You’re not Getting Off That Easily

This is part of a new thing I’m doing where people pay me $3 to write them a short story based off of a sentence or word. This one was $15 You can also get one of these here

April 22nd,  2133. 4:13pm

You know, I could get a better job. I don’t have to be the Social Media Respondent for Vladimir Putin. Or “Cyber Putin” as the kids are calling him these days. Yet here I am. Working tirelessly to inform the Great Awakened Saint of the North of whenever someone @’s him on Twitter. Sometimes my job just involves pushing the like button and moving on. Other days a few retweets. But on the worst days when, “The Trolls come out to play” as he puts it, my job is very difficult.

Today was one of those days.

I stood outside the large intimidating oak doors of The Saint’s office and knocked.

“Come in,” a long gravelly voice said.

The door then opened and I entered. A massive golden throne faced away from me, looking at a fake window. It slowly turned around to reveal someone that was more machine than man. Vladimir Putin. 181 years of life will start to make your body rot. From the chin down he was entirely robotic. Black whirring gears and hisses of air came from him constantly.

“Your excellency, I have a tweet.”

Cyber-Putin looked down towards me, his head held high to give some sort of aura of pride. I was not fooled.

“Read it.”

I looked down at my tablet again and took a deep breath, “David aka FAP aka Thick Dick Mikowski on twitter has quote tweeted your statement on how the nation is rising positively in terms of worker happiness with ‘Suck my dick, you sanctimonious bastard. You’re a disgrace to our country, and a lazy fatass who’s too old fashioned to get a job. Kill yourself.  I hope you die while choking on your perfect latte’s in your perfect house filled with anyone who wants to kiss your ass.”

I saw him nod thoughtfully as he looked wistfully into the corner of the room, “And have you reported it?”

“Yes Your Excellency.” I responded.

“And what did they say?”

“That it doesn’t break their terms of service your excellency. Should I ignore it? Or just send the assassins after his ip address?”

Putin shook his head, “No. Let’s reply to this tweet. Show him that I am not to be trifled with. That I am not a man who will be insulted easily.”

I tried to hide my disappointment. Great. “What should I reply with Your Excellency?”

I saw Putin’s mouth twist up into a grin, “Say these words exactly. ‘Your country is disappointed in you. Your parents are disappointed in you. I am disappointed in you. You can do better than this. You need to do better than this. Embrace the failure that you are and give yourself to the state. You need to give yourself to the state and become the”

“Sir that’s over the character limit. Twitter only allows 280 characters.”

I saw Putin scowl at me and then wave his hand dismissively, “Bah! Leave me be. I will summon you then when I am ready for my response.

“Absolutely your excellency. May your shining wisdom light the path to Prosperity” I left the room without turning away from him as customary and the doors shut behind me.

It was going to be a long night.

April 23rd, 2133. 2:03 am.

I was awoken by a loud knock at my door. The door soon opened. I groaned audibly.

“Richard Maltese. The Great Awakened Saint of the North, His Excellency, Vladimir Putin, wishes to see you.”

I kicked off the covers, already dressed underneath, “Dude, you know you don’t have to use that when he’s not around. I’m not going to report you.”

The man looked unfazed. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, “Cool. Be a statue then.” I grabbed the Tablet and walked hazily towards the “Throne room”

This was a near weekly occurrence.

I knocked on the door and it came open easily, “Uh, Your Excellency?”

Crumpled up pieces of paper decorated the floor around his golden throne. He turned in the chair towards me clutching a piece of paper.

“Come Closer Dick.”

“Please don’t call me that Your Excellency.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see a few of Cyber Putin’s attempts, littered with reasons as to why they were garbage. “Too long.” “not fierce enough” “Not enough force.”

“I have devised the perfect retort Dick.”

“Your Excellency, 8 hours have passed since the tweet was made. If we reply now we’ll look desperate.”

“Yes yes I understand. I factored that into this response. Now reply this and this only. ‘You fool. You complete and utter buffoon. Know ye not who you are dealing with. I took my time to craft this reply to make you understand just how unfortunate of a life you live. Delete this or the full FIRE AND FURY will rain down upon you. Mark my words David, I’m not a toy. :)”

I slowly typed out his response and hit send, I saw a notification appear on my multitool. I dismissed it. “It is done your Excellency.”

He chuckled slowly, “Good. Good. Surely this tweet will earn me the respect I deserve. This will make David aka FAP aka Thick Dick Mikowski tremble in fear.”

