There is a fed on my screen.

Every day, I see him spewing his screeds. Down here in the basement, I try to escape the “real” world. I bitch, my friends bitch, we bitch at strangers, they bitch at us.

We bitch about the SJWs.

We bitch about the feminists.

We bitch about Black Lives Matter.

We bitch about neocons and neolibs.

We bitch about employers, corporations, political correctness, academicians, purple-haired pussy-eaters, CNN, and Chad and Stacy.

We bitch, bitch, bitch.

Sometimes we trade stories and compare notes. We think it’s productive.

But there is this fuckstain Uber-Nazi. He talks like he manned the Atlantic Wall and fought the Red Army while whipping a negro in the antebellum South as he sipped a mint julep.

He flits about sporting a disguised swastika, blames the Jews and the niggers. In every thread and post telling us to take a stand. He strains the eyes with images of black, red, and white. We ignore, he goes away, sometimes. Or one of his friends picks up where Uber-Nazi left off, except this guy is throwing transgendered Marxist activist hippie babies out of helicopters while singlehandedly repopulating the white race.

“Hey man, we just want to bitch and have a laugh.”

He calls us “faggots,” “pussies,” and “losers.”

My dad calls me a loser, women call me a loser, Rush Limbaugh, Don Lemon, and Billy Bob call me a loser. What me, care?

I hit the block button he stalks me from group to group, post to post, calling me a loser. I’m jerking it to big titty blonde porn and as I am about to cream supreme, I get a Messenger notification: Uber-Nazi calling me a loser. My dick deflates, my hands smelling like lotion.

Lately, Uber-Nazi is taking a run at my friend, Kyle. Kyle likes to tell me, “Man, you’re a hard drinker, but I’m an alcoholic.” To explain his problem. Kyle starts his day with whiskey in his Wheaties and finishes his night puking five-dollar rum and cokes in some alleyway.

Kyle has a fucking problem.

A real fucking problem.

It’s why, even though we grew up together in the same city, I never socialize with him except online. I hate going out and I hate getting arrested.

Kyle is drinking more than usual. He lost his job, again. He rants about his boss, about the affirmative action niggers and the soyboy faggot hipsters. And how the Jews are behind it all. Kyle wants to kick some ass. One night he gets into a fight with some gangbangers and they kick his ass.

He posts photos of his bruised and bloody face on Facebook.

Uber-Nazi tells Kyle to pull a Timothy McVeigh. Uber-Nazi works on him constantly: “Go out in a blaze of glory, pussy.”

Kyle confesses to me he thinks it is time to do something: his life is pointless, his parents hate him, he hates his parents. Kyle has nothing worthwhile to post on Fakebook. He blasts off into wall-of-text rants. I swear I never knew the guy knew so many derogatory slurs.


A week passes and no one hears from Kyle. It wears on me; I always hear from Kyle at least every other day. Kyle has posting diarrhea. I try texting him; nothing. I try calling; straight to voicemail. I nut up and drive across the city to his apartment.

It is a pleasant fall day, the kind you looked forward to as a kid in anticipation of Halloween, or in college when the final run at chasing girls is about to begin. But as I stood there knocking on Kyle’s door, I had a sinking feeling. Looking at the drawn blinds, it struck me as if his apartment was empty.

I stood there staring at the living room window listening to the dry leaves rustling in the wind when I heard, “Can I help you?”

The voice belonged to an old woman dressed in a housecoat standing in the doorway of the apartment directly across from Kyle’s.

She repeats her question, “Can I help you young man?”

I snap out of my fugue, “Um, yeah, I was wondering if you knew about the guy who lives here, Kyle?”

He face goes slack and a sympathetic look comes to her eyes, “I’m sorry, he was such a nice young man. Quiet, but always said ‘good morning’ and willing to help an old lady carry her groceries. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he died last Sunday. Alcohol poisoning. His parents were coming to visit. I got the impression he wasn’t on speaking terms with them. So sad. I’m sorry.”

I look up at the clear blue sky trying to hold back tears, trying to process it. “Are you sure?”

She tells me, “Yes, I’m sorry. The funeral’s this weekend. Do you want his parents’ number? They left it with me.”

I say, “No, I have it already. Thanks. I, um, I just need to go, to walk for a bit. Thanks.”

“Again, I am so sorry. I’ll pray for him and you. God bless.”

I don’t walk. I hop in my car and start driving. I roll with the flow of traffic, on surface streets until they turn into highway. I am not sure where I am going yet. I know I’m heading north, out to the ‘burbs where we grew up. Twenty goddamn fucking years I’ve known Kyle. Knew, I mean: I knew him since grade school. Past the swaying palm trees and California oaks lining the sidewalks. Late afternoon sun cuts through what is left of the smog in bright orange and red hues. I stop at our old grade school, its red brick facade quiet now, no one around. I sit in the parking lot a minute. Not here; I can’t stand to be here right now.

I head down the block and pull into a small park. The playground is abandoned, so I sit on a picnic table and look around thinking. Thinking about how we used to ride our bikes home through here. The summers spent hanging out, eyeing the girls in high school, sharing a 40 with our friends. We couldn’t wait for the future, when we had our own cars, went off to college, got girlfriends, freedom, all that shit movies sold us on what being grown up was going to be like.

The shadows grow long and the wind picks up with the coming night; the sky deepens from reds to purples until the street lights come on. I shift my ass and head home to my crap midtown basement studio apartment.

