Priffgatch was a 40-year-old man. He had three tiny sprigs on hair on his otherwise bald head, to which he brushed, combed, and gelled hourly. He had a stooping figure of nearly 4 feet tall and couldn’t reach the top of the kitchen countertop even if he wanted too. With his bleached white skin, product of spending 98% of his living hours in the dark basement, illuminated only by a monitor, Priffgatch was truly a sight to behold. When his mother did force him to go outside, the great people of the British empire would mistake him for Gollum from Lord of the Rings. In fact, some people went so far to ask him for autographs, thinking he was promoting the film.
Priffgatch could not accept that all his 40 years had been simply a waste of a human life. Priffgatch lived with his own mother, Gertrude, who resided in the “great kingdom of Britain”. Every single morning, Gertrude would wake up to a nice cuppa tea, with a platter of steaming scones and sugar cubes. Meanwhile, Priffgatch was down in the basement, trolling people on Scratch.
Scratch was a social media site, where you could share projects such as animations, games, art, and more. Priffgatch insisted on using it, even though the age range of the website clearly stated “4-17” years old. He was truly a rage inducing beast. With his combined brain power of 13 IQ, Priffgatch would create empty projects that somehow got on Scratch’s trending pages. With his illegal methods, Priffgatch rose to be the #1 followed user on Scratch.
It was one fine morning for the great British empire. Gertrude had finished her cuppa Earl Grey, stirred fine with some milk and a single cube of sugar. Feeling still thirsty, Gertude bellowed down the basement stairs. “Ay, Priffgatch, common fitch meh a bo’ohwo’er”. As usual of the great British empire, Bri’ish people didn’t pronounce the t because they drank it all.
Priffgatch hollered up from the basement, where he was spamming hate messages on random users’ profiles. “Not now, mum! I’m promoting my message!”
Gertrude steamed. “Well aye need me a nice bo’ohwo’er, arnd yher goina fitchit fur me!” Whenever Priffgatch’s mother got angry, her British accent increased to the point were you could not comprehend the English language anymore.
Priffgatch groaned. He locked his computer and stumbled up the stairs. “Yes, mum. What do ya want?”
Gertrude slapped Priffgatch. The force of the slap sent Priffgatch rolling down the stairs, each step punctuated by a shatter of bones and a sharp scream from the poor man. At the bottom step, the limp body of Priffgatch came to a rest. No funeral was held.