#like im sorry but once again you could not waterboard this out of me!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wienerbarnes · 4 years ago

Text

The Electrifying Mind Reader (1/2)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 3,186

Warnings: violence, capturing, angst👀, drugging, reader doesn't have fun in this one but i don't wanna spoil it yall know i always end w happiness so part 2 will fix things

A/N: hehehehe i had this idea but im still trying to see where it goes depending on how fatws ends, how the loki disney+ series goes, etc, etc, but ugh i never wanna stop writing these two so imma just make shit up forever also don't let the warnings scare you lol yall know im soft on the inside

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

The mission was rough, to say the least.

Another HYDRA base found in Eastern Europe. One you’d worked for for a few years. Making you have both a personal connection to the mission, and be the only person on the team who knew this base intimately. This specific location arose after Bucky’s time, but during the prime of yours. So, you, Bucky, and Sam took it upon yourselves to go out and investigate while Sharon helped from the tower.

Until it was occupied with more HYDRA soldiers than any of you could’ve imagined.

580 soldiers. 580 Nazi’s all in one building. You wanted to blow it to shreds as soon as you landed there, but Sam went against that idea; there was too big a possibility that there were innocent people in there, either those brainwashed or those being held hostage. Neither you nor Bucky could argue with him there, the two of you fell under those categories yourselves.

We can take 'em, Sam said. With him in the sky and Bucky and I on the floor with the brawn and mind control powers, we can totally take ‘em.

What a fucking lie, that was.

The three of you got separated fast. And it didn’t take long after a few fights and punches that your coms broke and went offline. You think they would’ve made better com devices that were better adapted for this kind of stuff. They make arms and shields out of vibranium but not tiny coms to go in your ears?

Being separated from your teammates with no way of contacting them while still not being completely confident in your powers was not good for you, especially considering the history you have with this place. You want to hope that your handlers aren’t at this location anymore, but there’s really no way to know. The last thing you need is to run into one of them and for them to recognize what used to be their favorite play toy.

Except somehow, something worse happens.

A bomb goes off. Not necessarily blowing you to pieces, but with you being placed next to a window, being hurled a few stories into the snowy woods didn’t exactly put your body in good shape.

It takes about twenty minutes to orient yourself again. For your ears to stop ringing, for your body to stop shaking, for you to look around and have some kind of a feel for your surroundings. You don’t see the quinjet you arrived in anywhere, nor Sam and Bucky. But you know with the tracker sewn into your stealth suit, someone will find you eventually.

So, you start walking.

The shoes on your feet aren’t exactly made for the snow; you didn’t imagine you’d be hiking much on this mission. But the boots are thick enough to keep your toes from getting wet, which is good enough.

You stick close to the trunks as you walk on, planning to make a large circle around the perimeter and hoping to run into the quinjet, wherever it is. You hope they waited for you, at least.

Meanwhile, Bucky yells at Sam on the ramp to the quinjet, engine already purring as Sam is telling him to get on, that we’d come back for you with Sharon and better equipment to help them look.

“I’m not getting on the fucking plane, Sam!”

“It’s a jet, not a plane.”

“I’m not leaving my fucking girlfriend in the snowy woods alone outside of the Nazi base she used to be held at! Come back later, I’ll find her myself!” Bucky yells, vein popping out of his neck in anger.

If it was any other agent, he would’ve agreed. To go back to the tower, to get more equipment, to bring more people. But this isn’t any other agent; it’s you.

So, he starts walking.

He figures you’ll walk a few miles out, keeping your distance from the base in case anyone who survived that blast goes looking for any one else in the area. He begins heading west, planning to go a few miles straight and then start rounding the area, he can clear by nightfall, but hopefully he’ll find you before then.

Bucky doesn’t think to look for you in the treetops, though.

You hear a voice, and you panic. There’s nowhere to hide; only tall trees and mountains of snow around you, so the only way you think to go is up. You quickly hoist yourself up into the tree, balancing on a branch and hoping you’re covered enough by the snow covered branches.

It’s quiet again, and for a moment you think it was just the voices in your head; that there was nobody actually in the area. It’s hard to get a peek out with the blanket of snow clouding your vision in this tree, but you think you see a flash of metal. It could either be a gun or it could be Bucky’s arm. You cross your fingers and take your chances.

