The eventual takeover of self-driving vehicles is going to outright change the world. There are countless benefits, such as increased efficiency and the end of Fast And Furious movies, but by far the greatest result would be a near-elimination of vehicle-related deaths. Of course, there are some downsides, too, like the near-elimination of vehicle-related deaths.
As it turns out, there are some folks out there who rely on car accidents to get by, and we’re not just talking about the douchebags who make those Faces Of Death videos. A huge percentage of organ donations come from accident fatalities, so lowering accident rates will remove hospitals’ largest supplier of fresh body parts this side of backyard wrestling. The availability of all vital organ donations is already critically low, with waiting lists unmanageably long, so a big dip in second-hand lungs and livers is going to kick things into crisis mode. That’s right, people not dying is going to lead to other people dying.
Not having any organs available is actually a more terrifying future than a robot apocalypse, because it results in a massive demand for the kinds of body parts that people can’t quite live without. We’ve seen black markets pop up for Beanie Babies, so there’s no way the theft and distribution of organs won’t grow out of control.
Below, is the horror of what her MMA ex-boyfriend, “War Machine” (aka Jonathan Koppenhaver) did to her, and photos of what the result of this horrifying story.
TW: Abuse, Sexual Assualt, Violence, et similar
At about 2 a.m. Friday morning, Jon Koppenhaver arrived announced to my home in Las Vegas, NV. After he broke up with me in May, he moved out of my house and back to San Diego. When he arrived, he found myself and one other fully clothed and unarmed in the house. Without a single word spoken, he began beating my friend; once he was finished, he sent my friend away and turned his attention to me. He made me undress and shower in front of him then dragged me out and beat my face. I have no recollection of how many times i was hit. I just know the injuries that resulted from my beating. My injuries include 18 broken bones around my eyes, my nose is broken in 2 places. I am missing teeth and several more are broken. I am unable to chew, or see out of my left eye. My speech is slurred from my swelling and lack of teeth. I have a fractured rib and severely ruptured liver from a kick to my side. My leg is so badly injured, I have not been able to walk on my own. I also attained several lesions from a knife he got from my kitchen. He pushed the knife into me in some areas including my hand, ear and head. He also sawed much of my hair off with his dull knife.
After some time, the knife broke off of the handle and continued to threaten me with the blade. I believed I was going to die. He has beaten me many times before, but never this badly. He took my phone and cancelled all of my plans for the following week to make sure no one would worry about my whereabouts. He told me he was going to rape me, but was disappointed in himself when he couldn’t get hard. After another hit or two, he left me on the floor bleeding and shaking, holding my side from the pain of my rib. He left the room and went to the kitchen where I could hear him ruffling through my drawers. Assuming he was finding a sharper, more stable knife to end my life, I ran out the back door, shutting it behind me so the dogs did not run inside to tip him off. I hopped the fence to the gold course behind my house and ran into a neighboring house. naked and afraid he would catch me, I kept running through the neighborhood running through the doors. Finally, one answered and I was brought to the hospital and treated for my injuries.
I would like to thank everyone for their support through this rough time. I am healing fast and well, and I appreciate a lot of the prayers and visits I have received over the past few days. After many months of fear and pressure to keep this man happy, although I fear for my life, I feel that I can no longer put myself in this situation. The cheating by him nearly everyday, and almost weekly abuse, is now more than I can stand. There is a $10k reward for the capture of Jonathan Koppenhaver at this time. Please report any information to your local police.
- Christy Mack
If I heard correctly, the company Fleshlight is offering a $5,000 reward to anyone who turns him in. Please spread word.
Art of Gordon above is by ironhammer who very kindly let me paste it onto my outpouring of self-indulgent RainWall fascination. I’m grateful to gap-var-ginnunga who came up with the setting and the direction of this fic.
At seven he had put squirming earthworms back into the garden beds after a hard rain.
“You cant save ‘em all, Gordy.” Uncle Len watched, leaning on his spade.
Stubborn, his chin tucked into his chest, he had carefully covered the worms with the freshly turned soil so they were out of sight of the crows waiting on the fence.
Twenty years on saw Gordon back in his Uncle’s paddock, waiting for the old man to walk him down to the Chantry, to light a candle for his father’s soul. Gordon had been in Orlais for more than a year this stretch, but he still wished he had been in Denerim for the small service his aunt and uncle had cobbled together last spring.
“Have you had many takers,” his uncle asked. “For the vows…or whatever it is you do to a new one?”
