21st century communication! IBM says that 90% of
the data in the world has been created in the last 2 years. They don’t specify
how much of that is useless garbage, but I’m guessing a whole lot. All of us
have contributed in some way, not least to the dominant “literature” of our age
which is in emails, forums, and comment systems.
These are largely places for racism at worst, and amusing
snark at best. However, can it not be a place to create... stories? Well, no.
But that doesn’t mean you can’t try!
In many ways it’s a unique environment, where literally
nothing is particularly worthwhile, and anything you write will fade into
obscurity in a matter of days. There’s something to be said for putting something incredibly silly down in the sand in an obscure place, a
bunch of strangers laughing at it, and then the sea washing it away. Done
right, you can take the coal of banality that is most internet discussions...
subject it to the pressures of style and humour... and finally, create slightly more interesting coal.
Hopefully.
These stories don’t survive well taken out of context.
Removed from the ebb and flow of discussion and familiarity, they’re like
pressed butterflies in a book, if the butterflies in question had their
photonic scales displaying “LOL WTF”, or selfies.
Regardless, I have collected some of my favourite nonsense below.
Most of them were made in about half an
hour to an hour or so, and “word blindness” is pretty hard to avoid (using a
word or phrasing repeatedly without noticing) on those timescales. So I cleaned
some stuff up from their original transcriptions, because the errors were
annoying me. Yes, this makes me an extremely poor butterfly taxidermist. Regardless
of how utterly ridiculous and geeky all these are, each one made me laugh to
myself for about two solid days after I made them, so that’s OK.
STORY #1
CONTEXT:
My friend Martin asked his friends to contribute stories
about Rowntree’s Fruit Pastilles (they are a form of candy, in case any
Americans might somehow be reading this) to a website which he and his
colleagues had designed for Rowntree’s, largely to test if the submission
system for a competition worked.
So, this was my crack at it. Anthropomorphic fruit pastilles!
Homophobia! MORTALITY AND THE SOUL.
I didn’t win anything :(
THE DEATH OF ORANGE (I will be GOD DAMNED if I name it “crime of passion fruit”)
“He’s here.”
The orderly pushed aside the curtain, and Lemon took a deep
breath. Orange lay there on the bed, motionless. Lemon had heard that it was
bad, but had no idea of how quickly his friend had turned. The oldest of the
Fruit Pastilles was deteriorating fast. His gelatine had darkened and
stiffened, turning him the colour of marmalade. Sugar had risen out
through the surface of his skin, coating his body in rough crystals. He looked
primitive, thought Lemon. Rough-hewn, like he was returning to some earlier
state.
“How do I look?” he croaked, turning his eyes to Lemon.
Lemon swallowed. “You look fine. You’ll be out of there in
no time!”
“Hah.” Grunted the old Pastille, unconvinced. “Listen,
Lemon. I asked for you to come talk to me because I don’t have much time left.
I’ve got something I need to get off my chest.”
“Sure... sure, Orange. Whatever you say.” Lemon moved closer
to the hospital bed and sat down. Orange paused and looked off into the
distance for a second, gathering his strength and his recollections.
“You remember Passion Fruit?” he said suddenly.
“Passion Fruit? Jeez, I dunno...” Lemon racked his brain.
“He was that bright pink guy. They decided to add him in
for... variety or something.”
“Oh yeah! He didn’t last long though. Just disappeared.”
“Hmph.” Orange grunted again. “Well, I remember when he
first joined. We had to do all those adverts for those kids, and he turned up
with this big grin on his face. Just pleased as punch. And I’m thinking ‘Oh,
no. Not one of these guys.’”
Lemon nodded understandingly. Only a classic flavour could
really understand what it was like when these new pastilles came through. Normally
far too sweet and gimmicky, here and gone within a year. He remembered his own
clashes with Lime, but at least there had always been respect involved. At
least Lime was citrus.
“I didn’t give him any kind of encouragement, but somehow he
latched onto me. Wanted to talk to me all the time, asking me what he should do
if a kid tried to eat him, how we should colour coordinate. That kinda stuff.
But I didn’t want nothing to do with him. I mean... Passion Fruit?” Lemon gave
a sympathetic shudder. Orange continued. “And that colour! Bright pink.
