The Prodigal Blogger [short story by yours truly]

The monochromatic glow of the computer screen woke me from unsettling dreams in my plushy, black leather computer chair. My blog had racked four hits. To accentuate my geekiness I smiled and began typing a rant in Java script in the notebook window I had open. As my vision blurred I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I stretched back in my chair and pushed away from the computer table with my legs. There is something strangely freeing, alluring even, about sleeping in front of your computer screen in the nude.

I’ve always wanted to be famous. I suppose it wasn’t normal that Bill Gates was my idol, not because he had a shitload of money, either. Yeah, I was jeered at as a child, but I took it all in stride, because I knew I was better than them. The gargantuan boys who passed for high schoolers in fifth grade made fun of my glasses, but I always got the last laugh, moving up a grade and leaving them in my dust, or grabbing the attention of the new girl from Germany in middle school because she found me crying in the janitor’s closet.

Ahh, Anneliese, we dated all through high school. Went through all the high school mating rituals, I banged her in the back seat of my bad-ass Toyota Tercel. We were the real deal. I like telling that story when co-workers pull the “you’ve never been laid” shit. I conveniently forget the part where she meets Merrick, a dick-head Wiccan from Wales, and falls madly in love with him, and elopes to the South Island of New Zealand to set the souls of the Kiwis free. No. They wouldn’t believe me anyway.

I contemplated writing another blog. Perhaps a suicide scare, that would rack up hits. But I lost my nerve as an e-mail notice popped up on my start menu. Whatever I had been listening to had been good. I had the volume on my computer turned up so high that when the e-mail notifier sounded its catchy little jingle I had to cover my ears. “Shit!” I exclaimed to my empty apartment. Well, not empty, I had the company of millions of McDonalds bags, and empty take-out Chinese containers, as well as their complementary fortune cookie fortunes, all strewn about in this room, the only room I’ve ever really used.

With almost a sexual degree of accuracy I moved my mouse lightening speed to open the e-mail I had just received. I only had one new e-mail of note. Other than the millions of spam mail I receive a day from Microsoft, Apple, or porno sites, I don’t get much e-mail. I didn’t recognise the sender of this email. Hello, fckipodisapple… was the title. I closed my email taking the email as a desperate attempt to bug my computer by one of the guys at work. They all think that I’m up to something huge at home. What they don’t realise; my biggest accomplishment, is getting four hits on my blog.

I reopened the window with my blog and began typing gibberish into the text box. Maybe I’d even post it. Another e-mail notification popped up. “Fuck.” I yelled, as again the catchy tune assaulted my auditory system. This had better be some damn good porn… I thought as I opened my email, only to find another email from the mystery address. The subject of this one read, Save the Kiwis! Act Now!. I furrowed my brow quizzically, in a way that I knew said Celebrity contemplates the effects of global warming. I knew I hadn’t told any of the guys at work about the Anneliese and the Kiwis.

I hesitantly opened the e-mail. It consisted of one letter:

I

I knew someone had gotten me big time. I slammed my hand down so hard on my computer table that the slap reverberated throughout my apartment. Tim or Barry was probably at that very moment sifting through all my files with a virus they created. Geeks. I deleted the email and went back to my Java rant.

Again, I got a note that an email had arrived. I knew that it was from my virus protection software alerting me that my security had been breached. I was curious as to what level of virus they were able to pull past me, so I pulled up the window with my e-mail. An email from the same sender, microsoftblows, was sitting in my e-mail.

Do You Like Sequels?

I clicked on the email. One word emails really pissed me off.

read

I clicked reply, I wanted to end this shit once and for all. But an alert window popped up which read:
“No Reply Allowed To Sender”
It puzzled me. This person was sending me emails, but obviously he didn’t want to communicate. I pulled closer to my computer, I punched a few keys to try to locate his IP address which he was sending them from, when another email landed in my inbox.

Through the Looking Glass…

He knew that I was looking for his IP address. “Clever.” I whispered, a bit in awe that he knew, or perhaps just insanely lucky to send this subject while I was searching for his location. I hastily clicked the email.

your

I shook my head. I read your… What does it mean? A pop-up opened while I was going over possible scenarios in my head. I closed the pop-up which was trying to allure me into clicking to get a free I-pod. Ha ha, I got a free I-pod when I went to Apple to de-bug their system after their firewall was picked apart by some teen hacker. I also got a lot of ass and a fat bonus, but I won’t gloat.

Another email came. At this point, I was hooked, he had me hook, line, and sinker.

I’m Waiting…

Said the subject. “For what?” I asked my empty apartment. I opened the email.

blog.

He was waiting for my blog? No. Then I remembered the other emails. I read your blog. What they hell did that mean? Was it possible to get a stalker after just four hits on a weblog? I didn’t think so. I tried replying again and got the same result. Then, I decided to use the blog. I posted a hasty blog.

What do you want to tell me?

Literally a second after I posted this blog, I got an email. The subject was:

POST IT

But the email was empty when I opened it. I again tried fruitlessly to track the IP address. But I could not find one. It was as if he were not even sending the emails, I could not trace them.

Most people would be alarmed, but I was intriguied. It was a mystery and I was the main character. I didn’t know what he wanted me to post. I posted nothing. He was silent for a moment, I thought it was finished, and then:

I want the project…

I had no idea what that meant. It seemed so random. I wasn’t working on any projects at home or at work, my only project was my failed weblog. I scratched my ear and looked at the time. It was 6.45 AM.

Work soon, eh?

Said the subject of the next email. “What the fuck?” I said with disgust, awe, and anger mixed together to create a strange new tone. I was about to get up when another email plopped
into my inbox.

POST IT

Was the subject. I stood up and my computer screen went black as my entire system shut down on its own.
—-
I started and my head hit my monitor as I jerked awake. I had been dreaming. The sound of my email alert woke me. It was indeed 6.45. I decided to check my email just to be sure, before leaving for work. The only new email was a promotion from my favourite porn sight about Girls Gone Wild. I stood and weaved my way through scattered fast food remnants on my floor.

I didn’t post anything.
————————————————————
(That Same Day)

New York Times

:
35 year-old Joseph Murphy, computer programmer was killed today in a one car accident, when his Saab ran off the road and plowed into a bridge support on his way to work. The autopsy results show that he was not under the influence of any substance. His only possessions in his car when he died was one briefcase with one piece of paper in it. On the piece of paper was two words: “POST IT”.
Murphy is survived by no one. His only Eulogy will be given by himself, in a haunting weblog he posted the night before.

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~ by yellowdancerkikki on 10 April 2007.