Damage Reports : People of the Lie

35 years clean. Doesn’t make you wise. Doesn’t make you safe. Just gives you three decades to study your damage from every possible angle. In a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, asked to share about why he doesn't do drugs, he skips the grateful platitudes and delivers a damage report—because sometimes the only honest answer to "why not fire?" is a full accounting of the burns. This isn't a story about...

Most people think a "deal" is about the product. They’re wrong. In this report, I audit a transaction where the actual cost was 40 cents, the price was 30 dollars, and the secret ingredient was a "Hand on Heart" confession about a cheating wife. I didn't lie about being miserable. I just used my misery as a high-resolution distraction while I skinned mark alive.

What happens when the laugh you crave cuts someone else open? In Conventional Damage, the line between humour and harm collapses under the spotlight of one man’s story : a joke told at a national “safe space” convention that detonated far beyond a punchline. Through memory, conflict, and uncomfortable honesty, he unpacks the anatomy of that night: the thrill of the hit, the backlash, and the cold...

Title: One Refusal and a Fish Bin Subtitle: My Inventory: Finally. Description: "If he’d sold me the beer, none of this would have happened." That was the lie I told myself in the North Queensland heat, standing in the wreckage of my car while my infant son screamed from inside a plastic fish bin wedged in the footwell. In Season 1, this would have been a "Twisted Tale" about t...

Title: My Inventory: Finally. Subtitle: The Autopsy of the Auditor. Description: For two seasons, I gave you performance. I curated my wreckage into "Twisted Tales" and "Damage Reports," using my history of addiction, violence, and loss as a credential to buy your trust. I admitted my flaws just loudly enough to ensure no one could actually touch them. I was a Person of the Lie...

She stripped, climbed into bed, lights on, and took him in—no games. He mistook it for love. Her ex on the couch, thin wall, first orgasm. Father’s wedding speech about marital chains. Mother’s boyfriend, years later: “I fucked her to do you a solid—show you what she really was.” Betrayal wasn’t accident. It was the family lesson plan. Doing You a Solid: the quiet curriculum that turns intimacy in...

From the man who beat her unconscious came a card: “I love you.” He studied it like a bomb and asked, “What the fuck does that mean?” Ever since, love, praise, kindness—all trip the same silent alarm: threat detected, eject. Relationships end before they can hurt. Even his coach’s pride lands wrong. The body learned early: affection is prelude to violence. The fault is permanent. Damage reported.

Everyone knew the boss groomed and discarded women. When he started on my wife, I went nuclear: told HR my new desk gave me views of his dick in the toilets—then told him, in front of them, it wasn’t visible anyway. He crushed my career. I called it victory. Reality: white-anting. The quiet, corrosive sabotage a terrified man inflicts—first on his rival, then, inevitably, on himself.

Men complain about sex like it’s weather. I served one the antidote he couldn’t swallow: a vivid script of his wife humiliating him with another man while he watched. He was disgusted. He was hard. Because the resentment isn’t about her—it’s the poison we pass between us. Small boys in men’s bodies, forever holding the needle. Damage Reports names the toxin most men pretend isn’t the

You’re a safe man.” Those words became his license. He weaponised trust: lingering touches, calculated betrayal, public humiliation—all while playing the steady saviour in the rooms. Now another newcomer calls him the only sponsor who makes him feel safe. The cycle turns again. Damage Reports exposes the quiet predators who hide behind the word we trust most. No redemption. Just the wreckage.

In recovery rooms, money looks like control—so you trade something else. Childhood trauma becomes currency: a pause after “step-dad,” eyes down on “night-time,” voice catching on “alone.” Once is vulnerability. Twice is instability. Not confession—calibration. Stand still by the coffee urn, reflective; people come, wanting to see themselves in your wound. She does. Calls him brave, writes the stor...

An old leather-bound ledger: 2,151 entries. Not addiction, not rebellion—obedience. Father’s curriculum: drink more, dominate more, fuck more. Mother’s footnote: women are cold, rejecting, prefer absence. The formula set early—masculinity as consumption plus domination, divided by her disappointed silence. Every encounter a chemical shout against the void she left and the cage he built: I am here....

A man fresh out of prison justifies five years for beating the lover of his partner—“If I don’t do something, the boys’ll think I’m weak.” In the car after an NA meeting, the narrator challenges the cost of that instinct, but the lesson doesn’t land. Weeks later, reading about enslaved children sold away triggers a darker thought: if someone ever threatened to “sell” his own ten-year-old daughter,...

