Hackers on Steroids

by Oisín Sweeney

  Poor, dumb, bastard. On the Internet I believe they call what I done to Burton ‘trolling someone.’

  I had got the impression that Burton had made quite a show of himself when confronted with a camera crew, and if Alfred Hitchcock had at that time risen from the dead and made a film starring the also resurrected Elvis, Cleopatra, and Saddam Hussein, I could not have been looking more forward to seeing it than I was to seeing this.

  But before Burton’s star appearance on the doxumentary appeared one Malcolm Blackman, on to act as something of a spokesman for trolls; a Guy Fawkes mask sitting on the table beside him and an ‘Anonymous UK’ jumper pulled on over his funny little self (once again showing his complete misunderstanding of the word ‘anonymous’). Malcolm boasted in the interview of spending time in the online company of some ‘notorious’ trolls, who, he said, gained a ‘modicum’ of respect for him, and who in turn then gained his respect.

  A modicum of respect is indeed all that those trolls do have for Mad Mal, and even that modicum may be smaller in portion than he believes it to be. After the destruction of his beloved HATO his newfound friends trolled him hard into believing that I was actually that Oliver Jackson fella whom the psychopath Paul Baloney had tried to set up as being me. They actually made Malfunction believe that I pay an Irishman to speak on Skype for me. They actually made him believe that. Malcolm was so taken in by all of this trolling, seeming to forget that trolls actually, er, troll, that he announced on Facebook that he had went to the police and made a complaint against Jackson for destroying his Facebook page.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Officer, but someone just destroyed my Facebook page, and along with that some trolls on the Internet have told me who it was. Go arrest him now.’

  (I’d just like to take the opportunity here to remind readers as of Mr Blackman’s age: It’s 45)

  How the trolls must have been wetting themselves at him. Malfunction is in the unique position of being a joke to both trolls and anti-trolls.

  Schizophrenic Malcolm claimed to the BBC that he is out to work against the same trolls he respects. However, he has made some admissions that he was actually approached by the RIP trolls to act as their spokesman on that same program. This shouldn’t be taken as a sign of how much they respect him, it’s just them knowing that he would be stupid enough to go on TV and speak up for Internet trolls (although in the end the BBC didn’t broadcast much of what he said). Even Darren Burton wasn’t stupid enough to agree to do that.

  This is what Malcolm wrote on his own Youtube channel on August 31st 2012:

  Panorama did a documentary on Anonymity on the net, internet bullies, and the consequences. So where exactly do we draw the line. Credit goes to Tylor Durden, Mallory Knox, Harry Sacks, Derrick Smith, Prince Vegeta Saiyan, Buck Transience, Andy McNob and all the other Corporation VIP’s without whom we would never have had the answers to give to Panorama in the first place.

  I’ve never heard of Andy McNob but certainly all of the rest of them are RIP trolls. The favourite trick of ‘Prince Vegeta Saiyan’ is to photoshop pictures of dead children into porno scenes.

  Here’s some RIP trolling that may annoy you a bit more than theirs does, Mal: LOL HATO’s dead.

  During my talks with Darren Burton he had tried to put himself across as a decent, regular fella who just has a dark sense of humour that some seem to misunderstand. He seemed to be seeking my sympathy and certainly my understanding, telling me that RIP trolls are just working out their pain through what he sees as nothing more than comedy acts. He talked to me about having ‘new material’ that he wanted to try out, and slagged off the troll ‘Bomford’ for always using the same ‘I fucked her rotten corpse’ line on RIP pages, which Burton seemed to think was originally the height of wit but that he now thought had grown stale with overuse. Even the wittiest of zingers gets old if used too often, eh, Darren?

  The only material I have ever observed Darren Burton use is of a similar standard of wit to ‘Bomford’s.’ Believe me, what was shown on Panorama was nowhere near to being the worst of Burton’s trolling. ‘Rot in piss you filthy nigger,’ was just Darren Burton’s comedy act getting warmed up.

  Burton’s ‘decent fella’ guise was soon dropped altogether after a BBC TV crew captured him like some wild beast in a trap, and after being subjected to some prodding questioning on the street from presenter Declan Lawn, the grunting man-pig abomination that is the real Darren Burton rose up in anger. ‘Have you ever thought about the people you are hurting?’ asked Declan Lawn of him.