And, you know, he would try hugging and touching you all the time. The guy was
suspicious, that’s all. Suspicious.” He coughed, and a cloud of sugar sparkled
through the air. “So I thought ‘You won’t leave me alone? Fine.’ I asked him to
meet me in the Rowntrees Fruit Garden. Outside the greenhouse. Just
before midday.
“He turned up, asked me what it was all about. I shoved him
inside the greenhouse, locked the door. First, he was looking at me,
laughing. Asked me if this was a joke that got played on every Pastille.
But it was hot out. Soon he wasn’t laughing no more.”
Orange stared dead ahead for a second, his eyes unreadable.
“First he started complaining. Pretty soon he was
begging. Saying he’d do anything to be let out. He started banging on the
walls. He was starting to melt at that point, left these little streaks running
down the glass. Then, right at the end, he looked at me. And the light came
down through the ceiling, and it bounced, refracted somehow, came right through
him. Brighter than I could have imagined, this great, blinding light,
shifting and changing, a thousand different shades of pink like... like it was
his soul. And somehow, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Then he was gone. He slumped over on to the floor. Pretty
soon there was just a sticky patch in the middle of the greenhouse. The last of
his sugar caramelized in the sun. No-one ever figured out what happened to
him.”
“Don’t feel too bad about it,” urged Lemon. “I mean... come
on. Passion Fruit. No one would have liked him anyway.”
Orange closed his crusted eyes, leaned back. “Maybe. Maybe
not. Maybe he deserved the chance to find out. I don’t even know any more. But
I’m glad I got to tell it to someone.” He opened his eyes one last time and
looked at his friend. “Stay with me a while.”
Lemon stayed by his bedside for two hours as Orange’s breath
became more laboured. Suddenly, Orange lurched forward, grabbed Lemon’s hand so
tightly that impressions were left in the gelatine for weeks afterwards. “The
light!” He shouted. “The light!”
He fell back, and the nurses rushed in. Lemon stumbled into
the hallway, brushed the sugar crystals away from his hand where Orange had
taken it. He held it up between his face and the ceiling lamp, looking to see
if there was any luminescence shining through, any patterns of refraction in
his own depths. For a second he was mesmerized, and then broke out laughing.
What superstitious garbage!
One of the nurses came out of the room, her face grave.
“Mr. Lemon? I’m sorry but your friend...”
His laughter died immediately. “Yeah.” He said. “Yeah.
I know.”
SOURCE: N/A
STORY #2
CONTEXT:
The nerdiest of all, fighting game website tekken zaibatsu
had a guy post his list of the most popular fighting games in Japan, and within
that post getting extremely annoyed that another gentleman had questioned his
data, calling the other a “troll”. Excerpt:
I can't believe he dares question Amusement Journal's
accuracy considering it takes information from reportedly 50 arcades. I'm
shocked that he would suggest an old game like T6 would be more popular than
the current one in TTT2! I also think he is seriously too blinded by hate for
SSF4AE with that last statement!
How should I respond?
How should I respond?
Response:
TROLLSLAYER
Here is what you do.
Look up whoever this guy is on the internet. Search for his username, maybe get someone to trace his IP. Join any other forums he's on, search his user profile for his name. Once you have his name, look up his facebook id. Search it, and find out his location. Search his friends for those with unprotected info and try and extrapolate if you must, although this method is unreliable as the majority of his friends will be through the internet.
Take a plane ticket to wherever it is that he lives. When you arrive there, find a low paying, menial job and the cheapest apartment you can. Order the latest copy of Arcadia magazine. Whilst you wait for it to arrive, find The Troll. Find out where he lives, where he works (if anywhere). Learn the rhythms of his days.
When walking past him, casually drop your copy of Arcadia. As he notices it, asks him if he knows about the magazine. Engage him in conversation. You know, instinctively, that you must not be too gregarious or friendly, or risk scaring him away. It would, after all, scare you. Ensure you comment on how much better Arcadia is than Amusement Journal, how Nesicaxlive is a superior arcade format, and how terrible Streetfighter 4 is, even though you must grind your teeth and drive your nails into your palms until they bleed.
Wait a few days. Stake out his favourite fast food joint until he turns up, and greet him again. Say how you are new in town, if he knows any good arcades or cinemas around, or anywhere where you can get really good deals on electronic goods?
Become friends.
