There are few people I find as fascinating as Mister Julian Assange, the debonair hacker and out-of-work Geralt cosplayer who hid inside an embassy for seven years, skateboarding into the ambassador’s bedroom and demanding to know the new wi-fi password so often that they finally got annoyed and kicked him out.
Assange has the campy flare of a mid-tier Drag Race contestant, randomly appearing on his chic little balcony like he’s Evita addressing his adoring public, except instead of Madonna it’s Santa Claus from a Japanese horror film. One time, he popped out of his room waving a hundred-page United Nations ruling, like he was Michael Jackson and the document was an imperilled, dangling baby. He’d clearly used Ecuador’s inkjet to print it out too, tying up the only printer in the building for any diplomats who needed it for scanning in trade agreements and whatnot. He clutched that thick ream of purloined A4, still warm from the printer tray, like it belonged to him. And it was in full CMYK too, judging by the brilliant azure blue of the UN logo on the first page. There was a man who wasn’t paying for his own printer cartridges. And for that reason, at least, he deserves to be in prison forever.
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