Rills of cum poured over his fist. Travis did not stop. He pounded his cock harder, fist clenched in a seizure of rage and frustration. His eyes blurred and focused intent from behind the steering wheel of his silver 2013 Toyota Camry. Eyes bored into the Nubian queen jogging 50 yards away in the dusk, plump round ass bouncing in time with the cadence of her neon pink-and-orange shoes accelerating away from him.

It’s been a day.

One final long hard spurt of watery goo and a pelvic-shaking shudder signaled that testicular exhaustion.

“No more!” his prostate screamed.

Snapped back to reality, Travis unclenched his fist with a wet sucking sound.

Travis scanned around.

“Good. Good. Motherfuckers ain’t going to catch me. They can’t catch me,” he said to the empty car, chuckling at the load of man-seed covering his right hand. With his left hand, he awkwardly stuffed his white worm back into his trousers.

Tissues and hand sanitizer he used in liberal quantities.

“Oh, Janice, you won’t like the mess I left in MY car. But fuck you,” Travis said to the puddle of joy juice on the floor mat.

He burned rubber tearing out of the riverside park.

Travis exited onto I-95 pumped full of hormonal energy, like a teenager who just scored with the school slut.

He giggled.

Travis felt good, way good. He cruised the highways of NoVA for an hour past Potomac Mills, back to Alexandria. He wondered at the copacetic orderliness of it all.

A far cry from Modesto.

“Glad I made it out of that shithole,” he sniggered and turned up Madonna moaning “Like a Virgin.”

He knew Janice was asleep and wished to keep it that way.

Furtively, he rushed to his front door from the driveway. Silently, he slipped inside.

He muttered to himself, “Meet Travis Russo, 34, married, half of a DINK couple. The other half is a human shrew with fake tits. He is a Navy veteran, graduate of UC Davis, and successfully employed federal contractor.”

Travis kept repeating this mantra to himself as a reminder.

Firing up his MacBook Pro, he saw the Cyber Zolutions notification icon.

“Five unread messages.”

He rubbed his brow and groaned. Logging in, he read the first email: “Travis, where have you been all day—”

He moved on the next one: “Travis, you haven’t been logging your daily reports, please get with me in regards to this immediately—”

And on.

“A communications degree and MBA for this shit,” he muttered.

He decided to do something enjoyable: his work.

In his queue was a ticket for some Twitter shitposting. He summoned his inner angst-riddled 16-year-old self, before he joined the Navy, before he went to college, back when he was a geeky loser.

A man in a skull-faced balaclava greeted him, his avatar as “k!lla_huwhyte_g0y.” Travis slipped into this alien persona and saw what his little online clique was up to.

Tim Wise was in the middle of a Tweetstorm that had set off everyone, from wignats to groypers to the catboys and the MAGApedes.

He spat out a few one-liners like:

“Fuck YOU and your REPARATIONS!”


“The BOOGALOO is getting closer folks.”

He also re-Tweeted some “racially conscious” accounts to fill out his seven-tweet quota for the day. Then he read through the action on Wise’s account and interjected with Holocaust memes from Patrick Little’s website.

Wise responded to one of Travis’ needling tweets with vitriol about white people.

Travis typed up, “oh look the little special person acts like he is anything but a bigot wunder hwo many black dudes hes fukd”.

Wise responded, “It’s lots of fun actually…more so than talking to an idiot who sucked off everyone of his mom’s bfs”.

“LOL! Sure thing smart guy”.

Another Twitter user piped in, “Honestly any white person (not Jewish of course) who doesn’t hate their horrible history needs to be locked and submitted to public ridicule and lose their jobs.”

Travis went full wignat radical, “Listen you jewboi fucker maybe theres an oven for yuo in the future”.

Travis continued to type out thinly-veiled threats, keeping just on the line, but for which anyone else would get them banned and bring the authorities to their door.

But not Travis, in his capacity at Cyber Zolutions.

Two hours later, Travis was still going at it when he noticed the smell of dried cum coming from his crotch.

4 a.m. and no one else had taken his bait to spout off.

He rubbed his eyes and stripped out of his clothes and showered up for a few hours of sleep.


Janice was gone by the time Travis woke at half past ten, gone and off to her clerical job with the VSP.

