The Influencer Goes Viral

He stood in the darkest corner of the room, with his arms folded, as he looked down, searching for answers. He only saw the outline of his shadow. The darkness around him was thick. The silence was ominous. He wondered how God failed him. After he was born again, he devoted almost two decades to his glory in exchange for the alleviation of his tormenting desires. “Hollow be thy name.”

Across the room, a voice, like a whisper, interrupted his thoughts. “please, please, let me go.”

He did not respond.  He wondered why his prayers were no longer answered. “Has God forgotten me?”. He was angry with God but had a deeper contempt, repulsion, toward himself. “Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil” no longer worked. “This is not me,” he thought.

He delved deeper into his thoughts, but she kept interrupting him. Now her voice was louder, no longer supplicant but angry: “Let me out! You creep… What’s wrong with you?”

She had been awake for a few minutes now, but her eyes still struggled to get adjusted to the dark; she felt cold and realized that she was naked. Like an unrobed female Christ on the cross, she lay with her arms spread out on top of a stretcher. Helpless.  Soon, she started to panic. Her heart desperately drummed, increasing the blood dripping from her legs and rib cage. The burning pain along her inner thighs was excruciating. Her lips and bosoms burnt as well. Her struggle and rapid breaths made her thirsty. She cried, and a desperate desire to escape took over her, but her arms and legs were tightly bound. “let me go, let me go!”.  A deep terror gripped her heart. A woman’s worst nightmare has visited her.

After her pupils adjusted, she saw the rectangular outline of the room. The lighting was tenuous and irregular, as it filtered into the room sparsely from the outside. Part of the room was engulfed in the dark, the others not so much. The air was stuporous and humid; the moisture made her skin wet and slippery, which made her cuts burn more intensely. Her breathing was labored. The room was damp, but a strong disinfectant scent filled the air.

One of the walls was neatly lined with leather straps and whips. On the opposite wall, there were what appeared to be old newspaper clippings and a small table. Then, in front of her, she clearly saw a door. Her heart pounded with renewed effort; her desire for freedom grew monumental. She tried to rip off her cuffs and burst through the door. “Let me go!” she screamed again. But, the silence choked her voice.

The more she fought her restraints, the more it hurt her wrists and ankles; the bleeding worsened. Her desperation climaxed when, in the darkest corner of the room, she saw someone standing. The image, half silhouette, half shadow, just stood idled. She was now certain of her danger. He was facing her, but she could not see his face. He stood immobile. The silence in the room was ominous, more painful than her restraints. Only the thump, thump of her pulse in her temple was audible. She screamed again.

For the past two days, her keeper had also been tormented. He felt trapped between two pressing desires. One thought pounded his head: “Don’t do it!” The other was a hunger to be satiated. “The cleansing of the blood will free the spirit in his name,” he kept repeating.

He had those conflicts before. The urge always won. But one day, he surrendered his life to his Lord and Savior, Jesus, and the Christ delivered. He was born again. For a few years, the son of God freed him of his torment. But now, as he stood in front of his latest victim, it was clear to him that the beast had come back. 

“Please, please!” she pleaded. “I’l be good, I promise…I’d do whatever you want me to!”

In her desperation, fighting for her life, she swung between pleading and rage in failed attempts to connect with her keeper, “Answer me, pleeease!”. Not seeing him, not feeling acknowledged by her captor, was more painful than the cuts and bruises that she had already suffered. His silence was deafening.

She tried not to scream again because when you scream amidst silence, the echo of your scream hurts your ears, but she was overwhelmed by her pain and terror. “Why are you doing this to me?…” she sobbed as the dark figure moved closer to her. His presence was cold as the room, devoid of life, but she smelled his rancid breath near her. His rapid breathing betrayed his ectasis.

As she drifted in and out of consciousness, with every new cut that he inflicted, she knew that there was no way out; he sliced her body into pieces. She was exhausted and ran out of screams while the blades found their way into her anatomy; she knew her end was near.