Wait until he invites you back to his place one day to view a rare Japanese import game. Look around as you come in, at the shoddy furnishings, the desolate pizza boxes and takeaway menus. Everything in the flat is transitory; a familiar, bleak asceticism. Only the tools of escape- the console; the wall of games; the widescreen TV- these are gleaming like new.
When he offers for you to sit down, decline. The butchers knife is awkward against your chest, warmed by your body heat. He starts rummaging around with his console, and laughs at some error with the cables, and you wonder whether you can really do this. After all, hasn't he become a friend? Perhaps even... your only real friend?
Excuse yourself and go to the bathroom. Splash cold water in your face. Stare into the mirror. Remember why you came here. Somehow, it is easier to build up the hatred whilst you are staring at your own face.
March out into the living room, and as he turns from the console, swing the knife into the side of his neck. Somehow you expect it to slide in smoothly, but the impact is infinitely more fibrous than you imagined, the celery twist and snap of muscle dragging at the handle as he turns his head to face you. The hot blood itches on your hand.
In his clouding eyes, you see... forgiveness? Anger? Understanding? Gratitude? You want none of it, and so you pull the knife out and strike again. And again.
And again, your experience of TV and films has lied to you. This is no effortless cycle of blow and retraction. The human body is layered with cunning strata of ligaments and tendons which pull at your blade, pockets of fat which the knife slips through with startling ease, bone which jars you to your teeth.
You are sweating with the unaccustomed exertion when you have finished. At some point, you started to cry. There is nothing in his eyes now. Bend down and dip your finger to the cooling blood soaking into the carpet, already becoming tacky to the touch.
Write on the wall with the blood:
"AMUSEMENT JOURNAL RULES!!
ARCADIA IS 4 FAGS!!!
NOOB: OWNED!"
Leave.
Look up whoever this guy is on the internet. Search for his username, maybe get someone to trace his IP. Join any other forums he's on, search his user profile for his name. Once you have his name, look up his facebook id. Search it, and find out his location. Search his friends for those with unprotected info and try and extrapolate if you must, although this method is unreliable as the majority of his friends will be through the internet.
Take a plane ticket to wherever it is that he lives. When you arrive there, find a low paying, menial job and the cheapest apartment you can. Order the latest copy of Arcadia magazine. Whilst you wait for it to arrive, find The Troll. Find out where he lives, where he works (if anywhere). Learn the rhythms of his days.
When walking past him, casually drop your copy of Arcadia. As he notices it, asks him if he knows about the magazine. Engage him in conversation. You know, instinctively, that you must not be too gregarious or friendly, or risk scaring him away. It would, after all, scare you. Ensure you comment on how much better Arcadia is than Amusement Journal, how Nesicaxlive is a superior arcade format, and how terrible Streetfighter 4 is, even though you must grind your teeth and drive your nails into your palms until they bleed.
Wait a few days. Stake out his favourite fast food joint until he turns up, and greet him again. Say how you are new in town, if he knows any good arcades or cinemas around, or anywhere where you can get really good deals on electronic goods?
Become friends.
Wait until he invites you back to his place one day to view a rare Japanese import game. Look around as you come in, at the shoddy furnishings, the desolate pizza boxes and takeaway menus. Everything in the flat is transitory; a familiar, bleak asceticism. Only the tools of escape- the console; the wall of games; the widescreen TV- these are gleaming like new.
When he offers for you to sit down, decline. The butchers knife is awkward against your chest, warmed by your body heat. He starts rummaging around with his console, and laughs at some error with the cables, and you wonder whether you can really do this. After all, hasn't he become a friend? Perhaps even... your only real friend?
Excuse yourself and go to the bathroom. Splash cold water in your face. Stare into the mirror. Remember why you came here. Somehow, it is easier to build up the hatred whilst you are staring at your own face.
March out into the living room, and as he turns from the console, swing the knife into the side of his neck. Somehow you expect it to slide in smoothly, but the impact is infinitely more fibrous than you imagined, the celery twist and snap of muscle dragging at the handle as he turns his head to face you. The hot blood itches on your hand.
In his clouding eyes, you see... forgiveness? Anger? Understanding? Gratitude? You want none of it, and so you pull the knife out and strike again. And again.
