him. A door popped open and a charming female voice spoke: “Passenger 2099356, you may now enter your vehicle.”
Mine? No way. Not mine.
A few seconds later, the voice beckoned him again: “Passenger 2099356, please enter your vehicle and select your destination.”
Les warily stepped into the car. On the dashboard was a map of Jeannesville and its suburbs, with a blue circle in the top left corner that read, “Home.” Les selected it, and 45 minutes later arrived at a large residence on Old Bakery Avenue. It was surrounded by a stone fence. The car approached a broad metal gate. The gate’s sensor connected to the car’s dashboard and asked for Les’s fingerprints. Les placed a hand on the screen, the software verified his identity, and he watched the gate open.
Inside the fence, pine trees rose to staggering heights, dropping streams of needles and cones as the wind tossed them about. Beyond the trees was a stone mansion, painted white with black highlights around the windows and door frames. A crimson car was parked out front—for his new wife Blaise, he presumed.
He exited the car and entered into a wide-open living room, freshly painted and sparsely furnished. A chandelier hung above a staircase that led to the second and third floors.
In the far room at the other end of the house, a 90-inch television blasted music videos. Les could see the back of a woman’s brown-haired head.
“2099356, I presume?” she asked without turning around.
“Leslie. Just Les is fine.”
She barked out a laugh. “Wow, did your parents give you a girl's name on purpose? You can call me Blaise. Or 21053448, if you prefer.”
Les began to climb the stairs. A few steps in, Blaise called out to him: “You hungry? They stashed the freezer full of pizza rations.”
Les declined. “I have a few things to download first. I’ll meet you for dinner later.”
He located a bedroom with a double-king bed, which he presumed he was supposed to share with Blaise. Upon it, a royal gray Persian named Mufasa yawned at him, the cat’s red collar jingling as it shook its head.
Les climbed into bed and logged into his IPI. A new message appeared:
Congratulations on your reassignment, 2099356!
You are now eligible for Premium access to the Primary Automation Network database.
Would you like to unlock Premium features now?
Premium PAN access? Most Union citizens were granted little more than Basic access, unless they worked for Infinitum; and even certain tiers of Infinitum weren’t granted special benefits, let alone Premium access.
He clicked the “Download Now” icon—without suffering penalties to his rations, to his surprise—and the download process began.
Before, the number of databases he could access in PAN as a Mini Mart clerk—his first assignment—numbered in the low 100s. As he opened his upgraded IPI, he found that, as a serial killer, the number skyrocketed to 74, 989, 341, 863 and growing.
What the hell am I getting into? Les thought.
Les searched for “serial killer,” and began queuing hundreds of thousands of historical documents, videos and biographical entries to download simultaneously. Seconds later, he received gigabytes of information from the infinite PAN.
Gigabytes of blood, torture, dismemberment and murder. Videos that immortalized the terror of the victims as well as the ecstasy of the voyeurs who slayed them.
Gigabytes of autopsy reports from the 21st century detailing the gunshot wounds, burns, incisions, and disembowelments of millions of victims—and the biographical recounting of the sadistic rituals that preceded them.
Gigabytes of accounts detailing how to stalk a victim before the kill; how to kill and dispose of a body; the best tools to make it quick, or make it slow.
Les’s vision turned white as the information was pummeled into his IPI. He blinked hard to log out of it. Then he turned over the side of his bed and vomited all over the hardwood floor. He vomited four more times until his body ached and vibrated.
His IPI popped up unexpectedly, which shouldn’t have happened; there were built-in codes which disallowed the software to act without permission from the host. It must have been a feature that came with the high-profile job, Les presumed. A new message alerted him:
Greetings, 2099356! Your first assignment is:
1573 E. FAUBREY LANE
Time to Complete:
Shit, what does that mean? Les thought.
He thought of the millions of documents he’d scanned in just minutes, how each serial killer had brutally forced life out of other people.
Les knew what it meant: “It means I have to kill him.”
It didn’t make sense. Why was PAN endorsing a job that it had deemed a crime and outlawed centuries ago? Les pondered. He composed himself, then logged back into the IPI. He noticed an icon in the lower left corner of the program, which hadn’t been there before. He delved into it, and a cursor blinking below a sentence which read: ASK PAN A QUESTION.
