Slashtag, p.2
Slashtag, page 2
According to Maggie’s research, semi-incompetent yet charming adult men are up twelve percent from last year. After getting to know him over these last few months, I believe he could do it, if he really tried. D-wreck’s pretty bro-ey, but he’s not a total lost cause. He needs to let his hair grow out a bit, ditch the baseball cap and tank tops, and lose a little bit of the toning—dad bods are in again. If he did all that, he could stand a chance to get a hosting gig on a reality competition series, or something like that.
In return for renovating his brand, I get to continue to sell the lie that I not only know how to handle my own life, but I can also bring out the best in someone else too. Of course, all that was before my reputation took a nosedive.
D-wreck shoos the kids away when he sees me, then rises to give me a hug. It’s one of the three public greetings in which we’ve agreed to engage.
We haven’t even sat down before I drop my phony smile and tell him, “I need your help.”
“I bet. It sounds like you’re having a pretty crappy day,” he says, with a goofier grin than the twelve-year-olds with whom he was just talking.
“Come on, man. I’m dealing with some serious, uh…serious—”
“Shit?” he says, bringing the sentence to the natural conclusion I’d struggled and failed to avoid.
“Can you at least look like you have an ounce of compassion? You’re supposed to be on my side, remember?”
D-wreck waffles at the suggestion. “I don’t think that kind of reaction is on-brand for me, at least not yet. Based on our calendar, I’m not supposed to start seeming more mature for at least another two months. Besides, potty humor is timeless.”
I try not to look at his face, and instead, my eyes land on his half-eaten burger. “Did you seriously bring In’N’Out to an organic vegan restaurant?”
He takes a big bite, pretending to savor every moment of it. “Hell yeah, I did. Have you seen the menu in there? It’s brutal.”
D-wreck may be an asshole, but he’s not wrong. I try to look forward to ordering a beet salad with vegan feta, but I can’t stop staring at his meal. My stomach growls, reminding me that, in my crisis, I’ve forgotten to eat anything today.
“Is that burger animal-style?” I look around at the half-populated café, trying to see if anyone has their phones pointed in such a way that they might be filming us. The constant threat of being recorded in public creates low-grade paranoia and, after a while, either starts to develop into a sixth sense or leads to a mental breakdown. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, it does both. “Can I have a bite?”
D-wreck’s smirk turns to genuine shock. “Wow, you’re just saying ‘fuck it’ to all the rules today. If you want to risk it, get down with your bad beef-eating self.”
It’s been four years since I’ve been allowed to be seen eating meat. After my last makeup brand was heavily marketed as being cruelty-free, I was invited to become involved in a number of charities protecting wildlife foundations. At the time, Maggie decided my image as a health-focused role model and animal activist would be improved if I were perceived as being a vegetarian.
“Screw it. Even death row inmates get to splurge on a last meal. Can you just look around and let me know if it seems like anyone could be filming me right now?”
D tosses his hands out to his sides, gesturing generally around the restaurant. “I mean, everyone has a phone and a Social account. The entire world are paparazzi.”
My hand flies up to my face, and I rub my thumb against a scar on my chin hidden under concealer. The urge for total image self-destruction comes crashing back to me with such force, it takes everything I have to push it down and not let the heat of the moment get the best of me. I let out a long, controlled exhale. “Fine. Can you just, like, take a really big bite and describe it to me?”
“This whole thing is really getting to you, huh?” For the first time in as long as I can remember, D-wreck almost sounds like someone who actually has a shred of compassion for their supposed girlfriend.
“I’ve never had people hate me like this. The worst backlash I’ve ever gotten was that one time I called Kei Sentra ‘he’ after they came out as non-binary, and that only trended for, like, three hours, until Landon Keating got caught defacing a bunch of his own movie posters.”
“Oh yeah, I remember when that happened. Not your thing…the poster thing.” He brings the burger up to his mouth and takes a huge bite, causing my empty raging stomach to let out an audible grumble. “That was hilarious,” he says, with little bits of masticated meat soaring out of his mouth.
“Everyone’s blaming me for this NatFit thing. I’ve lost almost two-hundred-thousand followers in the last twelve hours. What do I do?”
D-wreck’s eyebrows raise in tentative excitement. “Are you asking what I would do in your situation?”
I already regret asking. “I guess.”
He leans back, finding a comfortable position in these rigid metal chairs. “I’d roll with it. These chicks buying your low-cal-whatever drink are all trying to lose weight, right? Sounds to me like you just did them a favor.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“No, seriously. Just reframe it to a golden ticket situation. Only a few lucky winners will get to lose five to ten pounds overnight. Then just add a disclaimer like, ‘we do not recommend taking this product before trans-continental flights.’”
“I’m serious, D. You’ve been in trouble more times than I can count, yet you still have almost twice my followers. How can I fix this?”