And again, your experience of TV and films has lied to you. This is no effortless cycle of blow and retraction. The human body is layered with cunning strata of ligaments and tendons which pull at your blade, pockets of fat which the knife slips through with startling ease, bone which jars you to your teeth.
You are sweating with the unaccustomed exertion when you have finished. At some point, you started to cry. There is nothing in his eyes now. Bend down and dip your finger to the cooling blood soaking into the carpet, already becoming tacky to the touch.
Write on the wall with the blood:
"AMUSEMENT JOURNAL RULES!!
ARCADIA IS 4 FAGS!!!
NOOB: OWNED!"
Leave.
STORY #3
CONTEXT:
Anderson Silva, the greatest mixed martial artist of all time, was brutally knocked out in his last fight by challenger Chris Weidman, after 245 consecutive defences and holding the title for 35 years. Before losing, he danced around, kissed his opponent etc. It was sort of funny, sort of sad.
As usual when a dominant champion is beaten, this caused an awful lot of denial. “He wasn’t trying” / “It was a fix” being two of the more dominant themes.
As alluded to, this kind of excuse-making is not exactly uncommon, and in fact there are several mixed martial artists for whom their fan-bases have made excuses so many times that the fighters in question have become memes.
The Hawaiian BJ Penn was famous for his lack of training before fights. Therefore, every time he lost it was because he wasn’t putting in the effort. Conversely, when he won, he clearly was trying. Thus, the invincible Motivated BJ was born. Similarly, Shogun Rua battled knee problems for years. Any loss could therefore be attributed to Healthy Shogun not showing up. Prime Cro Cop, Old Vitor, and on, and on.
THE NEW GOD:
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.
Once there was a man, and he smote and crushed all before him. In truth, he was known as the greatest warrior of his age. Yet in his heart, he knew that this was not enough. Through secret and strange channels he began to hear that there was something more, something above mere mortality, which could be achieved by one such as himself.
Thus it was that the man set his heart to becoming a god. He became diligent and wise, and learned of the path. He knew that first, there must be a sacrifice. He found a young warrior, and determined that he was able, and his heart was true. They met before a great crowd, and the man danced and cavorted in ways passed down, to ensure his road. He embraced the young warrior, as was right, and kissed him, knowing him to be the instrument of his godhood. And finally, it was done. He shook his shoulders in the final steps of his ceremony, and the young warrior smote him down, and brought a mighty blow upon the man in the cage which had become his sacrificial altar.
And as his earthly shell lay and the crowd roared, the godly essence of the man left and flew, leaving the world far behind. In the flutter of a heartbeat, time passed in days and years, yet he flew long and true until he came to the doors of a great Gym. He pushed open the door, and within there were all manner of warriors training for battle, some striking with their fists, others locked in seeming death-grips.
A handsome Brazilian, hair close-cropped, traded blows and further blows with a lantern-jawed warrior from Hawaii, and although each strike was yet light, the new god saw that it had the power of worlds. The Brazilian fighter looked up, and seeing the new god, and gave a dazzling smile. The new god was struck by the aura of healthfulness that radiated from him.
“Well met!” said the healthy one, but the Hawaiian shouted. “Come on, bro. Don’t stop, I want to keep training.”
The Brazilian shrugged and smiled again. “I am sorry.”
“He is very determined,” said the new god quietly. As he turned away, he noted the spring in the step of the Brazilian and the flexibility of his knees.
“He is indeed” said a voice, and the new god turned around. A Croatian with piercing eyes and a great aura stood before him. “I have been waiting for you to arrive. Welcome, my friend.”
“What is this place?” said the new god, wonderingly.
“This is the place where gods live. Those of us who have transcended and gained our true names.”
“True names… but I do not know my true name.” said the new god.
“You will. Here, we have achieved our potential. Here, we are all undefeated, and undefeatable.”
“But…” the new god was sorely confused. “What would happen if you fought… each other?”
“Truly?” The Croat’s eyes darkened. “That would be the end of all things. But if we did, one would cloak himself in his mortal flesh, and allow himself to be defeated. You too, will learn to do this.”
The new god realized that this was his destiny, to be part of this great pantheon, and as he did, his heart sang his name to him, his true name, the one which the faithful would know him by. He reached out his hand to the Croatian god, who gripped it tightly.
“Prime Cro Cop.”
“Prime Cro Cop.”
“Serious Anderson.”