Wrapping your hands around the branch, you slowly bring your legs down to swing a bit before landing on the ground, prepared to greet your boyfriend and joke about engaging in monkey business.

Except it’s not Bucky.

A tall man, both arms made of metal, one with a shiny red star on the shoulder and the other with a skull and tentacles, turns to face you, drawing his gun and aiming it at your head.

“Oh, fuck.” Is the last thing you hear yourself say before a shot is heard and you see black.

Bucky hears a shot from the direction in which he was walking from. That could either be someone from HYDRA shooting at someone or you shooting at someone. He doesn’t like either option.

He breaks out into a sprint, gaining momentum and speed as he flies through the snow, charging back in the direction he came, hoping he can figure out where the shot came from in time. There was only one, so either it was a warning shot, or a lethal one.

When is Sam getting back? The longer he imagines your bleeding body on the white floor, the more he feels his anxiety spike and his heart race. You have your gun. Even if that shot was for you, you don’t go down without a fight. You’ve been training with your mind control with Wanda. You’re fine.

Surely, you’re fine.

The next time you wake up, it’s to a sharp slap across the cheek.

Your eyes open to see two men in front of you. You ignore the stinging in your face and the ache in your arm and glance between the two soldiers before you. You former handlers. Two of them at least.

“Sorry, boys,” You begin, glancing down at the bandage wrapped around your right bicep, where you assume a bullet was a while ago, “I’m unfortunately taken and only like it when my boyfriend slaps me around.”

You try to rub at your shoulder with your opposite hand, by there tied behind your back to the chair you’re sitting in. There’s also ties around your ankles and the fold of your knees.

You take a moment to stare at them to see if there’s a way to tap into their heads, get one to shoot the other, or untie you at least before they do that. But nothing.

They both giggle. “Just as feisty as ever, aren’t you.”

“Yeah, yeah, listen, great catching up and all, but I actually have a doctor’s appointment I need to get to and I do need to get going -” Another smack, and then two hands vest the collar of your top.

“You’re not going anywhere! You left once, but now that I have you again, I’m not letting you leave my sight, my Mind Reader.” He tells you.

“...Can’t read minds. Can control them! But, can’t read them, sorry, no dice.” You correct, hiding behind your fear with a plethora of jokes and teases.

“We’ll see about that.” He looks deep in your eyes.

You smile drops and you look over your shoulder, realizing the room you’re in.

A large, black, metal chair sits above a few steps of concrete. Dark screens and bars surrounding it. There are open brackets for your arms and legs to be restrained, and the infamous headpiece that sends painful shocks to your brain. The man with two metal arms who shot you earlier stands beside it.

You remember the first time your powers manifested. Hours of drowning and waterboarding, followed by hovering candles and fires around your skin, poking and prodding you with needles to make something, anything happen. The goal was to send you into such an overdrive, overwhelming you to the point that your body to work with whatever poison they were putting in you.

“You wouldn’t,” You tell them, “You’re not stupid. You’re evil, but not stupid. You wouldn’t risk me in good ole’ Sparky.”

“Wouldn’t I?” The two men hoist you up and begin to drag you towards a heaping pile of metal. You try with all your energy to tap into their minds, tap into anyone’s mind, but to no avail.

This is it, you think. Who knows what will happen next, what you’ll remember. I hope Bucky doesn’t find me, I don't want him to see me like this. Two metal arms hold you down, one choking you hard and the other sitting heavily atop your injured shoulder while the machine powers up. The ties around your limbs are cut and the brackets automatically close, locking you in by your wrists, biceps, and ankles.

“See you on the other side.” He tells you maniacally, a syringe being pushed into your neck by the man with metal arms and the head piece coming down over your face before the worst pain you’ve ever felt courses through your body.

You scream.

Bucky has spent the last couple of hours running around this stupid forest with only failure to show for it. His last option is to go back to what’s left of the base. Sam’s about to land again, this time with Sharon and an extra agent or two.

He’s tossing the pieces of rubble around, looking for something, anything, to show him that you’re around here, that you’re alive.

Until he sees it. It almost perfectly looks like a metal rod sticking out of the ground. But it’s a handle. He pulls on it with all his strength until the lock and chain from the other side snaps, the door swinging open.