“I’m sure he will your Excellency. Also, Mimilia Bernard, the president of The Ordered City of Holybranch quote tweeted the initial tweet with ‘Well Said. The world could use more people like you’”

I saw Putin do that thing again where he looks up into the corner wistfully, as in deep in thought, “retweet it. And also give it a like. And then like a few more of their tweets so it looks like we’re not targeting that one specifically.”

I scrolled through Mimillia’s feed, “It appears that there is a video of their cat jumping into boxes and also a meme about how Holybranch only produces Black and white films now.”

I saw him chuckle, “The cat video will suffice. You are dismissed Dick.”

“Please don’t call me Dick.”

April 23rd, 2133, 2:15 am

As soon as I got back to my chambers I pulled up the Twitter app on my own personal multitool and activated gps scrambling. There was a notification and then hundreds. Thousands. Likes poured in, retweets galore. And then the replies came in. How I didn’t understand Putin. That Putin was playing four dimensional chess while we were all stuck on two dimensions.

None of this mattered. I didn’t care about any of this. Because I had a secret. I was David aka FAP aka Thick Dick Mikowski.

My fingers glided across my holographic keyboard. A simple retort. An easy response. Three words. “Ur mom gay”

Send.

I disconnected the account and closed the virtual session on my multitool. Not a trace of my secret was left.

April 23rd, 2133  12:43 pm

Putin held a proud smile on his face, his fingers pressed together forming a smile, “Any word from David aka FAP aka Thick Dick Mikowski?”

I hid my excitement as best as I could, “Yes your Excellency.”

He put his hands down on the gold swirled armrests, “Well then? What are you waiting for? READ IT.”

I pulled open the app on his tablet and pulled up the response. Three words. Three succulent words, “David aka FAP aka Thick Dick Mikowski on twitter has replied to your excellent retort with the following, ‘Ur mom gay.’ with instead of it being typed out as Y-O-U-R, it’s instead just two letters.”

I saw a look of confusion cross over Putin’s stupid face, “What?  Wh-what does that even mean?”

I pulled up an old entry from Know Your Meme, “It appears to be an old internet meme from the late 2010’s when the internet was in its infancy. It’s used as a satirical insult to imply that the insulted’s mother is Gay.”

“I know what it means. I meant, why would he post thatt?” Putin’s Face was red with anger at this point.

I straightened the glasses on my face and nodded, “While it’s true that the total acceptance of gays started to reach its peak in 2020, the use of the insult understands that and uses it as an anti insult. It’s a low effort, “Shitpost” I believe the term is, to try and get a rise out of an individual.”

I saw Putin lean back in his chair as if contemplating something. Probably just frothing at the mouth but keeping it inside and away.

“We need to reply to this right now. Send him this response, “Your low quality “Shit” “Posts” are no match for my bulging intellect. You think you are clever insulting my mother when she had been dead for over 100 years now. Quiver in fear at the might of my empire. For it will one day spell your doom. “

Send.

“It is done Your Excellency.”

He held a finger up towards his face, “Do you think that’s too weak?”

I shook my head, “No Your Excellency, IT holds just the right amount of power and fury that is synonymous to a man of such valor as you.”

I saw Putin grin from ear to ear and then tap his forehead, “Of course. Such is the mind of an intellectual such as myself. You are dismissed Dick.”

“Please don’t call me Dick.”

April 23rd, 2133, 7:24 pm.

“Listen, He’s such a tool. So full of himself. I hate him with every single fiber of my being. And he keeps calling me Dick despite me specifically asking him not to. It’s like he doesn’t even listen to me and only cares about me sending his tweets.”

I slammed my head down on the metal bar table and instantly regretted it. I groaned in pain and felt a hand rest on my shoulder.

“Dude. You shouldn’t have to deal with that. That totally sucks. Why don’t you tell me more about the things he has you do?”

“Oh come on, You’re not getting off that easily. I know you’re a reporter. This is off the record.”

The woman smiled and nodded back at me. It was such a nice smile. How could I refuse her request. Maybe I was being too hard on her, she leaned forward and gave me a view I couldn’t refuse, “Oh come now sweetheart. We can call you an anonymous source and not mention anything about your name or your position.The Pandora Weekly Chronicle needs this story to go up. Why don’t I buy you another drink? Francine, another round for this poor disgruntled man.”

I squinted at the Reporter. Avalynn Wyles. She was an aggressive reporter that could leave scathing holes in the people she told stories about. Her words had a cutting edge to them. I’ve read a few Op-ed’s that she’d written before, “Please. I know your kind. That piece you wrote on the death of Jakob Kagemiro was way too aggressive and told too much. And to call for a reinvestigation a month after the death? You should stop trying to be so inflammatory.”

