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Mark nearly pisses himself laughing when he stumbles upon the pictures.
They’re in a folder labeled Doctorate Notes and when he clicks on it, a password box pops up on his screen. Until that pop-up, he’s been slumping further and further into his seat so that his laptop is all but resting on his chest. His brain feels like it’s melting into jelly. Everything else on the man’s computer has been so mind-boringly mundane. Ancient homework assignments, an organized spreadsheet of Gizmosuit commands, for some reason a list of Sabrina the Teenage Witch episodes that catalogs Salem the cat’s appearances. Boring! But this?
It’s the first icon he has located asking for a password.
Taking notice, he sits up, blinking.
Why would anybody password protect research for a school paper? He hadn’t even password-protected his data on the construction of the Gizmocloud, but he’s bothering with some musty old notes? Mark seriously doubts that whatever lame-ass topic the scientist had written his thesis on was worthy of this much security. Which only leaves the question of what he’s really hiding in that folder.
Hacking the duck’s password is even easier than it had been getting into his computer. And that had been pretty damn easy. Two minutes later he’s in and wow, it’s a big one. The little spinner in the middle of the computer continues to swirl and Mark’s laptop freezes for a long moment. That would be concerning if he were actually on Fenton’s computer but this is a remote connection, so some lag is expected. Still, he takes a glance through the desktop’s camera, just to confirm that he hasn’t returned to his bedroom. He doesn’t want him barging in on a frozen screen.
All clear.
They’re not just pictures, even. There are also videos. And they’re all of boys, which is somewhat confusing because isn’t Fenton dating that ugly gamer girl chick? Well, she does kind of look like a little boy, now that Mark thinks about it.
“It’s always the nice ones,” Mark mutters aloud to himself as he scrolls through the pictures. Then he stops, frowning, and looks down at the icons on the bottom of his screen.
Just to be safe, he checks to make sure the security apps are all connected and running. This isn’t the sort of shit he needs to be caught looking at. Even for him, a connoisseur in the sexual appetite, this is a bit much.
Everything is in the clear, so he goes back to scrolling. Not sure exactly what he’s looking for because, well, look at this shit. He’s stumbled upon Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera’s stash of kiddy porn. What could possibly top that?
Well, documented proof of him actually molesting a kid. If it exists. That would be top notch.
He doesn’t find that but he does stumble upon what looks like homemade underage porn. Possibly. That is, if somebody asked Mark to guess the age of the younger version of Fenton in the video he would guess about sixteen or so.
His hair was longer back then. It keeps falling over his eyes as his naked body squirms on top of the shota body pillow. Mark recognizes the character though only by appearance, not by name. He doesn’t even know what the anime is called. But he recalls seeing a lot of teenage girls using the characters from it as avatars about ten years back. Which, yeah, would make Fenton about sixteen, give or take.
Bland, amateur, and lacking technique, Mark decides after watching the entire five-minute video of his nemesis copulating with a hunk of cotton. He closes it with a click and continues scrolling but he is unable to locate any more videos or pictures of Fenton in the collection. Not to say there couldn’t be any he missed, because the folder has over ten thousand images and videos and it would take a good while to check them all.
Most of the files are old. Mark sorts the folder by date and finds only a couple hundred of the files have been downloaded over the last few years. And those ones are more…tame, than the older ones. Simple nudes or near-nudes. Given the sheer number of images and the fact that so many of the older photos share a download date (there is a set of about eight hundred pictures from the same day in 2013 alone), it seems likely that the images were mass-downloaded somehow. Perhaps through a torrent?
It’s pretty stupid of somebody to leave this sort of shit on their desktop. Even with a password. Doesn’t that self-righteous idiot realize that there are hackers out there trying to get into your computer at all hours of the day? Viruses? He could at least keep his personal shit on a portable hard drive or something.
Mark clicks through for a few minutes long, checking out the videos, desperately praying to find one of Fenton fucking some kid, but the only fucking is being done by creepy old guys. Nobody as cute and sweet-looking as the duck. Despite himself, Mark’s body begins to respond. Not to the pictures or the fondling video, he isn’t a pedophile and naked kids do nothing for him, but a small handful of the videos depict graphic rape. That sort of scenario is more up to his speed. When it comes to a good rape video, it doesn’t matter if it’s man, woman, or child, when he hears somebody screaming and crying out in pain it’s bound to get him going.
