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This goes back a bit, but way back in the days of the first Trump administration, there was a joke tweet that seems eerily prescient in hindsight. You can find a straightforward write-up of the event as it happened here, but to summarize: in 2018 journalist/socialite Michael Wolff’s first Trump book, “Fire and Fury,” was published, and it contained what at the time seemed to be juicy Trump revelations (Trump has a terrible diet! Trump is weird!). Amidst the hoopla, a talented Twitter satirist tweeted a (satirical!) excerpt from the book.

The tweet has been deleted, but through the magic of technology, I can tell you that it looked like this:

At the time, many thought that not only was the tweet actually from the book, but that the facts revealed were facts — that Trump believed that there was a Gorilla Channel, that Trump thought the Gorilla Channel was boring, that Trump would say such a thing as “the way you hit that other gorilla was good.”

Of course it was not true, even though it was 100% plausible. It was satire.

Why is this relevant now? Trump’s birthday (80 years young!) approaches, on Sunday, June 14, and on such day, Trump is throwing himself a $60 million dollar birthday party, consisting of people punching each other in the face.

It’s just the Gorilla Channel. There’s not really anything more to unpack than that. Are there other ominous portents contained in the original tweet: Hastily constructed structure on the South Lawn? Yup. Leaning in to whisper encouragement to the gorillas? Super yup. Super yup. But of all the ways Trump has endeavored to befoul and despoil the United States of America, this is at its heart the Trumpiest.

Above all, Trump is an uncurious ignoramus who can only be stirred into anything resembling joy by: (i) the trappings of wealth; (ii) perving after ladies (and girls!); (iii) being told what a special big boy he is; and (iv) violence, whether wanton, cruel or both. Finding himself in circumstances in which (i), (ii) and (iii) are unavailable to him–say, in the middle of the night, in the White House bedroom–it is in those quiet moments of the soul that dreams of a Gorilla Channel rattle around in his empty, senescent head like two or three loose BBs.

And now, on this milestone birthday, he is creating his very own Gorilla Channel, just for him, his friends, and anyone paying his new friend, Paramount, for an SVOD subscription. Oh it’s largely paid for by the punching people in the face company, and sponsors like Bud Light and Monster energy drinks, but it was willed into being by Trump, for whom this gutter spectacle, this assault on the People’s House, is his idea of a good time.

None of this about Donald Trump is not disturbing, like so much else about Donald Trump. But Donald Trump is not the only one yearning for his Gorilla Channel. No matter the awkward flimsy hagiography bestowed upon the “sports” concern involved, it has been always been popular, just like Bum Fights was before it.

The Gorilla Channel tweet was never real, but the Gorilla Channel has always been there, just waiting for its audience to find it.

Yesterday was the day that James Dolan, who is not likeable and who owns the New York Knicks, has decided that the fans of the New York Knicks must be punished.

Not content with poisoning Game 3 of the NBA Finals with the bitter, spiteful, self-regard of his old pal Donald Trump, Dolan declined to provide screens for a planned watch party outside the stadium, scant hours before tipoff.

The Trump miasma was bad. The Knicks were never out of Game 3, but they were cold nonetheless. The Knicks lost but were not walloped. The toxic Trump residue continued to be effective on Wednesday, as the Spurs closed out the half of Game 4 with a 27 point lead.

But just as a sell-out MSG’s-worth of booing could not keep Trump from dozing off, the tenacity of the Knicks could not be held down by the combined effort of the San Antonio Spurs and the NBA Referees, as New York rallied from down 29 late in the third quarter to a two point victory.

In discussing his decision to screw over fans of the franchise he owns, Dolan blamed the mayor and the NYC Police Commissioner, which is, on the face of it, feckless. Dolan claimed to want a bigger watch party, which bigger watch party he did not lift one rich finger to cause. Mamdani’s response to the canceled watch party was to arrange for the game to be telecast on all the city’s link kiosks.

When James Dolan cancels the watch party outside MSG, we bring the watch party to you.Thanks to the @nba.com, Knicks Game 4 is now playing on dozens of LinkNYC screens across our city.LGK.

