Here’s What Really Happened The Night Osama Bin Laden Died


Guys, I’m a journalist, which is just a fancy way of saying truth-teller.

It’s my job to read about things on other parts of the internet, and then “research” them with my feelings, and then bring them to you as facts. This is reporting. This is truth telling. I’ve been doing it for awhile now, and while at times it may feel like I’m on the wrong track or that I’m saying something that might not be true, I’m always fairly sure of myself and I’ve never been scared to publish any of the things I’ve published. It’s because I’m not a coward and I’m strong and brave.

But what I am about to tell you – the reporting I am about to do – is quite possibly the most dangerous reporting I’ve ever done, including that time I ate all that cayenne pepper on Youtube. That also counted as reporting.

What I am about to tell you is the actual details of what really happened on the night of the raid on Osama Bin Laden’s supposed compound in Abbottabad. I know these details because I have a trusted, confidential source who I know for a fact is telling the truth, and whose credibility I would put my career on the line for.

I’m sure many of you, by now, have read Seymour Hersh’s 10,000-word alternate telling of the UBL raid in The London Review of Books. If not, I would recommend it. I would recommend it, that is, if you are a fan of fiction, my friends. That is to say, you appreciate fictitious writing, intended solely for jest. Mirthful anecdotes of a child’s imagination. Read it if you enjoy a good laugh, but don’t go to Mr. Hersh for the real story. No, his tale of Pakistani involvement in the raid and knowledge of UBL’s whereabouts are all complete rubbish.

Now, normally, I would just let the story go. Like most Americans, I hate Obama, and I embrace any alternate narrative to reality that makes him look bad. But he is the Head of State, after all, and I’ll be God damned if I’m going to let some British rag for book reading fairies sully any iota of the United States’ image.

But don’t get me wrong folks. Just because Hersh’s silly nonsense story for babies is a bunch of silly baby nonsense, it doesn’t mean that the White House’s account, or the accounts of any of the people supposedly involved in the raid for that matter, are the truth.

In fact, I have the truth. Here it is. Right here.

A few quick notes to get you up to speed:

1. There was no SEAL Team Six involvement on the night of the raid.

In fact, SEAL Team Six isn’t even a combat oriented unit. They are real, but their mission is one of publicity. SEAL Team Six was, for decades, nothing more than the Navy’s top secret bodybuilding program, and after the popularity of the Gulf War, it was retooled; modified into its current role as a liaison force between the Pentagon’s top brass and Mark Wahlberg. They get paid to hang out with him and make him feel like he could have stopped 9/11 and in exchange he promises to make more films like Lone Survivor.

2. Zero Dark Thirty was almost 100% accurate.

And by accurate I mean that women are just as good as (if not better than) men at doing the military and that torture is an effective way to acquire information that’s deemed Nationally Interesting.

3. There weren’t two helicopters.

There was a single helicopter, and it did not “crash” it was intentionally sabotaged to obfuscate even more technologically advanced hardware at the disposal of SOCOM’s tier one operators.

Now, you’re probably already wondering. If there was only one helicopter, how did the operatives leave the compound? Good question. They didn’t.

That is, “they” didn’t because there was no “they.” There was only one person sent to take out UBL.

That’s right. Thirty three minutes after 1:00am on May 2nd 2011, a single operative infiltrated Osama’s compound, detonated the special stealth helicopter she used to access the base, and then killed Osama bin Laden and his guards with a combination of bullets and mixed martial arts.

That’s right. It was a woman.

Do you really think a man would be capable of navigating the complex laser grid in the compound? It requires the limber power of a highly-trained female assassin. The kind only the American taxpayers could afford. Using night vision goggles and a pre-practiced series of dance moves, she moved past the lasers in the foyer to where Osama’s Main Computer system had it’s only terminal, right next to the door to the Inner Sanctum. And it was password protected.

She used hacking techniques that she had learned from Linux and cat-5 cables. It was basic FTP encryption, and she laughed to herself as she simply did a visual basic netstat to determine the routing tables of the the IPv6 hosts file Adobe. She had hacked a million of these in her training, and many more before that when she was an illegal hacker that was hired by the FBI because she was so good at hacking. She laughed again as she clicked away at the keyboard. The door opened suddenly. Oh shit, she thought.

Staring back at her was UBL’s entire private army. Sixteen of the most advanced fighters of all different kinds of Martial Arts from all over the world. The big Russian guy wearing a leotard cracked his knuckles and moved in front of the others, laughing as he looked her over.

“Hah,” he said. “A girl? Don’t make me laughovich! I will handle this myself.”

“Let’s settle this the old fashioned way,” she said, throwing her crossbow to the floor. He was strong, but she had something better than his strength: even more strength.

She pummeled him using several arm bars and Jiu Jitsu techniques. Roundhouse kicks and Capoeira moves that he didn’t expect. She used his power against him.

“That’s…. impossible!!!” he cried as she finished him. There was a pause for a moment as the other fighters realized what she had done. Then, one by one, she fought all of them for the next several hours. Stopping briefly to destroy a Lexus.

After defeating all of UBL’s guards, there was only one thing left to do: ascend the stairs into UBL’s lair, confront him once and for all, win the tournament, and use the dragon medallion to free Jasmine.

The stairwell was filled with pornography – every type of sick, messed up type of pornography you could imagine. Doing terrorism and killing 3000 citizens on 9/11 was pretty bad, but all this pornography proved one thing for sure: Osama was a pretty messed up guy who did gross things like jack off to porn.

Finally, she reached the top of the stairs. The big steel doors opened, and for a second she could see him there, Osama Bin Laden himself, hiding behind his wife. And just then, the lights went out, some shuffling….

Suddenly, in the darkness, booming laughter, and a voice…

“So, you thought you would just come into my compound? Think again…” it said.

Then, the lights cut back on. And there was UBL in a mech. But it wasn’t like a regular mech, it was made entirely out of his wives!

“Let’s see if you can defeat this!” said UBL, lunging at her in a cyclical pattern of attacks. The first one close, the second a projectile, and finally he would jump to the ceiling and try to land on her head. She continued to exploit his weakness: a big glowing red spot on the back of the mech suit, hitting it over and over, maybe three times, possibly four at most, until the wife-mech suit finally fell apart.

UBL collapsed, and seemed defeated.

“It looks like, you have won…” he said. “Or have you?!”

And then UBL revealed his jetpack, and he leapt from the balcony, flying away into the dark and ethnic Pakistani night. That’s when the special operative remembered the words of her trainer; Claude, the agent she replaced, an old British man who died suddenly a couple weeks prior but would pop back into her head to give her context-specific advice from time to time….

“The special weapon,” she heard. “Use it now.”

That’s when she pulled out her rocket launcher with the homing device that would never lock on to anything and only had one rocket and she could never find extra rockets for it. She aimed, it locked on, and she fired. In the distant sky, UBL exploded into a million fucking pieces and it kind of looked like fireworks, making it okay to find the violent death of a human being celebratory.

It was time to go home, she thought. There, behind the trophy case with the dragon medallion, was an extra jetpack. She put it on and made the 2 hour trip back to Washington where she met with her hardass boss who was finally not such a hardass anymore.

“Thank you Nicole!” said Obama. “Thank you so much for doing this for me!”

“I didn’t do it for you,” I said, putting out my cigarette. “I did it for America.”

Oh yeah. It was me by the way.