He climbs down the small ladder barely hanging against the wall before his feet thump on the ground again. He doesn’t like the nostalgia he feels slowly walking through the dark room, the distant groaning of a body, and smell of just pure evil.

He finally sees a slight glow coming from around the corner at the end of the hallway he’s ended up on, and he speeds up his pace, desperate to find someone, desperate to find you.

And he’s sorry he does. He’s sorry that he’s seen what he’s just seen. A door, on the opposite side of where he’s entered, left ajar and slightly swinging, signifying that someone’s just gone through it, and you, sitting slumped in that fucking chair, groaning and using what little strength you seem to have to weakly pull at the restraints around your wrists and ankles.

It’s his worst nightmare. You, stuck in that chair. He doesn’t waste a second running over to where you are, latching his hands on the headpiece that still sits on your face. He grabs a hold of the two pieces of metal and props a foot to the back of the chair, using all his might to snap it apart. He lets out a yell as he pries it off, bending the metal handle that connects to the main body of the machine.

He pants, reaching for the other restraints and prying those apart too, the sound of metal on metal making his ears hurt, there’s no way his metal arm isn’t wrecked after this.

He grabs a hold of your face to get a good look at you, to make sure you’re still alive. Your pupils almost completely cover the iris, the whites tinted pink. There’s also drool staining the corners of your lips and you're mumbling something to him that he can’t understand.

“Baby? Baby, I’m here, we’re leaving now, okay? I need you to stay awake for me while I get you to the jet, okay? Can you walk?” He coos and speaks to you softly and calmly, gently lugging your body into a standing position, but all you do is slump against his frame.

He can still hear the silent whirring of the machine, and from the subtle shakes in your body, he can guess the chair wasn’t used on you too long ago. He remembers having to be carried by two guards larger than him after a session in the chair, and he's about twice your size and strength, no matter your powers; he can’t imagine what your body’s feeling right now.

You whimper as he catches you, and he’s quick to slide an arm between your legs, the other grabbing a hold of your good arm and slinging you over his shoulders. The metal in his left arm is pinching into the skin of his shoulder, letting him know the plates are messed up from his pulling apart the machine.

Kinda went full Banner on the chair, didn’t I.

“Sam should be here, love, okay? So, just stay awake for me and you can rest on the plane. Huh?” He tells you, trying to engage and hoping you’re awake as he talks to you.

Another groan from you, which is good enough for him. He finally climbs back out of the basement and doesn’t see a jet in sight.

“God damn it, Sam,” He mumbles, and you whimper above him again, your breathing turning into panting and he senses your panic rising.

“Babe… Babe!” Bucky, sets you down gently, trying to capture your attention. A sharp call of your name forces you to look up at him.

You see three of him, and every color you see is much more vivid than you’ve ever seen before. You feel yourself shivering but also feel like you’re burning from the inside out. You know he’s talking to you, but you can’t focus on a single word he says because all you’re thinking about is how you don’t want to feel like this.

“Put me to sleep, knock me out, make me not feel this,” You interrupt him, but by the look of utter confusion in his face, you don’t think you’re speaking clear enough for him to understand you. Which only makes you panic more.

His eyes travel around your face and neck, observing the bruising on your forehead from where the headpiece of the chair rested and the finger-shaped marks on your neck. He also takes notice of the small hole on the side of your neck, about the size of a needle.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry this happened to you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it, to protect you, like I’m supposed to. But, I need you to be strong right now, I need you to suck it up until I can get you on that fucking jet and in a fucking hospital, okay? Please! Please, baby, just tough it out for a little while longer, can you do that?” He cradles your face and head with both of his hands.

Bucky’s on the brink of a panic attack himself. The only thing keeping him from breaking down is the fact that he’s the only one here to make sure you stay awake.

A distant purring of an engine is finally heard and his head darts up at the sky to see the quinjet come into view.

“Look, babe! See? Already here! Just the short trip to the tower, okay, love? You can’t die on me, please,” He trails off.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you try to bring yourself up into a kneeling position to stand up, and a cry escapes you as you feel an utter lack of control over your body. Your brain is trying to move your arms and legs but they feel so heavy that they just don’t move.

Suddenly, Bucky’s hoisting you up again, bridal style this time, and he’s running to the quinjet. You don’t even feel the pain in your shoulder and chest when your arm bounces around because you feel like your insides are melting.

