A night wind howls over a shallow grave in Twittermoor Cemetery, blowing away the dry pebbly dirt to reveal tortoiseshell eyeglass frames.
Something metallic is glinting in the light of the full moon -- a sugar-free Red Bull can.
Double-H cup tits punch through the earth, grab onto the ground around them, and hoist the rest of a five-foot frame out of its cancel-casket.
Now showing, on mini-screens everywhere...
"Didja think I was gonna take my permaban lyin' down, ya jannie cunts?"
When she burns you online, your balls disappear in real life...
Matt Christman is rambling in a livestream about the dialectics of masturbation in the age of covid lockdowns, when he spies a dreaded username flash across the side of the screen.
"Oh great, that deranged Australian woman has entered the chat," he complains while rolling his eyes, and prepares his lungs for an impromptu diatribe.
Suddenly, a bark-encrusted beam of solid oak breaks through his iPhone, impaling him instantly, while dono-blood pours slowly from his mouth. As his gaze puzzles over the tree trunk plunging into his chest, a sing-song hummingbird voice plays over the TTS:
"It was about time for that guy to... log off."
No poster is safe...
"You know you love to hate-scroll me!"
A Spectre Haunting Left Street, Part 4/20: Aimee Lives
* * *
That's right, she's gotten her original account restored, complete with the iconic Red Bull avatar. God bless her guardian angels in what is otherwise the Hell of Silicon Valley.
We all know she's a sweetie, not a horror movie monster. But it's hilarious how her bugmen nemesis-posters view her as a dire, unstoppable threat like a slasher flick killer who can never be fully put to death.
Not only because it shows how thin-skinned and flimsy-minded they are, but because they're meme-ing her into some larger-than-online-life persona who all the cool kids are going to become fascinated by. Nobody wants to dress up as the victims of a slasher movie -- they want to emulate Jason and Freddie.
Their whole anti-Aimee discourse is rather like Wes Craven's New Nightmare, where merely fabricating a narrative for storytelling purposes actually brings its monster to life, crossing over from the narrative realm into the real-life realm to wreak havoc on its narrative creators.
Who said that "online isn't real"? Heh heh heh...