- Forum Clout
- 77,328
A feeling of desolation wafts through the air of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It permeates through the houses, the streets, and the minds of it’s residents. A man stumbles the streets, disheveled, lonely, but worst of all, afraid. Afraid of his future, his past, and his current state of affairs. Everything is gone. His ex wife, his daughter, his second, better wife.
He grips onto the only thing he has to connect him to this world. Light illuminates his swollen face as he walks. Searching for a connection. Something to feel alive. Anything to be apart of something. He notices a new message. He’s hoping it’s a new opportunity to push his status in this world. A world that as it grows, feels smaller.
“Hey, Patrick. Was wondering if you’d do my podcast. Show the world your side of things. Let me know.” It reads.
Patrick’s elation swiftly turns to depression induced anger. Every time he thinks he’s moving forward, the horses are still in the barn. He sends his response:
“No, stlaker. You do not have a podcast. No, stlaker. I will not show the world my side. There are no sides. Just delusional stalkers, and a man who wants to be left alone.”
Patrick is narrowly missing parked cars as he walks home. His bitterness intoxicates him more than the 2 beer buzz he has. The last 2 beer buzz he can afford. Another text is received:
“Sorry to hear that Rick. Wish you’d come on. We want to know why Niki left you. I guess we’ll just have to speculate. Anyways, doors always open. Hope you feel better man.”
The stlaker is fully aware of why Niki left. The money loss, the drinking, the insults. The assassin’s dagger to a lovers heart, never being heard. Rick responds:
“My name is not Rick, stlaker. There is nothing to speculate because there is nothing to speculate about, child.”
Rick thinks about copy and pasting his usual response, but, what’s the point? Just another pebble of sand, in a galaxy of stars. Unexpectedly another text appears at the top.
“Hey Patrick, was wondering if you are ok? You don’t seem yourself lately. I know you’ve been through a lot. Maybe you want to talk about it? I got a new a number. It’s Ade.”
Patrick’s brooding face brightens up. A chance. He finally got a chance. An opportunity to correct the re-
“Nah, just kidding fat faggot. How is bitch tits doing??? I don’t mean Niki. She’s happy with her new girlfriend. I mean you you fat fucking faggot.”
Rick is drowned in the abyss of despair. His oxygen tank has run out. Left there, to float until his final breath. He puts his phone in his pocket. He walks up the steps to what was once his rebel headquarters.
He was the master Jedi, the commander, the navy seal. It is now left with the burden of memories. He walks upstairs, contemplating his next move. The creeks of the unattended house become too much to bear. He must do something.
He needs a space to think. A place devoid of memories. There is only one he can think of. The outside of his kingdom. Next to where his stable used to stand. Triumphant, and unapologetic. He had a place for fires, and the remainder of a fence.
Rick grabs a bottle of lighter fluid. He often used a safety lighter for his projects. Projects that would inevitably project more about him, then he did them. He grabs a baby Yoda folding chair and heads outside. His phone vibrating as he walks through the fully empty hovel.
He begins by placing the chair. He grabs the fence that once stood dilapidated. As he begins to arrange the pieces, in how he had heard others do, he has an idea. He will begin a twitter thread, exposing the stalkers lie’s online. He sits down and begins typing.
With each swollen finger press of the digital keyboard, his adrenaline increases. He knows the way to success, the way to prove everyone wrong. The way to get the final word. After finishing his 17 tweet thread about how the cyber stalkers treat him, and how he will win, he begins to drizzle the lighter fluid.
He drenched the pieces of wood, wondering if it will be enough. Realizing he has nothing to light them with, he goes back inside. He opens up the drawer to grab his matches. He remembers the time when Tyrone told him he had a trick to show him:
Tyrone told Patrick to light a match, and close his eyes. Tyrone then farted in Nikki’s puss and let the flame burn Patrick’s finger.
Those were better times. When people of color were protected by Patrick. He returns outside.
