Fuck you!
I’ve tried reaching out, but it’s been no use.
You won’t answer my messages.
You won’t respond to my comments under any of your YouTube and TikTok videos, even though I know you see them because they always get deleted.
Is it so hard just to acknowledge me, you piece of shit?
They’re my words.
Mine.
Do you get it: not-fucking-yours.
In the beginning I was flattered that you read my stories on the internet, but back then you at least told your viewers that I was the author. I liked hearing that. Norman Crane. I even thought you had a nice voice.
Now I can’t stand it.
It makes me want to throw acid at you—rip your ruined vocal cords out your melting face.
I bet you thought I’d given up once my comments stopped showing up. That you’d gotten away with it. Won.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I know where you live.
How? you ask.
You may not know me, you self-centred freak, but I know you, and you know a certain girl from California named wiccawench99. “Oh i love your stories soo much.” “I listen to you every night before bed.” “You make me soo wet.”
Uh oh.
That’s right, bud.
Wiccawench99’s one of my better characters, don’t you think? She’s sexy and she’s persuasive, not that it took much to get information out of you. You volunteered most of it for nudes. AI-haha-generated.
Gulp.
Did you really think some Cali fangirl was gonna fuck you?
All that shit you wrote to me.
Logged it.
All those dick pics.
Saved.
To be shared. In fact, I’m going to hit send right now. As I write this sentence. “Hey, what’d ya think of my cock?”
Coworkers. Friends. Family.
Question: How many email addresses do you think I have?
Hint: Set better passwords.
Then, in a few weeks, maybe I’ll pay a visit personally. It’s not that far. And do you know my favourite part of the story? You have no idea what I look like. I know exactly how you do.
I could be anywhere.
Anyone.
That’s not even the best part.
It’s prelude.
I wrote a story once about a Hungarian witch named Szandra. You narrated it (without permission obviously.) Well, Szandra’s not a character. She’s a real fucking person.
The last dozen stories you stole from me:
I hid a curse in them.
Story by story, sentence by sentence, you pronounced doom not only on yourself but on every single one of your listeners. Complicit fucks. I’ll keep the nature of the curse to myself because everybody enjoys a twist ending, right?
Hint: You and your listeners won’t enjoy this one.
It’s long and it’s drawn out and it’s excruciatingly goddamn malicious.
Question: Have you started being more aware of your own heartbeat?
Good.
Just one more thing: You have my permission to narrate this story, you thieving cocksucker because I’ma narrate yo life.
Love,
Norman