ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Alden Nagel is the founder and editor of Nut Hole Publishing, and also a writer. You can find him on Instagram: @naldennagel
Griffin S. is a writer, visual artist and noise musician. You can probably find him manipulating samples, reading James Ellroy or Philip K. Dick and smoking. He lives in Los Angeles.
Communication Transcripts: Blood Boy #1560 and God-King Peter Thiel
- Ohhhhhhh Peter I loved the last transfusion. Nothing makes me hotter than your doctor slaves drawing my juice.
- Ohhhhhh Peter, I need another blood draw sir please sir drain my boy blood please!
- Ohhhhhhhhh Peter I’ve been such a good little bloodpig right?
- Ohhhhh Peter tell me I’ve been such a good little bloodpig oh fuck!
- Ohhhhh I can feel The Thiel! I’ve never felt the Thiel harder than right now oh Peter!
- Ohhhhh Peter you can have my twink blood any day of the week.
- Ohhhhh Peter ohhhhhhhhhh!
- Ohhhhh Peter dose me with the Lunesta one more time oh fuck!
- Ohhhhhh Peter please you are such a hot money loving daddy Dracula oh!
- Ohhhhh Peter you make me feel so good! Drain my blood Peter Thiel please!
Midnight. All of the lights downtown go out and the projector begins whirring as always. It always happens at midnight. Rain, snow, slush or heat wave, it always begins at midnight. Pedestrians all stop what they are doing to watch the film that plays four times a day. A squadron of straight passing gay men, drunken from the night's revelries, all cease their conversation about which pop star is currently, and I quote, “serving cunt.” This is life in the new metaphysical panopticon. The film rolls (a scrolling wall of text transcribing the usual script) and the speakers that have been attached to every building downtown boom.
A voice resounds through the streets.
The voice belongs to Shelly. She is the head of Peter’s secret police, The CTA: The Central Thiel Agency. She runs on girl bossing and Lunesta.
“Good morning citizens. As you know, Peter requires his newest crop. Supply has been running low lately. Bushwick has been completely drained and we come to you, loyal citizens, to ask any fitting candidates to report to the nearest donation center. We need to hit a certain amount in this zone. Remember, if by this time tomorrow, we have not collected what we need, we will be forced to conscript the unwilling. You do not want this. Show your loyalty. Feel The Thiel.”
The film ends as quickly as it began. The group that was previously indulging in late night gossip, drinks and no doubt a few key bumps, begins sizing one another up. Like a pack of dogs that have just turned feral. They begin the queer phrenology-examination process.
“Well, I hit twink death last summer. My blood is as good as useless”
“Are you kidding me? Don’t think I haven’t seen your accounts! You are so clean shaven it is unsettling, and your BMI! Don’t even get me started on your fucking BMI”
“Well, Bradley is the youngest here, in his prime girly pop era, so I think we know who we can nominate”
“Shut the fuck up! There is no way”
I decide to head back to my one bedroom, there is no point in eavesdropping anymore. The daily projections always terrify me. Not that I am in any danger so to speak. My diet is awful, I chainsmoke American Spirits and indulge in the occasional hit off the crack pipe if it’s the right vibe for the night. I like to pretend that I have just naturally regressed to these habits, and I like to tell friends of mine that it is to cope with the state of the world. In reality, when the bloodpig harvests began, I did everything in my power to make myself as safe from them as possible. Early morning crack smoking session. Innumerable hits off my vape around nine. A pack of cigarettes before lunch. More crack. Doordashed fast food as a snack. Crack pipe by five and a pill or two after dinner. Even so, the harvests terrify me. I barely sleep anymore. Chalk it up to the freebase, but even that doesn’t nearly keep me as awake as my own fear of The Thiel.
The Thiel, dear God, is that horrifying phantom that permeates everything and everyone these days. You can never escape it, and you certainly can’t not think about it, even in the far corners of your mind. The further you push it back, the larger it grows and crawls up the walls and recesses of your own private mind. Like something between a gas leak, my own mother, and the most powerful scenes in our country’s National Movie, The Human Centipede 2 (it is, of course, mandatory to view The Human Centipede 2 on a monthly basis as part of our citizen’s duty… and on a weekly basis while enrolled in elementary school).
They hardly call it fear, simply calling that truly undiscussable feeling within us all by its only name, “The Thiel”. Even large amounts of freebasing crack cocaine doesn’t make The Thiel go away. Sometimes, the freebase makes The Thiel even worse, like a hallucinatory fever dream. Like smoking crystal meth in a gay bathhouse full of necrotic werewolves and vampires and zombies, all hunting for my corporeal being, forever.