How did she find herself here?

The last thing she remembered was a stroll along Broadway Avenue; then she woke up in this room. She started crying and thought of her mother; a deep sadness punctuated her heart. Her cell phone pinged a few times on the ground next to her.

                                                                                  ***

They lived in different worlds. He lived in a prison of life-ending urges. For a long time, his mind was tortured. In his eyes, blood turned into a holly fluid that purified souls. His name was  Dino Sauer.  

 She was born in the Chinese era of the Wood Dragon, an era of introversion and poor relationships, in a new Millennium of made beliefs, dreams, and fantasies. She was brought up to be the center of attention and soon became addicted to others’ adoration; she had only ears for praise. Everyone called her Hawkie. Her full name was Hawk Teuer.

Their lives crossed paths in 2024, at a time when the world was irrational and combustible. The Internet and social media had taken over the planet, and people regressed into fanatics and trolls.

People found in social media a new God who granted all desires and fulfilled all fantasies. They devoted themselves wholeheartedly to its glory. They could not resist the urge to check their accounts constantly.

Like twin siblings, Hawkie and her iPhone grew together. Her screens were her windows to reality, and social media was her playground. Her Facebook, YouTube, TikTok, Instagram, and other accounts were her permanent companions.

 Every afternoon, Hawkie sat immobile by her bedroom window. She enjoyed looking at the street, and the calm sway of the oak tree leaves. She dreamed of future days of glory, when people would love her and talk about her, the day when she would be crowned an Influencer.

Autumn was her preferred season. Her eyes moved up and down from the street to the cellphone screen. Hawkie had developed an involuntary tic. Even as she looked outside, in a trance, her fingers kept on moving up and down as if she were scrolling a text. Then, when she looked back at the screen reflexively, she kept scrolling up, seeking not knowledge but novelty. Was she held hostage by her screens? Has it hypnotized her? or has she become an addict?   

“Lilly, did you see her posts? She’s out of her mind?” Hawkie texted. Her friend Lillyan also prayed at the Altar of her social media accounts. “She’s such a wannabe,” Lillyan replied with contempt.

They had known each other since High School and were “friends” but had not seen each other in a few weeks. It made no difference to them. In their lives, friendship, love, joy, gossip, light, and darkness existed only if they could see them on their screens. For them, watching was living; seeing was believing. If it had not been posted, it would not have happened. 

Hawkie was soon to be twenty-two years old, and her social media ambitions have grown larger. Lillyan also enjoyed gossip and novelties but did not dream, like Hawkie, of becoming an influencer. The pleasure of the flesh was more appealing to her.  

Hawkie became a different type of human: an emotionally- handicapped social media addict.                                                      

                                                                                ***                                                                          

Dino was in his mid-twenties when his bonding fantasies first got out of control. A woman’s particular look, the waves in her hair, and her eyes would trigger his bestial urges. He pictured women in their early twenties over and over. If the women were brunette and slim-framed, like his mother, he would obsess unstoppably.

His mind turned into a carousel of images of tightly bonded, screaming young women. The flashing of these images, during the daytime and in his nightmares, had haunted him since his high school years. Only by slashing himself, like a flagellant in medieval times, was he able to subdue these images and urges.

A few years later, despite long hours of prayer and penance, Dino’s images returned. But he no longer found relief and atonement in self-cutting. As a last resort, he kept on reading the Bible with the voracity of a guilty church lady.

During his college years, depressed and haunted by these mental pictures, Dino visited a psychiatrist. It did not go well. The psychiatrist asked him about being abused by his mother, which Dino found offensive. His whole life,  up to her death, he devoted himself to her care. All Dino wanted was to save his mother. Dino did not return for a follow-up visit.

In the session, he recalled crying himself to sleep in the room next to his mother’s, where she nightly entertained her “friends.”  The loud music, her laughter, her screams, and her moans were like darts to his heart. On occasions, the party got out of control, and violent screams pierced the night. There was no end to his torment.

