“Oi! Ever heard of Slimfast?”
As insults go, it’s pretty tame. I still cringe, though. It’s ingrained in me, and I wonder yet again why I bother venturing outside. Outside belongs to the Beautiful People. Any TV show will tell you that. It’s a universal truth. Except I can’t spend all my life in my house. I know how that turns out. People start asking awkward questions and make assumptions about your mental state. I wonder if it’ll get easier once I get my driving license. Maybe that’s like taking a little bit of lovely, safe Inside with you, like armor against the world. But having a driving license involves driving lessons, and the thought of those just makes me want to pull my duvet over my head and refuse to come out, which kind of defeats the whole damn object.
I wonder if Amy is enjoying herself with her friends, with their sour, scrunched-up faces, eating soggy student union chips. Yeah, I dodged a bullet there. Much better to go home and do some internet bashing. That’s much nicer than dealing with real flesh-and-blood people.
Mum’s in the living room again, huddled in her blanket, staring at the TV. Upstairs I hear the staccato of virtual guns—sounds like Brat is eschewing his education in favor of blasting his enemies to bits again.
“Hey, Mum,” I say. Slowly, she looks up at me. Her eyes look red.
“Hello darling,” she says. “Good lecture?”
“Yeah.” I’ll leave it at that. She doesn’t need to know about Amy. It’ll only get her hopes up. “Is Brad still at home?”
“Yes. He said he didn’t feel well.”
“Mum—”
“I know, I know. I just couldn’t stand the arguments.” Her voice thickens. “Don’t start anything with him.”
It takes everything I’ve got not to stomp upstairs and drag the little prick out of his festering hole and into school myself.
Ever since Dad left, it’s been difficult. The last thing Mum needs is Brat playing the nightmare teenager card. I mean, I wasn’t perfect, but he’s taking the absolute piss. Sometimes I’d like to grab him by his badly shaved and spotty teenaged neck and just . . . squeeze. Squeeze all the bullshit out of him, all the spite, all the self-important crap until there’s nothing left.
“You want a cup of tea?” I ask Mum.
“That would be nice, love.” And she goes back to staring at the TV. I’m pretty sure she’s seen this episode before. I know I have. Oh well. Whatever makes her happy.
As per usual, the kitchen is a mess. The least Brat could have done was wash up his breakfast bowl, but even that’s too much of a chore for him. I squash down the urge to pick up the bowl so I can smash his face into it. Yeah, I know, I really should watch these violent thoughts, but I can’t help it. Everything Brat does pushes those buttons right now.
Once the tea’s made, I amble back to Mum. She’s half dozing now. I’m sure it’s the medication she takes, and not that she’s simply lost the will to do anything since Dad left. I don’t say anything to her as I set the mug down. Best leave her. Leave it. Leave everything. It’s the key to a happy life.
Back in my room, I close the curtains, making it all cozy and womb-like. I feel safe in here. Some of my best drawings adorn the wall, and on my shelf there are a couple of old My Little Ponies that I can’t bear to part with for some reason. There’s also a pile of dirty laundry in the corner, but I’ll sort that out later.
I log into my various socks, and there are all the lovely messages of hatred and spite, lined up for me to shoot down at my leisure. My heart’s going like the clappers, pumping lovely adrenaline around my body, lighting up my pleasure centers like a fireworks display. These people think they’re punishing me, but they’re wrong. They don’t know me. They don’t know that I tried the nice route, that I used to fawn over the Beautiful People—and that my only reward was to be ignored. It didn’t take me long to realize the only real difference between these girls and me was their looks. In fact, most of them are as dumb as a bag of rocks, but who cares when you’ve got abs and boob implants? So much for your personality being the thing that counts.
Anyway, one day, I lost it. Called them all fake, dumb bitches—and I arrived. There it was: all the attention I’ve ever wanted. Sure, a lot of it was negative, and at first I felt awful, but it didn’t take long for me to get over that and see that all the comments, both good and bad, were reactionary, and therefore I could control them. I could play my pipes and make the internet dance to any tune I wished. So I did. And it was awesome. Okay, I’m pretty sure this is how most supervillains start off, but I’m down with that. I’d rather be laughing with the Joker than righteous with Batman any day of the week.
There’s another DM from Tori. Much to my surprise, my heart gives one big thump when I notice it and my hands go a bit shaky as I open it. Gosh, this is new. This feels different from the hate mail. This is . . . something else. Something unexpected.
Was I actually looking forward to her message?
Hey—been following your trail of destruction . . . you are the Mistress of Chaos! Anyway, I thought you might appreciate this. Cheered me up after the shit day I’ve had.
Interesting. Judging by that, she’s in my time zone. That means she could be in the UK. I squirrel that bit of info away, more out of habit than anything else. You never know when you might need some ammo, and every little thing counts.
