You've Been Trolled!

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SikFuk
SikFuk
174 Followers

"Night son," his mom said, reaching for the vibrator under her pillow. "Want me to wake you up in the morning?"

"Sure Mom," Troy decided, pulling his jeans up to his knees as he stumbled out the door.

He hobbled into his room and sat down in his computer chair, absentmindedly cradling his soft, sticky dick in his left hand. He grabbed the mouse and the Literotica website popped up. Instantly, he was scrolling for new stories, his finger on the clicker, ready to drop his deadly one-bombs.

Finally, around two a.m., the sting of his recurring carpal-tunnel syndrome was getting unbearable, but he just had to go back to New Stories one more time, so he could get a jump on all the other trolls and leave the first demeaning comment. That's when he saw it:

You've Been Trolled!: What happens when the one-bomb backfires.

"What the fuck?" he gasped. He read the first paragraph. "Bullshit!" he blurted, as he flung the cordless mouse against the wall.

He read the second paragraph, but the only thing left to throw within reach was his Luke Skywalker doll. Poor old Luke Skywalker took his last trip, crashing through the window and clattering to the yard below.

"Damn it!" he bellowed, surprising even himself with the forcefulness of his voice. He stormed into his mom's room, flinging his clothes off as he went.

"Hey baby," she sighed sleepily, rolling over on her back and pulling the covers off her naked body. He jammed her legs up against her chest and thrust his pencil dick into her flappy cunt.

"Ohh," she giggled. "Who put a quarter in you?"

Troy grabbed her by the hair and started fucking her furiously, just like the characters at Literotica did every night. But it was no good. He had that sinking feeling that fucking his mom would never rank higher than a one, no matter how rough he was with her. He tried his best, pinching her nipples, slapping her ass, but his heart just wasn't in it. After a couple of minutes he pulled out, defeated, spent, a ruined man (which probably meant that he was no longer a Man's Man, but rather, a Mama's Boy).

He cuddled up into his mother's arms and started sobbing softly, burying his face in her ample bosom.

"I know sweetheart," she whispered. "It's hard finding the right girl to date, but you'll find her eventually. In the meantime, you've got me." She reached for his dick, and as soon as she touched it, it squirted into her hand. "See? All better."

He let out a moan, and then he was asleep in her arms, dreaming he was surrounded by one's; the exact same one's he clicked on every time he read a Literotica story. And each one was pointing at his little dick and laughing, like characters out of a Disney cartoon. He turned to run, but he was surrounded by one's. They were blocking his path, tripping him up. He fell, but it was a slow-motion fall, and when he landed, the one's started biting his flaccid flesh like deadly piranha. He could feel their razor-sharp teeth tearing his body into a steaming pile of little teeny, weeny one's, each one dripping with blood.

He awoke in his mother's arms; and once again, he squirted into her hand. But when he went back to his room, he didn't even look at his computer; or his Pamela Anderson poster, or the hole in his window where Luke Skywalker had taken final flight. No, instead, he went directly to his closet and found his flip-flops, and his towel, and his Frisbee, and he stuffed them into his beach bag. He was on a mission, and that mission was to put Literotica behind him and just concentrate on smashing sandcastles, so he would never ever have to dream of the evil ones again.

**********

Troy got to the beach, but not only were the sandcastles in short supply, there weren't very many breasts either. Undeterred, he readied his Frisbee, stepped over a large bleached-gray tree-trunk, and there it was… a beautifully sculpted castle with towers, paper flags made out of napkin scraps, and a driftwood drawbridge. But where were the kids? What good was smashing a sandcastle if the kids weren't there to see it? At least on Literotica.com, thousands of people saw his one-bombs and his derogatory comments. That was the whole point. He wanted notoriety. He wanted recognition. But most importantly, he wanted to ruin things, and have an audience when he did.

He lurked nearby the beautifully crafted sandcastle, tossing his Frisbee in the air with the kind of urgency you would see from a pro athlete, warming up before the game. Finally, his patience was rewarded when a couple of kids came dashing up the shore with seaweed scraps to add to the castle's furnishings. Troy waited for the perfect moment; his breathing getting heavier, his eyes narrowing like a wild animal before the kill.