What the hell? Les thought. In school, Les had been taught that PAN’s function was to create cohesive social stratifications, implement laws to uphold them, and dish out orders to enforce them. Les had no idea that direct communication with PAN was possible.
He watched the blinking cursor with trepidation. This was brand-new territory, and he feared over-reaching and asking the wrong question. But PAN wouldn’t allow him to ask it a question—especially any question—if there was no purpose in doing so. Right?
So, Les spoke his question aloud: “If killing is a criminal activity, why do you want me to do it?”
He watched his words translate into text in the search box. Then, to his astonishment, PAN responded:
IN ACCORDANCE WITH PAN LAW 00087, ACTIVITIES OF COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE SOCIAL DEVIANCE ARE AN ACT OF TREASON AGAINST THE UNION. CITIZENS GUILTY OF ENGAGING IN SUCH ACTIVITIES ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE INTERROGATION AND REPRIMAND, UP TO AND INCLUDING REMOVAL FROM SOCIETY, IN A MANNER CONSISTENT WITH THE AGREGIOUSNESS OF THEIR OFFENSES, AS DICTATED BY THE PRIMARY AUTOMATION NETWORK.
A light illuminated in Les’s mind. “You want me to remove deviants from society? Kill them?”
The text for PAN Law 00087 flashed in the IPI again, confirming the answer.
“Kill what?” Blaise asked from the bedroom doorway.
Les startled at her appearance, cursed, and blinked out of the IPI.
“Oh, my,” Blaise exclaimed, pointing to the pile of vomit.
“Shit,” Les muttered, hurriedly covering the vomit with bed sheets. “I’m sorry. Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Blaise argued. “Let me help you.”
She stepped around the sheets and held Les’s face in her hands. With the sleeve of her shirt she mopped away saliva plastered at the sides of Les’s mouth. It was the first time Les had seen her face. A few attractive freckles and blemishes, with silver eyes that became lost in concentration as she dabbed patches of sweat from Les’s face.
“What are you doing?” Les asked.
“Cleaning you up. It’s what a wife is supposed to do, right?”
Blaise pressed her wrist against his forehead. “You feel warm. Are you sick?”
“No, I don’t think so. My IPI just got information overload is all. About the job, I mean.”
Blaise smirked. “Jeez, the ‘welcome package’ for your new job must be pretty nauseating.”
Les sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his sweating head between his palms.
Blaise said, “Hey, not to be that nagging wife only, like, five minutes into our marriage, but you really don’t look good. You should lie down, catch your breath.”
Les nodded and did as she suggested. Blaise lay a wet cloth over his forehead, then cleaned up the vomit on the floor and put the bed sheets into the washing machine downstairs. When she returned, she lay on the bed beside him.
“Hey, your color’s back. You look less like a ghost now… more like a ghost with a tan.”
She smirked. Les offered a shy smirk back.
“So…” Blaise began. “Elephant in the room: We’re married, so I guess we should do, like, married people stuff. Do you wanna… I dunno, watch a movie, maybe go on a date? Something?”
Another message appeared in Les’s IPI. It was the same set of instructions for his first assignment, except with four words added at the end:
Instrument of Choice:
Holy fuck, Les thought.
“Les, did you hear me?”
“Yeah.” Les shook his head to ward off the thoughts. “Yeah, a date. Sure. But, uh, how about tomorrow? I have some work to do.”
Blaise pursed her lips and furrowed her eyebrows. “Work to do, like… now? You just got here. They want you to start so soon?”
LYLE MCCATHERN. 1573 E. FAUBREY LANE. 26 HOURS. HATCHET.
Les swallowed. “Lots to do, I guess.”
“You sure you’re up for it?” She looked genuinely concerned for him.
Les hesitated. He nodded uncertainly. “I have to be. It’s my job.”
His first kill was awful. And messy—really messy. Les had learned about past serial killers choosing sharp objects, like knives and hatchets instead of bombs and guns, because more was more thrilling, more personal—and it took longer.
