Chapter Eight
In the weeks that followed, Peter Durant found a new enemy to hurl his anger towards and that enemy showed its face almost hourly on social media forums of all kinds.
What incarnation had his nemesis taken this time around?
They were the online quiz takers!
Peter’s anger was only further fueled and nourished by their insatiable need to know such things as what type of crystal their soul color is, and what famous actor should they share a hospital room with after surgery, and what kind of sandwich would they be if they were a sandwich, and so on.
Oh, and there was also:
Who was your mother from another brother?
What flavor ice cream would you be if you were living in a Bangkok whorehouse?
What five celebrities should be at your funeral?
Pick a crystal, any crystal, and we will tell you when your toaster oven will accidentally reveal your biggest crush!
Who is your soulmate, Susan Boyle or Honey Boo-boo?
He switched from drinking coffee to espresso that evening stayed up to all hours, slinging filth in the form of verbal missiles and well thought out projectiles of mimicry derived from a combination of unbridled disgust and a lack of sleep.
He set his alarm clock early so he could begin before sunrise each day.
Adding both male and female fakebook profiles to his rank and file, he friend requested anyone he could think of and, when that was not enough to satiate his thirst, he set about enlisting strangers.
He lowered his standards to such benthic levels that he found himself accepting friend requests from women with hot, sexy, semi-nude photos and only three other friends, but sultry promises of more photos to come if he would visit her website.
Some black guy from Nigeria who thought Peter’s profile looked like that of a respectable American friend?
Why not?
A pudgy woman from the Philippines named Pjang juong with a flower behind her ear?
But of course.
Single Russian women who, like the Volga River of their motherland, were cold and beautiful all at once?
Why the fuck not?
Surely each of those people would be expressing opinions, and he could always lure them in closer to his web and snare by sharing links to quizzes he himself pretended to take.
What is the phone number of your animal spirit guide?
Which member of the cast of Real Housewives of Fucktardia are you?
Which member of congress has a secret crush on you?
Which nation’s anthem best describes your labia?
What kind of tree is your inner child?
Which cartoon would you be if you could have sex with Abraham Lincoln?
Would you survive the zombie apocalypse if all you had for prosthetic arms were vibrating dildos?
Can we guess where your favorite mole is?
How did I die in my past life and did it have anything to do with Miley Cyrus’ twerking?
What color unicorn am I?
Can you name all of these terrible diseases?
What would I be if I wasn’t a fucktard?
What fabric should line your coffin? Tell us your birthday and we’ll let you know!
Is kibitzing right for you? Just answer these seventy-five easy to read questions!
The list went on and on, and although Peter had never once taken any of the quizzes he shared, the people of the world seemed to eagerly take the bait every time.
Even under the guise of many imposters, he continued to be a wiseass and he lost friends daily, but gained friends quickly, like a single chick does with her weight while dating.
On some days he’d double down and go for broke, losing four or five friends before lunch and then picking up seven more before supper.
The days became like a blur.
The hours flew by like birds nearing sunset.
The scotch bottles piled up like the bills of a the recently unemployed.
He started forgetting which day it was and before long his lonely laughter began to take on a slightly maniacal tone and cadence, like the footsteps of a demented canary hopping across the surface of snare drum.
No more the clockaholic he once was, he now found himself on the verge of becoming an altogether solemn and insipid new creature, something, from the looks of him; more hideous and stinky as well.
Dr. Frankenstein, both Mary and Percy Shelley, as well as the discriminable Lord Byron would have surely been admires of his exhumed self-sculpture.
Doomed to the spiraling effect that came with the onset of his self-inflicted malady, he slumbered through his lunch breaks at work and spent his weekends in the dark.
Peter Durant had not picked up a paintbrush in nearly four months.