3
I wake up with too many nightmares clouding my thought. I crack open a Mexican Coke and drink down that real sugar. I was in college again, lost in a dorm, assaulted by “bros,” manipulated into sexual humiliation by lesbians. I can’t go to work today. I go to Anonymous. In the middle of writing another long diatribe on the problems of the Anonymous cult, a car full of teenagers in Guy Fawkes masks show up in my driveway with signs. They read “GTFO,” “We Hate You Billy,” and “Failgore Troll.” I am not shocked, but I really don’t know how to react. Should I get my guns out and wave them around, maybe fire a few shots into the air? Should I go get these people to take off their masks and talk to me? Should I invite them in for some coffee?
I try to talk to them, but they won’t take off their masks. I can’t talk to them like that, it’s absurd. They have a lot of angry things to say, but nothing I haven’t heard before. I go inside and flick on my electric organ, play something in a minor key to drown out their insults. I keep playing for almost an hour, until they leave. I make myself some lunch. As I sit down to eat, another car pulls up. I figure it’s a bill collector or my boss wondering why I’m not at work. Maybe they’ll finally shut off my electricity, but no it’s just more protesters.
This time I cover my face with a bandanna and quickly make a sign that says “FUCK YOU KILGORE TROUT!” I join their ranks and protest myself like I often do online. The Anons don’t even seem to process the possibility that I am protesting myself to mock them. I get real close to the guy next to me, to be a creep. I sneak a peek behind his mask. I let out a reflexive “What the fuck!” There’s something metallic going from the mask into his eye sockets. For the first time in my life, I am actually scared of Anonymous.
I bolt inside, lock my doors, and load the AK-47. I take the safety off and chamber a bullet. Am I going insane? I start to think about the “collective conscious” and well, I believe in it for the first time. Damn!
It’s dusk before the protesters leave. I crawl out of the corner and put the AK down. Reality is like a shattered mirror.
4
I wake up early after just a couple hours of nightmare filled sleep. Too much purpose, too much paranoia, too much adrenaline for sleep. I drive to Roanoke and try to get my hands on one of these Guy Fawkes masks. I can’t find any except in the Wal-Mart toy department. It feels like it’s made of something more substantial and heavy than cheap plastic. $50 fucking dollars for this fucking thing. I don’t dare open it until I get to work.
It’s hard to explain to my boss what’s going on. I’ve drunkenly explained how I’ve become the enemy of Anonymous to my co-worker Neil, and he tries to cover for me, badly. I wait for everyone to go on lunch break and take a close look at the mask in good light. Nothing special on the surface. I think about my $50 regretfully as I cut this thing down the center with a bandsaw. It barely cuts, and causes the bandsaw to buck like it’s made of steel. What a fucking mess! The “mask” turns into liquid, or leaks where I cut it. It’s the color of used motor oil with a metallic consistency like it’s full of glitter. I don’t touch the shit with my bare hands, and throw away the nitrile gloves when I’m done cleaning the mess. The blade’s worn the fuck out, so I change it. Maybe it’s some kind of nanomachines or some shit. God, I start to think about how I accused the government of running Anonymous and I get a little sick to my stomach.
For fear of going home, I work the rest of my shift. When I do go home, my computer is borked. I can not even access the lowest level, the BIOS. Damn thing’s a paperweight. Fucking Anonymous! Fucking government! Shit, the organ still works. So does my typewriter. Can’t hack that shit. Maybe I am more overwrought than I should be. Then I remember those monsters! I check on my guns and even test fire the AK off the porch. I am relieved to hear it still fires.