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So Pickle Horse-man busts in (in spirit, not in practice. He’s actually curiously respectful of the entrance to my office. Not sure what that’s about but I’m certainly glad of it. Maybe he understands it's my holy place. My dojo. My temple.) And he’s all like, “my daughter is NOT doing porn!” “Oh!? OH YEAH???” Fuchsia Horse-man jumps to her defense, “I’ve already been DOING porn for the last TWENTY YEARS because someone left me in a porn matrix!” Pickle Horse-man is clearly injured by this accusation because it’s demonstrably true that he let her be raised by a virtual reality headset connected to the porn matrix, but the argument is not entirely in good faith because he was, at the time, under the impression the headset was set to DREAMS. Fuchsia knows this, it’s on the even been recorded in a court of law because one of our longest outstanding lawsuits is with the maker of the headset who did not make it clear on the device that the DREAMS setting was not appropriate for minors nor that the DREAMS it conferred were highly pornographic because it was developed in the PORNIVERSE (or porntopia, if you live there). And I’m just not going to get further into it, on the advice of counsel. Anyways. She knows her father's motives were, perhaps not pure, but at least uninformed. She still uses it as a blame and shame tactic all the time though, Which is.. it’s just excellent daughtership. I certainly use a similar tactic against the TEQ all the time. It's really an intense accusation to say "WELL, YOU MADE ME. HERE I AM. THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED. THIS DISFUNCTION WAS PREORDAINED IN YOUR DECISION TO BRING ME INTO THIS WORLD. HERE YOU GO." “My good man,” I counsel Pickle Horse-man, “Fuchsia is not going to be “DOING” porn, she’s going to be directing it! She’s going to be what we call a tastemaker. All the exploitation happens downstream. Mostly to the actors. I tell you she’ll be doing a PUBLIC SERVICE. She’s fulfilling the prophecy that lennon and mccartney set down in Eleanor Rigby. Remember Eleanor Rigby? Remember looking at all the lonely people? Well, what do all the lonely people need? PORN. They need to be enriched by beautiful bouncing bodies and the healthful athletic boost of rubbing one out to our exploited population.” “It’s not going to happen and that’s final.” He crosses his arms. He’s majorly pouting. It hurts me to see him like this. He’s setting himself up to resist muzzle velocity argumentation meant to distract him enough from the principle of the situation. “Think of Eleanor.” I hit him with. “I’m not thinking of Eleanor!” He stomps his little feet. “I’m not thinking about her in the slightest! You can’t make me think about Eleanor!” But I know that dude is thinking about Eleanor. It’s like when you prompt someone to not think of elephants. Sure, there might be some small portion of the population that does not think about elephants, trained zen buddhists, maybe, but for most people some elephantine property crosses their mind. They might not want to admit it, and I know right now Pickle Horse-man is in this latter camp. I read it in his eyes, the faint glimmer and recognition of Miss Rigby. “You’re not my boss!” Fuschia crosses her arms and now they’re mirrored in their opposition, both totally obstinate in their horse-man ways. “Bonky is my boss! I’m going to direct porn whether you like it or not!” I tap my little hoovies together and breathe deep. This is exactly the sort of executive suite drama that I was trained to deal with. I am in my element. This is water. Pickle Horse-man thinks I’m satan, but he’s also kind of waffled on it - which is how I always manage to get my satanic tricks off on him. This time he’s firmly in the “Bonky is satan” camp, at least for the moment. And I hate that! Because it’s deeply misguided and because I care for him and if he’s fixated on the satan in front of him it’s going to blind him to the satan coming up from behind. I don’t want any other satans to get hold of him while I’m deviling him. “Look,” I present my little hoovies tented together to Pickle Horse-man, “if you’re still not feeling it, you can do a sit in! That way, if there’s anything you object to, as a concerned parent you can be there to voice your concerns. This is not going to be some fly by night production. This is going to be professional, scripted, and studied pornography by the Bonky Administrative and Sacramento Football League Organization and Porn Factory.” I slap my intercom. “Shotgun Secretary, bring in the geisha tea ceremony.” She zoots on in with the tea cart and sets it in between the three of us. It’s just the sort of obliging reconciliatory ritual experience to assuage everyone’s egos and bring us all together, but green tea also gives Pickle Horse-man the shits and that’s ultimately the distraction I need to shunt this deal through. We drink up and he’s worn down by intestinal urgency and he finally scampers off to find a bathroom which is directly to the left of my office but he’s a follow-the-right-wall kind of guy, from playing years of diablo back in the day, and he’s also not the type to ask for directions, so it’s doubtful he’ll make it. Fuchsia and I sign a deal and thus begins our great porn adventure! The next day