As he got older and the parties became more frequent, he sought comfort in biblical verses. He reread the Bible with renewed efforts but started believing that it had private messages for him.

“I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you shall be clean; I will cleanse you from all your filthiness.” Ezekiel 36:25.

He read Ezekiel 36:25 several times. Then, he started a daily ritual: Dino started wiping the drool and vomit off his mother’s face and the wetness of sweat and sex off her soiled, stuporous body. Once cleansed, he covered her naked body in white linen like a virgin. As his mother lay inert in bed, asleep, he felt in control and powerful, often aroused.  

Over time, the stench of sex, alcohol, nudity, and bodily fluids became repulsive to him. 

Dino’s cravings for power, control, and total submission over women grew larger. His fantasies became more elaborate. The fragments of images of bodily parts bound and knotted constantly appeared in his mind and were grouped like a story. He started drawing these images.

After his mother died, under not too clear circumstances, his mind spun out of control. He obsessed incessantly. He kept on seeking a biblical answer. By then, Dino had fully devoted his entire life to the Lord. He believed that his salvation was a divine intervention. Only daily prayers and cutting alleviated his torments.

One day, as he read his Bible, assailed by his bonding images, he was stunned by a passage. He read it several times:

“Almost all things are purified with blood, and without shedding of blood, there is no remission.” Hebrews 9:22.

Now it all made sense. Dino’s mental images were no longer fragments. He was sure that the disjointed pictures of knots, bonding, and blades were divine instructions to purify women. Bleeding inevitably turned the corpses pale, terse, and pure. Dino then knew that freeing a corpse of soiled blood would free it as well of its demons. He kept on repeating: “Without shedding blood, there is no salvation.”

All these images and urges that for years filled his mind were now a neatly organized manual for the purification of the soul. Instructions on how to rid women of their putrid, filthy blood. He was forty-three years old when he jumped from fantasy to action. He needed an Altar, or like some others would say,”an operating theater.”

                                                                                    ***

Dino parceled a room out of his basement. In one corner, he lay a small mattress and a bucket next to a long chain that hung from the wall. He covered the opposite with paper clippings, whips, and leather straps. On top of a small table that later held mementos of his victims, he had a red leather case with knives and scalpels.  

 The center of the room featured a stretcher that he covered in fine linen and bordered by thin plastic pipes, like gutters leading to the ground. Near the top of the stretcher, he placed a horizontal board to tie both outstretched arms, resembling a crucifixion. The bottom of the stretcher had two stirrups. Behind the stretcher hung a large crucifix with the inscription “Sub oculus Dei”—under God’s eyes.

Dino needed no incense or candles because the darkness, shadows, wetness, and silence created the macabre illusion of a sinister altar.

Once completed, on the seventh day, he devoted time to studying his women’s needs and deep desires. He needed to know the origin of their sins. He started roaming and driving on the streets in search of subjects. His first few catches proved exhilarating. Disposing of their corps s became a challenge.

One night, however, around three a.m., on one of his expeditions, Dino was stopped by the police. “License and registration…where are you heading, sir?”

He panicked. Suddenly, as if he had woken up from a dream, Dino realized that his impulses were out of control. He was taking too much of a risk. Something had to change. He doubled his prayer and cutting rituals to appease his mind.  

                                                                                   ***

“Hey, Hawkie, how is your account doing? How’s the traffic?” Lilly asked as Hawkie’s dream of being an influencer got closer.

 “Okay, I guess, but I need to go viral, you know?.”

“So, what does it take to be an Influencer, anyway?” Lillyan asked.

“I want nothing but Celebrity Influencer status,” said Hawkie.

“What is that? Are there different types?.”

At the time, Hawkie weighed one hundred-fifteen pounds; her petite frame, smooth olive skin, wide smile, and brunette hair made her appealing. Hawkie was  also a good study, and in chameleon fashion, she tailored the ‘content’ of her channel to please different audiences. The bullshit trendy advice for like-minded girls, and the provocative poses and the little bit of flesh shows for the sexually repressed, middle-aged guys, was her recipe for success.