She’s attached a short YouTube clip of various cats sitting on various Roombas. I’ve seen it before, but it’s still cute. I wonder why she sent it to me.
Lol, flattery will get you everywhere.
Thanks for the vid. It’s cute.
Soz to hear you’ve had a bad day.
I know it sounds naff, but I have no idea what else to say.
Flattery will get me everywhere, huh??
I might hold you to that one day!
Are you on Metachat? We could talk there.
Metachat is supposed to be this super-encrypted place, where people can talk about all manner of things without being kicked off. Heard really dodgy things about it. Not quite Dark Web, but getting there. I’ve never joined; I’ve never really had anyone to communicate with via it before.
But now I do. And I am very tempted.
Maybe I should just make an account and have a little wander around first? See how it works. Tori hasn’t supplied a link and it won’t turn up on any browser search, but I’m pretty confident I can find it. I’m not a hacker—Jesus Christ, no, those guys are way geekier than me—but I’ve flirted on the outskirts of the more forbidden parts of the net before. Just was ultimately too chicken to take the plunge.
Well, now I’m a few months older and a whole lot wiser than when I started trolling. Oh yeah. Rock ’n’ roll. I can do this.
It takes me about half an hour to locate the Metachat server. You might think that “Metachat” is a bit of a naff name, but what else are they going to call it? Doillegalstuffhereyoudon’twantpeopletofindoutabout.com? The whole point is that it’s nondescript. A little part of me is grumbling about how I’ve spent valuable trolling time doing this and how I don’t really know anything about this Tori person; they could be a fifty-year-old trucker called Trevor for all I know, but in a way, that just makes all of this more exciting. I’m taking a risk. My hands are shaking and I’m sweating like a pig, but I feel wonderful. I haven’t felt this keyed up since I started my trolling campaigns. What a time to be alive, eh?
Well, I’m in, and the interface is disappointingly boring. No bells, no whistles, no emojis, just a panel to type into, a basic search bar, and a small discreet icon that will allow you to upload images. For the first time, I feel a bit uneasy when I think about the kinds of people who might use that image upload button. Is Tori that kind of person?
I shake my head. This is not the time to think like that.
There’s no real way to create a proper profile—which is sensible given how people always give away waaaay too much info on their profiles in a desperate attempt at sounding interesting. Just a random number-and-letter generator. Each time you log in, you get a new anonymous identity. You then tell the person you want to contact to type that into the search bar, et voila—you’re connected.
That’s good. And a bit scary. But mainly good.
I click out of Metachat and reply to Tori, telling her I’ve installed it. It’s on one of my hidden partitions, so if anyone uses my laptop, they’d never find it.
It only takes her a few minutes to reply.
Yeah? Cool! Hang on . . .
I wait.
4x729vWF14
I know exactly what that means.
God, this is exciting. I kind of feel like a spy. This whole anonymity thing is a massive turn-on. I wonder if Tori gets the same thrill. In I go again to Metachat, and type the code in. A little cursor appears in the conversation panel, blinking and waiting.
Hi
I’m breathless.
Hey. Tori?
Yeah. It’s me. We can drop the act here. Feels good, huh?
Oh, she is not wrong.
I know you’re MidnightBanshee and SharkKrawler9 and FlounceyPouncey, but you never gave me your real name?
Alarm bells. Can’t be Beth here. Who can I be? Chances are she isn’t Tori either. Need something that sounds plausible.
Amy.
Uh, okay. Not sure where that came from, but I’ll roll with it. Lots of Amys in the world. Cool. Amy. Good.
So what you wanna chat about?
Lol, things that would get us banned on the boards, dumbass!
You know the admin can hack the DMs, right?
Yeah, course.
Why do you think I didn’t say too much?
Cos you’re a professional ;) . . . like me.
Oh, baby, where have you been all my life?
You can say that again.
We can use this to coordinate.
I know socks are fun, but eventually they always get caught.
You think I should stop using socks?
Nah, but we can sort out targets here.
Strategize. Cause as much havoc as possible.
That sounds cool
Yeah, I thought you’d like it.
I’ve been watching your trail of chaos for a while now.
You’re sick. So good at taking down those tramps.
I’m not quite sure how to reply to this. I’m not good with compliments. I decide to ignore it.
If they don’t want ppl commenting, then they shouldn’t preen over the web.
Ikr? They just want people to worship them. Ain’t gonna happen, buttercup. And speaking of buttercups—have you seen Buttercup97 on Instagram? Was in the doldrums until she started posting those fucking stupid half-naked yoga pics and going on about fucking kimchi. Bitch needs to be taken down a peg. You in?
She seriously needs to ask?