Intermittent sirens go off, signaling the deployment of the blood trucks. In this new reality I have come to realize that the donations are not extracted by choice. The daily films exist solely as public relations. It’s not as if the blood changes due to the nature through which it was extracted.
Bloodpigs aren’t even given a head start before the trucks begin their rounds. Gunshots ring out, the final cries of the death drive of resistance.
The sun rises and I still haven't gotten any sleep. I hear the projectors whirring again, I don’t bother to go out and watch. It’s not like there is any need to do so other than to feel the sun on my face. My phone begins screaming like a fire alarm. I turn it over and it quickly scans my face, disabling the alarm and confirming my loyalty. The video plays on my phone. A new script is being read:
“We want to thank everyone who has donated in the past seven hours. It was a record breaking turnout. We could not have done this all without your help. Congratulate yourselves. We have added fifteen dollars to everyone’s Doordash account as a big thank you to everyone for hitting this mark with us. We have also upped your Lunesta dosages. We are pleased to have such a loyal citizenry. We are, however, still in need of a few liters. Trucks will be dispatched to every neighborhood in this zone to ensure the mark is hit.”
Doordash sends me an alert confirming the funds.
I contemplate what I want to order. Fifteen dollars doesn’t buy me much but it could be enough to stave off the harvesters. It is an open secret that the daily scans we go through before we can go shopping, get food or just hang out in the park track our diets, BMI and mental state.
So many options.
Burger and Fries combo - $15
Big Gulp - $4
Personal Pan Pizza - $15
Club Sandwich with a side of onion rings - $14
Deluxe Milkshake - $9
A Dozen Donuts - $15
I order the milkshake and the big gulp. I have calculated the sugars, microplastics and amount of artificial flavoring that has gone into each and feel as though it is the most practical choice. I can always save the remaining money for a snack in a few hours. I send in the order and the app tells me it will be at my apartment in around ten minutes. Enough time for freebase, thank God. I open up my dresser drawer and find my pipe and rock. I light up and am instantly hit with a wave of energy and euphoria. I take a couple more hits and gaze at myself in the mirror. I am still thin despite my diet. While it hasn’t shown on me, I know my internal organs have been confined to a landfill at this point. A trash island of greasy food, stimulants and opiates make up the body politic of my anatomy.
I go to reload my pipe. No more rocks. I try desperately to smoke any residue that may have been left over but it proves pointless. I want to cry. I want to knock over every piece of furniture I have and the dishes along with them. I even want to approach The Thiel in my mind… and yet I, of course, cannot. No one can. I sit down and let every stage of grief wash over me. I grab my phone and find my dealer’s contact info. I hate meeting up with my dealer.
Hey man, I’m dry, any chance you are holding?
Enough minutes pass for my Doordash driver to deliver my order and for me to get through the big gulp. He responds as I am halfway done with the milk shake.
Yeah dude, I always have something. Usual spot?
Sounds good man
My phone alerts me that it is time for my daily Lunesta dose. I walk over to the dispenser that has been installed in my apartment. I have no choice in this. The dispenser scans my face to confirm I have taken my dose. I cannot escape the luminous butterfly even in my own home.
I down the Lunesta and await the confirmation from the scanner. It dings.
I throw on a pair of sneakers and lock up. Our usual spot is walking distance from my apartment and this feels like the only time I really get out to feel the sun on my face. The walk is soundtracked by children playing, cars blaring music and pieces of conversation from groups sprawled out on towels. They only talk about the harvests. The harvests have come to dominate both life and conversation now.
I see the alley where I usually meet up with my dealer. It’s cliche but the alleys have become the only non-surveilled place in this zone. The new regime seems to preoccupy itself fully with the harvests nowadays. That’s all they want us to know they’re thinking of…the harvests. We need not concern ourselves. I hear nothing of impending war, climate crises or even current events. I only hear of the harvests. I only hear of The Thiel. Of Peter’s very own subconscious desires made conscious made actionable made enforceable made fatal… by that huge ever growing pulsating brain that rules from the center of his world. From his own, bloody heart. Which of course, is always searching for more blood. For more pigs to drain.
The alley is empty when I cross the threshold from surveillance into this cone of secrecy. A few minutes pass, enough to make me anxious. I pull out my phone.
Where r u?
No response.
Hey man, I am here
No response
Okay, this is kind of getting on my ner–
The phone is snatched from my hand and I am immediately pulled to the ground. A black boot dominates my line of sight as it comes down full force onto my phone, shattering it into pieces. I try to look up but another boot is promptly slammed onto my back, pushing my head into the concrete. A gruff voice emerges from the chaos.