Thus, her account was steadily growing. Her mother, Janet, felt herself justified; her years of encouragement started to pay off. In Janet’s mind, her parental responsibilities had been fulfilled, and her daughter was on the way to success.

“Dull doesn’t sell,” her mother often said. She encouraged Hawkie to have an edge. “Give your audience what they want, and success will follow.”  

                                                                                  ***

After his encounter with the Police, Dino decided to change his methods. The prospect of getting arrested, or worse, was unthinkable. His contact with the police convinced him that he needed to find a better way. Grabbing women off the street was too primitive.

He understood that society changed, and he needed to change, too. Contacting people via social media might be easier. Its multiplying effects gave more access to others.

YouTube seemed like a good place to start. He spent a couple of hours there but saw nothing appealing, rather silly and vulgar stuff. As a disciplined creature, obsessive by nature, Dino kept on checking out the contents for weeks.

It was a different type of hunt, rather boring, until he ran into Hawkie’s videos. Her content, provocative poses, southern drawl, and looks triggered Dino’s interest.

He subscribed to Hawkie’s channel. Soon, he kept replaying the videos and freezing her images, particularly her sexually provocative poses. He couldn’t stop; the pictures of tying Hawkie to his table were fixed in his mind. He felt out of control. He could not take her out of his mind.

The stage one of his illness, Obsession, was triggered.

But he felt at a loss, given that she was so far only a social media character, not a real person. Dino was like an old door-to-door salesman. He needed physical contact. The moment you opened your door after his knock, the odds were against you.  

He got lucky one night. Hawkie recorded one of her videos at the nearby Plaza Dixie. He recognized the place. He messaged her a few times unsuccessfully. His was one among hundreds of messages. Then, overpowered by his urges, for days, he drove by the plaza and nearby streets, trying to catch a glance of her. He had moved to stage two of his illness: The Hunt.  

Serendipity is the best friend of those who persevere because they will be handsomely rewarded.

                                                                               ***

Hawkie’s dreams of reaching Influencer status were slow to come true. Her channel didn’t have the required amount of traffic. For a moment, she was at a loss but after a eureka moment, she decided to add a new segment to her channel: “Secrets from the Dirty Streets of the City.” Lillyan thought it was a good idea.

So, what better place to record than Nashville nightlife? Hawkie reasoned that if one mixes music, alcohol, and youth, plenty of content would magically appear: Bar fights, puking episodes, rageful, jealous boyfriends, and all sorts of handsy assholes. A cross-section of America.

Finally, Hawkie met up with Lillyan. They ventured out and hung out at a few clubs.  It was past midnight in early November 2024, and Hawkie was not getting any useful content. The smell of sweat and beer and the sound of loud, bad, live music were not her thing. She did not feel special. All eyes were not on her. They left.  

Hawkie and Lilly strolled down Broadway Avenue by the “Crowbar,” heading toward Second Street. The night was clear, and the weather was pleasant. A few minutes later, as they got near the corner, they saw an individual. Immediately, Hawkie knew what he was up to. He was on of her YouTube content-creating competitors.

He was a chubby, baby-faced, young black fellow. Possibly a college student. He asked silly, sex-related questions to the drunken passerby. The guy was particularly non-threatening, so she felt at ease. Hawkie and Lillyan joined the small crowd. She saw in the young guy an opportunity to score some points for her channel. She would play his game.

On the same night, Dino drove around Plaza Dixie again, but with no luck. His inner wolf was growling, and his hunting urge grew stronger. He decided to park his car and take a stroll near the bars.  

After walking for a few minutes on Second Street, he headed for Broadway Avenue. On the corner, he saw a small gathering. Like a premonition, all his predatory instincts went into high gear.

