BLOG: Legacy

17 Jan

The BLOG.

A digital frontier.

I tried to picture clusters of jokes as they moved through the computer.

What do they look like?

Smiley emoticons, tiny, liquid-metal penises?

Were the circuits like freeways?

I kept dreaming of a world I thought I’d never see.

Then, one day

I got in.

For longer than I can remember, I’ve wanted to change the world. I racked my brain trying to find ways to fix things–to fix what is wrong with us, with the world, with everything. I thought I could change the world with humor–with a beautiful, complex, new form of humor [Editor’s Note: Seriously? I don’t believe you.]. The world could be different if people only knew how to laugh [Editor’s Note: They already know how to do that.].

I’m sitting on the foot of my roommate Derek’s bed. His covers are pulled up to his chin. He’s looking at me, wide-eyed, admiring. His room is strewn with IronKyle memorabilia.

“And so, I went into the internet–to find what made everybody tick. You see, on the internet is practically every piece of information known to mankind. With that information, if I could find a way to link it all together, every race, creed, religion, philosophy, science, and make fun of them all, why, I could change the world.”

“And did you?”

“Well, I knew that if I wanted to make this system, if I wanted to find a way to make fun of everything all at once, I’d need help. Such a big task could never be done alone.” I lean back and pull something out of my pocket. “So, I made IronKyle.” In my hand, I’m holding an IronKyle action figure. He looks just like the Kyle action figure, but drunker somehow.

I hand the figure to Derek. He presses a button on IronKyle’s belt and the figure’s crotch lights up. I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

“He’s just like me in almost every way. He’s an inflated version of me. He’s the me that exists solely on the internet–and with his help, we’re getting closer and closer to making that system.” I look at my phone. It’s an iPhone 4. “It’s time for me to go,” I say. It’s not really pressing. If you ever need more time doing something, there’s an app for that. I just don’t feel like being on Derek’s bed anymore. Being nine o’ clock already, it is only a matter of time before the entire surface is wet with urine.

I get up off his bed, bend down, and kiss him on the head.

“Maybe we can play Madden later. We’ll see if you can beat your old man this time,” I say.

“Can’t we be on the same team? Your trash talk is becoming more and more personal and I don’t know if I can take it anymore.”

“Derek, we’re always on the same team.” I shut the door, smiling, then open it back. “And stop being a pussy. You wet the bed because of your tormented childhood.” I shut the door again.

“That’s not even trash talk,” Derek quietly says to himself. He gets out of his bed and looks out the window as my black Honda Civic speeds away.

Thirty or so minutes pass.

“Where is Kyle?” Derek asks his roommate, Alex. She doesn’t know. No one does.

I’ve been gone for thirty minutes and no one knows where I am. Derek starts to panic. He runs outside, gets on his bicycle and rides away.

He reaches Art Six some forty-five minutes later. He walks in, past the cashier, and back to where I do most of my writing. My laptop sits alone. On it is the 3-D text screensaver. Derek sits down to read the mysterious, three-dimensional message left for him on the screen.

“BOOOOOBS!!!1” it says.

“Boobs….” Derek whispers to himself, his eyes locked on the screen. A woman in a yellow sweater looks over at Derek, disgusted.

Derek presses the space bar and in front of him is the interface for writing a blog. “Would you like to leave this page?” a balloon has prompted him.

“No,” he says to himself. He clicks the “No” option.

“Enter Internet?” the next balloon asks him. Derek sits back and looks around him. That woman in the yellow sweater has left.

He clicks the “Yes” button.

“PASSWORD:______” the computer prompts.

“Derek,” he types. Nothing. “Whiskey” he types. Still nothing. He sits and thinks for a moment, quietly repeating the word “boobs” over and over again. More people are getting up to leave.

“I got it!” he says, and types “Eat This, Internet” into the box. He is immediately transported away and to another world–into the world of the internet.

Derek falls into a city street that much resembles a street on Earth, but everything is much cleaner. There are no bumps, there is no dirt. There is no imperfection. Along the perimeter of everything is a beautiful blue or orange light.

“I’ll find you, Kyle,” he says, running off into the distance. He’s running the exact wrong way.