He finishes embarrassingly quickly and lies there, panting for a while, hand sticky with his own cum. Wanting to wipe it off but not wishing to stain his couch or throw pillows. He settles for wiping it off on his own chest with the intention of getting up to shower in a few minutes anyway.
First, though, he needs to download the evidence.
There are a lot of ways this could have gone. And Mark thought about all of them, or at least a lot of them. He could follow Fenton somewhere secret, corner him in an empty parking garage or an early morning walk. He could create a fake account and contact him on that little pedo forum that he discovered a link for in his browser. He could just call him up on the phone and threaten to call the cops.
He decides on a more ambiguous approach.
Just a text of a simple screenshot of the folder, images blurred just in case somebody is already monitoring his texts, and the words “I know your secret” sent two seconds later. Through a burner phone, of course, because Fenton knows Mark’s number and he doesn’t want him to know who he is quite yet.
He receives a reply within five minutes.
Mark gives him the meeting spot. Somewhere open and crowded to soothe Fenton’s mind because nobody is going to beat to death a guy in front of a bunch of kids. But also, somewhere that Mark knows Fenton won’t just show up and shoot him in the head to protect his secret. He doesn’t really imagine him doing something like that but, well, desperate measures and all that.
Funzo’s would have been a more ironic choice, but they don’t allow adults in there without children. So Mark sits in his booth, listening to the staff sing Happy Birthday to the dozenth kid, and wonders why Fenton is running late. It’s obvious once he sees him. Guy’s a mess. Hasn’t even combed his hair, his tie hangs around his neck, undone. His hands shake as he surveys the crowd, searching for the man in the red ballcap as instructed.
The look on his face! Mark will never forget it. Beautiful.
“You,” Fenton hisses, sliding into the booth across from him. “I should have known. Who else would have broken into my computer?”
“Nice to see you, too, Fen,” Mark replies with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve been sitting here alone for fifteen minutes looking like a loser without any friends. Or like some disgusting pedophile who hangs out alone around little kids.” He gestures at the numerous amount of children cluttering up the old-fashioned ice cream shop. Fenton glances at them under his eyelashes and then shifts, turning his back more fully to them.
“Did you have to pick this place?”
“Would you have preferred some dark alley at midnight?”
“I would have preferred, I don’t know. A park or something?”
“Near a playground?” Mark asks, smirking. A waitress walks by and he raises his hand quickly, trying to get her attention. “Excuse me! I’ve been waiting forever over here!”
She ignores him, continuing to walk towards the table full of screaming kids with her arms covered in plates. Mark huffs in annoyance.
“Alright, so what do you want?” Fenton asks, jumping straight to the point. “Money? Is it about Gizmoduck? Because Gyro has full control over the Gizmosuit and you know that, I can’t give you anything there.”
“Relax,” Mark says, waving a hand at him. “We’re here to eat lunch, let’s take our time and enjoy ourselves.”
“Enjoy ourselves?” Fenton demands to know. “How am I supposed to enjoy myself when I don’t know if I’m going to be in jail by tomorrow?”
“You’re not,” Mark assures him. Then pauses for a moment. “Not if you do what I want, anyway.”
Muttering something in Spanish, Fenton reaches up and rubs at his eyes with the palms of both hands. He doesn’t lower them, just continues to rest his head there, looking as exhausted as if he hasn’t slept in a way. The waitress finally chooses this moment to appear at the side of their table, notebook in hand.
“You two ready to order?”
Mark orders a swiss mushroom burger with no-salt fries, repeating the no-salt part of his order, and a milkshake. Fenton only asks for a cup of coffee.
“Add a carnitas burrito to my order,” Mark says before he hands the menu back to the waitress. He smiles charmingly at Fenton and leans back against the booth, spreading his arms out on the wooden tops of the bench’s back. The younger duck just stares back at him, ragged and defeated.
“Those picture-” Fenton begins, but Mark quickly disrupts him, wagging a finger disapprovingly.
