The notorious sex tourist Harry Hutton points me towards these horrific snaps from Christopher Hitchens' latest Vanity Fair assignment, in which he receives but a taste of the punishment he so richly deserves.
I'm disappointed to see that, rather than forcing him to lick jelly off his own balls for the entertainment of a gang of cackling CIA interrogators, Vanity Fair have merely given him a face pack and a back, crack and sack wax.
It's at moments like this that I recall why I have such great respect for Hitchens - even as a combined force of health specialists and photographers strive to strip him of his dignity, he still maintains an air of detached, fuck-you rebelliousness by puffing on a cigarette.
What a trooper - lesser men would've been left looking absolutely ridiculous.
Still, in all of this pornographic depravity, we must remember to commemorate the suffering of the real victims.
I ask you to pity the poor stylist who laboureth betwixt the bulbous cheeks of Hitchens, for truly she hath looked into the abyss, and it hath looked into her.