The Subscriber

  "How can I be anything unless you tell me what's right
  I never was good with words
  You can deny that if you'd like"
                   -- Ali Spagnola, The More You Look At Me


As soon as she closed the front door someone grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth with one hand, and pressing something hard against the side of her head.
     "The barrel of a nickel plated forty-five is what you feel on the side of your skull," a male voice said softly into her ear. "If you struggle, and attempt to fight me off - which I believe you're fully capable of - I'll pull the trigger."
     For a moment the only sound that could be heard in the apartment was the breathing through her nose as she began hyperventilating. Her heart was beating so fast and hard she felt it in her head, as if her whole body was pulsing. It was at that moment she became weak, almost numb. She was going to faint.
     "The first thing I need you to do is to calm yourself by breathing slower," the man said. "Now, I know what's going through your mind at this moment. You're thinking that I'm going to rape you before I kill you. I want you to know, first and foremost, I'm not here to rape you, because I am not a rapist bastard, so you need not worry about that. I hope having such knowledge will slow your breathing just enough that you won't faint."
     She took deep breaths to maintain her senses, but she did not believe a word he was saying. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The man felt the fluid from her eyes touch his hand. She heard the man give out a disquiet sigh.
     "You sound a little bit better," he said. "At least enough you won't faint, or else I would've had to carry your ass. What will happen next will be unveiled to you in a sort of step by step process. First we are going to walk down the hallway to your amateur studio. Begin walking."
     She could not manage to move her foot for the first step. The man lightly tapped the back of her right shoe with his foot to urge her forward.
     "Come on now," he said, "you can do it. Just lift that foot, and take the first step. I don't want to manhandle you, because it makes things much less easier."
     After a few seconds her foot moved forward half a step.
     "Okay then, now we're off to a good start," he said. "Move the other foot in a longer, more complete stride, and keep going."
     She did as he commanded, but taking each step with a prolonged pause in between.
     "That's better, girl. Take your time. I know it's exceedingly difficult for you due to the fact you never expected this to happen to you."
     They made it to the hallway.
     "Don't think you can fool me into thinking your roommate is going to surprise me by coming through the front door," he informed. "I know what time the bitch gets off work."
     They arrived to an open door and crossed the threshold. Inside the room there was a desk with a desktop computer, and a laptop. On the opposite side, hanging up on the wall, were two guitars, one acoustic, the other electric, and below them an electric keyboard and an amplifier beside it. Near the open door, in the corner, a digital camera was mounted on a tripod. At the center of the room a chair faced the windows. The blinds were down, partially opened to allow some light into the room.
     "Walk around the chair, and stop right in front of it, facing the windows," the man instructed.
     They came to a complete stop.
     "Very good, girl," he complemented. "You're doing a great job. Next, I want you to walk forward on your own, and touch the wall between the windows with the tip of your nose. This will involve you leaving my embrace. If anything other than the sound of your breath comes out of your mouth, bang, bang, you're dead. Now, move forward."
     The man released his grip from over her mouth, the touch of his chest on her back was gone, then finally the pressure of the gun on the side of her head relinquished. She slowly began stepping forward, tears flowing down her cheeks, and dripping off her chin as she struggled not to weep. Her arms started shaking at the halfway point. What the man said next sent a shiver down her spine, nearly causing her to collapse.
     "It would be a damn shame to dirty this fine, white carpet with blood. And bloody brain matter ruining that excellent paint job on the wall there would totally devalue the entire property, especially in this neighborhood. Come on now, hurry up, but not too fast, you might hit your nose so hard against the wall you'll break it."
     "Shut the fuck up," she muttered under her breath.
     "Hey, I heard that," he said, chuckling.
     "I'm sorry," she said. "Please don't kill me. My nose is touching the wall."
     "Good, now turn around, put your back against the wall. Then slide down to a sitting position with your legs stretched out, and cross them over each other."
     After one deep breath she hastily did as he ordered, all the while keeping her eyes closed.
     "Take your cellphone out of your pocket, and toss it forward," he instructed.
     "I didn't sneak a phone call," she said, reaching in the front pocket of her blue jeans for the cellphone, then tossing it onto the floor.
     She could hear the man's movements as he knelt down to check the phone, regardless of what she said to the contrary.
     "What's the code to get into your phone?" he asked.
     She told him.
     He said, "A man in my position can never take any chances, not at all."