— Mayor Zohran Kwame Mamdani (@mayor.nyc.gov) 2026-06-11T01:57:17.291Z

It’s early for speculation as to the real reason Dolan lashed out at fans, as the ink is barely dry on the morning edition of the New York Times (which of course contains no news on the greatest NBA Finals comeback of all time, as they go to press at 6m the previous day). Some say that Dolan is mad that his good, sleepy buddy got booed into the Hudson River, which spoiled Dolan’s very special Presidential time. It’s also quite possible that word of Mayor Mamdani’s appearance on Pablo Torre Finds Out, in which Mamdani failed to mention that Dolan was smart or handsome, reached Dolan, and Dolan reacted in kind.

My working theory as to why Dolan, in the midst of an historic NBA Finals run, decided to do all this? James Dolan is a dick.

This moment, of widespread joy and civic pride and all the small positivities that come from that, to which moment Dolan is expressly unwelcome, may well turn out to be the moment that James Dolan is Jokerized into running for president of the United States.

Which would be hilarious.

Knicks in five.

Even as day breaks on the Knicks’ surprisingly dominant Game 1 win in the NBA Finals, I wonder: Why do people dislike Knicks owner James Dolan?

Is it because his family’s ugly midtown stadium Madison Square Garden enjoys a criminally generous tax deal?

Is it because of his Big-Brother inspired chokehold on MSG attendance (even by former players)?

Is it because his shitty bar band is a tribute act to other tribute acts?

Is it because he decided that the one thing the Vegas Strip needed was a perpetual eyesore?

I may have figured out the answer.

Lost in the hoopla over Trump claiming that he’ll visit MSG during the NBA finals (which hoopla mostly consisted of slavering over the possibility of Trump getting booed right out into the middle of Eighth Avenue on national television) was that Jim Dolan was asked for comment on the story. The invitation for Trump was apparently from Dolan, so it’s a fair question for a journalist to ask and Dolan to respond with a perfunctory No Comment. But no comment is not the Main Character way, and accordingly nor is it the Jim Dolan way.

“I’m a member of Mar-a-Lago, and I support him as a friend,” Mr. Dolan said. “And you don’t have to agree with everything that he’s doing in order to support him. And he’s, by the way, our president, and I don’t understand people who wish our president to do badly. Why would you wish your president to do badly? It’s like wishing that your milkman will bring you sour milk.”

It is a non-apology apology, dripping and limp. Dolan acknowledges that some don’t like some of the things the president is doing, but fails to mention which things, or if Dolan is one of the some who don’t like them. He then slams the brakes with a by-the-way that vilifies the things-not-likers for not liking things, like an alibi for a crime Dolan was never accused of.

It is as if Dolan has had media training, but he got bored halfway through and then got mad at the media trainer for boring him, so mad that Dolan instructed the MSG camera-thugs to make sure that God-damn media trainer never steps foot into his stadium, the stadium that Dolan earned all by himself, by dint of his talent, brains and dedication.

The incoherence of Dolan’s quote is matched only by the late-hours online communications of the fellow who Dolan supports as a friend, and as a dues-paying member of his friend’s dacha.

Dolan’s statement is Dolan trying to share a little Jim Dolan magic, but then remembering that nobody likes him, so then to hell with everyone.

And that is why people dislike James Dolan (and sorry fellas, they do and they will): he is not likeable.

Look, I don’t know if you’re the sort to read a headline, but I think I’ve discovered a positive use-case for AI, and it’s one that those fleece-wearing techbro DOGE-erlords haven’t even thought of yet. Not as a trial balloon, not as a steel man, not even as a false flag.

Now, it may sound like something against fleece. Understandable. I mean, I used “fleece” as the runway for my little run at ad-homineming the men and… woman (?) who are the authors of this sea of tech we are wading through, sometimes up to our knees, sometimes up to our armpits, sometimes we even have to hold our noses! So all that grotty tech doesn’t go up our noses!

So yeah. Fleece. Like those fleece sleeveless quarter-zip vests all the tech- and tech-aspirant folk started wearing 10 or 15 years ago. Which is strange if you think about it: was it really that cold in all the co-working spaces and incubator campuses back then that one had to wear an extra layer? A layer without anything that covers your fingers, your nose or the top of your head (which is of course where all your personal heat escapes, if you are in an over-airconditioned open-concept Slack-mine).

I mean sheep are great! Though they are scary, with their cloven hooves and their sideways eyeballs, all very Satan-y. Which is maybe where this all came from? The Satan part? Like, in 2010, some coding edgelord went on Fark (in a fleece) and said, “I will certainly solve poverty and starvation, just as soon as this micropayment app makes me a centi-billionaire. Almost certainly,” and then all the good-hearted were like, “SATAN! FLEECE! ACTUALLY, JUST FLEECE, IS WHAT I MEANT TO SAY!”