Your brain and head haven’t stopped buzzing since sitting in that chair. You only remember flashes; flashes of black, flashes of the room, flashes of those bastards’ faces while they stare amusedly at you writhe in pain.

You don’t realize you’re on the jet until your body is laid on a cold table, the only table on the quinjet that’s attached to the wall. You look around to gauge your surroundings; you see a blonde head of hair and two other taller figures. Your hand twitches, wanting to reach out for Bucky, but he’s not looking at you. You whimper again, but it must not have been loud enough because he only continues to speak to the two other people, who you guess are Sam and another agent.

You straighten yourself on the table as your heart speeds up faster and faster. You brace yourself for a panic attack but it doesn’t come.

Nothing does.

Bucky tries to tell Sam everything as quickly as possible while the jet takes off. He can only imagine how hysterical he looks right now, and how much explaining he’ll have to do to the other agent on the jet with them; he’s pretty sure he might’ve slipped in calling you his girl by mistake once or twice.

He glances over his shoulder to check on you but does a quick double take. You’re not moving. Your eyes are open, but you’re not moving. Not shaking how your body was before from the electricity, not groaning or whimpering from whatever was wrong with you.

He remembers going on autopilot from there. He strains his ears and can’t hear the rapid beat of your heart, he doesn’t hear anything coming from you. His own heart feels like it stops when he climbs on top of you, straddling you, and leaning his head over your mouth to try and catch your breathing - which he doesn’t - and raising a hand to feel your heartbeat - which he also doesn’t feel.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” He starts CPR immediately, pumping his fists roughly against your chest, counting in his head among all the other chaos floating around in there.

“C’mon sweetheart. Wake up. Wake up, baby.” He continues.

“Bucky, you’re going to break her sternum!” Sharon tries to warn him.

He pauses only for a brief moment to turn his head towards her, “Sharon, shut up!” He snaps, this probably being the first time he’s ever screamed at Sharon. He turns his head towards Sam and Agent 36, “Sam get this fucking plane to the tower, now!”

“Please, please, please don’t do this to me. Not now. Not because of them.” He resumes the CPR while mumbling to himself, leaning down to breathe air into your mouth.

“Can’t lose you, can’t lose you.”

He can’t lose you.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes series #marvel

55 notes · View notes

viralhottopics · 8 years ago

Text

Piers Morgan: Im just putting opinions out there. Its my job

This week Morgan has taken on the Womens March, argued with Ewan McGregor, and boasted about being Donald Trumps best British friend. Why does he do it? Does he even believe what he says?

Piers Morgan last cried when his grandmother died, a little more than three years ago. Before that, he cant remember. Im not a crier, really. He sees himself more as a pantomime villain, and I thoroughly enjoy playing up to it. I cant even imagine the pressure of being some kind of national treasure. So for me, the panto villain part, I actually enjoy that whole thing.

Even by his own notorious standards, Morgan has had a fractious week. His Daily Mail column on Monday, which criticised last weekends womens marches, provoked Ewan McGregor to cancel an appearance on Good Morning Britain in protest. Morgan retaliated with another column calling the actor a paedophile-loving hypocrite. Feminists were furious with him all over again when he defended the right of employers to compel female staff to wear high heels.

Then, as Theresa May prepared to meet Donald Trump, he taunted Downing Street by firing off a public memo in the Mail, advising the PM or, to put it another way, showing off about how to approach his friend, the president. If its all going horribly wrong, dont hesitate to mention my name or even give me a call directly from the Oval Office and I will smooth things over. Its the very least I can do for my country. A memorable highlight came with his mute appearance at the National Television awards. He stood beside his Good Morning Britain co-presenter Susanna Reid, who had gagged him with his own tie.

It was Susannas idea, he says. We were in the car on the way, and she said, I think I know exactly how to get a joyous reaction from the nation. And it was indeed one of the great moments in British television, and the nation rejoiced.

The only detail of the weeks dramas that appears to have troubled Morgan was the discovery that working with him makes Reid cry.

I was surprised, he says, suddenly quieter. Because shes never cried at work, never seen her like that at all. So it was an interesting thing for me to discover this week that my co-host quite often goes home from work and cries. Its probably not always unconnected to me. How does he feel about that? A bit uneasy, actually. Quieter still. Yeah. A bit uneasy.