     A pause, then the sound of the phone thudding on the carpet floor. She then heard the man walking on his knees toward her. He stopped, and suddenly she heard the sound of plastic being ruffled, then something being torn open.
     Condom, she thought.
     "No, no, no, no," she pleaded, weeping. "You said no rape." She covered her face with her arms.
     "Hey, stop covering your face," he said.
     "No, please no," she pleaded again.
     "Drop your arms to your side, now," he said, more fiercely than he had been previously.
     She lowered her arms, expecting the worst thing to happen to a woman, worser than death if she were to survive this experience. Something soft began rubbing against her cheek.
     "Oh my God," she said, "you're going to skull fuck me."
     "It's not my dick, woman," he said.
     "What else would it be?" She cringed, tightening the eyelids over her eyes.
     "The last time I checked, they didn't sell condoms made out of tissue," he said. "Open your eyes. You can't know the truth blind."
     Slowly opening one eye she saw fingers holding a single tissue, wiping away the tears from one cheek. She opened her other eye as the man moved his hand to wipe her other cheek.
     "You're too beautiful to be crying," he said. "It makes me sad to see it."
     She looked over at his other hand holding the nickel plated .45 handgun still pointed at her head.
     "You, sad? Of all people," she said.
     He ignored her statement, dropped the moist tissue onto her lap, and picked up the packet of tissues, holding it out for her to take.
     "Continue wiping away your tears," he said.
     She took hold of the tissues, looking at him as he stood up. For a moment, seeing his face for the first time, she had deja vu. She recognized him, but couldn't remember from where. She watched him as he moved over to the chair, and sat down, the gun still in her direction.
     "This is the final step," he began to say, "which involves you sitting there, and simply listening to what I have to say. You may only speak when I ask you a question. Okay?"
     There was a moment of silence.
     "You see, that was a question," he said. "I'll be more specific. Do you understand when you're aloud to talk?"
     "Yes," she replied, more tears rolling down her cheeks.
     "And you speak when I what?"
     "Ask a question," she said.
     "Excellent. I told you to wipe away your tears. The sight of your crying eyes makes me sick."
     She took out a tissue, and commenced using it.
     "Good," he said. "Thank you, beautiful. Do you recognize me?"
     Her eyes somewhat clear of tears, looked at his face. She tried to remember, but could not find the memory.
     "Um, I don't think so," she said. "You kind of remind me of someone I've met, but you're not him."
     "Well, people do look like other people," he said, smirking. "But in your reply to my comment on your corny YouTube video, you said you recognized me from my Twitter account which you follow. Then you went on about how I objectified you, how you weren't a thing I can have as my own - as if it were even possible - and how sad and regretful you felt about following me on Twitter in the first place. And blah, blah, blah." He began speaking in a feminine tone. "'I'm a person, not a toy you can play with. I feel sad for the human race men like you exist.' Waah, waah, waaaah!" His voice went back to normal, and he asked, "Do recollect typing such a lecture? Does it finally come to mind?"
     There was silence as she began thinking. It slowly came to her, like a fog being burned away by the rising sun.
     "Yes," she said. "I remember you now. You said --"
     "I 'said!?'" he yelped.
     He shot up out of the chair so fast she spasmed on the floor. She almost covered her face again, but her arms were unable to function.
     "You fuckers think anything written in the comment section is some kind of concrete truth, like people two-thousand years from now are gonna read it, and say, 'Hey, look here at this. This is real. Books? Fuck those things. This right here be the voice of our ancestors. We learn history better with this shit.'"
     The man sat back down in the chair, letting out a heavy sigh.
     "I mean, what the fuck, girl," he continued, "it was just a fucking joke about you bending over in front of the camera while you were in nothing but your underwear, and a tight, gray tank top. The joke was making fun of myself anyways. I wrote, 'I'm a straight, white male. Don't judge me!.' El-oh-fucking-el. Let me ask you something. If I put the letters J and K at the end of the sentence, would you have thought it was funny?"
     She tilted her head, and her eyes shifted from side to side, as if looking for the right answer around the room.
     "It's not a hard question," he said. "Yes, or no."
     She took a moment to reflect, then said, "I knew it was a joke, and my reply was a joke as well. Sorry."
     The man froze, not even seeming to breathe. The hand not holding the gun balled up into a fist. She could see the knuckles look as if they were going to tear through the skin.
     He said, slowly, "You...were...joking?"
     "Yes," she replied. "It was like six months ago, man."
     The man's eyes began twitching.
     "I know," he said. "And you want to know what happened in those six months?"
     "Okay?" She didn't want to, but knew he was going to tell her anyway.
     "You have over a million followers on Twitter, almost a quarter million subscribers on your YouTube channel. And do you know how many of them are fucking SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIORS?!"
     "No," she replied, shaking her head.
     "Enough to ruin my fucking life!" he yelled -- more like roared. "After you left that hypocritical lecture of a reply I was bombarded by those fucking assholes on Twitter. They called me a rapist, a misogynist, a, uh -- what do you call it? Oh, yeah, a rape apologist. And worst of all, a fucking goddamn pedophile. Someone hacked my e-mail, and put kiddy porn on my account. It was fucking disgusting! And those fuckers were crafty and well coordinated, because before I could even delete them I got swatted, and the pigs found that shit on my computer. So now I'm a sex offender. Shit, fuck. All because of your goddamn reply. Couldn't you have put 'JK' at the end of your reply?"
     "Oh my God," she gasped. "I didn't know. I am so sorry. I was just --"
     "Just what?" he interrupted, leaning forward in the chair.
     "I just didn't want to be perceived as some kind of woman that would allow such comments without some sort of reprisal. I don't want my fans thinking I'm a slut."
     "Well, think about this, missy, it's kind of hard to do that while posting some pics on Instagram of you half naked. In some of your videos you walk around in only a bra --" He stopped himself, and slapped his hand on the side of his head in frustration. "I'm getting off track here. Look, I know you're not a slut, but to a lot of dimwitted, straight males you are. So fuck you. We live in an age where both sexes are dumb as shit, because they take a minor mistake in one's life, whether it be a moment, a sentence written, or something said aloud and recorded, and define the person by it, regardless of what the person does in his or her life. A mere moment does not define a person's whole life. So again I say, fuck you."
     He got up off the chair, moved over to the electric keyboard, put a hand under it, lifted it off it's legs, and flipped it sideways. It slammed against the wall, the piano keys fell to the floor.
     "And fuck your music too, asshole," he said. "That is not even a fraction of what you've done to me. I was just a poet, goddamnit! Seeking inspiration from the wonderful world that is the internet. A fucking nobody who will remain a nobody. And you're nothing more than a comedic musician that can't take a fucking joke."
     He sat back in the chair, calming himself down by taking a few deep breaths.
     "But you know what? I still like you. I like how talented you are, the sound of your voice, when you smile and laugh, when you wear baggy pants and a black t-shirt, and especially when you don't have makeup on your face like a painted whore -- not that you ever look like one, I'm just using a simile. None of this is actually your fault. I'm going to let you in on a big secret. You're gonna like it."
     He reached into the front pocket of his jean shorts, and took out a loaded magazine.
     "The gun actually had no bullets in it this entire time," he informed.
     He inserted the magazine into the handgun, and cocked a bullet into its chamber.
     "And by the way, I didn't come here to kill you, I only wanted to see you in the flesh."
     He put the barrel of the gun to his right temple.
     "And have your beautiful face be the last image I see before I die. It truly does suck you're not smiling."
     "No!" she yelled, putting out her hand. "DON'T!"
     He pulled the trigger. The hammer came down...but there was only a clicking sound.
     "Damn," he said, disappointed. "These fucking things always jam."
     He slid open the gun's chamber, inspecting it to see if there were an obstruction inside of it.
     In a fit of blinding rage, the woman roared.
     The man looked up, and there she was, standing over him. Before he could think, she swung a hard right hook right into the left side of his face, knocking him out.
     About five minutes later he was awakened by something cold being pressed on his face. His eyes blinked open to see the woman kneeling beside his laid out body, holding a package of frozen green peas on the side of the face she had punched. She held the gun in her other hand.
     "Why would you try to kill yourself?" she asked.
     "Being punched by you was totally worth it," he said. "I love a woman who can defend herself. I think you broke my tooth."
     "Answer my fucking question," she demanded. "I'm in charge now."
     "You can turn off the camera now," he said.
     "What?" she said, bemused.
     "The one on the tripod. It was on for the prank."
     She stood up, then ran to the camera mounted on the tripod in the corner of the room. He was telling the truth, it was recording. She walked back over to him.