  ‘Fuck ‘um!’ grunted back the man-pig as he got onto a bus, before going into a furious tirade about being able to say what he wanted to anyone on Facebook.

  Alongside Burton getting onto that bus, although her face was pixelated out on television, was his girlfriend Kirsty Chapman, a mother of three in her mid-30s and who met Burton through their shared love of trolling RIP pages with demented and witless sexual slurs about the deceased. Chapman also spoke to me during my Skype ‘interviews’ with Burton, saying enough during them to out herself as the RIP troll ‘Percy Aww-ffs.’ A few months after the Panorama episode aired I sent the recordings of our conversations, along with some screencap evidence that two ladies had collected, on to the Daily Mail, and they sent along a reporter to confront ‘Percy,’ doing a two page exposé on her and Burton then in a Saturday edition of their paper. Burton gave the Mail some further insight into the disassociation he has in his mind with his ‘comedy act,’ saying: ‘It’s not really me saying those things anyway, it’s another person I become when I go online as Nimrod Severn or whatever name I assume.’

  Yeah, it’s just us Philistines who don’t appreciate your acerbic talent for biting social satire that are the problem, Darren. The Nimrod Severn act is just far too advanced for most of us ignoramuses to get, and you’re really just being persecuted for your art.

  But at the end of the day does it really matter as to whether they or those like them know themselves to be evil or not? A dog is still a dog even if it thinks of itself as human. Chapman and Burton are both grossly racist into the bargain, and two fine examples of the master race they are sitting at home having a nice quiet romantic night in trolling RIP pages together.

  Attorney-at-law Dunn went absolutely apoplectic at the exposing of Chapman, screaming on Facebook that now I’d really done it and that myself, the journalists who wrote the article, and the editor and the owners of the Daily Mail were all going to be took up on harassment charges for picking on poor innocent Chapman, who, Dunn informed us, had been spat on in the street after being outed as an RIP troll to millions.

  Yeah? Fuck ‘er!

  Evans, Coss, Burton, and Chapman are going to go down in trolling history as some seriously dickwitted trolls. Though they needn’t blame me for any of it, or the BBC, or the Daily Mail. We didn’t make them seek out RIP pages to vomit the contents of their cancerous minds onto. The only one’s responsible for Evans, Coss, Burton and Chapman becoming a little bit infamous were those trolls themselves. I kinda suspect that each of them – and more – hate me with varying degrees of intensity, but the only one any of them has to blame for their misfortunes gazes back at them every time they look into a mirror. That’s the character any RIP troll needs to start having some serious words with. For as certain as it was that some of them were going to end up in jail, and as certain as it was that some of them were going to end up getting chased down by the media, it is also as certain that some of them are some day very suddenly going to find themselves in the boots of cars and being driven away to someplace out of the way. If the likes of me can find you, others who harbour very personal grudges indeed against you will be able to as well. Good luck explaining to them about the grief tourists.

  Another cultural critic and social satirist who was visited by the Mail at that time is ‘Paul Baloney,’ that millionaire filmmaker and underground street-fighting champ who, funnily enough, just happened to be in his mother’s house when they called at it. When a
sked about his trolling, Baloney immediately slammed shut the front door on the reporter and without an admission they couldn’t include him in the story.

  The ferocity of the troll is equal in measure to the pain that troll has in its mind. Of all the trolls that I have known, Baloney and Sean Duffy, both Xmas day trolls, have each made the most noise. The troll thinks that the louder it screams at everyone on the Internet then the more unlikely it is for someone to notice that they are only really screaming out in pain, never realising that only the opposite is ever true. Paul slammed the door shut that night on the reality which is slowly creeping into his life, buying himself some more time before the inevitable happens and the door just won’t shut any more. He turned to make his way back up the stairs and back to the refuge of his computer and the cyber Oz where he reigns as sovereign over his winged monkeys. His mother stood before him in the hall having overheard what the journalist had asked her 32-year-old son at the door. She questioned him on this, but Paul just looked down at the hall carpet and mumbled something about it all being a joke that someone was playing on him. His poor mother closed her eyes and the street-fighting champion slinked sheepishly past her to make his way back to the throne room of the king of trolls.