Ive known Morgan a little ever since he was the loud, precociously young editor of the Daily Mirror in the 1990s, and have always enjoyed his company tremendously. But our paths havent crossed since Trumps bid for the presidency propelled the journalist into his surprise new role as the leader of the free worlds best friend in Britain. The pair have been on close terms since 2008, when Morgan won the first series of Celebrity Apprentice, and Morgan now performs the role of Trumps tirelessly loyal defender while constantly claiming to be not a political sympathiser but just a personal friend.

When I watched Morgan reduce a young female guest to tears on Good Morning Britain two weeks ago, berating her as the worst kind of mother, I wondered whether I would still enjoy his company. The tone felt uncomfortably ugly, more in keeping with an altright online troll than the mischief-maker who used to conduct playful feuds with clowns like Jeremy Clarkson. This weeks events could be read by critics as further evidence to support the unhappy impression that cheerleading for Trump has soured Morgan, and turned him into a rightwing, misogynistic bully.

If one is looking for further evidence to confirm that impression, Morgan doesnt disappoint. The 51-year-old bounces into his local pub, just off Kensington High Street, and opens with his reaction to Trumps comments about waterboarding and torture he is exercised by the BBCs misreporting of what Trump said. There is, as you know, a massive debate in America about waterboarding. I dont personally subscribe to torture. But its an arguable point as to whether waterboarding constitutes torture which is startlingly tepid for a man who once campaigned against the abuse of Iraqi detainees by coalition forces.

Morgan has been friends with Trump since he won Celebrity Apprentice in 2008. Photograph: Photowire/BEI/Shutterstock

He refers to a swarm of migration through Europe, and defends Trumps comment about wanting women to be punished for having illegal abortions. It would be a pretty logical thing for somebody who believes abortions a crime.

Critics who suspect Morgan will say anything to generate attention might equally seize upon his admission that this weeks controversies are completely connected to the fact that he has a new series of Piers Morgans Life Stories on ITV next week. He is strategising to maximise publicity all the time, he says freely. Of course! Everyone on TV is. Im just better at it than most of them.

Whether or not Morgan would welcome this, the truth is that I nevertheless find him much more nuanced and less cocksure than his public persona or Twitter feed might suggest. The reliably consistent theme in all of his feuds is intolerance of hypocrisy.

So his objection to the womens marches, he explains, is simply this. How does it help the cause for any woman on that march fighting for genuine issues, for equality and everything else, for one of the lead speakers Madonna to talk openly about having had dreams of blowing up the White House? Im not sure why Morgan would take Madonna seriously, when she herself has said she was speaking metaphorically, and he was willing to take Trump at his word last year (he denied he had meant to incite Hillary Clintons assassination during a rally speech). Because if you make a threat like that at an airport, youd be arrested and put in jail. Why should it be a different rule for Madonna? I point out that she wasnt at an airport, but another speakers incest joke about Trumps daughter struck Morgan as similarly offensive.

Ivanka Trump is a mother of three, very hardworking. I know her very well and I felt really incensed on her behalf when the sisterhood decided to be incredibly offensive about her whilst at a rally designed to counter the anti-women rhetoric of the President Donald Trump. Theres a hypocrisy there which I just found ridiculous. If your main issue with Trump is the way that he talks to people, and the language and the belligerence and the bombast and the wording, then I dont think you should be doing the same thing to him.

What drives Morgan quite mad is hypocritical virtue signalling masquerading as political engagement. Ewan McGregor was basically trying to position me as a great woman-hater. So, I decided to just take a look at his own record in this area, and load of interviews he gave about his great friend Roman Polanski, what a fine man he was, how sorry he was that he had to go to prison, blah, blah, blah and Im like, Really? I wonder how the sisterhood who currently have you down as the No 1 hero for womens rights in the world would feel knowing that Roman Polanski admitted his crime, then left the country to avoid justice when he was facing a long prison sentence for raping, drugging and sodomising a 13-year-old girl?

Why does McGregors affection for Polanksi discredit his feminist credentials, but not Morgans for Trump? Trump hasnt been convicted of raping anyone. Look, my position has been consistently, from day one,that I wouldnt vote for him. But I do know him very well, and I would just like to slightly offer a more tempered view of the man that is being described everywhere as the new Hitler and the monster. I just think now hes there, its like Brexit; I voted remain, but Ive always been a glass-half-full person, and Im prepared to have an open dialogue with people like Nigel Farage about how we now maximise the opportunity of Brexit. The same with Trump. I find the hysteria just pointless and absurd and self-defeating and ridiculous. Ive got friends of mine literally losing their minds. And Im like, calm down, please calm down. I know this guy.