“Down there at the state police barracks, enjoying all the attention from those hard-assed cops,” Travis muttered as he brewed his morning coffee.

Two years after they were married was when she wanted implants all of a sudden. Gave the excuse, “I’m turning 30 and want to feel sexy for you.” Yeah, she fucked his brains out until he forked over cash. Now she strutted her D-cups around work and he got the occasional ten-minute chump pump once every other month.

“Ain’t married life grand? Especially when your boss wants to fuck your wife.”

He looked at the photos of their wedding day on the mantel, back when she was so excited to reach that milestone. She was a regular wild redheaded slut for the first year of marriage, but then the affection and wild fucking stopped when she saw his career stagnate.

“The money’s good, but no social climbing red-haired tart wants to brag about her keyboard jockey husband. Never mind that I am stopping the greatest threat to modern American democracy. Never mind that I am helping keep Cheeto Jesus and his dumbfuck followers in the sights of those staties you so admire, Janice.”

Travis slammed his coffee mug on the counter.

He logged back in through Cyber Zolutions’ portal. His boss had left a priority message, “CALL ME NOW.”

Travis rang the office. Mr. Foster, his boss, picked up on the second ring. He was lectured to.

“Listen, sir, I can’t do anything more than what I’ve been doing for the last six years. These ‘dissidents’ aren’t taking the bait as readily anymore.”

He paused, drinking his coffee as Mr. Foster laid into him.

“Well, sir, I stopped sending in reports because after my observations were disregarded, I just couldn’t keep typing up ‘no activity.’ I’m beginning to think the only people I am talking to are liberals and other contractors.”

Travis listened again, musing, “This coffee could use some more cream, just as I am sure you wouldn’t mind putting more of your cream in Janice.”

“I am trying, sir. Has Mr. Clede considered my proposal to move on to Frog Twitter?” He sipped his coffee. “It will just take some time and observation. They tend to be more nuanced and beef with the wignats a lot—”

He has to pull the phone from his ear as Foster shouts at him. Accusations of being a lazy millennial and “what the fuck is a fucking wignat!” blared through the phone speaker.

“Alright, sir, I’ll get those reports to you by the end of the day.”


She went out with her girlfriends after work.

His tepid reports written up.

“Fine. I got research to do.”

He wasn’t sure when her infidelities stopped bothering him.

Travis found his way to Kantbot’s Twitter and followed the developing threads. Going into the zone, he absorbed all he could, taking notes, surfing the profiles of re-Tweeters and commenters.

By mid-afternoon, Travis had started putting a dash of brandy in his coffee. It made Bronze Age Pervert prophetic. Travis had been watching this particular wacko for weeks. The rolling musical cadence of the Tweets embedded themselves into his brain. Day after day, when he should have been filing reports, images of muscled-out men on tropical beaches and ancient Aegean pirates haunted Travis’ waking dreams.

“SUBMIT!” he shouted into the empty office.

Travis eyed up his twelve-inch biceps. “Maybe I should dust off the Bowflex.”

He finds profiles like ϟHØØTΣR funny and disturbing.

“This little shitstain has a good punk sound,” Travis said as his downed another cup of “coffee” that was just coffee-flavored brandy and listened to “Scott Pilgrim vs. the World Ruined a Whole Generation of Women.”

“Fucking Ramona Flowers. B-Pee-D, that’s why I let Janice fuck ‘round. Rather not deal with her drama.”

He gave up working when he discovered Red Scare and Anna Khachiyan. Travis got sucked into Anna’s hot skinny-thicc fashion soft porn. Three hours later, no Janice; no more brandy, either. Just Anna’s vocal fry on Red Scare entrancing him.

Of its own accord, his hand strokes it to the semi-androgynous siren of the dirtbag left.