Jesus, if that first edgelord had kids at the time, those kids would almost surely be old enough to vote? Definitely drive. Vape? Is there an age limit (lower) for vaping?

Yeah no. Maybe no more of the fleece thing, from me, on a going-forward basis, on account of I, like most of you, can do better!

Anyhow.

So the positive use-case for AI? It makes life hard for dudes named Al. These dudes, they see all the headlines? “AI uses more power than Australia.” “AI perfects schizophrenia injection.” “Savor those bananas while you still can, because AI has decided they will be destroyed forever.” Dudes going by Al have got to feel pretty bad after a decade or so of reading that!

This is of course very good news for all of you who have an Al in your life whom you despise!

I just wanted to put this in writing, because the fog of war (excursion?) is too thick and swirly, the coverage too careful, to keep the actual narrative of what the fuck just happened in my head.

So. Way back when, Donald John Trump became president, by virtue of a combination of fuckery and a rotting, sclerotic body politic. In the four years of that presidency, he perpetrated all sorts of evil and moronic shit, but was prevented by institutional guardrails and a lack of imagination from actually destroying the world. Even his effort to install himself as Dotage King was foiled by a generally flaccid effort to do so.

During this dark time, Iran was a minor issue for him. Mostly, he was pissed off that a previous, decidedly non-Caucasian president signed an arms control deal curbing Iran’s capability to manufacture nuclear weapons. He didn’t invade Iran or anything, but he did unilaterally break the agreement, which had been working. But then COVID happened and everyone danced in the streets when he lost the 2020 election.

Flash forward four years: Trump is unhealthier and smellier, plus also president again. Whether Trump decided he no longer wanted advisors to tell him no ever again, or only sincerely corrupt and subservient people could bear to be in Trump’s employ, he tapped a cadre of truly broken people for Cabinet level positions, including a TV host Secretary of Defense with a White Nationalist tattoo and a deep insecurity–all aligned with Trump in his desire to do stupid shit, like promoting measles and murdering protesters.

It was murder that really caught Trump’s eye. Even before the murdered protesters, he had the TV host start murdering Central American fishermen at sea and claiming they were drug smugglers (as if murdering drug smugglers was somehow permissible, legally or morally). Anonymous boats go boom, the video plays for Trump (on TV), and no one impeached him, so that feeling he felt when people died because of his say-so–Trump decided he would like more and more.

But while he was getting off on that, he realized that he was mortal, as various parts of his body were necrotic, so he was worried about his legacy. Sure, he was obviously the most handsome, smart and popular man in human history, he told himself, but he had not refashioned the entire planet in his own image. As an extra, more murdering!

Iran was the obvious solution. Nobody liked them, plus they never got what was coming to them in his first term. So, despite the fact that the US and Iran had been negotiated arms control measures, they had a little Twelve Day War in the summer of 2025–death from above it was. Israel started it–a week’s worth of missile attacks at Iran’s nuclear development facilities and scientists, and US stuck a toe in at the end with a couple Tomahawks.

Trump declared total destruction of Iran’s nuclear program. The international community declared that the bombings had no legal basis. And Iran declared that the US was a shitty negotiating partner.

The destruction of Iran’s nuclear program was was so total that that weapons talks resumed in 2026. These talks ended up being super useful to Trump and his TV host Secretary of Defense, as they served to distract Iran from Trump’s surprise (sneak) attack of Iran, this time targeting heads of state and schoolgirls.

The start of the Big Beautiful War was (EST) a Friday night going into Saturday morning, so that Trump could not only get his murder fix but also ruin everyone’s weekend.

It was a decapitation strike, combined with a sneak attack, all very Geneva Conventions-y, and all overseen from the Winter War Room, which is basically a couch fort at a Mar-a-Lago AYCE. Death rained from the skies, said the TV host to the TV cameras, and Trump, watching TV giggled girlishly.

A bunch of Iranian leadership was killed right off. Also killed (schoolgirls notwithstanding) were the minor officials that were hoped to fill the leadership vacuum in a more pliant fashion. The US shrugged and started asking around if anyone had any missiles they weren’t using at the time.

