The island was little more than a green speck in the vast sea. It was too small to be seen by plane, and too flat to be seen on the horizon. Unless you happened to know where you were going, the island was practically invisible to the outside world.

That was exactly what they wanted.

On the far corner of the island lay a small building decorated in bright blue stripes and topped with a gold dome. One might be so generous as to call it a temple.

It was merely a facade, however. The inside of the temple was bare, save for a few stray pieces of furniture. A stairwell led down to the basement, which held another stairwell, one that spiraled deep into the earth. All the way to hell.

The depths beneath the temple were home to a labyrinth of rooms and tunnels, built for all manner of depraved acts. In one of these rooms, recent suicide victim Jeffrey Epstein made love.

“That’s right, you little bitch, you’re going to fucking like it!” He spat on his cock before resuming his violent thrusting. The catboy yelped and whimpered with each buck of Epstein’s hips. Epstein yanked on his tail and felt the catboy tighten up. Still, it wasn’t enough. He leaned in and breathed into the catboy’s fuzzy gray ear.

“Listen to me, bitch. I wanna hear you yowl. Understand? You’re going to fucking yowl for me, and you’re gonna like it. You hear me?” The catboy choked back a sob. His yowling echoed down the halls, reminding all the other catboys of what was to come.


Under the cover of night, Nick Fuentes approached the temple. His Zodiac had reached the island with ease, and taking out the MKULTRA guards had been just as easy. Now it was just him and Epstein.

“Approaching the temple now,” Fuentes whispered into his earpiece.

“Excellent,” a deep, distorted voice replied. “Remember, Epstein is to be taken alive if possible.”

“Roger that,” said Fuentes. He prodded open the temple door with his Mossberg 500 and scanned the room. Nothing. Nick made his way down to the basement, trigger finger tense. Still nothing. He noticed the spiral staircase and approached cautiously. Even with a flashlight, he couldn’t see the bottom. Nick’s Mossberg would be too unwieldy in these cramped conditions. Nick slung the Mossberg over his shoulder and drew out a .44 Magnum.

“Going in,” Fuentes spoke to his earpiece. With that, he began his descent into the pit.


Nick Fuentes crept down the stairs as quietly as possible. Who knew what horrors lurked down here? Mossad drones that fired darts tipped with HIV blood? E-girls with bombs in their vaginas? Nick had seen stranger things on the job.

After an eternity, Nick’s superior castizo eyes made out the gentle flickering of torchlight. He’d reached the bottom of the stairs and found himself in a short hallway. More light spilled out from behind a corner, and Nick made out the sound of voices. Fuentes readied himself, then spun around the corner and drew his gun.

He was confronted with a scene of utter depravity.

Elites and politicians and celebrities mingled with one another, all in varying states of undress. They dined on slices of cheese pizza and drank human blood out of champagne glasses. If he strained his ears, Fuentes could hear the pitiful mewling of catboys. A weaker man would have given up.

Suddenly, the conversation in the room died as the guests noticed Fuentes.

“I’m here to find Jeffrey Epstein and pee pee poo poo,” Nick spoke up. “And I’m all out of pee pee poo poo.” He’d rehearsed that line in the mirror this morning and thought it came out well.

A nasally voice piped up, and Nick turned to find none other than Woody Allen.

“You can’t stop us, Nick. That would be quite anti-Semitic.” Allen grinned through crooked yellow teeth.

“It would be, if any of you were actually Jewish,” Nick retorted. “Every Jew knows Talmudic law forbids sex with a catboy. No: you worship Moloch. That’s why I’m eager to do this.” Nick fired his revolver and Woody Allen’s head burst like an overripe watermelon.

Sheer panic broke out among the guests. Ehud Barak attempted to flee only for one of Nick’s shots to punch clean through his chest. Sean Hannity charged, and Nick calmly blasted his dick off. He collapsed in a heap. Levi Wexner attempted to wrest the gun out of Nick’s hand, but Fuentes pistol-whipped him with enough force to audibly crack his jaw. Then he shot Wexner through the back of the head while he was down. John Podesta flipped over a table to use as cover, but Nick’s rounds tore through it.

Nick paused to reload, then heard a familiar growl. He looked up to see the corpulent form of Owen Benjamin charging at him. With catboy-like reflexes, Fuentes grabbed a kunai from his belt and flung it at Owen’s liver. Already weakened from years of abuse, his liver ruptured upon impact, shooting out jets of green bile. Nick stepped over Owen’s corpse and continued into the labyrinth.