He finally drops his grin, swallows his food, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. Our situation is different. I’m a straight white dude that’s been doing dumb shit for fifteen years. At this point, whenever I get in trouble, I mostly just shrug and say, ‘ain’t I a stinker?’ As long as I don’t sexually harass anyone, it seems like there’s basically nothing I can do to get canceled. People expect me to act like an idiot, and I’ve learned to grow thick skin. When the shit really does hit the fan—pun intended—I just push through until people find someone else to get pissed at.” He quickly looks to either side, then leans in, like he’s about to share some top secret information. “Look, it sounds like you already know what to do. You give your court-mandated apology, you take your lashings, and then you move on. Personally, I can't think of a better way to make an ass of yourself than by being spooky roomies with me on this Slashtag show.”
I shake my head and sigh. “When did Maggie call you?”
D-wreck checks the time on his phone. “I’m guessing somewhere around the exact moment you left her office.”
“I already told her I need some time to decide. I have some very real concerns with putting myself into that situation.”
“Come on, you have to do it. For the first time in, like, ten years, you’ve shown the world that you’re not perfect. Big stinkin’ deal. Come on the show. We’ll get the”—he catches himself fast enough to change his next word—“pants scared off us. Then halfway through, you fake some sort of revelation that all the health and meditation crap on your site is giving you strength for a second wind. By Monday morning, you’ll be even more popular than ever.”
“I don’t know. I have to talk to April.”
D shoves a handful of fries into his mouth, letting a few fall from his fingers during the journey between the white paper bag and his face. “All I’m saying is, everyone loves a redemption story. If you play your cards right, you could even become a Final Girl and win this thing.”
Despite the tightness in my chest, I feel the faintest trace of a smile curl up at the thought. D-wreck is one of only a few people who knows about my secret love of horror movies. Dangling the moniker of a Final Girl in front of me is a cheap shot, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t at least a little tempting.
“So, what does that make you? The comic relief that dies in the first half?”
He scoffs at my suggestion, feigning indignation. “Hell no, I’m going for Final Boy.”
I shake my head. “That's not really a term.”
“I know,” he says with smug confidence. “I’m going to claim it during the show.”
“What if…” I pause, momentarily horrified I’m even going to say this out loud. “What if I don’t want to recover my image?”
“You saying you want to go full scorched Earth? Throw a couple middle fingers at the world and show up in some Dripfeed listicle in two years, about people who publicly fucked up their lives?”
I honestly don’t know how to answer the question. It’s been so long since I’ve had to actually make a difficult decision for myself, I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of bad options. D-wreck makes a comeback sound so simple. For him, I’m sure it is. He gets to float through life, stumbling from one idiotic scheme to the next, failing ever upward. In my experience, catastrophe tends to be the tip of the iceberg.
“I just don’t know if I have the strength to—”
Something hairy brushes up against my leg, and my already tightened muscles spring into action. Gasping, I leap to my feet. I forget where I am, all the people around me. My metal chair shoots backward, and an animal lets out a yelp of surprise. There’s a large dog on the patio, about knee height, baring its teeth at me.
I’ve already made a scene, but I don’t care. To get away from the animal as fast as possible, I leap behind the chair, putting it between me and the dog.
“Sorry about that,” some lady says at the table behind me. “He’s friendly, I think he just saw some fries on the ground and wanted to sneak a treat.” She turns her attention to the dog, who has forgotten all about me and is making quick work of D-wreck’s discarded fries. “Come here, Bruno. That’s a good boy.”
You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Clarence? a voice from my childhood echoes in my head, reinforcing my belief that things can always get worse. By the time I can feel my lungs circulating oxygen again, I realize I’m still hiding behind a chair.
“Okay, well, that was weird,” D-wreck says. “Feeling a little jumpy today?”
“I just…I don’t like dogs.”
“Definitely keep that part out of your apology.”
“Thanks,” I say, kicking myself for letting my guard down.
“Seriously, everyone loves dogs.”
“I know, I’m fine. It just snuck up on me.”
As he rambles on and on about the eternal popularity of dogs, I can’t help but run a finger along a series of small oblong scars across my thigh. “You know what? I think this may have actually helped after all.”
CHAPTER FOUR
From: Ron.M@Krentler.media
To: Lucy.K@Krentler.media
Subject: Techbounce Article
Lucy,
My grandson just sent me this article from some website called Techbounce about us. I don’t like it. In the article they claim they even reached out to us before publishing, which means somebody knew this was going to print and didn’t do a goddamn thing about it. You’re going to get this article down within the hour, and then you’re going to find the idiot that let this happen and fire them immediately.
Article pasted below…
Ron
Techbounce Presents: Everything You Need To Know About Social’s Founders
When the news broke nearly a year ago that every existing social media website would be folded into one mega platform called Social, people thought it was a piece of viral marketing for a new movie, or possibly a very early April Fool’s joke. It seemed especially odd, since Social’s parent company, Krentler Media, also announced the purchase of a wide array of other user-based sites like Reddit, LinkedIn, even fringe platforms including Parler and 4chan.
