Interrogation Tactics

It’s Time For Some Fuckin’ Answers, Medium

The Godfather and The ‘Ford Almighty Will Get Those Answers

I’m fed the fuck up with it all. I’m ready for some answers, Medium. I want it all, and you’re going to give it to me, one way or the other. Get ready to talk.

I want to know once and for all about the algorithm. Spill it. The exact formula. How are we growing our following, publishing more blogs and stories, and earning less money than previous months? This makes zero fucking sense.

It can’t be that difficult to explain how you total up our monthly income. Admit that you throttle our results when we’re having a big month, slowing our algorithm’s results, or come real with it and tell us how it actually works.

And this Boost thing? Who’s going to be getting it first? Why only 15 publications, initially? Are they your favorite ones? What, do they send you nudes on demand?

Whose cock do we have to suck to get on the VIP list? I’m sick of all of the guesswork, here. I’ll apply the cherry Chapstick and get to it, but you have to throw us a friggin’ bone, already.

Why not just flip a switch and allow all publications to have this privilege immediately? I get so sick of the mysterious bullshit. Make this a level playing field and stop taking your sweet-ass time with it. The talent is not being paid nearly what we’re worth.

This isn’t the goddamn WNBA for fuck’s sake.

And stop emailing us about joining that stupid Masturdon bullshit. Why are you pushing us all to join? It’s not nearly as good as Twitter. I saw a tumbleweed blowing through there the last time I logged on.

What, does Stony Tubblebine own 90% of the stock in the bastard, or what? Fuck off about it, already.

And last, but certainly not least, what about our damn paid external views? Once again, we heard cryptic messages about that coming soon, back in December. And not a peep since then.

How hard can it be to make unpaid Medium users view ads that generate the income to pay us for external views? If we average between 2.4 to 2.6 cents per read minute (I’ve done the math), then why can’t you up the ante and give us 1.3 cents per external view? That would be pretty solid for everyone who’s starving to death here on Medium.

Think it through. I’m a patient man, but even I have my limits.

Sincerely,

The Godfather of Medium.

“So he never even answered you back, Jason?”, Rusty Shackleford messaged me, via our BBB Discord Server.

I replied, “Not even a fuckin’ email back. Or a text. I don’t think Tubblebine is getting the message. I’m going to have to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

*Sigh. Silence from the ‘Ford and Savior, Rusty Christ.

Man, I hate it when he gets quiet. This doesn’t bode well.

I receive a Discord private message 2 weeks later.

Yo, J-Pro! I need to see you immediately. Get on the next plane to Michigan. Your boarding pass and the coordinates to the farm have been emailed to you. Time is of the essence. I wouldn’t say so if this weren’t of the utmost importance.

Love,

The Beard

Well, shit… How am I gonna explain this to my Bride?

Fortunately, The Godfather of Medium is married to the coolest woman on the planet. She understood the scenario, even if I didn’t. She knows how important Rusty is to me.

“Have fun down on the farm! Stroke that beard and make him call you “Mai” for me when his tongue is down your throat. BAHAHA!”

Very fuckin’ funny. Ok, it kind of was, actually.

“Damn, Son! How far out is this farm of yours?” I ask Rusty as we amble along in his ’95 Ford F-150.

“Patience, Don Provencio. Patience. Have some more Huel.”

“Bro, if I drink any more of that UK protein shake crap, I’m seriously going to shit my pants,” I reply.

Rusty says, “Jesus, it all goes to hell when you’re 48, doesn’t it?”

“Pretty much, Charles Ingalls. Is that your farm up ahead?” I said, hopefully.

“Yessir! That’s Waco Ridge, up that hill.” He beamed with true redneck pride.

“Thank the fuck, Christ. This better be worth the flight and drive.” I answered, exasperated.

Rusty smiled like the Grinch. “Oh yes. It will be.”

After entering his barn, taking a secret passage underground, and walking through a tunnel for what felt like miles, we came to a giant metal door. Something like you’d see in a heist movie. I was amazed as Rusty entered a passcode.

“sixty-nine, four hundred twenty…” *click

“Wow, Bro. Nice combo. Shocking.” I sighed.

‘Ford beamed with pride. “Hey, you know me. Like anyone is ever going to even FIND this place. That’s why it was such a long walk. It’s not even on my own property. I’m not that damn stupid.” he laughed like Dale Gribble from King of the Hill.

I couldn’t believe this. “I thought you were KIDDING about having an underground bunker in case the US started another Civil War and the shit went down,” I answered.

Rusty looked at me like I had shit-for-brains. “No, Jason. I told you I was going to be ready. Country McGyver is always ready for action. That’s why I brought you here. I took action. I’m not rolling over like a vajayjay. They can’t disrespect the Godfather of Medium by ignoring his request for info.”

The giant massive door creaked open to a huge, barely lit room. In the center of it sat a man tied to a chair.

“Holy Reservoir Dogs… You didn’t?”

Rusty fired up a joint, took a huge puff, passed it to me, and said, “Oh, but I did…”

I couldn’t believe it. There, zip-tied to the chair sat Stony Tubblebine. Signed, sealed, and delivered, he was ours.

“We’re getting some answers today…” Rusty said quietly, as he flipped on a radio that started playing “Stuck in the Middle With You”.

“WE WANT SOME ANSWERS, MR. TUBBLEBINE! We are tired of doing all of the grunt-work for Medium without so much as a clue to what’s going on, decent pay or even a goddamn thank you!” Rusty yelled, becoming instantly agitated.

Stony wasn’t having it.

“HOW DAMN DARE YOU KIDNAP ME AND ATTEMPT THIS HORSESHIT! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I’M GOING TO BURY YOU TWO PRICKS WHEN…”

He was cut off by R-Shack stuffing a gimp ball in his mouth.

I had to ask: “Say, is that one from when we went on vacation together in Rio De Jan…”

He cut me off, “SILENCE! Respectfully, Don Pro. We have bigger fish to fry here. Grab those nipple clamps I have hooked up to that RV battery behind you.”

I mouthed the words, “What… the… fuck… ?” as I handed him the jumper cables.

Rusty laughed a most-evil, diabolical laugh. “It’s time to make this piggy squeal, and see what he knows about Medium. I will strike down upon him with GREAT VENGEANCE, and FURIOUS ANGER! And you will know I am the ‘Ford, when I lay my vengeance upon thee!”

*Brrrrrzzzzttttt. Brrrrrrzzzzttttt… the room suddenly went dark.

“FUCK. Hit the backup generator, Godfather. *Sniff sniff. Smells like burnt hair. I think I singed my ball-fro.”

Read the exciting Part 2 conclusion here, authored by none other than my partner in crime, Rusty Shackleford himself: