Wednesday, October 29, 2008

"Never Special," 34, pt. 2, 496 words

My computer takes nearly five minutes to boot up, so I wander off to the kitchen and get a cup of water, and succumb to the siren song of buttered bread. It only makes the hunger pangs sharper, but I ignore them as best I can and sit down to wait for the computer once more.

Log in, password, anti-virus update, Windows update... Come on already, move it. I ignore the instant messenger program, closing it down. The last thing I want to do is talk to someone directly. Web browser, Gmail, another password... Move it, damn you. My computer's too old and decrepit to really benefit from cable, but it's still better than dial-up.

A hundred and twenty messages... Jesus. It can't all be spam, the filter's too good. How did all these people find my address? It's like-- oh God. My mother. I close my eyes as I click on the e-mail from Candice Park, as if I could deny its power.

Thankfully, my mother's open-minded. She berates me a little for not telling her about my powers, but she doesn't say anything about my underwear or my failure. Really, she spends more time talking about her neighbors and friends, and asking about my love life, than she does on the topic of my powers and disastrous debut. She really wants grandkids -- but just to visit, and then go home at night. I wish sometimes I had a brother or sister she could depend upon for that, but my parents had gotten divorced too soon after I was born. If she ever even went out with anyone after that, I never knew it.

The next e-mail I open is from a friend, more of an acquaintance, Connie. The title just says "Rule 34." All it is, is a link to a website, an image gallery according to the address, and I click on it.

What. The. Fuck.

There are a dozen different pictures of... of me, on this site, drawings and edited photos. A picture, a still frame that must've been from the police helicopter's camera as I buzzed by, where someone had edited my underwear out and replaced it with some other woman's naked crotch. A couple of badly-done drawings of me, naked but for my panties, flying. One with some actual technical skill depicting Nefarious's gargantuan-breasted minion, still in gas mask and a uniform with breasts and groin torn off, having sex with me.

At the top of the page is a big image of some text that reads, in huge balloon letters, "Rule 34," and beneath it, in smaller, neater lettering: "There is porn of it. No exceptions."

Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick. There's porn of me online. The only comfort is a list of "Related Links" on the side of the page, which includes names like Kali Yuga, Amaza, and Polaris. It's almost flattering to be with those names.

Almost.

Mostly, I just want to throw up.

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