Trump and his little Trumpies did not bother to conjure a (fake) rationalization or a (fake) end goal. One of the little fellows must have been students of history, as the strategy seemed to be to let the very serious news outlets project rationalizations/end goals and then argue about them until they got tired and forgot, which saved the trouble of having to worry about morality or Constituitionality or anything like that.

A week in, in order to please Trump with more murder and more perfidy, a US submarine sunk an Iranian frigate. The frigate was in a whole other ocean, returning from a naval exercise in India.

Trump won his little murder war so resoundingly that the global economy starting circling the drain.

Defeated Iran did what every wargamer from the past 30 years knew Iran would do if threatened: asymmetrically attack US allies in the region, and choke off shipping in the Strait of Hormuz. Exactly two people alive were caught off-guard by this obvious and inevitable response: the murder President, and the TV host he hired to be bloodthirsty and sadistic.

Only a little less obvious was that the US suddenly needed an ally other than Israel to be involved–Israel was really good at indiscriminate bombing campaigns, but it didn’t so much care about all that other stuff. Trump had not consulted with or advised NATO, or the Saudis, or really anyone at all. They certainly knew about it, as Trump’s Mar-a-Lago opsec was tantamount to yelling state secrets at each other across a ballroom, but they were not asked if they thought it was a good idea, or if they would consider helping with the murder. So Trump took a brief pause from berating and alienating allies in order to cajole, beg and threaten allies into lending a hand.

They said “Fuck you” without even thinking about it, and once they did, they found more elaborate and fun was to say “Fuck you.”

This led Trump to do what Trump does best: mumble at how poorly Trump has been treated, repeatedly, disjointedly and in front of cameras. He was poorly treated in that the allies didn’t help, he was poorly treated because he never needed the allies help, he was poorly treated and please will the allies help, and he was poorly treated because he never asked please will the allies help.

And it’s been a month now, and he commanded network television time last night in which to–no one can quite tell? The NYT and the like sane-washed the speech into something resembling coherence, but that’s the lives they have chosen. What he actually did was do his tight-19, an art performance of his greatest social media posts, all while looking and sounding markedly not well.

But! He got his murder, and plenty of it! His sycophants clapped and compared him to Jesus, and the news that Boomers consume nervously tiptoed around this single fact, which is the fact that I am writing this in order to keep in my head:

Donald Trump wants to write his name in gold in the history books, and also Donald Trump wants people to be murdered because he decided that they should be murdered. He doesn’t care if he starts either or both of a global depression and World War 3.

He wants what he wants and no one in either party in a position to stop him has the courage to do so.

Maybe the surest sign that Blogs Are Back Baby! is that I feel the need to share these few sparse sentences.

In the past months I have started and deleted one or two posts a week. Each of the dearly departed were some flavor of “The world sure is miserable out there, miserable in ways that not only exceed any memory I have of the general misery of the world, but also nearly every conception I had of how miserable the world could become.”

And I am writing this on an afternoon in which employment is spiraling and brent crude is spiking while a war with no rationale continues, giving a quick lunchbreak snapshot into whole new levels of misery waiting around the corner, like the Easter Bunny, but with a scythe instead of a basket of eggs.

I have no need to write things any more than you have any need to read the things I don’t need to write, but I enjoy the process. And I use it to apprehend increasingly meaningless times, which meaninglessness interferes with the whole mechanism of apprehension, which means I go to bed each night feeling even worse.

I mean.

Take care of yourself. Be someone’s friend. Find space for novelty.

And keep your receipts.

This thing happened last night, the evening of 2/4/26, and I think its pretty important. I didn’t watch it live, but it went pretty viral pretty quickly, at least on Bluesky. It happened on live broadcast television, so there’s no one account to credit, but this is the first post that I saw RTed around:

JUSTIFIED “FUCK ICE” CHANTS #AEWDynamite

— NHATional Scissoring Day ✂️ (@nhathanielh.bsky.social) 2026-02-05T03:04:23.189Z

Some context: it’s a little bit of pro wrestling. The promotion is All-Elite Wrestling, which is the scrappy competitor to WWE, the dominant promotion for the past 40 years. The venue is the Pearl Theater at the Palms in Las Vegas. It was broadcast on TBS/HBO MAX. And the athletes are Brody King (the burly guy) and MJF (and the other guy).

