Read Online Haterz by James Goss - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Goss
Tags: Fiction
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death threat?
Hmm. Food for thought.
Y EAH. A LL THE internet proves is that we find it terribly hard being nice to each other and it isn’t helped by people who love wilfully misinterpreting what people say to prove they’re racist, fascist, sexist or just plain nasty. Treading a safe path through the minefield of Twitter was all so complicated that killing people seemed relatively easy by comparison.
So, I decided I was just going to stick with straight men who hated straight women as my next target, as an excuse for taking revenge on the people who didn’t much like Amber.
I TRIED TO pick just five tweets to take revenge on. And couldn’t. In the end I built a random sampler (in a spreadsheet, get me; next I’d be doing PowerPoint decks), and from that was able to construct five generic tweets.
My guiding principle in all this was pleasingly Old Testament. Do As You Would Be Done By.
Tweet One:
Stupid bitch, I’ll kill your dog.
“Goodbye, Fido,” I said, looking into its soft wet eyes.
Tweet Two:
YOURE HOUSE IS GOING TO BOMBED AT 8.14pm TONITE.
Boom! Went a not-terribly nice upstairs flat in Reading.
Tweet Three:
SUTPID BITCH ILL RAPE U WITH A BROKEN BOTTLE.
Red or white? I think, on balance, red.
Actually, I’ll stop there. Because this wasn’t me. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I couldn’t do it. Not like this. I’d combed through several thousand tweets. So much anger and hatred; they surely deserved a lesson. But you know what? No. It was actually pretty difficult. And it wasn’t as simple as I’d just made out.
I ’LL START AGAIN. Perhaps a bit more truthfully.
The easy bit was finding where they lived. We love to tell people everything. If your Twitter username is pretty much your name with a number on the end of it, if your profile says “Swindon and Proud of It” and you’ve posted a photo of your car in your drive by the street sign then thank you. Breaking into your house is going to be a bit harder, but you’re dealing with a failed actor who has been in a lot of Crimewatch reconstructions.
The bomb was the easy one. It’s easy to blow up a house. I’d even checked to make sure the guy was out, and luckily picked a time when downstairs were too. I felt sorry for them, but I’d done what I could. I hadn’t actually built a proper bomb—I’d simply jiggered around with the gas hob.
I’d had a quick look round the flat while I did it. It was kind of similar to the others I’d looked at. This belonged to @HAND_SOLO84. His name was Derek. Everything about the flat said Derek. There was a squishy black leather sofa too large for the living room. Behind it was a bookcase containing 5 books and a lot of DVDs. The only neatness in the entire flat was in the ordering of the DVDs, done perfectly alphabetically, by box set, by season, and by slightly disappointing spin-off movie. The bathroom contained a lot of man wash and shed pubic hair. The bedroom was a tableaux of t-shirts steadily crawling from the carpet into a double bed that smelt of digestives.
And the kitchen... well, blowing it up was the kindest thing to happen to it.
There were a few photos of Derek in Ikea frames in the hall. He was wearing XL black t-shirts. His skin was bad. His hair needed a wash. There was one of him on a beach with girls—slim, happy girls. They were standing around him smiling and he was holding up his gut. He was grinning about his belly, making a laugh out of it, but that grin never got above his lips. And yet he’d printed out the picture and framed it. Just to prove that Derek could have a laugh at himself. Good for Derek.
I sauntered away from the house, pulling my brand new ‘Yes I commit crime’ hoodie up. The good thing about the area was that it had no CCTV.
It did, annoyingly, have a Neighbourhood Watch.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
Really, no, my mind was on a kitchen currently filling with gas. I made to push
Hmm. Food for thought.
Y EAH. A LL THE internet proves is that we find it terribly hard being nice to each other and it isn’t helped by people who love wilfully misinterpreting what people say to prove they’re racist, fascist, sexist or just plain nasty. Treading a safe path through the minefield of Twitter was all so complicated that killing people seemed relatively easy by comparison.
So, I decided I was just going to stick with straight men who hated straight women as my next target, as an excuse for taking revenge on the people who didn’t much like Amber.
I TRIED TO pick just five tweets to take revenge on. And couldn’t. In the end I built a random sampler (in a spreadsheet, get me; next I’d be doing PowerPoint decks), and from that was able to construct five generic tweets.
My guiding principle in all this was pleasingly Old Testament. Do As You Would Be Done By.
Tweet One:
Stupid bitch, I’ll kill your dog.
“Goodbye, Fido,” I said, looking into its soft wet eyes.
Tweet Two:
YOURE HOUSE IS GOING TO BOMBED AT 8.14pm TONITE.
Boom! Went a not-terribly nice upstairs flat in Reading.
Tweet Three:
SUTPID BITCH ILL RAPE U WITH A BROKEN BOTTLE.
Red or white? I think, on balance, red.
Actually, I’ll stop there. Because this wasn’t me. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I couldn’t do it. Not like this. I’d combed through several thousand tweets. So much anger and hatred; they surely deserved a lesson. But you know what? No. It was actually pretty difficult. And it wasn’t as simple as I’d just made out.
I ’LL START AGAIN. Perhaps a bit more truthfully.
The easy bit was finding where they lived. We love to tell people everything. If your Twitter username is pretty much your name with a number on the end of it, if your profile says “Swindon and Proud of It” and you’ve posted a photo of your car in your drive by the street sign then thank you. Breaking into your house is going to be a bit harder, but you’re dealing with a failed actor who has been in a lot of Crimewatch reconstructions.
The bomb was the easy one. It’s easy to blow up a house. I’d even checked to make sure the guy was out, and luckily picked a time when downstairs were too. I felt sorry for them, but I’d done what I could. I hadn’t actually built a proper bomb—I’d simply jiggered around with the gas hob.
I’d had a quick look round the flat while I did it. It was kind of similar to the others I’d looked at. This belonged to @HAND_SOLO84. His name was Derek. Everything about the flat said Derek. There was a squishy black leather sofa too large for the living room. Behind it was a bookcase containing 5 books and a lot of DVDs. The only neatness in the entire flat was in the ordering of the DVDs, done perfectly alphabetically, by box set, by season, and by slightly disappointing spin-off movie. The bathroom contained a lot of man wash and shed pubic hair. The bedroom was a tableaux of t-shirts steadily crawling from the carpet into a double bed that smelt of digestives.
And the kitchen... well, blowing it up was the kindest thing to happen to it.
There were a few photos of Derek in Ikea frames in the hall. He was wearing XL black t-shirts. His skin was bad. His hair needed a wash. There was one of him on a beach with girls—slim, happy girls. They were standing around him smiling and he was holding up his gut. He was grinning about his belly, making a laugh out of it, but that grin never got above his lips. And yet he’d printed out the picture and framed it. Just to prove that Derek could have a laugh at himself. Good for Derek.
I sauntered away from the house, pulling my brand new ‘Yes I commit crime’ hoodie up. The good thing about the area was that it had no CCTV.
It did, annoyingly, have a Neighbourhood Watch.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
Really, no, my mind was on a kitchen currently filling with gas. I made to push
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