I stop at an Ampm and pick up Steel Reserve; a case worth. The harsh tang lasts for the first two cans before I get into it. I fire up both of my laptops.

Two hours later, I am ready to roll. I log into Fakebook.

I shoot Uber-Nazi a message.

“Hey, Nazi boy, you awake?”

“Yeah. Whats up pussy?”

“Figured. Good. We need to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

I answer, “About why your mother’s asshole tastes like Sambo cock.” And I shoot him a GIF of the most degrading Blacked gangbang porn I could find.

“Man fuck u. Just cuz you ain’t getting any.”

“As opposed to the wife you claim to be making Aryan babies with. Right. Married men don’t get ass. But back to the topic at hand: your mother charges too much for her skanky ass, plus you need to tell her to use more toilet paper. Like the whole fucking roll for her fat dumpy white ass.”

“Stop with the mother talk. And just admit your gay for nigger dick.”

“It’s ‘you’re,’ dipshit.”

“Whatever punk. You’re shit doesn’t affect me. A punk just like your friend.”

I fire off some shit porn GIFs, like 25 of them as he types. I crack my seventh Steel Reserve, laughing like a giddy schoolgirl.


I answer, “Okay, man, sorry, I am just fucked up. Kyle’s dead. He liked you.”

“Dude, so sorry. I mean I really am.”

“I am just glad you are here to put up with my shit. You always tell the truth, and you are always there…like…all…the…fucking…time.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re supposed to be in Bulgaria or some shit. What is it? Four in the fucking morning there?”

No answer.

“I mean your English has no indication of those grammar slips that non-natives tend to make. Who are you? I mean, c’mon, you can tell me. I’m just some drunk fuckup loser who only knows other drunk fuckup losers. You’ve said so many times.”

“You’re fucking delusional. Call it night, or go out and get laid with like a chick. Maye then you’ll start acting like a man.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Pussy sounds good.” I light him up with some chick getting vapor-locked by three trannies.


I log out of my regular Facebook account and log into a new one I made earlier with a nice profile pic of an SS trooper and some vaporwave fashy background. I send Uber-Nazi a message request.

“We’re not done.”

“Yeah we are.”

Blocked again.

I login into another account and send another dozen gifs of Tubgirl. I repeat the process five more times. Each time, Uber-Nazi blocks me until I run out of avenues of attack. I’ve almost made my point. Almost.

I drink more, letting out more bursts of maniacal laughter. I listen to tunes I haven’t listened to in about a decade while dancing by myself. I try to remember the last time Kyle and I hung out. I shoot off a message to a couple of old girlfriends. I drunk search for people I knew in high school. I try to remember the last time Kyle and I spoke in person. I shave my head into a mohawk. I ramble to myself, “We’re all in the mood for a melody…”

I have a plan.

Such an amazing plan!

I grab three more Steel Reserves, get in the car, and head to downtown.

On the way, I stop at Ampm again. I wander the familiar aisles, enjoy looking at the Playboys, even though they took the nudes out. I start to miss 90’s fake tits and dyed blonde hair. I spend five minutes flipping through the latest Guns and Ammo; how many different fucking ways can they repackage the 1911? I nod over an advertisement for some Special Forces style AR15 M4 clone, “buy this gun and pretend to be a Recon Marine, Navy Seal, Army Ranger, Eagle Scout” or some shit. Be all you can be, waste a camel jockey, and get laid for democracy.

The Hindu clerk starts to get antsy watching me, so I buy a couple of hot dogs, coffee, ten taquitos, a four pack of Red Bull, and some little square chocolate pills.

As I leave, I throw him a wink, extending my thumb and pinky from my fist with a wiggle and say, “Surf the Kali-Yuga, brah!”

I get a look of incomprehension as I leave.

I cruise downtown’s avenues drinking a beer and eating my greasy gas station food.

4:30 AM.

I kill time listening to Coast to Coast AM. The world would be a better place if we could all believe in aliens and extradimensional conspiracies, I think. I know the answer to David Paulides’ Missing 411 and why people disappear in the national parks. Once they get into the woods, they realize how much society sucks, so in a fit of pique they get worked up and vaporize with angst.

I park on a side street as George Noory finishes up with some piece on psychic infants. Good: I wish I could see the future when I was in diapers so I wouldn’t have been so disappointed at what a crock of shit life is.

The first shafts of the sun’s light lance through the buildings as I kill time stuffing my face.

The rush hour begins. I prime myself with the Red Bulls and wash down five little chocolate pills.

I get out, pocket beer ready to go, and stumble down the boulevard; the world spins and I have to constantly stifle my laughter. I bump into suits. I hold it in until I get to my destination.

The bubbling and rumbling from sternum to rectum comes in shorter and shorter waves. A pressure like a gopher on steroids hammers at my asshole.

I stumble up the stairs to the Federal Building.

I crack my beer and start chugging, suits giving me a “who the fuck does this guy think he is look.”
I, me motherfuckers, the grand ultimate dick plowing through your little world throwing out undulating waves of awesomeness to make your wives’ thigh quiver with pleasure, I think.

At the landing, I undo the drawstring to my sweatpants, turn about, and drop them to my ankles before letting loose with my bowels. I never knew the human body could propel feces with such force. I am readying to push with all my might, an unnecessary effort as the torrential cascade of slushy ass loaf practically bolts from my anus with little prodding.

And as the liquid Ex-Lax-powered stream of shit splatters all over my ankles, I bellow out:

When I come to, I am handcuffed to a hospital bed with a pounding headache.

There is a fed in my face.