Gordon nodded, eyes on the muddy ruts down the lane. “I have. They all go from filthy wretches in a cell to people doing their duty. Helping fight the blight.”
“I know you see your Da’s face on all of ‘em, lad. The Wardens were a second chance for you, and a good one, but not everybody wants to change. My brother wouldn’t have been one to sign on for something noble.” Uncle Len shook his head. “Maker knows he coulda used somebody as bull-headed as he was, to drag him outta the stocks - to put him on the higher path when we were young. But there wasn’t anybody for the job.”
As they started up the last hill, Gordon pulled a fresh candle from his pack. Tradition said to scratch the name of the dead into the wax, let it melt away in Andraste’s sight within a Chantry. But Gordon had added three more marks: V for vagrant, T, thief, and D meant debtor. Each of them had been branded into his father’s right hand. Those scars would always be clearer in his memory than his father’s face. His uncle took the candle and rubbed a thumb over the T.
“It’s not your fault, lad. He’d earned those brands ten times over before they put even the first one on him. And once he had it, well, that’s the end of it. No other life for a bloke branded thief.”
It was an old innkeep along the the North Road who told him his mother was dead the following winter.
“I’m that sorry, Gordy. Yer Ma was…well, there was no keepin’ her under one roof for long. But she loved ya, in her own way.”
The dwarf told him there had been nothing but a grimy bag of ragged clothes and a half full bottle of gin under the cot in the room upstairs. All that remained of Mrs Trevor Blackwall’s possessions was an unremarkable mess.
Twenty years on top of that memory, and his fiftieth year was coming up fast. It didn’t seem possible he had lived longer than the two wretched souls who’d spawned him and then left him with their kin when they couldn’t be bothered to raise him. Fifty. Maker, what else do you intend for me? None of us live to see sixty. Not even the dwarves.
Gordon settled himself more comfortably at his table in the corner, propping his bad leg on the stool across from him. This tavern had gone downhill since he had seen it last. A shame, ‘The Hapless Ass’ was one of the better names he’d heard. The floor was covered in damp straw that didn’t soak up spilled wine or help the stink of rancid tallow lamps and unwashed bodies. The beer was flat and he didn’t dare trust the food or the other customers. Better than being out all night in the rain, still. Thank you for small favors, Maker, carry on smilin’ on me - sadly or not, as you will.
Cold wind came in with the next patron, making the flames tremble and threaten to go out until the door swung shut. He dripped on the bar as the price for a room went up, then back down when the innkeep’s haggling was answered with muttered contempt. The pack over his shoulder and the shield lashed to it he kept, ignoring the offer to have it taken upstairs.
Gordon didn’t blame him. He kept his own things close. He only trusted his horses to the stable because he knew Friendly would have a thief’s fingers for supper and his pack horse, Mama, can kick up a fuss loud enough to wake the dead.
With his hood thrown back, Gordon could see a rat’s nest of damp black hair and a bloody big scowl looking the room over. It was sit at the door or all the way across next to three rowdy local boys deep in their cups and full of bad songs. The sellsword - the stranger couldn’t be anything else, nobody that road-worn and traveling alone was an enlisted man - chose to sit all by his lonesome at the hearth, spreading his oilcloth wrap out to dry.
It’s around eleven at night when she suddenly hears it, disturbing the perfect tranquillity in her apartment. It’s a scrappy, metal sound, coming from her front door. That’s odd. She puts her book down onto the coffee table and turns the jazz music streaming from her computer down a notch, trying to figure out what’s going on in her hallway. Definitely a weird sound. Hannah gets up from the couch, not taking her eyes off her front door as she slowly walks into the kitchen area and grabs a dirty spatula from the sink.
“Steady.” She tells herself, “Stay cool.”
She reaches for the door handle slowly, spatula ready to attack this unwelcome intruder, and yanks the door open. It doesn’t open far because of the small chain lock she got fitted a few weeks ago, but even with just a couple of inches, she can make out the silhouette of someone way less threatening than a burly burglar.
“Oh.” She sighs, looking down at a giggly blonde who’s now slumped against her door, “It’s you.”
“H-hey!” The girl looks at her dazed, “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”
Hannah slams the door shut and undoes the small lock, before opening up again and stepping aside, just in time for the blonde to crash down entirely onto her floor.
“This is the third time in two weeks.” Hannah frowns, “We established this before, you live in 4b, not 3b. This is obviously not your apartment.”
“Lies.” The girl pushes herself off of the floor, stumbling for a second before grabbing the door frame and looking at Hannah in confusion, “Who are you?”