He lights the match, and throws it onto the wood. Flames erupt as his desire to win grows. He sits down in his Baby Yoda children’s chair. He begins staring at twitter waiting, waiting for the people to rally. As the cyber stalkers begin to mock him, the flame is growing around him. He leaves as he began. Empty. And fat.
He grips onto the only thing he has to connect him to this world. Light illuminates his swollen face as he walks. Searching for a connection. Something to feel alive. Anything to be apart of something. He notices a new message. He’s hoping it’s a new opportunity to push his status in this world. A world that as it grows, feels smaller.
“Hey, Patrick. Was wondering if you’d do my podcast. Show the world your side of things. Let me know.” It reads.
Patrick’s elation swiftly turns to depression induced anger. Every time he thinks he’s moving forward, the horses are still in the barn. He sends his response:
“No, stlaker. You do not have a podcast. No, stlaker. I will not show the world my side. There are no sides. Just delusional stalkers, and a man who wants to be left alone.”
Patrick is narrowly missing parked cars as he walks home. His bitterness intoxicates him more than the 2 beer buzz he has. The last 2 beer buzz he can afford. Another text is received:
“Sorry to hear that Rick. Wish you’d come on. We want to know why Niki left you. I guess we’ll just have to speculate. Anyways, doors always open. Hope you feel better man.”
The stlaker is fully aware of why Niki left. The money loss, the drinking, the insults. The assassin’s dagger to a lovers heart, never being heard. Rick responds:
“My name is not Rick, stlaker. There is nothing to speculate because there is nothing to speculate about, child.”
Rick thinks about copy and pasting his usual response, but, what’s the point? Just another pebble of sand, in a galaxy of stars. Unexpectedly another text appears at the top.
“Hey Patrick, was wondering if you are ok? You don’t seem yourself lately. I know you’ve been through a lot. Maybe you want to talk about it? I got a new a number. It’s Ade.”
Patrick’s brooding face brightens up. A chance. He finally got a chance. An opportunity to correct the re-
“Nah, just kidding fat faggot. How is bitch tits doing??? I don’t mean Niki. She’s happy with her new girlfriend. I mean you you fat fucking faggot.”
Rick is drowned in the abyss of despair. His oxygen tank has run out. Left there, to float until his final breath. He puts his phone in his pocket. He walks up the steps to what was once his rebel headquarters.
He was the master Jedi, the commander, the navy seal. It is now left with the burden of memories. He walks upstairs, contemplating his next move. The creeks of the unattended house become too much to bear. He must do something.
He needs a space to think. A place devoid of memories. There is only one he can think of. The outside of his kingdom. Next to where his stable used to stand. Triumphant, and unapologetic. He had a place for fires, and the remainder of a fence.
Rick grabs a bottle of lighter fluid. He often used a safety lighter for his projects. Projects that would inevitably project more about him, then he did them. He grabs a baby Yoda folding chair and heads outside. His phone vibrating as he walks through the fully empty hovel.
He begins by placing the chair. He grabs the fence that once stood dilapidated. As he begins to arrange the pieces, in how he had heard others do, he has an idea. He will begin a twitter thread, exposing the stalkers lie’s online. He sits down and begins typing.
With each swollen finger press of the digital keyboard, his adrenaline increases. He knows the way to success, the way to prove everyone wrong. The way to get the final word. After finishing his 17 tweet thread about how the cyber stalkers treat him, and how he will win, he begins to drizzle the lighter fluid.
He drenched the pieces of wood, wondering if it will be enough. Realizing he has nothing to light them with, he goes back inside. He opens up the drawer to grab his matches. He remembers the time when Tyrone told him he had a trick to show him:
Tyrone told Patrick to light a match, and close his eyes. Tyrone then farted in Nikki’s puss and let the flame burn Patrick’s finger.
Those were better times. When people of color were protected by Patrick. He returns outside.
He lights the match, and throws it onto the wood. Flames erupt as his desire to win grows. He sits down in his Baby Yoda children’s chair. He begins staring at twitter waiting, waiting for the people to rally. As the cyber stalkers begin to mock him, the flame is growing around him. He leaves as he began. Empty. And fat.