And yet, somehow, not only was it all true, it was just the first step in a series of moves that—through brute force—would make the new network the most-used social media platform of all time. Once the ink was dry and Krentler Media had spent a staggering $1.6 trillion in acquisitions, they announced that every platform, other than their newly formed Social, would cease to exist and that all users would need to merge the data from all of their other accounts over to this new monopolized meganetwork.
But what exactly is Krentler Media, and how did one man go from an arms dealer to the God Emperor of the internet? It’s no secret that William Krentler began his career at Harmine Defenses, taking over as CEO in the mid-80s after 20 years with the company. By the year 2000, Harmine Defenses had grown to become one of the largest and most profitable defense contractors in the world.
Here’s where the story gets weird. In 2014, Ron Morrison Jr., an Arizona Supreme Court justice, retired from his life-appointed seat in order to partner with Krentler for a new business venture. The two men founded Krentler Media, and with it, the Krentler Media Channel, or KMC as it’s more widely known. While the channel had some scripted content, it mostly served as a platform for right-wing politicians and pundits to share what were then-controversial topics.
Leading up to, and after the 2016 election, Krentler Media exploded in popularity and expanded its board to include well-known film producers like Charles Menuscha and legendary Raconteur Hotel chain magnate, Joseph Bartlett.
In the wake of the 2020 election, Krentler Media made a hard pivot away from politics, radically changing the content on the KMC network to focus on unscripted reality programs. More importantly, they launched what would soon become the one Social network to rule them all.
The question we keep asking is, even with all the resources at their disposal, how could Krentler Media possibly come up with the money to buy out not just one, but all existing social media platforms? And more importantly, why would a former arms dealer and Supreme Court justice even want to be involved in such a project? We’ve reached out to representatives at Krentler Media, but so far, they’ve had no comment. We will post updates as we learn more.
CHAPTER FIVE
As soon as I get home, I make a beeline for the bathroom. On top of the anxiety of my little Social empire crumbling, I’m still feeling shaky and embarrassed from the dog incident at the restaurant. Any time I leave my house or put myself in front of a camera, there are about a dozen mental checkboxes I have to hit, preparations in order to protect myself and my image. I let myself get distracted today, and now, I’m afraid to see if there’s a new trending hashtag of me cowering from a pooch. It only serves to reinforce how bad of an idea it is for me to go on Slashtag.
Behind me, the sound of an electric hum approaches from the hallway—my sister April is resting her chin on a curious fist. I feel a slight loosening in my chest at her bright smile.
She looks just like me, if I were in an electric wheelchair and was allowed to eat real food like a normal person. We both have slightly dark complexions from our father’s side. Our eyes are green, though hers are speckled with these little bright spots people always say have a hypnotic quality to them. I’m taller than she is, though I think that’s mostly due to stunted growth from getting stabbed in both her kidneys when she was ten.
April keeps her dark hair short and doesn’t have to bother with hours of makeup application every morning. She’s comfortable in her skin, in an effortless way that I am not, even though I’m the one famous for my “natural beauty” line of products. April’s smile comes with ease, despite every day being a literal battle of survival for her. Her face is slightly blotchy, but in her defense, she doesn’t have to use a regimen of eleven products on her face every night. Also, she gets to eat chocolate and shellfish.
Our scars are our biggest differences. I’ve got the bite marks on my thigh and two cuts on my face. The one on my chin is somewhat easily concealed by makeup, and a strategically placed wave of hair rides across my forehead and tucks behind my ear, hiding another one. Her scars aren’t visible, aside from the wheelchair she spends almost her entire waking life in.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks, pretending as if my entire life weren’t on fire right now.
“I’ve poisoned half of my fans, the world hates me, and I have to shoot an apology video. Other than that, I’m just dandy.”
April scrunches up her eyebrows. “I’m guessing now’s probably not the best time to tell you I’ve turned to crack and owe my dealer a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
Even at my lowest, April can always bring a smile to my face. “What have I always told you about doing crack? I make enough money for you to get the good stuff.”
We both laugh.
“I don’t mean to tell you how to live your life, but if you’re about to shoot an apology, shouldn’t you be putting on more makeup? I’d imagine you’d want to look your best for something like that.”
“I’m going in a different direction.” I scrub off all the concealer from my scars and take alcohol wipes to my eyelids and lips, making sure to get every inch of Howlett-brand makeup off my face. By the time I toss the wipe away, it’s nothing but a mess of brown and red smears.
“Is this some sort of a creative new branding strategy?”
“Something like that. I had a thought today and figured I’d run with it.”
Once satisfied that I’ve sufficiently de-beautified myself, I head into my yoga studio and turn on several ring lights in the room. Without my makeup or any camera filters to soften my face, I appear shiny and reflective against the harsh light.
April follows me into the room, holding a piece of paper she’s fished from my purse. “Is this the apology you’re going to give? It’s a little harsh, don’t you think? This thing reads like you were at the juice factory, laughing maniacally while pouring gallons of rat poison in the tank.”
“Yeah, I’m not saying any of that. How do I look?” I ask.
“You want an honest answer?” Her raised eyebrows say more than words ever could.
I nod. “That’s all I need to hear.”