  The walking horror show climbs the stairs and enters into the rancid box room where he slumbered as a child and where he slumbers still, being met by the familiar foul odour of the hell he wallows and delights in. Skype is open on his computer and some of the winged monkeys are in a group conversation. Paul joins in and he and the winged monkeys laugh about a woman they trolled earlier for having a vagina. They all really got that stupid bitch good on that, Paul agrees, still shaking but remembering now his true glory now that he is back in his realm.

  Paul remembers then being knocked down by a hit-and-run driver back in 2010. He remembers being in hospital after that and receiving a message on Facebook from another troll who enquired about the rumours going around that he had been knocked down. For reasons he will not disclose to anyone else, Paul remembers that he is deeply embarrassed as to the circumstances of that hit-and-run incident and he remembers too regretting bitterly having told one of the trolls of it at the time, cursing again now that troll for blabbing about it on Facebook. Paul remembers telling the troll who messaged him that the real reason for his absence was that he had been called away for ‘filming in Wales,’ and he remembers then that same troll had his account hacked and that the private messages between him and Paul were subsequently posted up on Facebook and that everyone was laughing at him again because an anti-troll had by that time found an online newspaper story confirming the hit-and-run. Painfully he remembers how ‘Filming in Wales’ became a mocking euphemism for what the infidels call ‘troll fantasies and failings.’ Paul knows now that he will never be called away to Wales for filming, or to anywhere else for that matter. But he knows even more that it doesn’t matter anymore because the chosen few who aren’t stupid enough to disrespect him can see his genius in the videos he makes for Youtube, the videos of what the non-believers, in their incurable ignorance, say to be pieces of unspeakable shite. But that’s only because they don’t possess the esoteric knowledge of a Josh, or a Malcolm. It’s the world’s loss, not Paul’s, he reminds himself.

  Paul remembers all of this because he feels that the world is disrespecting him again, and Paul will not be disrespected any more. Not by the anti-trolls, not by people from the papers, not by the trolls he hears in his head all the time laughing at what they falsely claim is the small size of his penis. Paul knows his penis isn’t small because of the power he has over all those stupid bitch whores on Facebook. He knows this power means that the way his penis looks in that horrible photo is a mere illusion, an illusion which only the weak of mind cannot see through. He opens up Facebook on his browser and enters into that palace of treasures and delights with its infinite dark corridors to tread, and its never-ending sights to see. Oh such sights for Paul to see.

  Tonight Paul will seek out some new bitches to show his real might to; tonight he will remind the world as to the true power he wields and then the insult to that power which he just suffered at the door will begin to fade in his mind. Anti-trolls, people from the media, other trolls on the Internet who have laughed at that accursed, illusionary photograph of his penis, none of them have the mental ability to comprehend his true greatness. They see him and his power dazzles them and makes them feel uneasy because they know that they are in the presence of something too stupendous to comprehend. And, not understanding yet knowing that he is far superior than they, they try to bring him down. As the apostate Peter Partyvan once said, before he was seduced into treachery by that tramp, people are just jealous of Paul because he is all that they want to be. None of these people can bring themselves to admit this though, not to themselves especially. It is only the Select who can feel comfortable allowing themselves to even begin to try and comprehend his greatness; only the elite like his young underlings, none of whom fear to speak of the greatness of Paul. Only the chosen few.

  Some people like to go on to the Internet to act out the fantasies they have. Some of these people become military generals, sitting on forums night after night winning wars long ago lost but which would have turned out differently had only they been in charge. Some like to sit with Wikipedia open and become great professors and founts of all knowledge, knowledge which they will readily share with folk in chat rooms. Paul likes to play at being a child abuser. Tonight he will find some stupid whore of a mother on Facebook and make sexual taunts at her about her children. That bitch of a woman – who Paul thinks may just look a little like that woman he is sometimes forced to call ‘mother,’ the one who stood before him just now in the hall - will run in fear from his might and this will remind the world of how powerful Paul is. That slut especially though, that stupid whore, she will know all of what too many of the others do their best to deny. Oh she will know it all. She will pay the price for anti-trolls, and journalists, and those who laughed at his penis. The wilfully blind and stupid.