     "But this gun is real," she said, holding it out. "I should know, I --"
     "You've used one at the gun range," he said, still lying on the floor, holding the frozen green peas on his face. "I saw the video." He started to reach into his pocket.
     She pointed the gun at him, saying, "Don't do shit. Show me your hands."
     "Don't worry," he said, continuing to reach into his pocket.
     He took out something that looked like a little rod, holding it up for her to see between his thumb and index finger.
     "This here is the firing pin for the gun," he informed. "Plus, the bullets in the magazine are made out of plastic. I took this thing out of the gun because you must take every precaution when using a real handgun. Rest in peace, Brandon Lee. Oh, and the keyboard I broke isn't yours, I bought that cheap shit this morning at Walmart. Yours is in your roommate's room."
     "So this was all a fucking prank?" she said, anger welling inside, her face turning red.
     "Yes," he answered.
     "And what about all that shit you said happened to you? Is any of it true?"
     He sat up, and said, "Well, some Feminist did tell me to do the world a favor and drink cyanide."
     "This," she said, gesturing back and forth at the room, "was not funny. I should call the cops. You broke into my apartment, and with a real gun."
     "Your roommate gave me the key," he said.
     "Bullshit."
     "Girl, I'm telling you the truth. Call her."
     "Stay right where you are," she commanded, stepping sideways to her cellphone on the floor, still aiming the gun at the guy.
     "Okay," he muttered. "My head hurts, and I taste blood."
     She knelt to pick up the phone, looked at the screen to see that it was already connected to her roommates phone.
     "I called her when you gave me your phone," the guy said, "she wanted to listen in while she was on her lunch break."
     She put the phone to her ear, and said, "Were you really in on this shit?"
     A pause as she listened.
     "Why?!"
     Another pause.
     "But -- but I cleaned the carpet in the living room. You can't even tell anything happened. There's not one fucking STAIN!"
     A short pause as she listened to her roommate. The guy could here the girl's voice from the phone's speaker. She was surely pissed about whatever they both were referring to.
     "We'll get our deposit back. What are you talking about a squishing sound when you walk over the spot? By the time we move out there will be no squishing sound. The landlord just looks to see we didn't put wholes in the wall."
     The last pause.
     "Principal? Fuck your principal! I thought I was going to be raped and killed. Fucking asshole!"
     She then threw her cellphone at the wall, smashing it to pieces, dropped the gun on the floor, then turned and ran at the guy. She kicked him in the ribs.
     "Ah, fuck," he said in pain. "I think you broke a rib. We even now?"
     She leaned forward, and said, "Fuck no." Then raised a fist. "After I kick your ass, I'm erasing the video."
     "Wait, hold on a sec," he said, holding up a hand. "I just want to say something."
     "Like what?" She kept her fist up, ready to swing.
     "I'm a subscriber to your wonderful YouTube channel," he began to say. "I'm one of your friendos. What just happened, I know is a little fucked up. It's the first time I've participated in a prank video. Yes, you can delete the video on the camera, but you have a real cool story to tell your friends and the new people you'll meet when you get more famous. And one last thing: I apologize for that comment. I meant it as a joke. I respect you as a human being. And I'll make it up to you by taking you out on a date. Now, I am only hypothesizing, but what if this is one fucked up beginning of a great relationship?"
     "Are you done?" she asked, her fist still poised in the air.
     "Yeah, that was it," he said. "You can't blame a straight, white male for trying."
     She swung -- and swung hard -- connecting her fist right on the frozen green peas the guy was holding on his face, causing it to burst open, sending frozen peas in all directions. The guy turned over on the floor, and she kicked him hard in the stomach, then proceeded to stomp him from hip to shoulder as the guy got into the fetal position. She then kicked him so he'd lay on his back, got on top of him, grabbed him by the collar, and socked him on the nose, breaking it.
     "Chantilly Lace," he said meekly.
     "What the fuck does that mean?" she asked about to slap him with the back of her hand.
     Smiling, showing off his bloody teeth, he recited, "'Oh, baby, you know what I like.'"
     "Are you certifiably unstable, or on drugs?" she inquired.
     "No drugs," he replied, blood running down his chin. "Just unstable enough to do a stupid YouTube prank video."
     She then proceeded to bitchslap him. He took the beating without protest, accepting the pain like an honest man should, because she was his hero after all.