“I said we’re going to enjoy lunch first. Besides, you don’t want somebody hearing us, do you? Not with all these innocent little kids around.” Mark turns his head to watch a couple of small kids race by towards the arcade section towards the back of the restaurant. It’s a small section, maybe about ten machines including a few grab machines and an old Jurassic Park machine made to look like a jeep. He continues to survey the area as he speaks. “That said, if you try anything, I have an e-mail programmed to be sent out automatically this evening to a number of reliable sources unless I stop it from going out. So you might want to just relax and do as I say.”
He turns his head back to the smaller man, his gaze now devoid of any of the carefree, friendly attitude he had displayed just a moment ago. His glare is menacing. Fenton nods and stares down at the placemat in front of him. It’s the type made for kids, a black and white drawing of an elaborate sundae just waiting to be colored in. The duck looks so small, his shoulders drawn in close.
“Why don’t you try coloring in your picture?” Mark suggests, tone lightening as he nods to the drawing. The normal pep is back in his voice. “The crayons are right there next to the sugar packets. I’ve heard that art therapy is wonderful for anxiety.”
“I don’t want to color.”
“I thought you were going to do as I say?”
Sighing, Fenton reaches over and pulls a green crayon from the little plastic bowl.
The camera makes a small zooming noise as Mark focuses the lens. It manually adjusts, turning as the image sharpens on the little screen. The bed squeaks as Fenton fidgets, his face turned away from the lens.
“Come on Fen,” Mark calls across the room. “Let the camera see your pretty face.”
Fenton doesn’t say anything. He just turns his head to look directly at the camera with a blank expression on his face. The slightest downturn at the corner of his mouth.
“What is the point of this?”
“Why does it matter?” Mark asks, sitting back in the armchair that takes up a small section of his rather large room. He’s seated about eight feet from the bed but there is plenty of space behind him for bookcases and a fireplace and a jacuzzi bathtub. “I promise, this is for my personal collection. If you’re afraid this is going to end up on the internet, don’t worry about it. What kind of idiot keeps his private files on his computer?”
Fenton stares at him with something akin to murder in his eyes.
“Would a drink make this easier?” Mark suggests after a moment. He gestures to the globe bar beside the fireplace. “I have tequila. That’s your people’s preferred liquor, right?”
“My people?” Fenton asks. He snorts and shakes his head. “I’m more of a rum kind of guy, myself.”
“Perfect!” Mark exclaims, jumping to his feet. “I’ll make us a couple of mojitos. Gives me a chance to use the mint from my herb garden. Did you see my herb garden?”
“Yes, you pointed it out twice already,” the younger man replies. He doesn’t even look towards the small box window planter where Mark is gesturing. It’s one the maid looks after, of course, Mark doesn’t have the time or desire to look after something as common as an herb garden. But it’s a nice little addition to his personal quarters and perfect for fixing drinks.
He crosses the room to pick at some of the fresh mint leaves.
“You know,” he says over his shoulder, “You haven’t even thanked me for not turning me in. You could be in jail right now and look where you are instead. Have you ever been in a bedroom this size before?”
Fenton doesn’t answer him. The parrot sighs. He’s turning out to be so disappointing.
“No answer?” Mark asks, turning to look at the duck. “Is that a no, then? Are you saying you’ve been in larger bedrooms? Scrooge McDuck’s? Is that how you got a job for him? I didn’t realize scientists have to pass the casting couch.”
“You’re disgusting,” Fenton sneers back at him.
“And you’re a pedophile,” Mark retorts. He throws the mint leaves into the cocktail shaker and reaches for the muddler. “Speaking of which, does McDuck know you’re diddling his nephews? Is it all of them or just the red one?”
“I’m not didd- molesting any of them,” Fenton responds, cutting himself off mid-word as he stumbles over Mark’s choice of terminology. “I’ve never touched a kid in my life.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have the guts to actually touch a kid,” Mark responds placidly. He sets the muddler aside and leans down to look through the bottles at the base of the globe until he spots the white rum. He stands back up and twists the cap. “Just get your rocks off jerking it to them being raped, huh?”
Fenton doesn’t answer. Again. Mark glances up at him.
“I asked you a question.”
“I don’t watch the videos anymore,” Fenton says quietly. Followed by an even quieter admission. “I was a teenager when I downloaded those videos. I, I was confused.”
“Yet you haven’t deleted them, how strange,” Mark muses, not to himself but plenty loud enough for the duck to hear. “And many of those pictures show recent download dates.”