When it appeared the kids were satisfied with their improvements to their wonderful sandcastle, Troy made his move. He flung the Frisbee, dashed after it, and whamo! The castle lay in ruins. Just to make sure it was totally ruined, he stumbled around a bit, feeling the driftwood drawbridge splinter under his feet. The kids started crying, a dog began barking, and Troy let out a big sigh, feeling the rush of satisfaction.

"Hey!"

Troy froze. The voice came from behind him.

"Hey motherfucker!"

Before he could turn around, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. The hand was so heavy, it drove him to his knees.

"You want some of this?" the voice growled.

Troy tried to turn around, but from the gruff sound of the voice, he already knew he probably didn't want some of whatever 'this' was, nor did he want to even see who the voice belonged to.

"Answer me asshole."

The hand on his shoulder shoved him sideways, and suddenly, he was curled up on the sand in the fetal position, staring at an ankle with a dagger tattoo.

"You're a fuck-wad, you know that?" the voice said, right into his ear. Troy could smell beer, and he could see a silver earring (another dagger), and part of a black goatee. "Nobody fucks with my kids, you understand? NOBODY!"

The last thing Troy remembered was pissing his pants, because right after that, his face got shoved into the sand... permanently.

**********

Troy awoke in a room with no walls, sitting on a chair with no legs, situated on top of a floor with no surface. He looked around, hoping to spot a bottle of water, since his mouth felt like it was full of sand, but he didn't see one. He did see an old Dell Inspiron laptop sitting on the desk in front of him. He looked closer, and it appeared there were little spatters of blood on the keys.

Suddenly, a dialog box popped up. "GREETINGS, MY SON," it said, followed by the signature line: St. Peter the Angel Eater. Troy gasped, fearing the worst. He lifted his trembling hands to the keyboard.

"Where am I?" he typed.

"PURGATORY."

"Why am I in Purgatory?"

"WELL. . ." there was a long pause, allowing Troy to look around and realize his room with no walls was located in the center of a white, puffy cloud, the same type of white puffy cloud that also stretched above him, like an open-air ceiling.

"BECAUSE YOU'RE DEAD, MY SON."

"But why am I not in Heaven?" Troy typed, trying to impress St. Peter with his knowledge of antiquated grammar.

"THE PEDESTRIAN!!!"

"That was an accident," he typed, his heart in his throat.

"THINE HEART BURNS WITH LUST, THE VERY SAME LUST THAT CAUSED YOU TO TAKE THINE EYES OFF THE ROAD AND RUN OVER THE PEDESTRIAN, WHO WAS A DEVOUT CHRISTIAN, BY THE WAY."

Troy hung his head in shame. He was busted, and there was no way out.

"Can I have a do-over?" he typed, hoping life in Purgatory would be like a video game.

"THERE ARE NO DO-OVERS HERE, BUT YOU MAY ASK FOR FORGIVENESS. YOU MUST USE AT LEAST 750 WORDS, AND FORMAT YOUR DOCUMENT AS PLAIN TEXT, OR COPY AND PASTE IT INTO THE SUBMISSIONS BOX. SEE YOU TOMORROW, AND BLESS YOU, MY SON."

So that's how Troy spent the rest of Eternity; typing at least 750 words of apologies, every single day. And every day his writing was rated by St. Peter and his cronies. He could never get past a one-rating, no matter how good his writing was. The worst part of it was having to sift through the many derogatory comments.

"this is crap on a stick"
"grow up, you bed-wetter"
"blow me"

What did 'blow me' have to do with his heart-felt apology to God for his multitude of sins? Sometimes he wished he could just sit down and have a reasonable dialog with the cruel people making these insensitive comments, but they were always accredited to 'anonymous,' and how do you have a dialog with 'anonymous' when they leave no return email address?"

As time dragged on and the keys on his laptop became more sticky, and his Windows ME Edition became more buggy, Troy began losing faith; wondering why there wasn't a system in place, a way of redressing grievances, like when the Republicans impeached the president. Where was his Newt Gingrich? Where was his Dick Cheney? Where was his Tony Snow, the only man alive who had the skill to spin the lie of his pitiful life into the type of truth St. Peter could accept?

