Another idling Saturday of you sitting in your studio apartment and writing up dirty stories for degenerates online. You don't even do it for the commissions anymore, rather you're a feckless degenerate who doesn't even care to hide behind IPs or firewalls; quite sure the NSA, FBI, CIA and Homeland Security already have a couple dossiers on your clandestine activities. Fuck it.
Your whole life crammed into your dingy living room. Sheet-less mattress smack dab in the middle? Check. Growing pile of discarded cans and 'stale' tissue paper? The people that would've gave a shit hit the eject button on your ass long ago. So again, fuck it.
Interrupting your third raunchy coom session of the night, there was a rhythmic rat-a-tat-tatting on the front door; goddammit, who the fuck could that be? You opened the door in nothing by a spunk-stained basketball shorts, so shameless that you didn't give a damn who saw. There was no one in sight, until you looked down.
"Hey," a prepubescent looking blondie wearing an oversized navy windbreaker and baseball cap emblazoned with the golden 'FBI' logo, started, "It's me, your FBI agent!" The underaged nymph fired a coy yet scolding grin. "You know, you visit a lot of weird sites, Anon-kun." She had shit eating grin, azure eyes narrowed into self righteous slits.
"Kid, it ain't Halloween, stop playing with my goddamn door." You were about to slam it in the snot-nosed twerp's face when she flashed a badge.
"Hold it, mister! I'm a Junior Field Agent! Totally legit!" The snappy tike couldn't have been older than ${Insert her age, man of culture}, but it looked legit. "Now," she entered with a long stride, legs barely concealed by a short, navy skirt. "I'm gonna need to see your computer."
"Bitch, get a warrant." Her audacity really pissed you off.
"Now, now," she purred, "don't get too hasty." She patted the taser on her hip threateningly.
You eyed her only piece of deterrent, "That has an orange tip, it's fake."
Her eyes bulged in