Joe-Jack's Sock-Puppet Fans
Joe Jack Gnikatg was an awful human being.
Every day, he would run past me, pumping his little legs and stop at the gate of our school.
"I won!" He claimed. "I won! I beat you in the race! I won!"
"I wasn't running." I always retorted.
But that didn't matter. He felt he had won. Who was I to crush his fantasies?
At first I was amused by him, he was interesting enough to talk to. He loved
TV. There was this one show he absolutely adored about a drug dealer and every so often he'd wear the shirts and lend me the DVD's - always being sure to remind me that he was the 'bigger fan
' of the show.
So he won.
As we grew up, he started to mature. In appearance if not personality. He grew out his black hair so it sat in wavy curls atop his head and all about his chin was the tiny sprouts of a future beard.
As he changed his looks, he changed his friends. Soon he was smoking marijuana. And all he could do was talk about his TV show and the way he enjoyed getting high and watching the TV show whilst getting high.
I advised him against doing drugs. I told him it would f*ck him up.
"You're just not open minded." He snapped. "I'm far
more open minded than you
So, again, he won.
The years went by and we drifted apart somewhat, occasionally connecting via the internet. And whilst I had grown up, he had stayed the same. Same hair, same beard, same obsession with his meth dealing hero, same willingness to pollute his mind with drugs.
But then he said something that made me think he might have actually grown up.
I saw on his Facebook status that he had just published a book.
How about that?! I felt happy for the guy, finally he was growing up and moving out of his comfort zone.
I e-mailed him, sending him my congratulations and asking about the story.
"It's about doing drugs." He wrote, his words jumbled and poorly crafted. "And it's about a drug dealer."
That was weird. It sounded just like that television show he enjoyed. Just like the videogames he played with such compulsive vigour.
But he assured me that he was a real writer and he even had real
fans. They were coming by his house later on and I was welcome to join in.
"I'd be honoured." I replied and prepared to leave.
I arrived at his house and was met by his Mother. God, she was a piece of ass. Age had not ravaged her beauty like that of Tom Jones but merely heightened it, like that of Emma Watson - without the blood-drinking, of course.
I made my way down to the basement to where my friend was and saw a circle of chairs. He was in the middle, and apart from a fat guy in glasses, they were all empty.
"Come in, come in!" He smiled. "There's not much room but you can stand in the corner, if you want."
I complied and watched silently, waiting for him to read some of his book.
But instead, he took out a laptop. It turned out he hadn't published anything, he had just posted a story on the internet.
"But more people like my
story than your
story!" He bitched. So he won.
But I didn't write a story.
And, beyond that, I was curious to hear about these "people" who enjoyed his work.
When I asked him about this, he became defensive. It wasn't until I raised my voice that he relented and agreed to 'introduce' me to his 'fans'.
He reached inside his trousers, pulled out a sock, put it on his hand and started chatting with it.
"Your story's great." Said the sock.
"Thank you, it is great, isn't it?" He replied.
"Yes," the sock responded, "you've got real talent."
I cut him off here and shook my head in disgust.
"I've got more socks." He whimpered, but now I was pissed and there was nothing to stop me from revealing what I truly thought of him.
"You're not a writer," I began "you're a c*nt. You're a whiny, attention seeking c*nt. You think you're so much better than me and whilst you smile through your teeth and feign humility, it's pretty f*cking clear just what an unhappy, empty person you are. You're not a writer, you're not even close
to being a writer. And if you were
, you'd kill yourself in a week - tops. Because you are completely f*cking incapable of taking any kind of criticism without responding with insults or childish justifications for why you f*cking suck, which you f*cking well do. You're a loser, you're a complete f*cking loser and you're a bigger loser for claiming that you're a winner. Now, what I'm going to do next is walk up those stairs, take your Mother out for a nice meal, bring her back to a sleazy hotel room and f*ck her brains out, then
I'm going to let her come back here, wait a few weeks and send her a letter confessing that I have syphilis."
I spat in his face and walked up the stairs.
"You also f*ck other men." I added, leaving his basement for the very last time.
As I sit here now, recounting this story to you years later - my mind wasted away by my degenerative orgy of sexually transmitted infections, I feel a great sense of remorse. For both the things I did and the things I didn't do.
But mostly I feel regret at f*cking Joe Jack Gnikatg's Mother, because she was a poor lay and raised a dipsh*t cocksucker of a son.
Still, considering I saw him on a street corner a few months ago, bragging that he would let men defecate on his face for $5 an hour, I think I got off pretty easily.
In fact, you could even say that I won.
Edited by Typhus, 27 February 2013 - 08:33 AM.