Pickle Horse-man and I are late. The interstate is all backed up because some anti-porn advocate horse-men 9/11’d the Bonky Administrative and Football Colosseum Skyscraper and everyone on the interstate had to stop and videotape the event. It’s all super dumb because I had my engineers 9/11-proof the building and in fact every time a plane hits the Bonky Administrative and Football Colosseum Skyscraper we just integrate the planes into the building as an expansion. Most of them become bars and restaurants but there’s also a chapel, a mosque, a temple, and a shinto shrine. The traffic is still super dumb and I want to tell all these idiots parked in the interstate that these 9/11’s have been totally integrated into our growth model but these dummies just wouldn’t get it. Good lord, that “never forget” slogan did a number on our population. It made ignorant people proud to remember, which is just so embarrassing. So embarrassing. Never forget? It’s the second 9/11 to happen this week and we’re already in the process of converting the last one into a ball pit. We get to the studio three hours late and I’m just absolutely fuming. I’m in full-on executive privilege mode and if anything goes wrong I’m ready to scuttle careers over the slightest inconvenience. We get through security and we’re met by Shotgun Secretary who trains her shotgun on us. “Can’t let you in,” she says. “Excuse me?” I say. “They’re filming,” she says. “This is preposterous,” I say, “I own this building.” “I am her father!” Pickle Horse-man shrieks, “you let me in right NOW!” But the Shotgun Secretary is unmoved, “you can watch via the livestream,” she says, and hands us a microsoft surface go 4. “Livestream?” I ask, “I don’t remember saying anything about hosting live events.” We spend a fitful half hour logging into the service and it reminds me how fucking shit the Bonkystream services are and I’m absolutely fit to be tied by the end of it. It doesn’t help that Pickle Horse-man is hysterical and also that I’m livid at Pickle Horse-man for bringing this cursed woman into the world in the first place just so she could destroy my media empire. We get through the process with only minimal biting like rabid dogs and we watch some of the porn. It’s a line of dudes strapped up and hanging from the ceiling and they’re getting fucked from behind. It’s not bad but it’s also not the standout porn experience I was hoping for. Some of the guys nut and then walk off and they’re replaced by new guys, and that’s kind of hot. There’s, like, a lazy, casual, and “free-use” aspect to the bondage and that’s a nice take. One of the new guys is really giving it to his particular bondage bro and a new dynamic takes over where, it’s almost a competition, and he’s outlasting the fellas in the other rows, and the guy who he’s fucking really seems to be in some trouble because he’s really kind of breathing hard and whimpering. “Not bad,” I look at Pickle Horse-man, who just kind of shrugs. I think he’s happy that Fuchsia took gay porn as her medium. It just seems less threatening. Like there's less of a chance of her getting involved or ending up in some romantic entanglement. Not that these fellows aren’t big dick chads. They clearly are big dick chads, but there’s ostensibly a a plausible boundary. “Ok. This is cool,” I say, “when do we wrap?” “We don’t,” she says. “Excuse me?” I ask. “Bonky, this isn’t principle production. This is designed as part of our infosec umbrella. It doesn’t end. Every frame of footage is encoded into data and stored as encryption keys. It’s also a secondary source of revenue via our downstream production facilities who use our encryption services.” “She’s using porn,” I had to think it through, “to make computer safe.” “Yes.” “And we’re getting paid for it?” “Yes.” “Money?” “Yes.” “Me get money?” “Yes.” I grab Pickle Horse-man and give him a big ol’ smooch on the lips. “You’ve done it again, old man,” I tell him, “you’ve given the world your only porn genius, and freed us from monetary strife.” “Clear my schedule,” I told Shotgun Secretary, “Give Fuchsia whatever she needs. I’m going golfing.” After that, Fuchsia was really difficult to get a hold of. We saw her from time to time, sporting a jaunty beret and dark cat-eye sunglasses, always surrounded by an entourage of employees. Just an incredibly busy woman. The anxiety builds for Pickle Horse-man, as she’s so busy we can’t seem to get a little one-on-one time with her. I try to assuage my friend, but truthfully I’d like my own assurances on my investments. Luckily we get a call from Shotgun Secretary inviting us to a special screening at the Sacramento Tower Theater for Fuchsia’s premiere porn debut. All the Sacramento stars arrive in their finest. Greta Gerwig, Brie Larson, Tom Hanks, Death Grips, Apollo Crews, and Lisa Ling all show up. Pickle Horse-man and I rent some tuxedoes and we arrive late because everyone has to stop and gawk at another plane striking my fucking tower. No real ideological reason behind the attack this time. It was just a pilot who was having a bad day. We hurry down the aisle and peer through the crowd looking for Fuchsia. Luckiy she spots us pretty quickly and waves us over. She had been reserving our seats. We settled down to try and catch up on the plot. So it’s about a young woman and she’s