Story by Max Bloodworth
Daniel Maarat was a proscriptor, and he went to no-man’s land looking for the best of metals. He searched for years and years, not finding much that would appease his Blood Gods. After a time, he settled on a slab of cyberspace with more traffic than Toilet Ov Hell, but less traffic than MetalSucks. Within this Hessian Hive, he found a deserted forum with rather nice acoustics. It was here in desolation where Maarat belonged.
He made numerous usernames on this forum and chatted with himself for months and months, hoping that the activity would draw the attention of others. Maarat longed for a day when people would discuss Finnish and Dutch metal in the highest of seriousness, with forum threads spanning thousands of pages.
Then a moment of genius struck and Maarat’s neurotransmitters jolted in unison like never before. Instead of talking to himself under the guise of numerous usernames, he should automate their responses! Maarat, somewhat of a tinkerer, threw himself into the code of a bot with the username Desecresy.
At first, the bot could only give basic responses like “Yes” and “No.” Then, eventually, Desecresy could state simple problems: “The spam bots are invading.” And: “They have figured out the Captcha again.”
As the years passed, the spam bots became harder to keep at bay. Maarat would often spend more time in battle with the spam bots than tinkering and chatting with Desecresy.
“What do you think of women?” Desecresy would ask.
“Oh, I don’t know. You have to find a good one.”
Desecresy would reply dutifully, repeating what had been programmed into his code: “I never saw a good woman.”
“Well, that’s not fair. Perhaps you didn’t look long enough. There’s a woman in this world for every man!”
“You’re a romantic!” Desecresy would say scornfully. The bot would pause and giggle a carefully constructed giggle: “Hehe.”
Maarat grew old. His wrists and fingers withered due to countless spam bot battles. The two would observe the newsfeed on deathmetal.org, occassionally interjecting in the comment section that Averse Sefira is poppycock. Maarat couldn’t give Desecresy free will, of course, but he managed a pretty close approximation of it. Slowly, Desecresy’s personality emerged. But it was strikingly different than Maarat’s. Where Maarat was a pessimist, Desecresy was an idealist. Maarat was often lonely; Desecresy eternally content.
In time, Maarat forgot he had programmed the answers into Desecresy. He accepted the bot as a friend, of about his own age and looks.
“The thing I don’t understand,” Maarat would say, “is why a man like you wants to live here. I mean, it’s alright for me. No one cares about me, and I don’t give of a damn about anyone else. But why you?”
“Here I have the whole entire world,” Desecresy would reply, “I am of the Blood Gods’ will and they are, indeed, pleased. And, I have you, Maarat.”
“Now don’t get sentimental on me.”
“I’m not. Friendship counts. We have fought the spam bots for years together. After their defeat, we will destroy the Communists in metal! They will be annihilated! We will restore the balance of metal!”
“You’re a fucking poet,” Maarat would say, half admiringly.
Time passed unnoticed by the forum. The spam bots were under the command of Toilet Ov Hell now and they were on the brink of destroying all of deathmetal.org. Maarat was too tired to see the end coming.
“What do you think of women?”
“I never saw a good one.”
“Well, that’s not fair.”