  From his throne Paul seeks out the stupid slut who will soon know some of the eternal night that makes up all of his days. And when he is finished with that bitch he might even find a few more to show his might to, and then maybe a few more too after that. Paul thinks now that he will treat himself to another all-night and all-day trolling session; another night on the Facebook town, another day in paradise.

  All hail the king of trolls.

  Chapter Nine. This is Not a Fairy Tale

  If you gaze for long into the Internet, the Internet gazes also into you.

  Nietzsche

  Welcome trolls to the Hotel Facebook; such a lovely place, such a lovely disgrace, you can change your face. Living it up at the Hotel Facebook; you can dry that tear, make it all disappear. Plenty of room for trolls at the Hotel Facebook; you can find it here, any type of fear, you can stay all year. There stands in the hallway the Hunter Mell, and you are thinking to yourself this could be heaven or this could be hell. Yes, here in the Hotel Facebook we have lots of pretty, pretty trolls that you’ll meet yet; some troll to remember - but most troll to forget. And oh what tangled interwebs in the Hotel Facebook we do weave; you can check out any time you like – but you can never leave. Such a lovely place, such a lovely place, oh Paul such a lovely face.

  Angel Mello Barry is a whitenight, Edward. He posted liek the most famous trolls details around, which he only gained not by hard work, but by sicking up to a traitor! U trolls value loyalty and if you break that trust, you will go down. Also, he fucked with the highest troll family, big mistake. HUGE!

  ‘Angel Mello,’ so taken with Hunter of the highest, most famous troll family (the one that, liek, it’s a big – no, HUGE! - mistake to mess with) that she became his cyberlover for a while; well, she turned out to be an Australian mother of three in her 30s. Dear god, there are even ‘trolling families,’ trolls who come from a long line of respected trolls, the troll father passing his trolling know
ledge down to his apprentice troll son. It would make you weep, if you couldn’t laugh.

  I feel like I have been in the twilight zone for the past three years. Someday soon I will be telling a psychiatrist all about trolls, and anti-trolls, and double and triple agent trolls, and how they all actually do exist in a secret world filled with countless numbers of ugly ole trolls. The psychiatrist will just section me there and then and be done with it. I need to pack my bags and check out of my stay at the Hotel Facebook, the place where we’re all just prisoners of our own device. I knew that my stay had really gotten to me when one day I was drying myself off after a bath and realised that I hadn’t even been aware at all that I had even been taking a bath. The entire time in the tub had instead been spent immersed deep in dark caverns where the Morlocks tread. I had become as obsessed as those whom I was laughing at for being obsessed. I understand fully now what Nietzsche meant by the abyss gazing back into you. Their madnesses and their shrieking and their stupidities had all become a part of my own mind, and at times I had become horribly bloody depressed from it all. Some gaze so deeply into the Internet that they forget then that they can gaze back out from it. They become so swallowed up by the illusion that it now is to them their entire reality. Bollocks to that, I say. Life is far, far too short for that sort of carry on.

  Troll hunting would only really be worth it if, as in the fantasy novels, you got to slaughter the vile beasts with a huge axe once you caught them. Imagine a wall the size of the universe and built with medium-sized bricks each one of which is inscribed with a remark ever more solipsistic or inane than the last; vacuous commentary from a culture in which ‘This woman is hot, but you say she is not. Why? Because you want the large cock of some big strong nigger deep in your Hershey highway’ * is considered a withering putdown and the height of wit (Oscar Wilde must be glad that he’s dead). Now, imagine climbing along that wall and banging your head against each of those bricks in an attempt to create a crack somewhere in the structure so that you can peek through and see some of the builders who are working on the other side of it night and day to create their colossus of tedium. That is what trying to follow up the cybertrails which these trolls leave behind them can be like. These sorts of trolls are so banal that they will actually make your eyes bleed. No, really – they’ll make your eyes bleed and want to fall out of your poor head and just sizzle away to nothingness on the floor. Dante will need to come back to add in an horrific 10th level to hell, one where thousands upon thousands of the world’s most unspeakably tedious and witless 4Chan adherents all bore each other to death with their imbecilic memes over and over and over again for the whole length of eternity. Lock me forever in a room with 100 babbling lunatics who all think themselves to be Napoleon rather than make me endure the comedy stylings of just one more dark and daring trollglodyte from the Internet.