Les accessed his PAN downloads on disposing a body and then how to extract evidence from a crime scene. He stuffed McCathern’s dismembered remains into a series of garbage bags, the overpowering stench of bodily fluids making him vomit into the garbage bags. He had learned that dead bodies evacuate after they died, but experiencing the pungent combination of odors was stronger than he could have anticipated.
He finished at the 23-hour mark, and PAN was satisfied. An icon of a cake topped with flaming candles glowed in his IPI, with a message beneath that read:
Congratulations on completing your first assignment, 2099356!
Next assignment to be uploaded in:
Lyle McCathern was, according to Les’s information in his IPI, an employee at a brewery. He hadn’t known he was going to die. He couldn’t have known, any more than the victims in the videos from centuries ago could have known that they, too, were going to die. It was once the victims realized death was their fate that the mourning began. Mourning for a life they weren’t ready to give up, but that was about to be viciously robbed from them by someone who didn’t deserve to take it.
The agony that escaped the victims’ lips, Les discovered, wasn’t from physical torture alone. It was a cry for mercy, a plea to be given a second chance at a life they’d taken for granted—and then a realization that they would not be granted such mercy.
Before his death, Lyle McCathern had felt it, too: the agony. He’d tried to scream about it, to announce to his killer that he wanted to live. But the sock Les had stuffed into his mouth had muffled his voice.
Serial killers, Les had read, were often incapable of feeling or expressing empathy for their victims, or remorse for having killed them. But as the slaughtered remains of Lyle McCathern incinerated in a pit beside him, Les cupped his hands over his face and felt the weight of remorse bear down upon him.
“How am I supposed to be a serial killer if I feel this way?” he asked aloud. He considered logging into the IPI and asking PAN. It seemed like an absurd thing to ask a machine.
But then, PAN had given Les direct access for a reason…
So, he asked. And PAN responded:
PAN LAW 00003 STATES THAT ALL CITIZENS OF THE UNION WILL BE DESIGNATED AN OCCUPATION WHICH HAS BEEN DEEMED PRODUCTIVE AND NECESSARY BY THE PRIMARY AUTOMATION NETWORK. CITIZENS ARE TO CARRY OUT THE FUNCTIONS SPECIFIED BY THE PARAMETERS OF THEIR OCCUPATION IN A TIMELY AND EFFICIENT MANNER, WITHOUT DELAYS OR ABSENCES.
PAN LAW 0004 STATES THAT FAILURE TO ABIDE BY THIS LAW REQUIRES DETAINMENT FOR SENTENCING, WHICH MAY RESULT IN PENALTIES UP TO AND INCLUDING REMOVAL FROM SOCIETY.
Les snorted. It seemed like that was the closest he would get to receiving reassurance from PAN.
When the flames died down, Les shoveled dirt into the grave, then went home.
Blaise was already asleep. Les didn’t feel like he could be in the same room as another person that night, so he made a nest of pillows and blankets on the couch (being careful to avoid the spot Mufasa had claimed for himself).
Les slept for only two hours that night. He dreamed about killing, and about those who had been killed, their deaths forever haunting the digital world of PAN.
When he awoke, he wasn’t sure if he had actually been dreaming, or if PAN had somehow invaded his thoughts and was reminding him of his place in the world.
The clock never stopped ticking in Les’s head. Even though his next assignment wouldn’t be announced for nearly 12 more hours, he feared his IPI suddenly flashing an alert message that changed the rules. Something like: “Surprise! You have ten minutes to bludgeon someone with a baseball bat!” In some ways, Les would have welcomed the change, if only to abate the persistent anxiety.
It wasn’t just the prospect of killing again that bothered Les. He couldn’t deny that the information lurking behind his IPI was as alluring as it was insidious. Les didn’t appreciate that fact, nor that his allure both repulsed and fascinated him, but he acknowledged it was there. He found himself accessing crevices of PAN with information he could never have thought of on his own. Some of the terms he came across—murder, crime, torture—had been restricted from public access decades after PAN was invented. With PAN reporting solely to one entity, Infinitum—coupled with a law which enforced mandatory IPI implantation at birth—it was easy for Infinitum to reveal the information they wanted people to see, and conceal what they didn’t.
And now, Les had unrestricted access to nearly all of it, hidden and unhidden.
