I’d just finished my column and I was basking in my own genius. It was one of my best, ’18 fart noises that are better than anything Platinum Dunes have ever done’. I ran through the probable outcomes in my mind: book deal, offers from newspapers, the respect of my peers and a brief lull in the torrent of abuse from the angry, jealous public.
Granted, I’d never had any of those things previously, but this was definitely the one. This one smelled of success, and success has a musk that hits you right in the back of the throat. Mmm, mmm.
Normally, after I’ve crafted a masterwork, I like to have a shower so that I can lather myself up. Just some special me time with a loofa and bottle of Imperial Leather. It was when I was applying the second coat of conditioner to my moustache that I first noticed the extra hand, prodding me weakly in the back. At first I just went with it, because it felt nice. After about 45 minutes, curiosity got the better of me and I glanced over my shoulder.
Quivering behind me was a pale, misshapen Gollum-a-like. His facial features could kindly be described as haphazardly organised and his pale skin clung to his bones like a disgruntled Red Dwarf fan clings to series logic inconsistencies in an argument on an Internet forum.
“Are you one of my readers? God damn it, I always assumed most of you Internet guys were trying to watch me shower, and I’ve always done my best to put on a show for you. But I never expected that one of you would come in here and touch me with your lonely, typing hands,” I said to him.
“I think you have a very warped idea of your audience,” he mumbled.
“Whatever. Look, get out of here. I feel very unclean from your disgusting hand, but as I’m already in the shower, I don’t know how to wash your disgusting off me. I think it would help me if you would wait somewhere else,” I insisted, preparing to restart my entire showering process. I was going to need more Imperial Leather.
Around two hours later, I sparkled my way into my living room to find him waiting for me. Just looking at him made me want to vomit. Just thinking about having to talk to him made me want to punch him.
“Alright, so what’s the deal here, you fucking pervert? You planning on blogging about my genitals? Because it’s already been covered, by me, in depth. Find your own God damned subject matter!” I asserted. If you’ve read this column before, you’ll know how magnificent and true this is.
“I’m not a blogger, sir. Couldn’t be further from it, sir,” he spluttered, hugging his knees into his chest and wiping what I think was his nose, but could just have easily been a wart of some kind.
“Look, definite virgin, I’m going to need to know who you are and what you’re doing here. You’re eating into the time I usually spend flexing in front of the mirror and generally being self-satisfied.” That’s right, guys, flexing. Grr.
“I am the physical manifestation of your desire to be a proper journalist,” came the response.
“I genuinely don’t know if I didn’t understand what you just said or I was too repulsed by you to listen,” I replied, sexily.
“Well, my physical appearance reflects your chances of working as a proper journalist. It certainly explains your columns,” Tpmomdtbarj said. Although I sensed genuine concern in his voice, I decided to take it as an insult anyway.
“Don’t you sass off to me!” I slapped him in the face.
“I’m sorry. I am here for a reason. I come with a warning from within you, from within your subconscious,” tumbled out of his mouth, along with some kind of frothy spittle.
“Okay, I have two responses to that. Response one, if you were conjured by my subconscious, why aren’t you foxy? And response two, what?”, I said, deciding to fit in some flexing in between the lulls in the conversation, which coincidentally seemed to occur whenever I wasn’t talking.
“Listen, deep down inside you there’s a part of you that still wants to be a proper journalist. Also, given how frail he’s become, I consumed and so represent your will to be a pleasant, nice human being. From both points of view, I’m here to beg you to reconsider your column this week.”
“No deal, I spent eight minutes on that column.”
“Right, but I’m not convinced that fart columns are the way forward in journalism,” he reasoned, flinching as he did so.
“I’m known for my fart columns!” It was at this point that I figured out that, as well as representing my will to be a proper journalist and a pleasant human being, he also represented the part of me that was as thick as Danny Dyer after repeated blows to the head.
“And where has being known for fart columns got you?”
He explained to me that I was isolating my audience with impenetrable columns filled with off-topic content and offensive jokes. Not only that, but apparently all of the people I’ve been saying dreadful things about are real people who can be upset by it. I tried to explain that it was the Internet, where words don’t mean anything, but it was like talking to a brick wall. A particularly grotesque brick wall that talked out of what looked like an upside-down human face.