The reason that a FUCK ICE is at all relevant in that context is that Mr. King is known for his personal opinion of ICE. At an event in Mexico City last June, he wore an ABOLISH ICE tee (to acclaim), and collaborated with a comic book company to raise money for those affected by the ICE invasion of Minneapolis. Immediately before the video, it had been announced to the Vegas crowd that more than $60,000 had been donated from the project.

The fact that the fans are chanting is not that unusual. The entire sport is predicated on inspiring audience response, since back before kayfabe broke and people believed it was real. In the before times, if a wrestling promotion could arrive at the point where the fans would loudly cheer the good guys and loudly boo the bad guys, that promotion was making money.

And chants have changed over the years, growing from simple “Yay!/Boo!” paradigms, to chanting the catchphrase of the good guys and phrases intended to hurt the feelings of the bad guys, to (more recently) chants that are difficult to explain out of context–ironic nonsense, in-jokes and such.

FUCK ICE is hardly an in-joke. FUCK ICE is timely and relevant to the entire nation. And it is an unequivocal message to ICE and the fascists who love it.

Keep in mind that this was not a protest or a DSA meeting. This was pro rasslin, with fans across the political spectrum. Certainly some of them are left-leaning, as sure as the fact that some of them are right-leaning. And they found a thing to agree on.

Let’s talk about the heat. “Heat” in kayfabe is when the fans hate you. When the heel takes the mic and tells Pittsburgh fans that Pittsburgh is a town full of unattractive, unintelligent people, the fans booing is heat on the heel. Well the heat last night was thermonuclear. I hope ICE violence workers and their families noticed, because the heat last night was, to paraphrase a despicable decrepit old man, the likes of which has never been seen.

Consider: It is not at all inconceivable that Trump’s ICE would be more than happy to “open a file” on every single fan chanting, to stumble in, draped in their TEMU GI Joe gear, and fill the Pearl Theater with tear gas and drag each and every one into an unmarked van to be renditioned to some concentration camp a thousand miles away so that attorneys can never find them.

That chant was courage.

If it can happen at an AEW event, can it happen at a WWE event? Can it happen at NCAA basketball games? Can it happen at the Super Bowl (Yes, yes, and why the fuck not?)

They’re losing, and we’re going to win.

Jesus, as they say, fucking Christ.

Right on cue, here are the push alerts from the 3 major newspapers lmao

— Erick Fernandez (@erickfernandez.bsky.social) 2026-01-21T14:36:52.904Z

Trump this morning gave his Davos speech which was notable for many things, one of which was not his reassurance that he won’t use force against Greenland. This was meant, as you can see above, with the full might of international news organizations sending push notifications that Trump will not use force against Greenland.

This is frustrating, because, words have no fixed meaning to Trump.

Trump thinks that “affordability” is a “fake word” coined to spite him, he thinks that numbers can be reduced by more than 100%, he is astonished and delighted by the word groceries, which is a word neither astonishing nor delightful, just an item he’s never had to buy himself his entire life.

Hence, taking Trump “at his word” is lunacy.

This is not even about his lying, which–apologies to every news organization in America–he does consistently, habitually and without a single scruple. This is above and beyond his pathological dishonesty: a playing field in which everyone, his allies, his victims, everyone but him is constrained by a mutual consensus that words mean things, and that speech is considered as binding as actions.

For example, if an individual says, “I like the color purple,” then the audience to those spoken words can rely on the fact that the speaker has given more than minimal consideration to their feelings about the color purple, and has determined that the color purple is by gosh fine by them.

When Trump says, “I like the color purple,” those are just sounds coming out of his weird little mouth that may mean that he does like the color purple, or he noticed something purple out of this corner of his eye (the back of his hand?), or just that it seemed like a funny thing for him to say.

To attribute geopolitical assurances to  damn sentence out of all the other sentences  tumbling out of him is naive, and for a journalist to do so is malpractice.

And this is above and beyond the aspect of Trump’s reign in which he talks like a gangster, where threats are always implicit and never fixed in a manner in which it could be entered as evidence. See:

Attn news commentators: Trump saying he could use force to obtain Greenland but won’t is not Trump saying he won’t use force to obtain Greenland. It is Trump using force as a threat to obtain Greenland. That is why he mentions it.

— Philip Bump (@pbump.com) 2026-01-21T14:16:18.480Z

Living through this is hard enough without be gaslighted by the grown-ups we’ve relied on to explain the events of the current day, the journalists who are being outwitted by the profundity of Trump’s mental decline.

What a year these past weeks have been.