Blaise sat beside Les on the couch, a thick novel resting in her lap. She glanced at Les out of the corner of her eye. “Something’s troubling you,” she said. “Wanna talk about it? As much as I love this awkward silence thing between us, it’s getting old.”
“I’m sorry,” Les said.
“You say that a lot. How about saying something different? Like: ‘Hi Blaise, I’m Les. I have a girl’s name, but I’m not ashamed of it, even though you make fun of me.’”
She looked from her book to Les, her mouth rising into the familiar smirk from two days ago.
Les chuckled, feeling irked. “Okay. How about this: ‘Hi Blaise, I’m Les. I’m 22 years old, married to a 27-year-old woman who seems to hate me, but hey, nothing I can do about it, right? PAN knows all, and PAN knows best, so what can you do?’”
Blaise puffed out her lips in a mock pout. “Touchy. I don’t hate you. I wouldn’t talk to you if I hated you. I just don’t know you. You’ve been locked in your head since you first walked through the front door. It’s hard to have a conversation with a brick wall.”
Les sighed. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the couch. “I’m sorry.”
Blaise shook her head and touched his nose. “No more sorrys. Let’s try something else.”
She scooted next to Les and snuggled into his underarm, resting her head on his shoulder. She wrapped her loose arm across his waist. “How’s this?”
Les nodded. “Uh… Yeah, this is… This is fine.”
Blaise laughed. “You haven’t done this before, have you?”
“I have. It’s just been a long time.”
Blaise managed to snuggle in closer. “There’s no hatred here, Les. We’re married now. I know that doesn’t mean much anymore, but I want it to mean something here, in this house.”
They sat in silence for a while. Les closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax. “I’d forgotten how this feels,” he said.
Blaise lifted herself up and sat on Les’s lap. She began unbuttoning her blouse. “Well, let’s fix that.”
They made love for the first time on the couch. It was the first time Les appreciated Blaise’s auburn hair, its ringlets cascading down her neck to the tops of her bare shoulders. Her eyelids opened and closed over her silver eyes as she rose and fell on his lap.
Blaise never once logged into her IPI as they made love. Les’s previous wife, Meredith, had refused to have sex without her IPI guiding her to the end. Les never knew what she was watching, and she’d become indignant when he asked her. After a while, feeling inadequate in what were supposed to be intimate moments, Les gave in and started logging into his IPI during sex, too. Meredith never noticed, nor would she have cared.
When they’d finished, Blaise went upstairs to shower. Les had momentarily forgotten the upcoming assignment. He joined his wife in the shower, then took her to bed, where they made love (minus the IPI) again.
Afterwards, they turned on the television—that had a large one in their bedroom, too—and were silent. After a while, Blaise asked, “So why did they reassign you?”
Les shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t choose to be reassigned. It just happened.”
She nodded. “I was reassigned as a secretary for Infinitum when I was 20. I don’t know why, either. It just happened. Getting transferred to that job was my first and only reassignment. Apparently, PAN likes me there, though. I do, too, I guess. It’s boring, but it has good benefits and waaay better access to the Network. I can download The Gibraltars Season Ten in seconds. Shit, when I was a waitress, I couldn’t even download the trailer.”
Les laughed—a real laugh. It was the first time he’d done so in weeks.
They were comfortably silent for a minute. “You didn’t log into your IPI during any of that,” Les said. “That’s not normal nowadays.”
Blaise’s expression twisted uncomfortably. “Thanks, I guess. I feel like IPI cheapens the experience. People were having sex long before technology came around. You didn’t log into yours either, now that I think of it.”
“I refuse to. My last wife couldn’t stand to look at me. She was always plugged into the damned Interface. It was like she couldn’t stand to live in reality. It was just easier to stay logged in all the time.”
“I’m sorry she didn’t notice you. You’re an attractive ghost.” Blaise winked.
Les laughed again. “It wasn’t about her ignoring me, really. Not entirely. She had a son, Jackson. He was two when Meredith and I married. She didn’t look at him either. She played baby shows on his IPI constantly. Didn’t even bother trying to interact with the kid.”
“That bothers you?” Blaise asked. “Have you looked around? That’s what people do now. It’s the way we are.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I mean, Meredith could barely stand to log out of her Interface long enough to feed her son. It’s almost like… Like she didn’t know how to function outside of PAN. She didn’t know how to be a human even to her own child. It’s so basic, yet so lost to us.”