“Yeah, we got him. Went down pretty easy. We’ll load him up and meet you at the donation center on Alvarado. Over.”
My hands are bound behind my back with flex cuffs. They show no kindness in the way they load me into the van. I am thrown headfirst like some Looney Tunes character. My nose breaks as it makes contact with the chrome floor. It makes a kind of cracking sound, not unlike that of my own crack cocaine, cracking under the heat of my own lighter. A bag is put over my head and my vision goes completely dark.
It feels like hours pass even though the donation center is less than fifteen minutes away from the alley I was just in. I feel every turn, every bump and every sudden slam of the breaks as I ragdoll my way around the interior of the van. I feel no human contact every time I am violently thrown. I am the only one here.
The van comes to an abrupt stop and I am picked up off the ground. No one speaks and I only hear the intermittent statements coming from one of my captor’s radios.
“Yeah we picked up a few on Sunset. Bringing them in. Over.”
“Had to shoot one down when he pulled a gun on me. Over.”
“Grabbed a few at the lake. Might need another truck dispatched to our location. This is Bravo Team-1. Sending our location now. Over.”
The bag is pulled from my head. The artificial light above nearly blinds me. My hands are locked tight and I am splayed out on a chrome gurney. Men in white coats and masks shuffle around me, talking rapidly about my vital levels, my mental state and any “purifications” they need to undertake with my body before beginning what they call “the process.” Fear spreads through my entire body and I scream. One of the white coats grabs my head with enough force to give me whiplash.
“Quiet! Don’t you know we need you quiet!”
I instantly obey and he resumes going over my medical records. He nods and signals over to what I assume is a two way mirror. The whitecoats don nightmarish gas masks and I get a brutal headrush. More brutal than any hit of crack I have smoked in my life. A sickly sweet scent, like the first hit off a twink’s meth pipe, fills the room.
My own thoughts, similar to those of a man experiencing heat exhaustion, become one with The Thiel. Well, as much of one as a male anglerfish, simply a submissive bloodtwink with barely a thought more human than that which approaches just that, a submissive bloodtwink anglerfish. Peter Thiel, or perhaps the spirit-politic of Peter Thiel, enters the room after enough time and permeates my every synapse and tissue. Peter Thiel speaks to me, like that of a female anglerfish feeling the heat of her mate on her own fishy-flesh body:
“Arise, bloodpig. Your time has come. Now, you must come to daddy. Would you kindly come, bloodpig? Come, and deliver your very blood to me, your daddy Peter. Your master, Peter. Peter Thiel. How does that sound, little bloodpig? Are you going to be a good bloodpig? Now, drop.”
I hear a clap come from nowhere. I think, that clap couldn’t have come from anywhere. That all-too-real clap, reminiscent of the endearing, honest quality of The Thiel itself? Maybe, it is time. To drop. Drop for Peter. Anything, for Peter Thiel. Anything to be added to his collection of blood bag fags.
I come to. I think I’ve come, too. Is cumming a part of the purification process? Maybe there really is something purifying, I mean spiritually purifying, about this process. Maybe, just maybe, Peter Thiel is The Lamb, giving me The Bread delivered from that beautiful land of milk and honey we all dream of and lust for, who has come to collect my offerings of wine. I don’t just bleed for Peter, my own blood is that of Peter Thiel’s himself. The Thiel is my own body politic made manifest. My bread law, made just for me by The Thiel, for The Thiel. My wine, made only for Peter’s cup to overfloweth with The Thiel. I know this must be true: the holy Thielian blood-bread logic closes in on itself and forms one big, self-bleeding loop of beauty. Coming from the law of Thiel itself: that Thiel Is All. It has to be true. I’ve seen the light, it doesn’t matter that it's fluorescent. It never did. And it never has.
My thoughts return to the doctor in my room speaking, across from me.
He ends his conversation with his subordinate who promptly scurries away to an adjoining room.
“Ok sir. May I call you sir?”
I nod. I am terrified to hear what the doctor has to say. The sudden faux politeness, however, takes me by surprise.
“Good. Well sir, you’re in poor health. But the good news is you are salvageable. We are going to take you through the purification process and send you to the harvest sector before the end of the week.”
He walks off without even waiting for my reply. Not that it would have made any difference. Two white coats enter and wheel me out. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to attempt some sort of escape but I resign myself to pathetic obedience. I know that I am now, and always will be, nothing more than a blood boy.
“Now, drop.”
To learn more about Peter Thiel, click here.