After dinner I go back upstairs, feeling stuffed and loathsome. And yet, my secret stash is calling, so I help myself to a Mars bar. I love the way the wrapper splits, revealing that smooth chocolate underneath, and then beneath that, the fluffy, weird stuff that shouldn’t work but IS OH SO GOOD, and the sticky caramel that coats my mouth with sweetness . . . oh yeah. I lick my fingers. Hello, sugar, my secret lover and my only friend.
Well, not quite my only friend. I crank up my laptop again—I don’t dare look at my sockpuppets on my phone, as I’m not sure how the proxies I’ve set up would cope; the last thing I need is my identity being plastered all over a revenge subreddit.
There are only a few replies to my latest posts; I think I’ll let them stew for a bit while I stalk around my favorite horror fiction site. It’s kind of a halfway house for me; if the story is good, then I’m as happy to spend a half hour being weirded out as the next person. If it’s crap, then I get to spend a half an hour smushing some hopeful’s soul into dust. It’s a win-win situation.
Another DM awaits me. My heart does that little flutter as I click on it.
It’s Ninjanoodle471 again.
Awesome takedowns. So impressed. Inbox me?
Tori
Uh, excuse me? Tori? Complete amateur. No one gives their real name, not even in a DM. We Warriors of Internet Chaos are kind of like superheroes in a way—our secret identity must, at all cost, remain a secret, or we’ll lose our powers because every fucker would block us and, if we’re really unlucky, call the police to prosecute us for hate crimes. (I mean, seriously? Hate crimes? I said you looked like mutilated potato and I hope that something repeatedly runs you over. It’s not as if I’m threatening to stalk your kids and gut them with a rusty hook, and even if I did, for fuck’s sake, ever heard of something called hyperbole? I know it’s a long word, but feel free to look it up, you self-obsessed moron.)
Unless Tori is a pseudonym. “Tori” could be using it to lure me into a sense of false security. That’s what I would do. Okay, maybe I’m beginning to like the way this person thinks.
I gnaw on a nail. It still smells vaguely of chocolate. The message sits in my inbox, taunting me. Should I really respond? In the past, I’ve just deleted everything that came my way, but I dunno—this one feels different somehow. No insults, and more importantly, no gushing. You can always tell the ones who are fishing for info—they gush in the hopes you’ll spill. Maybe I’ll just give them a thanks. Either they’ll go away or they’ll reveal something. I’m pretty confident of that.
Thanks
MidnightBanshee
A few moments pass.
You’re welcome.
You’re vicious. I like that.
Tori
Hmm. Spidey-senses tingling again. Still feels like a trap. I delete the DM. Better to be safe than sorry.
Off to Instagram now to see what needs nudging. Interesting—one of the accounts I was working on has exploded. Someone calling themselves Teenytiny42 is not just agreeing with me, they’re helping me build a massive empire of dirt, and they’re dumping it all over one of those vegan health guru-types. It’s actually quite glorious to behold this level of sophisticated shit-stirring. MidnightBanshee approves. Maybe SharkKrawler9 will also approve. Might stir the pot a bit and make FlounceyPouncey hate it all—you know, defend the vegans for a bit, just to really bring out the hate . . .
Another DM pops up.
I knew you’d like that.
Tori
Teenytiny42 is also Tori? Okay, that deserves a smile. This girl is good.
Lol
And that’s all she’s getting for now.