“Those aren’t illegal,” Fenton protests quickly, his voice higher now. “They’re not, you know. Exploitative. They’re from parents’ social media accounts or clothing catalogs or stock picture sites.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, chief.” Mark crosses the room and holds out a glass tumbler to the other man to take. When Fenton looks at it skeptically, Mark rolls his eyes, switches the glass for the one in his other hand, and takes a sip from the first just to show it is safe. “If I wanted to drug you, I’d just demand you swallow a pill.”
Fenton takes the offered drink. His hands are trembling so that the ice cubes inside it clatter unpleasantly against the glass.
“So what is this?” Fenton asks, waving towards the camera with the little red blinking light half a dozen feet away from the bed. “Are you going to tape a confession? Are the pictures not enough?”
“A confession?” Mark blinks at him before letting out a loud, sudden laugh. “No no no, you got it all wrong, amigo. I’m going to tape myself fucking you.”
Mark watches in real-time as Fenton’s eyes widen like some ridiculous cartoon character. He jumps to his feet and backs away from the parrot but he doesn’t have far to go before his legs are bumping against the bedside stand.
“I didn’t consent to this.”
“And those kids didn’t consent to you jerking off to videos of their violation,” Mark replies. “Come on, it’s pure karma. You’ll probably get spiritual brownie points or something. Eye for an eye and all that. Or that’s what I was taught at Hebrew school as a kid, anyway. I know about that cross you wear around your neck.”
Instinctively, Fenton reaches for the small gold chain at his throat.
“Are you telling me that God wants me to be raped by you?”
“So dramatic. Let’s call it…compensatory sex. You get compensated by not going to jail.”
Fenton stays where he is, pressed between the corner of the bed post and the bedside table. Only relaxing once Mark moves a few feet away from the bed. He’s still holding his drink but it’s like he’s forgotten it’s in his hand. Mark raises his own drink to his mouth and gestures for Fenton to do the same. He sits back on the bed when Mark tells him to do so.
He waits until Fenton has nearly finished his second drink before he begins with the instructions.
“Alright, just nudge slightly to the left,” Mark says, looking at the camera’s screen. “I want you centered. There we go. Now take off your tie.”
The young man doesn’t react immediately. He has enough booze in him to relax him a bit, but he isn’t drunk. He still has all his inhibitions. Mark watches as he closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths and releases them slowly. In, out, in, out. Then his hands reach for his tie. He doesn’t undo the knot completely, just loosens it and pulls it off over his head. The duck looks around for a place to set it but there is no place immediately available that he could reach without moving out of position of the camera.
“Just toss it on the floor,” Mark instructs nonchalantly.
“It’s my best tie.”
“I’ll buy you a better one. Hell, I have a closet full of ties, take as many as you like.”
He obviously doesn’t appreciate or like Mark’s response, but the hunk of purple silk lands with a quiet thunk on the hardwood.
“Alright, now the shirt. Slowly.”
“Do you want me to pole dance while I’m at it,” Fenton seethes, undoing the top button of the article of clothing mentioned. “I’m not a stripper.”
“You are if I tell you that you are.”
By the time Mark joins him on the bed, he’s already hard and raring to go. Fenton is completely soft but it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t need the duck to enjoy any of this. He doesn’t even need him to even be totally compliant, a little fighting back isn’t something Mark would be totally against. He would enjoy a little struggle. But Fenton doesn’t offer him that. He lays on his back when Mark tells him to, stiff as a board in all places except one. Legs together, arms at his sides, looking straight up at the ceiling.
“Well, this isn’t going to work,” Mark huffs. “Alright, turn over onto your stomach. No, wait, on your knees. Lay your head down on the pillow. Yes, like that.”
Mark isn’t the type of guy who likes to get his hands dirty. He also doesn’t like to put his hands in dirty places where they don’t belong. So he opts for a pair of gloves and a smooth, plastic dildo. The lube goes on smoothly but the entry is much less easy. The duck is clenching and he makes a small, pained noise at just the feeling of the tip nudging at his entrance.
“You need to relax,” Mark says. “It’s not even a big one. I’m doing this for your benefit, not mine. Believe me.”
“I’m sorry if I’m having trouble relaxing as my arch enemy anally rapes me,” Fenton snaps at him.
