Genocide? lol
Racism? lol
Some Arab toddler facedown on a Greek beach?
Like the Joker used to say: Why so serious?
The Troll grew up Evan Bryan Himelman in Santa Monica, California. Land of fruits and nuts. That liberal Hollywood melting pot, where the Summer of Love never ended. It just bought a Tesla. Where liberalism was a birthright. Where your parents put a silver spoon and a copy of Obama’s first Democratic Convention speech in your crib. Phil and Linda Himelman. They recycled. They composted. They jogged. The Troll grew up in the back of a Volvo listening to Terry Gross. But he was a cuckoo in another bird’s nest. His radio heroes were Joe Rogan and Howard Stern. He rejected the fundamental principles. Give me the red pill or give me death.
In the beginning, he fought toe-to-toe. He made Reasoned Arguments. He joined the debate club. But then he found those three magic letters, and his true purpose in life came to him, like the sun through the clouds. He was a farmer of Liberal Tears, a trigger for social justice warriors, a nemesis to the woke.
14,88
BTFO
ICE puts Mexican kids in cages?
Some frat boy calls you a fat cunt?
Hands up. Don’t shoot?
All hail KEK, the God of Chaos and Darkness. Like the bumper sticker says, Life’s a bitch and then you die. So why not have as much fun as you can and then die in a hail of bullets? Fast cars, good drugs, underage pussy. Wash it all down with a nice tall glass of shut up juice, seasoned with liberal outrage. If you’re not part of the problem, you’re part of the solution, which, nobody wants that.
And then he met the Wizard, and the true purpose of his life became clear.
*
*
In the beginning, for Louise, the Troll was words on a screen. Somebody’s friend had a friend who could score weed or booze or pills or whatever. Or maybe it was a guy Davy worked with at the copy center whose older brother served with a guy in Iraq. The truth was, it didn’t matter and they didn’t care. They just wanted the high, and this was the handle they found through the magic of social networking. Gabby said Hart should ping him. Hart said Gabby should do it. In the end it was Louise, never afraid of a little hard work, who entered the digits into WhatsApp.
She wrote:
—Said the fish to the hook, feed me your worm. Said the hook to the fish, put me in your mouth. And she did. And was hooked.
She waited two days. Then a ping.
—What else will she put in her mouth? he wonders.
It came at night, after Grandma had gone to bed. Louise was in the middle of her lotion routine. First a heavy cream for her hands and feet, then a milder blend for arms and legs. Dry skin made her cringe, calluses and blisters, and with all the cleaning supplies she used—even with the yellow gloves—her skin needed constant care. It was a kind of vicious cycle, the first obsession drying her out, the second obsession greasing her up.
Ping, went the phone. And something in Louise jumped like a dog for a ball.
She sat on the windowsill, illuminated by the digital blue glow.
—What else will she put in her mouth? he wonders.
She wiped the moisturizer from her hands, but before she could type a reply, another ping.
—A big black cock? A jew schvantz? A Mexican prick?
Louise stared at the screen, uncertain. Then another ping.
—LOL
She typed.
—Who is this?
A beat.
—My name is Yon Yonson. I work in Wisconsin. I work in a lumbermill there.
Louise sat and looked out the window, trying to figure out if she had something to lose. Her grandma always said it’s the journey, not the destination, but then she worked in the post office, sorting mail to places she never went.
—I’m Louise, she wrote.
—No names, came the reply.
—Can we meet?
—Meet or Meat?
…
—You wouldn’t like me, typed Louise, I weigh as much as a house.
—You like it in the living room or round back through the kitchen door?
She sent him the shit emoji.
—Spicy.
—You know what they say about spicy food, she typed.
—What’s that?
—You think it’s hot going in …
*
The next day he pinged her during her history class.
—Happy Holocaust Day!
She flushed, slid her phone back into her desk. She felt it buzz again through the tip of her pencil.
—Are you in art class? If the teacher asks you your favorite painting, tell him it’s anything we stole from the cold dead hands of the jews. LOL.
She hid the phone beneath her desk, typed— —You’re one sick puppy.