The Case of the CIA Man and the Girls Who Knew too Little



In 2010, a European Arrest Warrant was issued for Julian Assange in response to a Swedish police request for questioning in relation to a sexual assault investigation involving 2 Swedish ladies.
The charge eventually became something termed by Swedish prosecutors as : ‘Sex by surprise’ referring to misadventure with a condom, which involves a fine of 5,000 Kronor or about $715 American dollars.


The following is a purely hypothetical account of how it may have gone down when a CIA agent was sent from Washington to interview the girls.


In light of the recent revelations and scandal regarding Agents, Cocaine and 20 hookers I felt they are fair game…
The scene is a largely pretentious and yet tacky 4 star Hotel room in Stockholm, Sweden wherein we find the girls have been summoned to an interview to be held in privacy in the CIA Man’s hotel room overlooking an alleyway featuring a nice view of a brick wall and some snow.
As viewed by a fly, on the imitation Louis XIVth wallpaper inside the Hotel room, and simultaneously an Electronic eavesdropping device humming its microwave heart out whilst hidden deftly in plain sight.

I can just see the enlarged pupils of the lucky secret service agent who first uncovered this story : I believe you met Julian Assange?


“Oh yes, we did more than meet him” the two girls smirk at each other.


“Really?” says the CIA man his voice squeaking up a few octaves in nervous anticipation

…”and so you did have sex with him?
OK…Now we’re getting somewhere…he pretends to tick a box.
“And did he, maybe, force himself upon you?” he asks breathlessly, his plaque encrusted heart pounding and skipping beats…this is too good to be true he thinks to himself smugly, having already received a copy of the original indictment for rape earlier via the merciless chatter of certain encrypted fax machines precariously perched on a cheaply lacquered imitation of late rococo furniture in the corner.


All the stalking, the monitoring, the bribing and this ripe plum just falls into my lap.


He can almost see the key to the  ’senior’ executive wash-room for all floors back in New York, almost in his grasp. 
“Oh no. Of course no.

We do this in fancy hotels on weekends all the time… it’s sometimes good fun you know, when you work together” they beam broadly at each other…

“and even when its not about the money,  you know, and we’re not, together I mean, its still fun chasing celebs”

The Agent downs his drink like a man who has just been told the Titanic is sinking, one who hasn't dressed for a midnight swim ;

“Let me get this straight?
Are you saying  nothing at all happened?” he asks incredulously.
“I don’t know what you mean by happened” replies one of the girls blowing smoke in his direction, “but we had fun, and it was a good night”. 
“But this was supposed to be a slam-dunk…

look we had original charges of rape here filed by your god-damn prosecutor… he is visibly upset and waves the original paperwork in the air… and now?” 

he sighs, his words strangled in mid-sentence with the full impact of what has just been said.

Gravity is suddenly feeling seriously real, super-charged, even breathing is becoming wearisome as he falls heavily back in his sumptuously embroidered fake gold paint chair…

You’re saying he 
didn't force himself at all?”


“He didn't even strike or manhandle you in anyway?”
His voice is becoming child-like, as if an infant had just been told that this particular Christmas there were to be no chrissy presents for little Johnny…so sad.
The Agent listens hanging on every word as the girls describe what amounts to a fairly ordinary, typical Saturday night sexual romp.


“You mean that’s it? there was … there was …nothing?”

The human voice can only go so many octaves up until it breaks.


The Agent’s hairless, well-oiled body appears to visibly deflate like a party balloon from the shoulders down.
He can feel the enormous benefits of his promotion, including full Old Boy’s Club privileges slipping away and he is just frantically clutching at water with his bare hands as he drowns…

Despite the unrelenting dark freeze of every living and non-living thing occurring outside, beyond the window-pane, the Agent’s neat hedgerows of perfectly straight transplanted hair are now covered in sweat.


“Look Lady,  he says anxiously, reaching for another handful of tissues, I gotta know this… now I want you to really think back, did he act suspiciously in anyway at all?”
“ Did he perhaps talk to someone?”
 Wasn't there anything you saw?”


“ Come on… he must have done something…!"

" Come on Lady give me something to work with here!” he blurts anxiously.


The words echo dully in their concrete tomb-like, gilt-edged enclosure and then thud to the floor.


The two girls look at each other…then just shrug their shoulders absently.
Both give him a lame, so-what look.


They are either quite shrewd and just playing him out, extremely hostile and paranoid, or they are still not entirely sure of what is being required here and of exactly what their role in all this is meant to be. Needless to say, their lips are not moving…
The swish and clack of encrypted fax machines has momentarily ceased.


The gum-chewing duo on duty sensing that something is up, stop chewing and stare stiffly forwards and glassy-eyed in a familiar posture.

The silence, is excruciating…

A droplet of water from the bathroom tap can be heard freezing…and registers on an oscilloscope in the suite next door.
“OK” says the Agent, “forget the figure I offered you both before…are you listening? I’m doubling the ante! Got that?

Comprez vous?”

“I’ll give you 15 mins to discuss it .

