Slacktory

angry boy

“Let Me Tell You” is a fiction series that makes you feel bad for the people you hate online.

You had a stressful day at work, and all you wanted to do when you got home was crack open a Tecate, load up Call of Duty, and blow off some steam by painting the walls with some random’s pixelated brains.

You joined a game and went on the hunt for a sniping spot. As you turned a corner, your screen flashed red and you were on the ground, the recipient of a nasty head wound. “Damn, that was fast”, you thought, as you waited for a respawn.

The second you rezzed, your avatar was again reduced to a crumpled heap. You watched while a player crouched repeatedly over your corpse’s face. You took note of his name, XxSniperXx, and dedicated the rest of the match to repeatedly fragging him.

The next time you spawned, you were barely able to take four steps before you were gibbed from behind with a knife. Your anger ratcheted up a few notches as xXSniperXx once again scraped his virtual nut-sack across your avatar’s nose.

You began verbally abusing your assailant. Normally, you don’t turn on your headset because the game is full of kids who become complete fuckwads when armed with microphones, left without parental oversight and shielded from real-world consequences by their broadband routers. This time, you made an exception.

The more you came after him, the more he taunted you. His shrill teenage laugh echoed in your speakers every time he fully steeped his balls on your head. Blind rage overpowered the more conservative centers of your brain, and you found yourself no longer able to control what came out of your mouth.

You hurled racial epithets at him, not knowing his race. He killed you and responded with the classic “you mad, bro?”. You insisted that you had biblical knowledge of his mother. He teabagged you and insinuated that you had similar knowledge of your own father. You threatened to come to his house and murder him. He wondered if you, whom he now dubbed “pedofag”, weren’t really just hoping you could corner him in his bedroom and taste his balls IRL, as it were.

You screamed things at him that you would never have dreamed of saying to another human being. Then again, this was no human being. This was an evil, faceless, shithead little presence in dire need of a good beating.

Stevie Johnston spent much of his day slinking along a carefully planned route between his classes. He took the corridors that offered the lowest probability of running into any of the dozens of jocks that want nothing more than to torment him. He kept his hoodie up and head down, playing an adolescent version of peek-a-boo where being seen results in getting tossed in a trash can.

He came home later than usual, hoping to skip the daily ritual of Mom killing off a sixer of St. Pauli Girl and throwing things at him before passing out. He entered through the garage and heard a Friends rerun on television. He recognized it as the “One Where The A-Story Could Never Happen In an Era of Cellphone Ubiquity.” It was a good sign. Syndicated 90s sitcoms were his mom’s Serenity Prayer. They were reminders of a time before she let some random guy convince her that vaginal latex allergies were common killers, and that he was looking out for her best interests by going au naturel. If Friends or Seinfeld were on TV, mom was usually asleep in front of it.

Stevie went to the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of Sugar Smacks for dinner, not wanting to risk using the microwave and waking the slumbering giant. He crept into his room, closed the door, and booted up his computer. XxSniperXx didn’t get bullied, he doled out the pain. XxSniperXx didn’t get laughed at by girls, he took what he wanted. XxSniperXx’s mom died in childbirth, because it was either him or her, and it’s always him.

By about the thirtieth time this kid squatted on your 32-bit face, your blood pressure was at an all-time high. Every time you spawned you would blindly fire in all directions, jumping and running as erratically as you could. Inevitably, you’d be dropped by a single shot to the head before you could reload. The words “reasonable” and “adult” no longer applied to you. The thought that you might quit the game and go find a more relaxing pursuit for the evening — something that would better prepare you to go back to the office tomorrow and deal with Debra, the bitch in HR that lost your vacation time — never entered your mind.

Lost in his virtual vengeance, Stevie beat you mercilessly, without regard for your feelings or the amount of noise he was making. After a long burst of profanity from you, he put a bullet in your skull and stood over you, demanding to know how salty his balls were. He was almost screaming it. You threw your headset against the wall, shattering it, just as his mom burst in, grabbed him by the shirt collar, and wrenched him from his chair. He crab-walked backward across his floor, screaming apologies as she advanced on him.

When you weren’t killed again immediately upon spawning, you went on the hunt. There, in the middle of an open field, was XxSniperXx. He just stood there. You were sure he was toying with you, and that pissed you off even more. You centered his forehead in your crosshairs and pulled the trigger. Your pyrrhic victory released you from your rage, and you exited the game feeling smug and morally superior.

See also: Let Me Tell You About That WoW Gold Seller Who Hacked Your Account; Let Me Tell You About That Spammer You Just Deleted

Copyright © 2014 My Damn Channel, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Designed in collaboration with Wondersauce.

Google+