“Whatever happened to them?”
“I wish I knew,” Les said wistfully. “I couldn’t care less about Meredith, but I would have taken Jackson in as my own if PAN had let me. The reality is, when PAN deemed us ‘incompatible,’ it saw a biological need for Jackson to be with his mother. It does that for every incompatibility, no matter what: babies always go with their mothers rather than their fathers, because biologically, babies are nurtured better by their mothers—or so PAN thinks. And now, that boy is on course to grow up just as dysfunctional as the woman he was assigned to.”
Blaise smiled warmly at him. She kissed him gently on the forehead. “You have a stupid name, but you’re a smart man. You have a good heart. Not many people do nowadays.”
She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Abruptly, she said, “I know you hate your job, Les. I don’t have to know why. I can see it bothers you, even just a couple of days in. You don’t want to talk about it, but… Maybe it hurts for a reason, you know? Maybe you have to hurt for a while, but things will get better. Just…”
She trailed off and sighed. Les could see her fighting back her frustration. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I just want you to know that I’m here if you need an ear. Or not. It’s up to you.” She paused. “Although, if I’m being honest…”
She rolled her naked body on top of Les’s. They kissed, leaning into one another’s embrace.
Blaise whispered in Les’s ear, “Not talking is so much better.”
At the 59.6334-hour mark, Les was sleeping. His IPI rudely flashed a message and woke him. He uttered a confused groan before the software consumed him:
Good morning, 2099356!
Your next assignment is:
JAMES AND JILL HAWTHORNE
MILDRED’S COFFEE HOUSE
Instrument of Choice:
GLOCK 43 WITH SUPPRESSOR ATTACHED
Time to Complete:
Les searched for Mildred’s Coffee House on his IPI map. It was nearly an hour away by car. And he had no idea where he would have the time to find a Glock 43, whatever that was, and kill two people—two of them—in a public place.
“Fuck,” Les whispered. He gracelessly dragged himself out of bed.
Blaise startled awake, her eyes squinting with tired confusion. “What’s wrong?”
She hummed in groggy understanding. “Will you be back soon?”
Two hours to complete the assignment. “Probably,” Les said.
Outside, his car automatically swung the passenger door open for him. Les got in, and the car sped down the highway at top speed, as if it understood the mission’s time constraints.
A hidden compartment opened beside the map screen. Les reached inside, and first extracted a handgun—the Glock 43 with a suppressor, he guessed— and a bundle of accessories including a denim jacket, a fake goatee, sunglasses, and a cap representing a baseball team he didn’t recognize.
He’d never held a gun before, so he sifted through dozens of links on gun handling before reaching the coffee shop. PAN is teaching me how to be a serial killer, Les thought.
He applied the clothing and accessories. He was grateful for the gesture, but PAN wasn’t known for doing people favors, and it made Les uneasy.
Mildred’s Coffee House was packed with people first thing in the morning. The line dumped out of the front door and onto the surrounding sidewalk.
Les took his place in the line, then logged into his IPI and searched PAN’s databases to find out what James and Jill Hawthorne looked like: He, a millionaire in the real estate business with slick gray hair and an attractive layer of stubble; she, also a slick-haired real estate agent, enticing enough to be in modeling or porn—whichever PAN deemed most “biologically productive,” Les scoffed.
Music blasted inside. People between the ages of 25 and 35 dominated the dining hall. Les glanced around, and spotted the couple in the corner. They looked sulky, certainly the least lively of the crowd, as if they’d just had a fight.
Jesus, there were a lot of people. How could PAN expect Les to fulfill his job with three dozen witnesses surrounding him? A serial killer’s priority was to remain hidden. If Les was discovered, his assignment would be a failure—at least, in PAN’s eyes, and that’s all that mattered.
He felt sweat seep from every pore on his body. His IPI announced that he had 35 minutes and 14 seconds remaining… 13 seconds… 12…
“Fuck,” he mumbled. “Fuck.”
In a panic, he nearly retreated to his IPI for guidance.
But then it hit him.
That word: Panic.