Finally, I conceded that perhaps I had said some things about Platinum Dunes that were a little out of line. When Tpmomdtbarj suggested a truce, I was interested.
“Right, old lady from Pet Semetary, I’m going to need you to broker this truce for me,” I informed him. “I’ve written down a list of my demands. It’s just demands, right? I can’t ask them for money here, can I? You know what? I’m going to put money on the list. I won’t put an exact figure, but maybe I can tell you what I’m expecting and you can negotiate it with them.” I was basking in my own pleasantness, and also in my own genius. All I could think was that I couldn’t wait to lather me up!
“I don’t know that you’re understanding how this works. We can’t ask them for anything. We just have to stop …”
“$50,000, I was thinking… Wait, we can’t ask them for anything? Then what the hell did I write this list for?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask you to…” Not interested in hearing the end of his sentence, I pinned him down and shoved my list of demands down his throat.
“Now, you go to Platinum Dunes and you shit that out on their desk and you get me my goddamned fifty thou!” I slapped him about a little, just for effect. It felt really good.
“They wouldn’t even see me. I’m a projection from your subconscious,” he said, once he’d managed to swallow the paper and regain his breath. “I really think you need to consider whether there are things you might like to apologise to Platinum Dunes for.”
“Like what? I’ve always been entirely fair with them!” I lied, sexily.
“What, are you referring to all of the times I’ve insulted them without provocation? But that was just columning. Awesome, hilarious columning.”
“If they read those columns, would they be offended?” he asked in a tone that made me want to write another list.
“Well, I mean, it’s the Internet. I can’t be held responsible for what I write on the Internet. If so, Michael Bay would have genuine cause to kill me.” The words came out, and they seemed to be in my voice, but they were tinged with a kindness that I’m not used to hearing from me. Maybe, I wondered, it’s a thing my voice does when I’m getting ready to write something brilliant. I got my laptop out just in case.
“Well, why not stop being so mean about Michael Bay, too? He might be a nice person.”
“Shut your talk hole. I’m waiting for brilliance to hit me.” I sat poised at my keyboard in silence for three hours, but nothing came. Maybe I was just becoming nice.
“Alright, so, I stop being rude to Platinum Dunes in my column, I stop sending them aggressive, belligerent emails and I stop sending them packages filled with my excrement and flower petals. Yeah, you know, I feel pretty good about this.” I did. I felt warm and my heart seemed to be filled with good deeds and positive energies.
“Good,” he said, with a smile that contorted his face that should have looked worse, but just looked equally horrifying.
“So, now what? I just let all the anger go? I forget about Elm Street 2010 and the F13 remake. Maybe I rewatch their Texas Chainsaw remake or their Amityville remake. They were pretty cowabunga. Maybe I should do a column suggesting they get the guy who wrote those two films back to write for them. Scott Kosar. He just did The Crazies remake and that was great.”
This must be what it feels like to be a nun, I thought. After all, nuns are generally pretty nice about Platinum Dunes, and they really liked The Crazies remake from last year too, probably. Yeah, me and nuns have a lot in common.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going now,” said Tpmomdtbarj, struggling to his feet.
“Shouldn’t you turn normal now that I’ve decided to be a better writer?” I questioned, concerned that I would have to look at his horrible face for even a moment longer.
“No, because your desire to be a proper journalist will always be hampered by the fact that you’re a fucking idiot. You’ll never put a fact in where a fart will do. Take this week’s column as an example. You’ve taken 1800 words to say ‘People should be nicer on the Internet and Platinum Dunes aren’t actually that bad. Maybe stick to lists. Everyone likes a list. But you’ve got stop being such a dick to Platinum Dunes all the time.”
And with that, he disappeared.
I learned two things from this incident. One was that I should be nicer on the Internet, because I can be a bastardful, hurtful bastard and usually towards people I don’t know who haven’t done anything wrong. The other was that it’s great fun to pin down someone you do know who is smaller than you and to make them eat paper.
Follow Den Of Geek on Twitter right here.