Mark looks at the dildo in his gloved hand, back up at the back of Fenton’s head, and then back at the dildo.
“Fuck it,” he says, tossing the dildo aside. He peels off the gloves and tosses them on the floor. “You want to be a dick about it then you can go ahead and take one.”
He doesn’t scream when Mark shoves in but he buries his face in the pillow and makes a choked, gasping sound equivalent to that of an alley cat coughing up a hairball. He’s so tight that it’s almost painful for the parrot, the way he’s clenching, and Mark knows instinctively that this man has never had anything inside of him. Funny, that girlfriend of his seems the type who would be into pegging and Fenton seems like the type who would have at least experimented with a couple of guys in college. But he’s just full of surprises, isn’t he?
There’s blood, afterward. Not a lot, but enough to make Mark smirk at the sight of it. Fenton winces when he sits up to pull his shirt back over his head. He avoids Mark’s eyes and answers his questions in single-word responses.
“Can I go now?”
“You should probably shower,” Mark replies. He has the pillows propped up behind him and has reached already for a post-sex vape. The room smells like cotton candy and cinnamon lube and copper. “Don’t want that girlfriend of yours wondering why you have a rectum full of semen.”
“She won’t be home until nearly four,” Fenton says quietly. He retrieves his cheap tie from the floor and slips it over his head. “Her new job. She follows Japan’s time zone. So her schedule is pretty weird.”
“Well, that’s perfect, isn’t it?” Mark asks. He takes another hit from the vape and blows the sweet cloud in Fenton’s direction. “We won’t have any difficulty meeting up for another round. Tomorrow, maybe? I’ll call you to let you know.”
“Again?” Fenton asks, frowning. His arms are crossed protectively across his skinny chest. “You mean I have to do this again?”
Mark looks at him, cocking his head to the side.
“Did you really think one lousy roll in the hay is enough to keep my silence? For the foreseeable future, you belong to me, amigo.”
The next few months are glorious. Or a living hell. It really depends on who you ask.
Mark has hired plenty of hookers in the past and has kept around the occasional girlfriend or boyfriend for his pleasure. But they all left him eventually, refusing to give in to his more outlandish demands. Fenton though. He can’t leave. He doesn’t have that option. And this gives Mark all the consent he needs to do what he wants with the duck.
It starts pretty vanilla. He gets Fenton used to being fucked. He even gets him used to enjoying it. Not wanting it, no, but before long he is leaving Mark’s penthouse red-faced and humiliated after having yet another mind-blowing orgasm fucked out of him.
It is only a matter of weeks before he starts hurting Fenton in other ways. Hair pulling at first, then spanking, then choking. Fenton complains and when Mark responds by making it hurt more he stops complaining.
After this, Mark begins to bring in the toys. The small plastic dildo from the first night never makes an appearance. But larger dildos do and nipple clamps and some butt plugs.
Mark loves his gadgets.
“It’s called the Prostatiac,” he says as he works it up inside of the duck’s anal cavity early one morning. “It works through Bluetooth so make sure your phone is by you all day. And no cheating and sneaking into the bathroom to masturbate.”
Though the toy is connected to Fenton’s Bluetooth, he has no control over it through his side of the app. Only Mark does. He tries it out before he leaves. He selects level one on his screen and Fenton jerks on his feet in surprise but otherwise doesn’t show much of a reaction. By level five he’s fidgeting, his hands clenched in fists to his side. Level ten, Mark can hear the vibration.
“We’ll have to max out at about level eight,” he announces, switching the vibration back off. “Don’t want that nerdy boss of yours hearing it. He’d probably jump at the chance to fuck you.”
“Gyro?” Fenton asks, his voice breathy from overstimulation. He’s nearly panting. “Gyro would never-”
“Oh please,” Mark scoffs. “That man has wanted to fuck you since the moment he laid eyes on you. Mmm, if only he knew.”
Every half hour, nearly clockwork, Mark pulls out his phone and turns on the vibration. He adjusts the time and strength each time, maxing it out at eight when Fenton confirms he is on his lunch break and leaving it on for the full half-hour.
Obediently, Fenton texts him a picture of his erection at the end of his break, confirming that he had done nothing to remedy his predicament.
By evening, Fenton is an absolute mess and he cries with relief when Mark pulls out the plug and fucks him until he cums. It only takes a minute. Maybe less.