going to her friend’s wedding which is great, lots of potential for, like, some betrayal and infidelity but still leaving open a chance for a menage a trois? A little love triangle type thing? Cause in their interactions the two friends really seem to be drifting apart and this feels like the last big hurrah before they go their separate ways. As they’re getting further into planning it’s pretty obvious the bridesmaid is jealous and it was causing her to act out and they were getting in all sorts of fights. We’re hardly out of the first act and some guy a few rows back leaps up and says he can’t take it anymore, it’s just too fucking hot, and he whips his dick out and busts a huge nut that fires over my should like it were shot from a bottle of ranch dressing and paints Colin Hank's back and part of his hair. I couldn’t believe it. What an animal. I laughed and went back to watching, certain this porn was going to be a huge hit. Anyways, they keep talking and it’s, like, alright, I get it, get to the fucking. Everyone’s here to see the fucking. Another argument ensues and everyone disbands to their own separate cabins. Then night falls and the bridesmaid taps on the bride’s window and I’m like, oh yeah, they gona fuk. They go for a walk on the beach and make small talk and then out of the blue the bridesmaid tells her friend she’s really going to miss her and she just wanted to say goodbye because it really seems like it’s the end of their relationship and all she really wants to do now is thank her for taking care of her during their journey and how great of a friend she has always been and how much she shaped the person the bridesmaid had become and who she's always wanted to be. She starts reminiscing about when they first met and how the bride had just taken her hand in the school yard on her first day after moving from Arizona and she didn't know anybody and was all alone and the bride just took her hand and told her they were going to be friends. She now realized she had used her friend as a crutch all these years, by relying on her to be brashness, and that now she didn't have that bolstering her she suddenly, for the first time, had to be the one standing up for herself. And it hurt having to give up that dependency. But she would always use the bride as an example of courage, and as a guiding star in her life. I looked over at Chartreuse. Wait. What’s her name - Fiona? I looked over at HORSE-MAN’s DAUGHTER and her eyes were big and glossy and she seemed to be totally transported by the experience. In that moment I realized I had been suckered. This wasn’t a porn at all. This was a personal dramatic piece. Looking at her, I saw I had totally misunderstood the driving psychology behind this person. In my office she hadn’t asked to watch porn to soothe some insatiable beastly desire, she had needed it to return home : to return to the quieting noise of what was most familiar to her and ease the insecurity of living in a world she didn’t understand or recognize. Consequently, her dreams, now on display, were voyeuristic, only, not voyeur in the erotic sense, but a voyeurism intent on observing the normal lives of everyday people. Every scene was filled with the intensity of trying to see into the upbringing she had missed out on. Every scene a heartbreaking attempt to examine some beautiful truth between people crashing upon each other like waves, breaking down, retreating, reforming to splay out on the beach and briefly lay out under the stars before returning to the great body of all shared waves. The audience and cast abandoned the production one by one, quietly leaving their seats and filing down the aisles. Pickle Horse-man had fallen asleep almost instananeously after sitting down because the movie was all just people talking and it didn’t have anything to do with barbarians or tool-making. Somehow, he had triumphed. By raising his daughter in sin, it held no power over her. The flick ended, the credits rolled, and a long silence prevailed. The film spool uncoupled and the speakers popped and crackled with white noise before gumming over and cutting altogether. I didn't really want to look at her because this cost three million, but I did. “Thank you, Uncle Bonky," she kissed me on the cheek. “You know,” I had to level with her, “this isn’t really the sort of ball-slapping ass-licking kind of production I had in mind.” “I know.” “We’re going to have to let you go.” “I know.” So all-in-all, it was a really good movie and I believe I'm the only other person to see its conclusion, apart from Shotgun Secretary. But it’s also getting canned. Partly because it’s not a porn and Bonky Administration and Football etc., doesn’t do movies - we do porn! But also because she used Don't Let Me Down by Joy WIlliams in the end sequence - EVEN AFTER I told her you can use any of the hundreds of thousands of songs we have under licensing agreement here at Bonky Admin., she still had to go and do me like that! And I’m telling you: I AIN’T GOING TO PAY LICENSING FEES! So this movie is going into the vault and will never see the light of day. Good movie. Lots of heart. Would have been a hit if it were marketed as something other than hardcore ass-pounding, dick-sucking, cunt-gobbling, cooter-stuffing pornography. Which is what the world runs on. The End.