Tucker Carlson is checking the strength of his belts. He's putting them over the reinforced bar in the closet in his office and pulling with both hands, sometimes even seeing if he can lift himself off the ground. He knows from experience that it's not the belt's ability to hold his weight briefly but for two or three minutes. That's key to the whole thing. He thought he only bought the best, toughest leather, but last time, the belt snapped, and he ended up hitting the ground, pantsless, almost jamming a wingtip into his asshole in the process, which is not an unpleasant thing, just one you want some anticipation for. Luckily, he hadn't passed out, so when his assistant knocked on his door to ask if he was okay, he could gasp out, "Fine. Fine. Just doing some pull-ups." That's why he told the Fox News execs he needed the bar: because he's so into fitness that he might want to do pull-ups before he hits the set. Although, truth be told, they knew exactly what it was for because Sean Hannity has it. O'Reilly had one. It's almost as if it's a requirement in order to be a male host on Fox.
The last belt checks out. It'll work great, Tucker Carlson thinks, and it feels comfortable enough around his neck. Now it's time to get everything ready. He's got footage from Bucha, Ukraine, all unedited and unblurred, every detail of every wound, every bleeding orifice, every body part visible in HD, filmed by locals who they pay on the cheap to risk their lives to get news out about the reality of the war in their country, not realizing that at least one nightly "news" show host finds it all kind of, for lack of a better word or, indeed, any word at all to adequately convey the visceral feelings at play here, hot.
He turns the big screen mounted on the wall so that it faces the closet. He does a bump of Adderall off his desk, which focuses him on the task ahead. Tucker Carlson pulls off his pants and carefully places them over the back of a chair. He takes off his underwear and sniffs them, inhaling his own ball sweat and fart smell deeply. Then he folds them and puts them on the seat of chair. He takes out a Tiffany box from his desk and opens it, revealing a butt plug with Vladimir Putin's face on it. Tucker Carlson removes it, tells it, "You're not some woke beta cuck," and then lubes it up before shoving it into his sphincter, grunting as he feels Putin's love nuzzle his prostate.
One side of the belt goes around his neck. The other goes around the bar in the closet door frame. He has a stool with hand cream and a remote for the video player. Tucker Carlson already has an erection in anticipation. Hands moisturized, belt tightened just right, he presses "Play" and starts to touch himself.
Tucker Carlson watches the scenes of destruction, ruin, and massacre as he jacks off slowly at first. He doesn't want this to end too soon as more images appear: mass graves, bodies in the streets, dead children, torture victims with their hand tied behind their backs, the torn-up corpse pieces after a missile attack. He's jacking off faster now, leaning forward to start to cut off his breathing, with video of men crying over their murdered families, with the half nude bodies of women who were raped before being killed. "Oh, yeah," Tucker Carlson thinks, "that's it. That's it. That's strength. That's leadership." And, at last, he bends his knees and lifts off the ground, oxygen deprivation reaching a critical moment, and he ejaculates, and, yes, it's as divine as it always is.
He wants to cry out but is unable to, and in a split second, Tucker Carlson realizes what is happening, that he is about to pass out and that if he does, he will surely strangle himself dead, hanging himself. In that heartbeat span of time, just before his lights go out for good, Tucker Carlson sees himself being discovered, and he knows that enough people despise him at Fox that they would leak how he died, and everyone will cackle at the Prince of Frozen Dinners killing himself while wanking to the ruined asses and genitals of war crime victims, even if, truly, that is basically what Fox News does every day.
He hopes that all those people who follow his every word, who think he's the top of the heap of modern white masculinity, the ubermensch to their worshipful aspirations, will believe his death is a fake, a false flag, something set up by the Deep State and Antifa to ruin him, more cancel culture, more censorship, and not, as it so obviously would be, just an idiot asshole who accidentally offed himself with his limp dick in his hand.
But then he finds some strength and he's able to stand up straight. He quickly loosens the belt around his neck and grabs a breath, the fog dissipating. That's better. He laughs at himself, shaking his head. No need to panic. He knows that people like him are never the ones who die doing this kind of thing or, really, anything. Yes, he nods, taking a wet wipe to clean his jizz off the faux wood floor, he'll always be fine. He has his new special on how men are being neutered by this degraded socialist AOC-run country. It's an important new piece of propaganda. He had to live to see it broadcast.
Tucker Carlson is about to pull Putin out of his ass when he decides, "No, leave him in there." He wants that guiding spirit as he gets ready to do his show. What's the topic tonight? CRT? Woke professors? Biden is essentially a zombie? Dystopian cities? Cops being mistreated? Billionaires being attacked? Who are the powerful people that he can give aid and comfort to? He's there for them, as he always has been and always will be.
Pants back on now, Tucker Carlson does another bump of Addy and sends an email to the news division: "I need videos of some of those beheaded bodies." He smirks. He's ready to go again.
(Note: I'm not saying that Tucker Carlson likes to wear a Putin butt plug and masturbate while choking himself as he watches videos of atrocities from Ukraine. I'm just asking questions.)