The second time they do it, Mark snaps a cockring on him before removing the plug and edges him for two more hours.
The plug is fun but it’s not something they can do too often. Not just because it could cause suspicions if Fenton is messing up constantly at work, but because Mark doesn’t want him getting too loose.
The Cage is another fun little gadget. Also controlled through Bluetooth, the mechanism can only be unlocked by Mark’s command. He considers sending him out into the world with it on, but the girlfriend can’t see it for obvious reasons and there would be no reason for it in the middle of the day at work, so they only use The Cage during their playtime.
Mark has some of the best photo manipulating software in the world. Superimposing the face of the red nephew into the videos on Fenton’s hard drive is exceedingly easy. Pitching the voice is a little more difficult but it does the job.
The ends of the barbs are as sharp as razor blades and leave Fenton’s cock covered in tiny little marks.
Cameras, in comparison, seem downright simplistic. At least in theory. Except the handful of cameras that Mark slips into Fenton’s hands are a special high-quality, ultra-tiny variety that are small enough to fit inside the cap of a pen. He instructs him to carefully hide them in his bedroom and reminds him to hide the tiny receiver in his ear before heading home from work.
“I’ll tell you what to do.”
Gandra seems surprised by Fenton’s requests that night.
“You want me to peg you?”
“Yes,” Fenton lies. Mark can see his face in one of the numerous cameras and it’s red and wincing. Unconvincing but she probably just thinks he’s embarrassed about the request. “It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time.”
She looks down at the holster, raising an eyebrow at the largeness of the rubber dildo already insert into the hole.
“Well, if that’s what she wants,” she says finally. Mark watches as she removes her shirt. She’s got a nice pair of tits, large for such a petite frame. Funny, you’d think a confessed pedophile would have gone for a chick a bit flatter.
If she notices how easily her boyfriend takes a rubber dick the size of her arm, she doesn’t say anything. Mark watches the entire encounter, palming his own cock until he can’t hold back anymore. He finishes far before either of the two actually doing the fucking.
“If you taped that, delete it,” Fenton demands the next night. “You can do what you want with me, but I’m not letting you keep videos of her around to masturbate to.”
“I didn’t delete it,” Mark lies, holding his palms up in defense. “Woodscout’s honor.”
“You were never in the Junior Woodscouts.”
The gadgets are fun but there are more traditional ways to play. Handcuffs. Blindfolds. Paddles. Whips. One night, Mark is called away in the middle of their play and by the time he returns, Fenton is a sobbing mess. Leave somebody strapped into a sex swing with a vibrating plug up their ass for two hours and they act as if their puppy was just murdered.
When Fenton stops fighting, Mark knows it’s time to end it all. He’s had his fun, but six months of fucking the same holes is starting to lose the appeal. He misses the early days, when Fenton cried and protested and struggled.
Fenton is sitting on the floor, face covered in cum, rubbing his sore wrists, when he asks Mark what time tomorrow.
“Don’t come tomorrow,” Mark tells him. “In fact, don’t come again. You’re boring me.”
“You mean it?” Fenton asks, looking up at him in surprise. “I don’t need to do this anymore?”
“Yeah, we’re done,” Mark says, kicking him lightly on the side. “I don’t want to see you here again.”
“I, okay,” Fenton agrees. He climbs shakily to his feet. There are fresh bruises already forming around his throat. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah, get out,” Mark points towards the door.
Once the duck is gone, Mark pours himself a drink. Tightening his expensive, plush robe around the waist, he flops down on one of his sofas and pulls the nearby laptop onto his lap. The USB stick is hidden in a copy of Moby Dick on his bookshelf. He sticks it into the slot and scrolls through the hundreds of hours of videos. Those videos record the downfall of Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera. They’re a personal trophy, a record of Mark’s accomplishment.
But he only needs the first one. The video from that first night, where Fenton had sat on the edge of the bed, drinking mojitos, and discussing his crimes.
Attaching this video and screenshots from Fenton’s computer, Mark presses send on the e-mail. Then he closes the laptop.
“Gravesy,” he calls, pressing the buzzer next to his bed. “Can you come in here? I need you to help me compose a public letter on how morally outraged I am about my rival’s sexual abuse allegations.”