The Barkeep placed another Peach Daiquiri down next to me. It was easily worth 200 creds due to the shortage on peaches from the food crisis.

I took a sip anyways.

“I understand that people may think I’m a little… controversial.  But I’m only searching for the truth. I promise. Your name won’t be mentioned at all. All I’m asking is for a short interview on your boss and how he treats you. I’ve already gotten three other interviews from staff and former staff of the Black Manor. Yours might not even be used.”

“Okay. “And we might even be able to compensate you in the end. Just as long as you’ll maybe agree to be an inside informant in the future,” She winked at me.

I blushed slightly. Was she flirting with me? “I said I’d do it.”

She beamed, “Oh! Perfect! Let’s go to someplace quiet then.

April 24th 2133 1:30 am.

The reporter was not flirting with me. I tried to make a move on her during the interview. It did not go well.

“Why don’t you come with me back to my place? I can show you a good time.”

She laughed, “Oh I’m sorry. You misunderstand. I was only seducing you to get information out of you. That’s all. However if you’d like to become my inside informant I can definitely promise some financial benefits to you, as well as maybe, I dunno, send a Sex worker to your place sometime? Would that make you happy?”

I left then and there.

“I’ll take that as a maybe! You have my contact information! Call me!”

I left and hurriedly went home afterwards. Now I sat. Staring at my holographic keyboard, the cursor staring at me. Blinking.

I was slightly hungover, Embarrassed, and most certainly, fed up with Putin. Avalynn said the piece would go up in the next two days. But for now I had in front of me my important work. The most important work that I had ever done. Being David aka FAP aka Thick Dick Mikowski on twitter.

I typed out a hasty reply, “Listen Cyber poopin, You’re arguing with a kid here. I’m literally fifteen years old. Is that a good image for you? Maybe take a step off your golden throne for 5 seconds and look around. or is your ass already grafted to the throne that you can’t even move anymore? Eat shit.”

I was not 15 years old. I was not a kid. However on the internet, you can be anyone you want, anytime you want. 5 seconds and a fake email later and you have a twitter account.

I cracked my knuckles. One last thing. One last tiny thing before I left.

I clicked the report button on the previous tweet.

April 24th, 2133. 10:23 am.

“Your excellency?”

Putin was slumped down on his golden throne. A half eaten chicken wing resting on his greasy chassi. It looked almost comical.

I cleared my throat and he jumped to attention. The half eaten chicken wing bounced off him and rolled to the floor, “Yes, yes. What Is it Dick? Speak up.”

“I have good news and bad news, Your Excellency. Which would you like to hear first?”

He rubbed a greasy robotic finger across his chin and scratched, “Does the good news have to deal with Thick Dick Mikowski?”

“Yes Your Excellency.” I replied.

“Then do that one first.”

“Of course Your Excellency. David aka FAP, aka Thick Dick Mikowski on twitter has responded to your lest tweet with the following, ‘Listen Cyber poopin, You’re arguing with a kid here. I’m literally fifteen years old. Is that a good image for you? Maybe take a step off your golden throne for 5 seconds and look around. or is your ass already grafted to the throne that you can’t even move anymore? Eat shit.’”

“That’s it? Bah! What a weak minded fool he is, Reply to his tweet with the following,”

I interrupted, “That actually brings me  to the bad news, Your Excellency. “

He squinted at me, “What is the bad news.”

I took a deep breath, hiding the smile on my face with the tablet, “It appears you have been banned from twitter for 48 hours due to the last tweet. Apparently it violates their terms of service. Specifically the clause that involves threatening people. We are unable to use their service for this probationary period. And future offenses may result in a permaban.”

The scowl grew on  his face and he slammed his hand down on the armrest of the throne, “Can we not simply make a second account to go past the ban?”

I shook my head, “I’m afraid not, “ I lied, “Twitter tracks your IP after a ban and prevents you from making any additional accounts for the duration of the ban.”

Putin slumped back in his seat. He looked weak. Defeated.

He sighed, “You are… dismissed then I suppose. Return to me in 48 hours.”

I felt pride swell  in my heart. Sometimes work can be mind numbingly boring. Sometimes it’s horrible. But now, at this moment, I had won. It was a small victory. Though getting the leader of your country temporarily banned on twitter was an achievement unto itself.

However, this was not the end. Richard Maltese had a plan. A long, drawn out plan that would take years, but a plan nonetheless. In 48 hours, the ban would be up and then they would have The Pandora Weekly Chronicle to worry about.

The work of the resistance is long and hard, But one thing is for sure, Nobody’s getting off that easily.