I went to bed the night of Friday, January 2 feeling weirdly hopeful for the months to come, and then Trump started sploshing his Trump everywhere, starting in Venezuela (which was the news that confronted me seconds after waking up on the 3rd), and now not two weeks later Trump is having his brownshirts murder Americans in the street.

So here: have a little victory.

There is this wedge of cheese. A double cream brie.

I got it at Stew Leonard’s on New Year’s Day, which is a dumb but satisfying tradition we have–going to a Stew Leonard’s on a day when you know no one will be there. Because Stew Leonard’s is awesome but feels like Times Square on normal shopping day.

But back to the cheese.

It is a wedge, cut instore from a larger cheese and then packaged for individual sale, wrapped in food grade plastic cling wrap. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. The problem presented, however, by the ordinary practice of wrapping cheeses and cheese-like comestibles in cling wrap is that, once you remove the item from the cling wrap, it is impossible to rewrap the item in the cling wrap.

Why would this be a problem? The problem is the label. The label–traditionally a paper sticker with print on one side and adhesive on the other–is, also traditionally, affixed to where the ends of the cling wrap are gathered, which then seals the cling wrap to the point where there is no chance that the packaging will open itself (generally frowned upon in the grocery trade). But when you open it, tearing off the label, the label gets all messed up, and rips a bunch of the cling wrap with it.

Basically, you have your bit of cheese for a snack, and now you have a big naked slap of remaining cheese and the shredded remnants of the cling wrap, useful for nothing other than landfill.

I have also experienced this issue with some bakeries, like She Wolf, who use a sticker to seal the bag, which sticker is affixed to a clear plastic panel on the bed, which rips into little pieces upon opening, leaving a giant hunk of baguette or Pullman in a bag that is compromised beyond use, and so you have to improvise with NYT bags and rubber bands or else your delicious bread will be a doorstop/hockey puck in scant hours.

But Stew Leonard’s has solved the problem!

Check this shit out:

Perhaps not super clear from the photographs, but instead of a paper sticker, Stew’s is using a plastic sticker whose adhesive is not as muscular as a paper sticker.

Hence, you can use the plastic sticker to reseal the cheese in the event that you don’t eat the whole thing.

Possibly other outlets are doing the same. It would not surprise me. But Stew’s has always been an innovator in the space, notably with regard to animatronics. (Obligatory shout out to Jungle Jim’s, another high achiever in this regard.) So Mr. Leonard, if that is in fact your name: THANK YOU.

This is not a problem that has ever cost me a wink of sleep. However, the solution to the minor problem is welcome and worth sharing. And, I can say with some confidence, this small victory may well be the largest victory of calendar 2026 to date.

Further to the previous post: even more acts have consciously uncoupled from the Kennedy Center, which Center was perfectly fine until Donald Trump smeared Trump all over it.

The situation reminds me of this post of Hamilton Nolan’s How Things Work from earlier this month titled “If He Builds It, Tear It Down,” providing a prescient bit of advice on how to digest these news items.

As soon as Republicans leave the White House, the next president should tear it down.

Nolan is writing about the ballroom that Trump commanded to be built on top of what used to the the East Wing of the White House, but it applies universally to all such fuckery.

It should be noted that Trump’s pathological obsession with slapping his name on stuff and/or turning DC into a gilt-bomb of Mar-a-Lagocity has nothing to do with the animating forces of his current administration–to wit, Stephen Miller’s genocidal bigotry, Russell Vought’s monomanical intent to murder all non-military aspects of the federal government, and Marco Rubio’s ultimate goal of withdrawing America from any international entanglement outside of the Western Hemisphere. Building ballrooms and statue gardens and curating armrests is what Trump is spending his time on, when not leading dear-leader sessions or slurringly rambling at the press corps. It’s what he cares about, and it’s what distracts him from any care or concern over the actions of his administration.

All the evil shit, like disappearing citizens and blowing up innocent fishermen? That’s his day job. Picking out gold leaf is what he does for love.

This would be a bit charming, were not evil twisted men manipulating him into committing atrocity after atrocity. (And were he not deeply evil himself.)

Fortunately:

The pendulum is going to swing hard, motherfuckers. Hard enough to smash those walls into dust.

Subscribe to Hamilton Nolan! He’s a top-notch writer, and he occasionally allows himself to share exhortations with the reader, which I find apt and useful. You won’t regret it.