The Tw@trix – Chapter 5

Eric Hebblethwaite drove dangerously fast down the Yorkshire lanes. Not dangerously fast for the roads, but dangerously fast for the aging Lada Estate car, which seemed to shed another lump of rusty metal at every turn and pot-hole. Nearly home. He grinned a toothless grin and scratched at his 3 day old white stubble.

Heading down the track to the run-down farm buildings he called home, he saw his mother waiting for him at the window as the car slid to a halt in the gravel. At 87 years old and 4’11 in her stockings (Eric was only 2 inches taller), she was still a formidable woman; years of farming had hardened her, but since the death of her husband in a freak accident some 20 years ago (shortly after Eric had moved back home) she’d never left the house. She rented her land out to the next farmer along the valley, knowing that her feckless idiot son couldn’t run a bath, let alone run a working farm. She despised the worthless shyte, hated how he had turned out, blaming herself for working too hard on the farm while he was growing up. Determined that the wastrel would inherit nothing, she’d changed her will to leave everything to a local donkey sanctuary. Her son had no idea.

Eric was unloading the car and bringing most of the supplies into the house. “Careful Eric” sighed his mother as he dumped the sack of potatoes in the pantry. “It’s Steve” he muttered under his breath. He’d changed his name by deed-poll 35 years ago when he was 25. He had decided on changing it to “James Bond”, as that’s how cool and sophisticated he was in his own mind. All his so-called friends laughed so hard when he told them, it forced him to have a re-think. Steve. Yes, Steve was a cool name. Like Steve McQueen. That was it. He’d be a cross between Steve McQueen and James Bond. So, Steve Bond became his new legal name (but he’d always be Eric to his mother).

He walked back out to the car to close the boot and lock it up. He walked round it to check no bits had fallen off when he slammed the boot shut. No, it seemed fine. It was his pride and joy. His escape from his mother. Well, one of them…

“What do you want for dinner Eric?” asked his mother through the open door. “Order me a pizza like normal” he said, and walked into one of the barns carrying his own supplies he’d left on the gravel behind the car; 4 boxes of man-size tissues and a case of Fanta.

The barn stank of rot and decay, and daylight poked through some of the rusting corrugated sheets that made up the roof, but he didn’t seem to notice it. In the corner was a make-shift desk (planks on some oil drums) piled high with empty pizza boxes, empty Fanta bottles, scraps of paper, used tissues, and an ancient computer screen. He dropped his supplies (literally) and switched on his computer. His aging machine took about 10 minutes to start up, and the familiar Windows 95 ‘ta-da’ sound made him smile. It meant the fun was about to begin.

Little fat fingers caressed the mouse, and clicked a few icons. While he waited for the burble of the dial-up to happen he reached for his medicine bottle and grabbed 2 pills. They kept him on an even keel his psychiatrist said, but he wasn’t convinced. (‘Sociopath with psychotic tendencies? What do they know’ he thought to himself.) Feeling frisky, he grabbed one of his special blue pills ‘For later’ he thought. He washed them down with some Fanta, and logged on as CompleteJoke.

“hi completejoke xxxx” typed various dim-witted users with female user names. He reciprocated the greeting and jotted their names on a scrap of paper; all of them would be his potential ‘help desk’ victims. All he needed was a username and password from them and their details were his.

The smarter females ignored him.

“i’ve just been looking around my estate” he tapped out. He was certain that no-one would know he was talking about his wreck of a car, and equally certain they’d all be very impressed.

“hi completejoke xxxxx” typed Susie(form-an-orderly)Q for everyone to see. He closed the pm box to her, where he was about to type a threat about posting the photos of her and Thick_Slice if she didn’t say hello. The power made him feel a bit giddy. Or was it the pills? He wasn’t quite sure.

His pm’s were going well. One in particular had him reaching for the tissues (having mastered typing one handed years ago). His Tw@trix persona was 40 years old, 5’11”, jogged 5 miles daily, and was hung like a donkey. (One that would inherit his mother’s estate, hopefully.)

When he saw the user ‘PigSnout’ log in and start slobbering over the female nicknames he lost the urge (mentally, but not physically, thanks to the blue pill) and, as usual, lost the plot.

How dare that idiot slobber over his women! How dare he! They were there for him, not that drooling idiot! They were his playthings! His puppets! And he was the puppet-master! How very dare he slobber on them!

Under the dim light of the 40W bulb hanging above his make-shift desk he looked like a rabid version of Compo (from Last of the Summer Winos), typing furious insults to PigSnout, whilst almost choking on the Fanta he occasionally glugged (it was the thought of the Fanta bottle he liked rather than the fizzy drink itself).

“Eric! Pizza!” he heard his mother shout across the yard. He hadn’t heard the moped arrive.

Furious at PigSnout, furious he had been put off his stroke, and furious he was being pulled away from the Tw@trix, he forgot he wasn’t wearing anything on his lower half as he went outside.

The pizza delivery guy had heard tales of the wild man of the farm, but didn’t believe the stories. When he saw the little old man walking towards him wearing only a stained t-shirt and wellingtons, frothing orange from the mouth, the tiny erect member pointing at him rudely, he literally dropped the pizza and ran towards his moped and sped off. (He resigned his job and needed months of therapy afterwards.)

Eric/Steve/CompleteJoke scooped up the box and opened it and shoved a slice into his mouth as he walked back into the barn and his computer. (Pizza had no hard bits, and with no teeth he had to go easy on his gums, and he liked sucking the crusts.)

Back at the computer he found PigSnout had logged out. Still feeling the need to vent his fury, he started typing names, addresses and phone numbers of females he had previously duped in The Tw@trix. That’d show them who had all the power. That’d show them. And if anybody who was now complaining about it had been there he’d have made sure they had a nasty accident involving a mains cable and a plastic sheet covered in water, just like the ‘accident’ his father had. (He had worn willies ever since – the same pair in fact – the rubber being such a good insulator and protection against such ‘accidents’.) If only his mother would come out of the house, he could make sure she would have a similar accident, the old trout…