“How can I help you?” a bored, acne-infested barista inquired.
“Um… Three black coffees, please,” Les replied. He paid for the drinks. Then, after several deep breaths, approached the table where the still-sulking Hawthorne couple resided.
“Hey, friends!” Les’s voice boomed. The Hawthornes looked at him with suspicion and confusion.
“Remember me? It’s Marty! Your old pal!”
Jill looked at James, and he returned her concerned glare. “I don’t—” Jill began to say.
Les interrupted her. “Come on, you remember me! From college! We took the same algebra class!”
“Here. Black coffee, just the way you like it. On the house. Come on, let’s get a picture together, what do you say?”
Impatiently, he gestured for them to merge together on one chair. “Come on, squeeze together, don’t be shy. You’re married, for crying out loud! You’ve seen each other naked!”
The Hawthornes laughed nervously. Les felt as nervous as they sounded.
He retrieved a phone from his pocket and loaded the camera app. “Alright, now, smile and say cheese!”
They did. Just before Les dialed the “Take Photo” button, he uncovered the Glock from behind his denim jacket. Jill Hawthorne noticed it. The camera snapped a photo just seconds after Les pulled the trigger—a quick POP! POP! Jill’s surprise turned to terror, then to realization that she’d been shot. James died without knowing a bullet had hit him.
The gunshots were loud. Even with the suppressor, the POP! POP! reverberated over the din of the dining hall. Les stuffed the gun in his coat as startled eyes turned to look in his direction.
He sprang to his feet. “HO!” he screamed, waving his limbs wildly. “FIRE! FIRE! EVERYBODY GET OUT NOW!”
Les was swallowed by the frantic herd as people stormed to the front door and created a bottleneck. He was nearly crushed by a fat couple struggling to push through the doorway at the same time. Finally, he separated from the crowd and sprinted to his car. He selected “Destination: Home.” It took almost five minutes for him to catch his breath, and nearly ten more to slow his heart rate. He followed the procedures on ridding himself of the evidence, then returned home.
Blaise was in the kitchen, wearing an apron and cooking something with cinnamon. “Hey!” she greeted as Les closed the front door. “I’m making waffles. My first time. I’m telling you, VIP access to PAN will make me a pro at this in no time.”
Les suddenly felt exhausted. He was crashing from the adrenaline high. He hadn’t eaten since dinner last night. He knew he should, but the thought of food made him sick. “I’m not feeling well. I need to lie down. Save some for me, would you?”
He retreated to the king bed, where he expected once again to vomit and sob. But he didn’t. His IPI sent another congratulatory message, this time promising to deliver a tray of expensive cakes and sweets to his door within 24 hours.
He fell asleep for five hours straight. When he awoke, Blaise was curled up next to him, asleep, her head resting on his chest.
He noticed that he felt surprisingly good. He felt airy—lifted, actually, as if supported in midair by a balloon. The adrenaline had worn off, and he’d had a chance to rest and let his brain recuperate.
He noticed something else: He didn’t feel remorse for killing the Hawthornes, as he had after bludgeoning Lyle McCathern. The gun was quick and not nearly as messy as the damned hatchet. He could get used to using guns. They felt less personal, more like a job.
And that’s exactly what it was. Just a job.
Les had to keep reminding himself of that.
END OF PART ONE
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2016.03.17 02:11 pursehook Voyeur hidden camera sex
(Edit: available on US Netflix.) Wikipedia’s entry on Alain Guiraudie, director and screenwriter of Stranger by the Lake, L'inconnu du lac (original title), begins:
Alain Guiraudie (born 15 July 1964) is a French film director and screenwriter. He has directed ten mostly LGBT-related films since 1990. He is openly gay.Bataille makes perfect sense. I even noticed the thematic connections. But, reading on Wikipedia that Guiraudie actually cites Bataille… wow. Bataille wrote extensively on a wide range of subjects, and I’ve only read a few short things, but be assured that he was both an extreme and a very transgressive thinker. The Dadaists and the Surrealists, writers and artists (often both), were rather obsessed with the relationship between sex and death. Yet even in a milieu of collective obsession, Bataille’s writings stand out as possibly the most extreme.
Guiraudie has named Georges Bataille as an important influence….