In January 2025, "34 pieces" of my "sensitive information" popped up on the Dark Web. Two weeks later, my entire life had been hacked -- email addresses, phone number, computers, dating profiles, hookup profiles, photographs, contact list, web history, passwords, and even the Notes app on my phone, which I used all the time, mostly to jot down the shit in my head that I wouldn't dare repeat, to anyone, ever, for any reason whatsoever.
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But the most crippling blow is that my iCloud was infiltrated, and my iCloud had every single thing I've ever written over the last 20 years -- screenplays, short stories, plays, essays, articles, novels, everything. It had everything.
At one point, I used to be something -- I had agents and managers, multiple options on several original screenplays, contracts to pen television pilots both for major studios and exciting up-and-coming production companies, endless offers for editing projects, etc.
But now, a decade or so later, I'm basically nothing -- I've crashed cars and woken up in hospitals and jail cells, and I know what handcuffs feel like when they're too tight, and I've got scars all over my body from making stupid moves around scary people, and I've lived in tents on Skid Row and watched close friends take their last breaths on dirty couches, and all of this shit is true, and all of it haunts me. I mean for real...it just does -- it really, truly fucks me up.
But my writing, man...Jesus...fuck. It's mine. All of it is mine, and it's all I've got. I've bled for it, and I'll bleed out for it, and right now I'm fighting for it.
Honestly, straight up -- it's fucking terrifying when you realize that your work is being taken away from you, and it's even worse when you see it being changed, and tweaked, and passed around. I'm not sure why this is happening to me, or who is doing it, but there are a few culprits, and I'll get to them later. But what I do know is that none of these motherfuckers who are pulling this shit have even a shred of the talent that I've got, and they never will. I'll post some shit, and you'll see -- they've got no voice, and it's so, so obvious, but they think they do, and that's because they're trying to mimic mine. But they can't, and so they're failing, and for me, that's really the only silver lining here, if there's even a lining that shines.
Anyway...fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all to hell and then back up to earth and then back down to hell again. They're nothing, these fucks, and they're no one to nobody to nobody, and that's because they're stupid, and the thing about stupid people is this: They're fucking dumb.
So...to all these motherfuckers trying to swipe my shit, I have some questions:
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Do you realize that I have sent everything -- all of my work -- to a handful of my closest friends and colleagues and mentors over the last 15-20 years? And do you realize that all of those folks have all of those emails? I'm not kidding -- I called and asked. And do you realize that I know all of them, personally, like face-to-face and in the flesh? Are you aware of this? Are you fucking stupid? I mean really, like for real, that's a question, and it's a legitimate one: Are. You. Fucking. Stupid.?
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Fuck it, though, right? I say keep it up. I dare you. I hear Men's Warehouse is a dope joint to snag a cheap suit for court, so you should go ahead and get on that shit.
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Feel me?
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Do you feel me?
...but I digress.
Now, after months of self-sabotage followed by a few more months of intensive Psychotherapy, I've floated back down to earth and I've made a decision:
I'm going to release everything I've got, all of my writing, on this website, for anyone out there in the world might like to read it. I'll start with my completed works, but I'm also going to include a ton of other shit -- scraps of things, treatments for basically everything else, half-conceptualized works that are all there in my mind but that haven't yet been solidified on paper, like music videos for artist I love, poems for the heartbroken, lyrics, etc, etc, etc.
For anyone who happens to come across this website, all of this is yours now. I mean...you can't have it, and you can't have it because it's mine, but you can use it: Read it, learn from it, ingest it, digest it, and let it soak. I hope my words speak to you in some way. I really, truly, honestly, genuinely do.
And to all those dumb-fuck douchebag motherfuckers out there who are trying to steal shit from me -- a story here, a treatment there, or maybe even an entire original script that I lived and breathed and spent a decade vetting with a tiny handful of truly magnificent writers who you've never met and never will, well...
...you can all go to hell.
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You don't deserve any of this.
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But for everyone else? The readers out there? The budding writers and creatives? The folks who have ideas but don't quite know how to put them down onto the page? I'm here for you, and I want to help.
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I love stories, and I love those who have stories to tell.
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And so if you like my work, reach out, and let's talk. I'll show you how to protect your work so that no one can take it away from you, and I'll be honest with you.
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So, yeah...if you reach out, I'll hit you back.
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xx
M. BROCK FOX (matthew brock biedlingmaier)
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I've attached a file below
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"BULLET HOLES AND BUTTERFLIES"
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This is what it SOUNDS LIKE to be HACKED.