Travis hopped in his car, disappearing into the endless flow of I-95 while propped up on Adderall. He flowed with the deepening night northward. “My fucking life down to this: false-shepherding rejects so the boys down at the J. Edgar Hoover can snap them up. The ‘real cops,’ like Janice said. Well, bitch, it wasn’t my fault that fat balding shithead shot up those black kids. I tagged and flagged him, I forwarded the reports, I did my duty rooty tooty. Motherfucking Bureau fucking owned that cock up!” Travis slur-shouted at the windshield over the radio. “They fucked up! I did what I’s supposed to: work shim up, mades seem like he wasn’t alone in his sick, sorry-ass delusions. They had thes info, but they fucked up royal, they waited too fucking long to ‘make the case!’ Yeah, they fucking made the case, the guy is waiting to get the fucking needle. Commendations, promotions for the monkey suit squad!”

His face flushed crimson in rage and frustration as he pounded the steering wheel.

“I shoulds have dropped a dime to the local cops. I should’ve, then those six kids still be alive. Instead, I took it, kept that money comin’ for my whore cucking wife. Parents proud, guys I grew up with jealous.”


Somewhere in New Jersey, he picked up two bottles of Thunderbird to keep him company as he pulled into the Big Apple during the graveyard shift, singing at the top of his lungs, “She saw Ramona Flowers and felt so empowered…”

Hangover headache returned to alcoholic blitz. He popped two more Adderall.

“The city that never sleeps,” he said as he dipped off into Manhattan.

He left his Camry in front of the Chrysler Building and began to wander.

With a purpose. He looked at the human wreckage gathered around Madison Square, at the twentysomething girls high on life, too cool to care.

“I’d still hit it if I could,” Travis sung when his bladder cut loose in his pants.



Anna Khachiyan turned to see a bleary-eyed man in jeans and a solid black T-shirt swaying while clutching a paper bag to his chest. Freed from the obligation to sign for Amazon packages, she was considering a walk to Starbucks, then a trip over to Sephora.

All that was interrupted by an out-of-towner with no fashion sense.

“Do I know you, dude?”

He took a swig from his bagged bottle and laughed. “No, but you’ve been talking to some bad, bad people online.”

“Are you some LARPing retard loser?”

He pitched the bottle into the sidewalk and shouted, “YOU…MUST…SUBMIT! Come with me to the Caribbean and bear my many, many children!”

Anna, being nonplussed, said, “But you’re not Joe Rogan with hair,” and broke into a run as fast as her white leather go-go fashion boots would allow her.

“JEWBITCH, STOP, I SPEAK TO YOU!” Travis roared after her, stripping off his shirt, flashing his dadbod torso in all its pasty glory.

His fists raised in imitation of a Vallejo-esque barbarian, he cried out in between huffs, “Your. Jewgold. Give. It. To. ME.”

Anna outpaced him, shouting over her shoulder, “I’m Persian-Armenian, dipshit!”

Sour sweat broke out over Travis’ body and, pushing harder, he lunged and caught Anna’s foot in his paw. They tumbled to the pavement; a foul odor cut the air as his bowels loosened from the effort.

Anna screamed, “Help! This piss-soaked freak just shit himself and is ruining my adorable puff-sleaved blouse!”

“Shut up, kikenvermin! No one needs your hot takes!” Travis growled as Anna stomped him in the face with a powerful heel kick.

Travis yelped, “Blag!”

People on the street were staring now, unsure as to whether this was some weird street performance.

Anna climbed to her feet and took off again, putting those hours in the gym to good use. Travis lurched forward trying to roar like a lion. The roar came out as a strangled caw. The shit sloshing in his briefs drove his fury to a pitch.

“You must SUBMIT!”

“Sailor Socialist, save me!” Anna shrieked as she rounded a corner and disappeared.

Travis cawed again and clawed at the air in inarticulate rage. He whipped off his pants and rooted through his soiled drawers, rubbing shit on his balding head, streaking it down his face and chest like war paint.

“Frens, fellow frogs, join me in cleanzing dis bugman cesspool!” Travis called out to the gathering crowd of onlookers.


Needless to say, New York City’s finest were none too impressed when they tazed and shackled his ass for a trip to Bellevue. Cyber Zolutions would only confirm that Travis was indeed an employee and was having marital and work problems preceding a mental breakdown.

The ladies had a podcast about how nude fascist bodybuilders need to work on their personal hygiene.


A month later, Travis was zoned out in his holding cell. Looking out his window, he paid no notice when the cell door opened.

“Mr. Travis, I’m Mr. Clede.”

Travis turned and smiled. He was never seen again.