We met at group therapy. Glances and stares across the room. We chose to listen that night, soaking each other in. We exchanged fluids before names. The chemistry calling for something more sacred. This was more than simply mating; this was a bonding ritual signed in cum. The slapping of our skin a metronome to our awakening. No longer suffering singularities, but a vessel for healing. A vessel for dropping the truth on this fucked-up world.
We’d bought the lies that were sold. Paying for them by carving pieces of ourselves. Every scar a landmark of the dark places we’ve been. What brought us together, our attempts at facial reconstruction. Looking to become as pristine as the faces on screen.
Living behind the consumer side of the camera. Lives edited and designed in a way as to make you believe in and question the wrong things. A design built of dollar signs.
The times have changed. The process hasn’t. Now these salespeople of lies and fantasies have reachable names, faces and sometimes, if they are careless enough, locations.
These people swarming to sell you oceans of lotions, potions and romantic notions. Knocking themselves over to convince you of the right way to live. On hand with countless products and life hacks and natural remedies and skincare regimes and perfect children and amazing trips away and brand-new cars and a new personal best and wonderful and easy organic recipes and fantastic and time-consuming ways to save money, etc.
We tallied our scars together. We made a list of those responsible. We rounded out the picture of one another, knowing we were kindred. We remembered the instant gratification of another like, another follow. A stone skimming, not off the surface, but the shallow bottom. We vowed to inject truth serum to the core of the rotten machine. We knew it would be fuelled by blood.
The first target was entitled @Katie88. She was local to us. It didn’t take much to discover her children went to one of the public schools and not the private one they were purported to attend.
We found her sitting on a sun lounger in front of a green screen in her backyard. We arrived aware she was in the middle of a live video. We’d been watching the feed. She chatted about things that would never happen to or for her.
We announced our arrival ripping through the greenscreen to reveal the real pool behind. Empty of water and layered with the detritus of her home. A raccoon scrabbling for a morsel. A swarm battling through rotten scraps.
We slugged from the bottle of booze on the table. Definitely a cheaper brand than she was passing it off as. She screamed, but couldn’t stop herself from looking at the camera again and again.
We lunged, blood spraying from her stab wounds. Gushes hitting the camera lens, flooding the patio. We laughed and we ran. Truth dispersed for all to see.
We fucked fantasising about the million screams of those resistant to the truth. We fucked with blood still seeping through our clothes. We fucked and dreamt of our next inductee to the hall of truths.
Derek Derrickson. @DazzyDerk. Powders, chowders, shakes, bakes, weights, self-hate. All things he sold via his account. Preaching fitness while not giving a shit what he made you ingest. Our friend had died with said shit solidifying in his veins.
We find him at the fancy golf course. He posted the day before he’d be going, followed up by a post on his arrival. White polo shirts can get you access to any staff entrance you please. We are learning a lot on these jaunts.
We find and watch him on the 7th tee. We watch him shank drive after drive into the woods. Despondently returning to his tripod to set up for another mulligan.
We let him line up his next attempt. We wordlessly approach, removing clubs from his bag. We plan to tenderise all that muscle. Prove it’s worthlessness. All show, not go.
Head, shoulders, knees and toes. Educational and instructional for the aspiring killer by bludgeoning. Derek is almost disappointing in his helplessness. He succumbs to us with ease, uploaded for all to see.
The alpha E of the fake housewives of the internet is next in line. @MrsHopkins with the dazzling white perfect teeth. The dazzling vapid sense of self. The two children who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
We come to rescue them from their servitude. We come to imbue them with the truth. We come to release them from their parasite.
She is swearing at her children when we arrive. Courtney, 7, and Casey, 4. They are onto take 13 of their latest masterpiece. Espousing the quality of home-schooling @MrsHopkins is able to provide for her angels. One of them fucks it up again. She calls them cunts. Ungrateful cunts, who don’t realise this video will be the difference between groceries or a trip to the food bank this month.
We choose the third option. Fuck off and die and the kids will be fine with their grandparents. Take 14 is bloodier than the rest with a plot twist ole @MrsHopkins doesn’t see coming.
We upload and unload our excitement onto each other. We think of the truths and happier lives we left behind. Courtney and Casey now ready to thrive.
Our mounting deeds catch up with us. The sirens yelling the end. Megaphones blasting stage directions we will not follow. We envision our separation. Separate police cars. Separate cells. Separate trials. There is only one answer. One verdict. One last truth.
One more scar to impart. Once more into the breach. We stare deep, knives poised. We push closer, deeper. A ceremony of blood. Through slit throats we sing our final notes.
by 
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