The chubby young man kept on asking passersby about the different ways to please a man “in bed” when Hawkie and her friend joined the crowd.

Hawkie and Lillyan giggled, drawing attention, of course, to themselves. The young fellow noticed them. Hawkie was, by nature, a free-spirited, worry-free, fun-loving girl. One might admit that in person, she was more attractive than her video persona. Her southern drawl was more pronounced and pleasant to hear.

By that time, Dino had also arrived at the scene. The lighting was not the best, but it was a clear night; he recognized Hawkie. He soon entered the third stage of his illness: the Capture.

 All of Dino’s assessments of Hawkie placed his potential for success at more than seventy-five percent. Hawkie was young, attention-seeking, and had deep-seated cravings for recognition. Her good and carefree nature sweetened the deal.

Even as a middle-aged, graying man among a younger crowd, Dino was painfully common-looking. He was friendly, pleasant, and mild-mannered; some girls said that he was funny. Neither his height nor his frame were salient. He was one of those individuals that one looks at but does not see. His look did not raise suspicion.

He had an easy smile, a cheerful disposition, and the gift of rapidly putting people at ease. Women immediately put him in the “nice guy” mental category, not a “creep” category. Next to the “nice guy” category, of course, lays the “trust” category. We are innately wired to trust.

 The chubby fellow continued his routine. He asked  Hawkie the best way to please a man. Hawkie waited no time and went on the offensive. “I would glog, glog…” she said while making slurping and gargling sounds and up-and-down fellatio moves with her head and hand.  

Dino saw a young woman in need of attention. Mistakenly, however, he concluded that, like his mother, Hawkie was seeking the pleasures of the flesh. The image pounded in his head, and the urges flooded his heart. The other voice commanded, “Don’t do it!”  

After Hawkie’s brief moments of cheerful, attention-filled joy, he quickly approached her.

He sensed her vulnerability to praise and adoration. He knew the frailty of a young woman’s heart. Unctuous lips of adoration were like fertilizers to her vanity—opium to an addict’s mind—impossible to resist.  

“Aren’t you Hawkie from YouTube?” he asked. “Yeah,” she replied. “Great! I love your videos… I follow you on YouTube… I am so excited to see you live!.” Dino said with well-rehearsed enthusiasm.   

Hawkie was pleased to have run into a follower. It was even better that such a nice gentleman subscribed to her channel. He was so interested, asking all pertinent questions about her channel, the number of her subscribers, and her plans. She felt immediately at ease and fascinated by his smooth compliments.

They spoke, and she laughed. Dino’s intense, devoted, and idealizing attention made her feel like a celebrity. He seemed attentive and supportive, like her father. The gentleman really appreciated her talents.

 Lillyan was busy hooking up with another guy, so Hawkie decided to stroll down Broadway Avenue to the music venues and enjoy the gentleman’s company. He might give her some pointers to improve her channel. Her youthful vanity and need for praise and recognition handily defeated her parents’ old childhood advice: “Don’t talk to strangers.”

The next day, Hawkie’s interview went viral. Her dream came true.  

Her mother texted several times to congratulate her on going viral. Her clip was seen by close to two million viewers, so her channel would now be unstoppable. “Strange,” Janet thought. It was out of character for Hawkie not to answer.

As she lay silently on Dino’s stretcher, tired of her pleadings and angry outbursts, Hawkie regretted that she had not become an Influencer. She never found out that she had finally gone viral, even after her cell phone chimed several times.

Hawkie’s life was drifting down her veins. The warm pool of blood beneath her gave her some comfort. Not only did she not get the chance to answer her mother’s texts, but she also did not get to see her keeper’s face or hear his voice. She felt lonely. The deafening silence and the darkness of Dino’s room were the ultimate betrayal of her dreams of glory.  

In the end, perhaps by vanity, she had opened her door to Dino, and he swiftly took her for a stroll down a silent path devoid of glory.

 

 

P R. Thompson

September 22, 2024

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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