The inequity of it all made him realize this St. Peter dude was obviously on some kind of power trip, or perhaps even demented, and while that was acceptable for a Republican president, it was totally out of line in this situation. But there wasn't much he could do about it. He could whine, but who would listen? Could there be a few liberal Angels nearby, perhaps someone from the ACLU to take his case? Sure, that would mean switching sides, but his ass was on the line, and survival required pragmatism. But alas, no liberal Angels came to his aid, and he finally let that notion go.

As the years crawled by, Troy grew to enjoy typing his 750 words per day, always striving, but never succeeding, in getting past a one-rating. In fact, on many days, 750 words would only constitute the introduction. He could easily crank out 3000 words in the morning, do a re-write after lunch, and have 4000 words by quitting time.

He explored many different categories in eliciting St. Peter's sympathy; First Time (first time he prayed, etc.,) Outdoors (praying outside,) Fetish (rosary beads, nun's habits and such,) Cross Dressing (incorporating crosses into everyday attire,) BDSM (Bibles, Divinity, Sacrament, and Mary) NonConsent/Reluctance (his reluctance to go to church his whole life,) Restraint and Bondage (Jesus nailed to the cross.) Water Sports (Christening, Holy Water,) Mother/Son (we'll leave that one alone,) Solo Prayer, Group Prayer, but it never swayed St. Peter, who was as intractable in his beliefs as Donald Rumsfeld at a press conference.

Finally, one day, the Dell Inspiron blue-screened on him, and it wouldn't reboot. Troy was filled with hope, thinking this might be his ticket into Heaven, but he was wrong. Within minutes, a really stacked female Angel, in brown UPS shorts and a white thong creeping up her hips, wheeled in an ancient DOS desktop, and Troy was at it again. The first question he PM'd to St. Peter was why He couldn't find a decent computer for him to work on, because this DOS piece of shit didn't even have a spell-checker.

St. Peter PM'd back, explaining that this particular Purgatory was multi-denominational, which meant it got no faith-based funding from the Bush administration, and the only computers they could get their hands on were donated.

Troy stared at the faded smiley-face sticker on the side of the flickering monitor, and at that moment he had a Revelation. It would have been so easy, way back when, to vote fours or fives on all those LIT stories he had one-bombed, but at the time he had no idea how much work it was, writing 750, or 2000, or 4000 words a day. If he had only known, back then, he never would have had to abandon Literotica.com and go to the beach and piss off the wrong dad and get his faced shoved into sand until he died, which meant he wouldn't be stuck in Purgatory right now, trying in vain to scale the insurmountable mountain of the one-rating.

In spite of the insurmountable one rating, Troy learned to accept his fate, mainly because he was certain, eventually, he'd get a hand-me-down computer made by Apple, and since Mac users were all very creative and adventurous, surely there would be some Literotica stories stored in a folder somewhere, which he would be able to read and then give them all ratings of five, with glowing comments in the feedback box. It would be a humble gesture, he knew, but that would be good enough to get him through the next thousand years, or till Eternity expired, whichever came first.

SikFuk
SikFuk
174 Followers
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14 Comments
49greg49gregalmost 7 years ago
A good one

Loved it.

Old_BlueOld_Blueover 14 years ago
I’m still chuckling.

This is a story that I’ll recommend to any and every aspiring writer that I come across who has a complaint about Anonymous Trolls.

AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago

Well written and, I suppose, funny for a lot of people who post here, but I don't find sexual abuse particularly funny. Plus, it's ridiculously self-indulgent, although some people are into that. I'm giving it a 3 because I'm feeling generous, but it should really be a 2.

AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
OMG! I Just Peed My Pants.....

.... and that was not fair at all. MOMMYYYYY!!! :)) Damn, I haven't laughed that hard in ages. Thanks for posting this. BTW: Just on the off chance you were right, I gave it a 5! ;-)

-Warmest regards, Kabitzers Anonymous -

NorthsiderNorthsiderover 15 years ago
Freakin' Brilliant!

That little shit lives just across the tracks from me, and his pathetic, forty something, woman hating, cross burning uncle lives in his basement. Really.

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