From the trenches of the Somme to the wharves of union battles, contempt for “pricks with bird-shit on their shoulders” was the family heirloom—officers and bosses alike, wasting days or getting men killed. The narrator grows up believing this distrust is normal, a personality forged at the kitchen war table. Decades later, daylight-saving night shift: clocks jump forward, he heads home at honest...

1990s tropical therapy closet: a violent client justifies hitting his wife because she called him a faggot—the word “made” him do it. The therapist repeats the slur back, flat and clinical: “But you are a faggot.” The man freezes on the edge of violence but doesn’t strike—proof, the therapist once believed, that choice always existed. He packaged it as therapeutic victory for years. The real repor...

Mid-1990s. A Reclaim the Night march built on the sanctity of “No.” One woman says 'NO" clearly, repeatedly—eight times. The organiser overrides her, announces her name anyway, extracts a devastating story. The crowd applauds the “empowerment.” The only man in the room counts every refusal in real time and stays silent, protecting his fragile place in the space. He tells himself it’s resp...

A tired voice in an empty room welcomes you to Season Two—no gimmicks, no uplift, just the stripped-bare truth. Last year’s clever spelling and “twisted tales” were just another dodge. This isn’t storytelling anymore. It’s inventory. What follows is a damage report: the cold list of what broke, when it broke, and how much of it I still carry like it’s useful. Inherited rage, toxic wiring, manhood...

Soft Cocks and Therapy: Twisted Tales "If abortion had been legal... I would have had one." Welcome to a raw, unforgettable episode of PHUCT FABLES: Twisted Tales. This story strips away the cute trauma narrative. It’s a brutal look at maternal rejection, misogyny, and the kind of pain that turns a man into a functional emotional assassin. Hear the true story of a 1960s NZ upbringing, th...

"When are you men ever going to stop beating us women?" In this brutal episode of PHUCT FABLES, we crash a 1991 rehab group therapy session where the narrative of victimhood meets the undeniable evidence of the scar. A woman’s bitter diatribe against "all men" is countered by a silent, shocking display: every man in the room reveals a physical wound inflicted and lasting scarre...

After the Professional Hour? I Love You Too "Stop apologizing. Learn the difference between discomfort and danger." Welcome to PHUCT FABLES where the hour is professional, but the therapy is pure trauma. In this episode, we eavesdrop on a brutally cynical therapist whose coping mechanisms include sketching and chainsawing. His client? A man feeling "soft, like nacho cheese," de...

Pussy-Whipped by Empire "The approval you crave is the cage you built." This episode of PHUCT FABLES dives into the slowest, most corrosive violence: internalized colonial trauma. We explore the "mind job" that outlasts the land grabs—the psychic scar that teaches Indigenous peoples (specifically referencing Māori, Aboriginal Australian, and Native American experiences) to hate...

Sacred Damage: The Cost of Prophecy "Hitler and Stalin were amateurs. Prophets built systems." This episode of PHUCT FABLES tackles the highest level of trauma: the kind written in sacred code. We ask: What if the deepest wounds in civilization didn't come from dictators, but from the prophets? Strip away the halos and examine the consequences of revelation—from the justification of...

PHUCT FABLES: The Man-Shaped Ashtray Tonight, the violence is internal. This is the horror of codependency, where a desperate search for connection becomes an act of self-harm. Host Steve tears open the ugliest truth about abandoning yourself for someone else and calling it love. He became her "man-shaped ashtray"—used, burned, and disposable—mistaking trespass for truth and cowardice fo...

The jury bought the lie. The law set him free. But the truth of what happened that cold night in Hobart follows an older, darker code. In this Twisted Tale, we dive into a chilling confession: a man charged with an accidental killing recounts the real story—a brutal, inherited philosophy born in the trenches of the Somme. The narrator reveals the moment he felt his Grandfather’s curse flow through...

Imagine a recovery meeting where they rewrite the opening script to be “trauma-informed.” A woman with missing teeth and good intentions reads the new line and says, “Wow, this is a bit of a mouthful.” The room freezes. Half the men hear an innocent idiom. The other half (me included) hear a blowjob joke from 1997. I mutter, “I’d give her a mouthful.” Someone laughs. Someone storms out. We pray an...