Coming from Morgan, who personally wrote the paedophile-loving headline for his McGregor column, this will strike some as a bit rich, but he goes on: Its very important in this extremity of debate, the kind of thing that led to Jo Cox getting killed, to be calm. Isnt Morgan himself an arch professional provocateur? But Im just putting opinions out there. Im a columnist, its my job. Isnt anyone else allowed to hold contentious views? Of course! And coming from a highly opinionated family, Im drawn to people who have opinions and are prepared to argue them.

I would have thought Madonna, who Morgan never tires of attacking, would fall into that category. No, because she has an opinion quota based on this pure ability to shock and offend, which I find pointless, quite cliched and increasingly very nauseating.

Morgan never tires of attacking celebrities such as Hugh Grant or Steve Coogan either, for whining about the press. But all the complaints made by those two actors wouldnt amount to a fraction of Trumps grievances with the mainstream media, of which Morgan with two newspaper columns and three TV shows is unquestionably a member.

I dont particularly consider myself to be MSM. Id probably be more a kind of renegade; Im RMSM, renegade mainstream media. I dont think the mainstream media has ever fully made me a paid-up member of their club.. As he breaks off this line of thought to tweet about his latest Daily Mail column, I suggest hes on a sticky wicket here. OK, alright. But I am afraid that the journalists have to stop whining.

It was an interesting thing for me to discover that my co-host quite often goes home from work and cries Morgan with Susanna Reid at the National Television awards. Photograph: Jeff Spicer/Getty Images

As a fanatical champion of a robust free press, surely he thinks Trump should stop whining? Its a good point, he concedes. My honest answer is I think theyve all got to calm down . I think Trump has to have a more respectful relationship with the media and they have to have it with him.

For all Morgans ferocious rhetoric, he is surprisingly willing to concede points. Id found his defence of employers forcing women to wear heels suspiciously unpersuasive, and the more we talk, the more ground he gives. Im only saying it to keep the debate going, he admits at one point and when I remind him he praised Julia Roberts for going barefoot on the red carpet at Cannes last year, in protest at the festivals insistence that women attending screenings wear heels, for a fleeting second he looks sheepish. I thought that was quite cool, yes. In an interview with the Times last year, he in fact offered up Robertss protest as an example of what real feminism looked like, didnt he? OK, I think thats a fair point.

Real feminism, Morgan maintains, is not about being a man-hating victim but a strong woman. My mother is an incredibly strong, independent woman. My sister is. My grandmother was. I was brought up around incredibly strong, independent women. Im married to a strong, independent woman. I absolutely define myself as a feminist and take issue with people who think Im not, because by the yardstick of what I give to feminism, which is genuine pursuit of equality in all things for women, I think I pass that test, I do. I do, I love women. Ive always been surrounded bywomen who would never dream of being pushed around by men.

This, I suggest, might be the problem. Go on, he says, genuinely interested. Because Im actually on a learning curve here. When ones only ever known strong women, it can be easy to feel exasperated with those who have suffered experiences that make Morgans idea of strength a pretty tall order. It becomes dangerously easy to get angry with women who stay with their abusers, say, and mistake their predicament for weakness.

I get that. I get it. Totally. He thinks for a moment. I take your point. When I hear that Susanna went home and cried after the show, I would like to have known why, but she would see it as weak to tell me and I dont want her to feel that. He thinks again. You remember, we were put together on Good Morning Britain like an arranged marriage, and I think weve just got to know each other a lot better, and she sees a the upside of having these debates about sexism on air in real time, with me perhaps going on a little bit of a journey of discovery.

Morgans crusade against hypocrisy is, of course, somewhat undermined by the fact that he admits to being a total hypocrite himself Of course! All journalists are! For anyone looking for a reliable rule to explain his wild enthusiasms and fierce feuds, the secret, he says, is really quite simple. Im a human being. If people are nice to me, Im nice to them. An afterthought crosses his mind, and he laughs. Donald Trumps actually pretty similar.