“Sir, it seems a reader has entered BLOG,” a wormy, pale figure in a black robe, illuminated by its seams, says to a man seated in a onyx black throne. The man is wearing a helmet and no face can be seen beneath its impossibly black, opaque surface.

“He’s come to rescue his friend,” the man in the helmet says, his voice is augmented to a deep, ominous timbre. “Bring him to me.”

Derek kicks the door down. “Kyle! I’ve found you!”

There’s a few seconds of near-silence in the room. The man in the throne has spun around and is now facing the door. His second in command is also looking at Derek, dumbfounded.

“Is…” the man in the helmet gestures to Derek. “Is this the guy?”

“Yes, it seems so.” The wormy man says. He’s so wormy.

“I’m looking for Kyle,” Derek says, looking at the wormy man. “Is he here?”

“No, he’s not–” the wormy man begins, but doesn’t have time to finish his sentence before Derek has left the doorway–the sound of his footsteps fading amongst the various beeps and blips in the room.

The man in the helmet sighs.

“Should we go after him?” The worm asks.

“OF COURSE YOU SHOULD GO AFTER HIM!” The man in the helmet says. He removes his helmet and throws it at his second in command. The face beneath the helmet looks exactly like mine.

Derek gets out his  BlackBerry and sees that he has 1 new message. It’s from me.

“Where u at?” it says.

“The internet,” Derek responds. “Where u at??”

“I’m in exile. Look east. I’m that one white dot out there. Come that way.” Derek does so.

Derek hijacks the bicycle of a child and rides toward the dot. He’s there within minutes.

“Kyle! What’s going on? Why haven’t you come home yet?” Derek yells as he walks up the steps to my home, which is actually quite nice and rent free because it’s in the internet.

“I can’t…” I say. “I can’t come home. I’m trapped here.”

“Trapped?”

“IronKyle has trapped me here. He wrested control of BLOG from me, Derek. He wants to create the system on his own. He sees my humanity as an imperfection in his perfect comedy system.”

“I don’t understand,” Derek says.

“IronKyle has gone rogue,” I say. “He doesn’t believe he needs me to write jokes for him anymore. He believes himself to be his own, independent organism. If he captures me and takes my brain,” I point at where my brain is. “He’ll have all he needs to go through the teleporter and enter our world. Do you have any idea of the chaos that would ensue? The debauchery? The world doesn’t have enough whiskey or child-support lawyers.”

“Then let’s get your brain OUT of here!” Derek says.

“It’ll be dangerous,” I say.

“Fortune favors the bold,” Derek says, quoting someone.

“Very well. Let’s go.”

We sneak into the city’s center. Its police at every corner looking for us.

When we reach the transporter’s entrance, it’s heavily guarded.

“We’re going to have to find another way in,” I say.

Derek scoffs. “I prefer a more direct approach.”

“No, Derek, you–” Derek bolts from our cover and runs directly at the guards.

“Damn it,” I say to myself. I hop over the cover and run as fast as I can behind Derek. His butt is bouncing wildly in his gym shorts and I find myself briefly hypnotized by it.

In what feels like an instant, the guards lay about me in pieces. Digital gore. Digital blood.

“Hurry!” Derek says, pulling me by the arm. Above us a orange shuttle is pulling up to the magnificent tower.

We stand in awe at the teleporter. Its brilliant light. Its limitless power.

“Let’s go,” Derek says. We walk towards the light.

From the sky falls IronKyle.

“Stop!” He says.

“Wait, Derek,” I say. I’ll handle this.

“IronKyle! Make way! We have to get back to our world! Jersey Shore is on tonight! I have to see how the other half lives!”

“No!” IronKyle says. “You said we’d make the perfect system together! You said we’d make the best jokes! The best jokes!” IronKyle’s crotch lights up, but I’m still confused as to what that means.

“I know,” I say. “I was wrong to make you that promise. We can’t make fun of everything. That’s not what humor is!” A wild wind is whipping against the three of us. We stagger to maintain purchase on the platform. “The internet contains every bit of information known to mankind, but it does not contain mankind! The internet itself is imperfect!”

At this IronKyle grips his head and screams.

“I’m sorry, dear friend,” I say and make a run for the transporter, knocking IronKyle out of the way. With Derek close behind, we leap into the blinding light that will take us home.

End.

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