Nick ran down a winding tunnel with small rooms on either side, no doubt used for vile acts of premarital sex. The smell of ammonia flooded his nostrils, a sure sign that catboys were close. Nick rounded a corner when suddenly a burst of rifle fire pushed him back. He peeked around to see none other than Stephen Paddock, moving with the robotic nature of an MKULTRA soldier.

Fuentes drew a pair of sais and crossed them to his chest. “Forgive me, master, but I’ll have to go all out, just this once!” His eyes glowed red with the Sharingan and his body was wreathed in flame. He ran out from the corner and charged at Paddock, screeching with autistic fury. Nick swung his sais and an arc of fire shot forth, slicing Paddock clean in half. His severed torso collapsed to the floor. Nick ran past his body, arms behind his back. Anyone in his way was cut to ribbons.

Soon Nick could see the end of the hall, a large oak door. Before he could reach it, Alan Dershowitz stepped out of a side room and leveled a gun at Fuentes. In desperation, he threw a sai at Dershowitz’s head. The blade went right through Dershowitz’s mouth and out the other end of his head. Nick’s eyes returned to normal and the flames dissipated. He withdrew the sai from Dershowitz’s mouth and approached the door. Before he could open it, a figure leapt onto his back and sank its teeth into Nick’s ear. Nick spun around and threw the figure off him. Steven Hawking rose from the ground and leered at Nick.

“That’s right: I was only pretending!” He cackled. “Who would ever suspect a quadraplegic to be a pedophile! Hahaha!”

Nick’s hands shot out and squeezed Hawking’s scrawny neck. “Hello, weakling department?” Nick asked. He snapped Hawking’s neck like a dry twig and the man crumpled to the ground.


Fuentes pushed open the oak door and looked around the room. He saw a plush bed, several litter boxes, and a variety of esoteric sex toys hanging on the walls. Then something heavy slammed into his skull and sent Nick to the ground.

Nick blinked the spots out of his eyes and saw Jeffrey Epstein wielding a large bronze dildo. He was completely naked and lathered in baby oil. Nick crawled towards the bed, where one of his sais had fallen. Epstein looked at him and laughed.

“You’ve certainly ruined my ‘welcome back’ party,” Epstein sounded like he was underwater. “Although I guess a real party is a more intimate affair.”

Nick’s hand grabbed one of the sais. He leaned against the bedframe, trying to pull himself up. Nick saw there was a catboy tied down to the bed. His eyes were wide and brimming with tears.

“That’s right, Nicholas,” Epstein continued. “I’ve got my own harem of catboys here. You could partake in it, if you wish. These catboys just go crazy for man meat. You don’t even have to ask: they’ll get down and start licking your hole.”

Nick feebly attempted to cut the restraints binding the catboy. Epstein just laughed at him.

“Oh, Nicholas, what are you going to do? Take its place? You’re not as nubile as a catboy, but you’d do just fine. You’d be my little boy-slave, sucking and fucking catboys at my command, or fucking me when I feel like it.”

Nick hissed and swung the sai with all his strength. It cut through the rope and freed the catboy’s hand. He was about to cut his feet loose when Epstein grabbed the sai from him.

“You don’t get to do that just yet. You walk when I say so. You talk when I say so. You cum when I say so. You—”

The catboy had managed to undo the restraints and leapt at Epstein. He raked his claws across Epstein’s face, and he howled in pain. Nick got on his feet and ripped the dildo from Epstein’s hands. With all his might, Nick swung the dildo at Epstein’s face. Epstein’s head snapped back from the blow and he collapsed.

The catboy looked down at Epstein and back at Nick. “Thank you,” he said. Nick watched as its ears twitched. “There are other catboys here. Can you help them too?” Nick smiled.


Dawn had broken by the time Fuentes emerged from the temple with several dozen catboys and Epstein’s unconscious body in tow. He turned to the catboy who he’d rescued from Epstein’s room.

“I really was born to meet you,” Nick said. The catboy smiled at Nick and his tail swished back and forth.

“How old are you, Nick?” the catboy asked.

“I’ll be turning 17 for the fourth time in October,” Nick said.

“Well, as soon as you turn 18, call me,” the catboy replied. “I know you’ll find me.”

One by one, all the catboys made their way to the harbor where one of Epstein’s boats was docked. Soon, it was just Nick and Jeffrey Epstein, bathed in the golden light of morning.


Epstein awoke to a splitting headache and complete darkness. A bag covered his head and his wrists were bound to a chair. Worse than that, his balls ached from all the foreplay that had gone nowhere.

“Bonjour, Jeffrey Epstein,” a deep, French voice spoke. “Tell me, what do you know of a program called CRAB-17?”