SmackDown: MadMike's Revenge!

Round 1, Bonus: Watchers, Inc. - @parishsp

Watchers, Inc.

by parishsp

"I don't believe this shit," the man mumbled to his computer monitor. He took a sip of his extra-large Watty and grimaced in disgust. Picked a stray orange pube from his tongue. "They didn't even read my story! The hell is this comment supposed to mean, anyway?! 'Loved the way Pixy Dust rode Unicron LOL!' There wasn't any Pixy Dust or Unicron in my damn story, nor was there anything remotely funny in it! What the hell are you LOLing at, you dumbass!?"

He rubbed his temples, leaving orange Cheetos dust behind. His head killed right now. Had been hurting a lot lately, but this took the cake. Nobody understood his beautiful writing. Their comments were irrelevant. It made him stick. Made him want to teach them all a lesson.

A grin worked its way across his pale face.

Yeah. Teach 'em all. A lesson.

The man brought up the profile of the latest imbecile to comment on his riveting story. Got a good look. Memorized the name and the face.

The hunt was on.

Thomas Brain adjusted in his seat, repositioning his wrists on the smooth surface above his virtual keyboard. The cold, sterile surface was lukewarm under his wrists. It was the only indication that perhaps Brain should stop writing and get back to work.

Samuel guided Drurie behind him with his free hand, the other holding steady between his chest and Hawthorne's.

"Step back, Mr. Hawthorne," Samuel started. His arm was tired as he held the gun aloft.

Brain reread the last half page on the central monitor, rolled his eyes, and laid down on the delete key. Trash, Brain. Utter trash.

Sitting back, he ran his hands over his face, blinking at the bright open space of the lab. White walls with chrome tables laden with seamlessly stacked monitors showing a variety of familiar, similar scenes. In front of each monitor sat a spartan grey chair, and in each chair sat a Watcher, dressed in the standard, patriotic crayon orange that highlighted the streets of Wattville. The Lab was scrolled across the walls in square script, the words bookended by glass doors leading to the rest of the facility.

Brain didn't mind the job. It was a coveted one: good pay, low output. In their spare time, the Watchers were even encouraged to work on stories for the virtual component of their society, Wattpad. Brain had been working steadily on an action-adventure series that was—according to his most recent feedback—lacking in originality. The pressure mounted as all Wattvillians rushed to write the next great Wattvillian novel while holding jobs, caring for families, and just generally trying to live life.

Brain sighed. He wasn't even sure he liked writing.

He shook off the thought, grabbed the cold metal of his station, and pulled himself back to work. Not writing wasn't an option. It was his patriotic duty. He swiped his story off the screen with the pass of his hand, bringing his residents into view. At times, the pressures of a virtual life that has true bearings in reality caused people to crash just like their beloved technology. There was more than one documented occurrence where a Wattvillian crumpled attempting to will comments, votes, and the coveted Watty Awards into existence through sheer force of mind. In those instances, rehabilitation was attempted and relatively successful. However, in a handful of cases the author was too far-gone with their addiction to function typically in society.