Part 3.

A therapy groupie emailed me the contact info for a Western Reserve Times-Leader reporter named Tibor Lorik. I searched his name on Doodle, and he seemed legit, even well-respected, known for old-fashioned, hard-hitting investigative reporting. For instance, back in 2012, he investigated a local strip club, uncovering prostitution, human trafficking, and drug dealing. Next, he traced the owner's connections to the Russian mob. The scumbag owners landed in prison for drug dealing and tax evasion.

Impressive.

So I contacted him.

When we first met, Tibor seemed spent to me: an overweight, frumpy forty-something guy with bags under his eyes, wearing wrinkled off-brand chinos and a white and blue striped dress shirt dotted with coffee stains. Then again, what do you expect? Journalism's a low-paying occupation, unless you're one of the popular ones, like Sean Hannity.

Then again, that's why I'd held out the carrot, the scoop of a lifetime. I mean, my story's one-of-a-kind: a frat bro transforms into a girl and gets raped by his frat bros. Think of the revenue streams.

You can earn cash from radical #MeToo feminists.

Then earn cash when the incels creep in, trolling the comment section of the original article, and posting their own articles defending PJ and Squee on their blogs. Or whining about the "feminazi war on men." No worries, though, since all roads would lead back to the articles.

Those articles would continue earning cash as comment boards light up, pitting incel troll versus #MeToo supporter, the traffic bringing more cash, all the time. And it could serve as a springboard for a career. Perhaps as a minor social media influencer, or Tibor's articles could really blow up, earning Tibor a Pulitzer Prize.

Money lurked everywhere if you're smart enough to ferret it out. I mean, I was handing this talented sad-sack the keys to prosperity. Good deal, right? Plus, he could help me bury PJ and Squee while putting this Alpha Schlong pinhead in his place. Win-win.

#

Two days before my first on-the-record interview, I emailed Tibor a scan of the Alpha Schlong dossier, giving him roughly a day and a half to work. And work he did.

He joined 3-Chan, 7-Chan, and Readit using aliases, where he'd spent twelve hours following Alpha Schlong. He lurked on message boards, 'liking' Alpha Schlong's comments before posting comments echoing Alpha Schlong's ideas. Soon, Tibor sent a friend request, which Alpha Schlong accepted. Once inside, Tibor went silent, lurking in the background, researching. He built a rudimentary psych profile of the asshole, tracing Alpha Schlong's online haunts and friending the friends that Alpha Schlong most often interacted with.

Next, Tibor followed posts by Alpha Schlong's friends and friended several. About half friended him back. Through dogged persistence, Tibor connected two profiles to real-world people based on posts to other, less seedy 7-Chan message boards.

One of Alpha Schlong's homies was a State University student taking an upper-division econ class because he bitched about the "dot-head instructor," which turned out to be an associate professor named Mahindra Gujarat. Tibor couldn't score a list of the enrollees, but he said he was working on it.

He'd had more success tracing Alpha Schlong's other 7-Chan bestie, who turned out to be a middle-aged loser, a retired truck driver living in nearby Irish Town who was a rabid poster to all topics alt-right. Tibor said that, while he uncovered the guy's actual name and address, he'd keep that to himself. I guess it had something to do with journalistic ethics, and I'm down with that.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

This frumpy dude had learned more in an afternoon than Holtzclaw and the feds had done in five days. Like I said before, impressive.

#

After updating me, Tibor reached for his Android phone, asking, "May I record this?"

I consented and started telling my story.

I won't bore you, dear reader. You already know the details. But I spoke of my transformation into being female, which interested him though he remained skeptical. So I gave him the names of the doctors at the University Medical Center, with whom he'd follow up.

I amazed myself with how I shut down when speaking of the rapes to him, embarrassed. By what? I wondered. Sure, it was a violation that still disgusted me. But I'd done nothing. I shared how embarrassed I was. And how I should have known about the date-rapes and roofies when I lived at Omega house. The clues were there, but I didn't "see." I was too self-absorbed, I supposed.

As we were wrapping up, he leaned forward, laying out his copy of the dossier, ticking off several text messages the cops had gleaned from my phone, sent by random callers. "One last thing. How'd these texters know you were a male turned female, and not a garden-variety female rape victim?"

My jaw went slack, and I sat, speechless. After a few seconds of silence, I shrugged, dumbfounded. "Say what?"

He pointed to some texts. "Now, at this point in time, there's nothing public on you. No one knows you from Adam. But look at this text: 'God hates, fags, so die you tranny faggot.' Or this one, calling you a 'castrato,' and a 'plague on every cisgender white male in America.'"

I read, shocked. "Wow. You're right, wonder how... Or maybe they were breaking my balls, you know, goofy stuff?"

"Too specific seems to me."

I considered. He was right. There something smelled fishy. It turns out what the say about books, covers, and judging is true. Because this puffy-eyed Pilsbury Dough Boy was sharp as tacks.

#

Tibor's editor published the multi-installment exposé in the print edition of the Western Reserve Times-Leader. The initial two articles focused on sexual abuse at Greek houses on the State University campus. Besides me, he interviewed at least five other women who had been "curbed" on Greek Row, left on the front lawn for the police to whisk away. Every one had GBH in their system, four others had completed rape-kits, but only I had pressed charges. Near the end of the article, Tibor mentioned that Detective Daniel Holtzclaw had worked these cases. Holtzclaw declined to comment.

Anyway, as I predicted, when the Times-Leader posted Tibor's articles, featuring them on their homepage, the buzz grew, like an orchestra of cicadas. First to other Ohio papers, interested by Tibor's unyielding inquiry into the lurid history of sexual abuse complaints against State University's Greek system. He soon zeroed in on Omega House, with Fenton and me as his "inside sources."

Then came my story. Again, I was right. Clickbait gold. I mean, a fraternity brother who'd become a biological female, baffling the medical scientists at State, the best research university in Ohio and fifth-ranked state university in the nation according to USA Today? What's not to like? It's shocking shit, and shocking shit scores hundreds of Twiddler, LookBook, or iMediaGram shares and likes galore, which glued thousands of eyeballs on my story.

Tibor kept my name and occupation out of the media, but the buzz grew. Soon, Fenton told me CNN, ABC, and NBC reporters were crawling all-over campus, trying to uncover my identity. And while they failed at that, the media shined an unflattering spotlight onto PJ, Squee, and their merry band of asshole rapists. Even Fox News, after defending them for a few days as being targeted, piled on. Tibor's research had been so deep, focused, and his sources so unassailable that only the most pitiful incel in America and a handful of our brother Omega apologists were in PJ and Squees corner.

I smiled with cold glee, watching their reputations being violated every day in the public's eye. I hope they felt as powerless and emasculated as I had. Brothers or not, fuck em.

God, is revenge sweet.