King of the Anthill

King of the Anthill
By: Missy D.

A dismal white light flickered on and off in a grungy basement. Moldy rotten chunks of cheese, pizza, and other snack foods littered a soiled carpet, which originally yellow, had grown to a putrid green. Countless two liters of soda lay half-empty or tipped over creating the effect of a rotted swamp. A thick stale aroma of sweat hung in the air so strong that little wisps of stink swirled around the globular form of Eugene Haroldson.

Eugene sat blinded by the bright white light of a screen. He furiously swiped, typed, and hacked, his fingers making a melody of click, click, clack on his sticky crumb littered keyboard as he gathered the data from a server. First names, last names, and credit card information.

“Suckers” he thought. Phone numbers, dates of birth, home address, gender, age. It surprised him most of the users who had signed up to play the popular game Pixel Pushers were under the age of sixteen. Not that it mattered to him anyway, because with this newfound power he could punish every last player who had ever dared treat him with contempt. He would not rest till every last savage child lay weeping at the foot of their keyboard as their virtual world was shattered before them

At this thought Eugene had a laugh, imagining some kid coming home from school only to realize his game account had been hacked, and banned, without ever a warning. His mind, crushed, would become a desolate wasteland of terror and fear.

With his left hand on the mouse he scrolled through the data seeing who would be first on his list of revenge. With his other hand he took a swig from a bottle of Bud Light that had been sitting out from the night before. He burped loudly at the screen, and then scratched in an unmentionable place before placing both his grubby hands on the keyboard.

By this time tomorrow, on his forty-second birthday, Pixel Pushers would belong to him, Eugene F. Haroldson, and all the users would become his subjects. He would make the rules fair as a benevolent king, but also the make bans, to smite those who had done him wrong.

Eugene began to imagine the different ways in which to torture his enemies. For example one user named Hax0rpr04 had been lately constantly calling Eugene a noob. Eugene had reported him several times, but nothing was done. So what better way to squash the little brat than to change his username to Hax0rNoob4? Then as the child realized the error of his ways he could grovel for forgiveness, while Eugene would do nothing more than laugh, and laugh until little tears of joy burst out of his crusty eyes.

Another user had often told Eugene that he would never be good at the game Pixel Pushers no matter how hard he tried, and that he was probably just an old man living in his mother’s basement. Jokes on him though, thought Eugene, I do live in my mother’s basement. Regardless, Eugene devised a plan in which he would send a particularly vile letter to the child’s home, disclosing how the child was adopted, only abandoned by the sole fact that his birth was an accident.

The child would realize the falsity of the letter with time, but in the meantime Eugene craved the thought of bathing in the child’s salty tears of the sadness. A crack would form in the child’s tattered heart, only to be clogged with loathing and skepticism. From then on he would view himself as deformity, and a monster, and how could anyone love a monster?Eugene hummed a cheery birthday tune in his head.

Next on his list was a snotty rich child, or should he say a snotty child with rich parents. This child often boasted about how his life was so grand, making everyone else feel meager in exchange. Eugene felt the kid’s parents would surely notice if they went missing a few hundred thousand dollars, and that would make the little bragger shut up.

The joy! He pondered, secretly wishing he could be there when the child tried to explain to his parents where all their money had gone. Then the little urchin, though only twelve, would be forced to work in a factory while everyday Eugene would stand over him telling the child how miserable he really was, and how it was the his turn to learn the meaning of hard work.

The last user was the one whom Eugene loathed the most. He was so kind, and so seemingly genuine Eugene knew it could only be a façade, and sure to his research the kind user was nothing more than an obese teenage boy with pimples and short greased back hair.

To this person Eugene would begin by sending a series of anonymous e-mails, relaying what an atrocious and despicable person the child was. He would also claim that the child was a hideous abomination, not fit for this world, and the world would be a better place without him.
“No person that ugly could truly be loved,” thought Eugene, “So better to tell him now rather than later.”

Eugene was quite pleased with himself, this time imagining the child trembling under his blankets disheartened, and ready to die. The child would come to realize the world is a cold cruel place, and niceness was only a facade for those who are truly ugly.

Eugene scratched his own pimply face, popping at least three large globs before again typing with pus and blood tipped fingers. “Tomorrow,” he thought, “is my forty-second birthday, and tomorrow the game will be mine. They will call me King Eugene, king of the Pixel Pushers, and I shall rule kindness and grace.

“The children will bow before me as their master, and I will treat them well. Yet if I am crossed, then I will do whatever it takes to expose the treacherous monsters, and to throw their raw emotions into the spotlight to mercilessly ridicule them as the little freaks they really are. They would deserve it.

The clock struck down at twelve o’ clock in the morning a new day was dawning. Eugene let out a boisterous chuckle, which slowly deepened into a guttural roar. His flabby stomach bounced up and down sending chip crumbs plunging into the abysmal depths of the carpet. The war was upon him.