A woman by the name of Anne Boleyn runs a porn site.

Anne has been in the porn industry for well over a decade and is well-respected amongst her peers as a shrewd businesswoman. She has gone from being a production assistant to being a social media PR rep to being a director to owning her very own business. Her website caters to certain bizarre fetishes that many "normal" people would find repulsive, but despite the niche appeal, she pulls in a lot of money. And money is what matters to Anne Boleyn.

Anne is married to man named Henry, fittingly enough. Henry is an infamous "shock artist" who inserts offensive images into things as a method of protest. For instance, he once stenciled a giant image of an oil-covered seal on the corporate offices of ExxonMobil. In another incident he hijacked a rightwing radio show's broadcasting frequency to play 10 hours of uninterrupted farting noises. A commentator once described him as "Friedrich Engels with the mind of Howard Stern."

Henry considers himself a radical champion of free speech. His art collective, named -- fittingly enough! -- "The Church of England" has attracted many followers, and he revels in his reputation as the art world's bad boy. You would therefore think Henry is the perfect match for Anne, since both of them are the sort who enjoy catering to fringe elements at the limits of free expression. But there's trouble in paradise: Henry is an avowed and vehement opponent of the porn industry, which he believes is one of modern humanity's most degrading forces. In fact, Henry met his future wife at the AVN Awards ceremony in Las Vegas, Nevada, where he dumped 100 gallons of horse urine on the stage while Anne was presenting the award for "Best Painal Scene."

Love blossomed in spite of, or perhaps because of, the friction between Anne and Henry. Their conversations have always become arguments; and their arguments are always frustratingly byzantine -- abstract, ideological, and at the same time viciously personal. They can agree on nothing, from the true purpose of art in human culture to what restaurant they should order Chinese takeout from. But these long evenings of arguing always end in bouts of grunting, banshee-wailing, Earth-shattering sex that no man, woman, or beast could ever possibly surpass. They love, and they bicker, and they love to bicker.

At first the two tried to keep the relationship secret, but when word of the marriage inevitably spread, Henry's art collective decried him for "selling out" and "betraying the cause." The Church of England abandoned him, turning to a new leader: an anonymous graffiti artist who paints advice animals on national monuments, and who is known only by his alias "Danksy." By now, Henry is considered a washed-up hack, and his work isn't taken seriously.

Anne's colleagues reacted with similar hostility when they learned of the marriage, banning her and her new husband from industry events, stonewalling her whenever she scouted for new talent. Since then, Anne's website has suffered a preciptious downturn in new content, and with it a precipitous downturn in subscribers. Now, she finds herself on the point of bankruptcy.

It's at this point that you might expect Anne and Henry to circle their wagons -- to support one another through such trying times. You can imagine Anne's shock, then, when she receives a phone call from her web admin one evening telling her that the site has been hacked. Someone has replaced every video on the website with edited versions where swastikas and images of Hitler bounce around the screen whenever one of the actors achieves orgasm.

Such a bizarre and puerile act of vandalism could only have been committed by one person: Henry. Henry is trying to regain legitimacy in the world of performance art by attacking his own wife's website. Anne is not a stupid woman; she recognizes this at once. Furious, she decides to confront him.

When Henry wakes up the following morning, he walks into the living room only to discover the TV playing a video of 300-pound teen lesbians shitting into each other's mouths. Anne is sitting on the couch, waiting.

"Was any of it real?" Anne demands, half-shouting to be heard over the ecstatic gargling of actress Candi Chunks.

"Was what real?" Henry says. "Turn that off, will you?"

"Did you marry me just for this? To get close enough to my site that you could pull this stunt? Is this all one of your stupid 'pieces'?"

"Anne--" Henry begins.

"That night at the lakeside when you said I was so beautiful that my existence made art redundant, were you playing some kind of con?" Anne has to pause while actress Skyler Brown vomits with enough force to rattle the walls. "Were you just saying whatever would make me let my guard down? How could you do this to me?"

Henry closes the distance between them and sits down beside her. He takes Anne's hands in his. She looks away. She tries not to let him see how hurt she is -- tries and fails. Her eyes well with tears.

On the TV, Candi and Skyler shriek their way through a septic orgasm. At the apex, a giant red swastika twirls and dances around the screen and a soundclip of Hitler's duck-like warbling replaces the audio track.

"You did this, didn't you?" Anne says. She looks Henry dead in the eyes. "Don't play stupid."

Henry sighs. "Anne, frankly, I *did* Nazi that cumming."