Now come on girls, be nice” he grins displaying an eerily bright set of perfect teeth it would be a shame to spoil on food and adds ;

“Come on, we can talk about this like friends you and I, you’ll find I can be very generous”

He winks at them both for emphasis, hoping to break the ice just a tad further. Accompanying his sleazy overture is a manic, completely unconscious wetting of the lips.  

Naturally all of this has the entirely opposite effect, and simply repulses the girls.
Chain-smoking and now shrouded in a cloud of sobrani smoke, the CIA man obsessively licks his lips like a lizard in a swamp as he tosses back straight hits of Johnny Walker Black and Jaegermeister and vacantly flicks lit book matches from the hotel into a dustbin, darting occasional nervous glances up at the girls to check whether his latest offer is getting through to them…

The cocaine, is unfortunately kicking in for the CIA man at the worst of all possible moments, after-all, this was meant to be a fait-accompli, and tonight was going to be a kind of pre-celebration to the celebration he’d been planning meticulously in his head on the flight over … tonight was supposed to be a Slam-dunk, a Wham-bam and thank you mam,  followed by a table for 3 at the nightclub within the hotel…and now?

Now what?

Now he starts frantically pacing up and down in the Hotel room…to no avail.

His two junior security men who flew over with him are standing mute, either side of the table like 2 perfectly matched gum-chewing book-ends and just continue to grimace knowingly…they have seen this behaviour before and familiarity, often breeds contempt. Besides, they have their own problems to deal with, which mostly involve keeping their eyes on the girls, especially the one on the right, with the satin dress.

The corners of the room feel like they are folding in on our CIA Man.

Sweat is now pouring off him, and his fading fake tan is starting to look mottled and blotchy.

He rings down to the front-desk insisting to a perplexed night manager that the light bulbs must be turned all the way up…at all times.

“God-damn foreigners” he mutters to himself as he hurls his drink into the sink in a gesture of disgust and gets the Coke out for another hit of white lightning…another recharge. He needs to stay mentally alert he reminds himself.

“Poof!” goes the small metal dustbin as it catches gloriously alight… 
What a sad song for the CIA man. What a calamitous day! So close, and yet so far away!

The sky outside continues to freeze like some giant crystal of solid dark air, it’s 2AM and the CIA Man knows he has nowhere to go, and no rock left to look under…
and no trash bin left to search.

The Agent is desperate to find a hook, something to pin on this Assange bastard… there is more than considerable pressure from Head-Office and  a long over-due promotion riding on this… riding on him…

Sweating profusely now, he claws at his tie and an ill fitting shirt collar…promptly burning his fingers on another match.

“Why the hell can’t they pump in some air?”

“Don’t they realise we need to breathe?” he moans in an exasperated manner at no-one in particular.

“Don’t they understand as Agents of the United States we need to protect the sanctity of our bodily essences?”

“What’s wrong with these people?” 
“Why don’t they get that?” 

His words trail off into indecipherable mutters.

The girls look perplexed and whisper furtively amongst each other.

The poor Man is clearly disturbed.

The girl with the large breasts and the satin dress sheepishly raises her hand asking to use the bathroom…he dismisses her silently, with a disdainful wave of his spray-tanned hand. 


In the Agents eyes only, the room is getting rather dark…seriously dark… and he is staring into a hole… everywhere he looks.


He is now certain that Management is screwing with him, tampering with the air, and especially with the electricity flow going into the light bulbs. 

As he gets up to go to the bathroom for the 20th time…

One of the Hotel girls chimes in : “Oh, well, you have to understand something mister, with all the booze and drugs I had it was very hard to keep track of what was going on, you know? but I saw when I got up the next day the condoms, you know, they were still in the packet…I am a woman, I have rights too you know?”

“OMG you too?” chimes the other one…

Oh Joy!

Their horrible accent, which previously he would describe as ‘strangulating noises’ is suddenly glorious sweet music.

The CIA man has been warming his hands over the open fire in the dustbin… now blazing merrily away…he turns instantly, his eyes look heavenward up at the ceiling as if expecting to see someone.

The penny is dropping…like a bullet in treacle.

And then…his face lights up triumphantly!

At last! He finally has something to pin on the nefarious Mr Assange.

And right on cue, as the Agent leaps to his feet before the startled girls and the preoccupied junior staff, the sky starts falling and the ceiling  abruptly opens up in a glorious climactic ballet of swirling water and imitation gold sprinkler heads …

Please Note : The above is a work of fiction using poetic licence. The girls were involved with Mr. Assange on separate nights.

~As of this moment, Mr Assange has been in detention for 501 days…for a condom mishap! And for this ‘crime’ he is being pursued relentlessly through the courts by Foreign Powers.
This persecution and victimisation of Mr. Assange by Imperialist and foreign powers for the Crime of telling the Truth…for the crime of making Governments accountable and transparent, for daring to reveal the real insidious machinations going on behind the velvet curtain, is in my opinion the Real Crime here.

Mr. Assange has done nothing but strike a blow for all of us who suffer under this contemporary Kleptocracy and Governmental, military madness.

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