User blog comment:EtherBot/Let's Talk Deletion!!!/@comment-31073921-20170212144606/@comment-26030957-20170212165434

The Polished Turd

It was February when the Polished Turd took on a life of its own. For months Atticus had been working on the story of a steaming pile of shit that came to life and terrorized his suburban town, slaying the jock and metal-head bullies that taunted him by filling their lungs with a petulant stink and clogging their throats and noses with viscous and noxious feces. Yet the agonizing hours he spent huddled over the computer, consulting first the thesaurus and then the dictionary, proofreading and proofreading till his eyes swelled heavy in his skull, were all for naught. Rejection dogged his every step. First it was the New Yorker. Then Glimmer Train. He decided to go lowbrow and in a flurry of anticipation of horror-literature godhead sent his prose off to Nightmare, The Dark, Metaphorosis, Shadows and Tall Trees, Black Static, and Gamut, only to have each of these magazines reject his story with a curt reply. Then the final blow, even Creepypasta Wikia refused to accept his masterpiece.

But revenge would be his.

Digging deep into the darkest corners of black magic available on the internet he found a spell which would give his soul satisfaction, his yearning reprieve. Spilling the blood of a mewling cat before an array of black candles he muttered the ancient words which would blind editors to his ignorance of basic grammar and story structure.

And it worked.

On a cold day in February, the outside world a glitter in a blanket of frost, that hot pile of defecation came alive online. First blog posts appeared praising the mutinous hunk of crap, then it was voted Pasta of the Month. Soon an army of fan girls paraded the streets. Dressed in black hoodies they proudly wore a pile of shit upon their shoulders in solidarity with the polished turd. They swore allegiance to the turd, pledged themselves to be its proxy and commit whatever ungodly acts it might command.

Atticus was king. King of the shit pile. His turds knew no limits, storming libraries and bookstores, publications both large and small, from the most esteemed literary journals to the smallest of homemade zines. He would sully their pages with his dark excrement. Lord over their pompous words. Devastate their well-thought-out characters. Defy and deny them their astute pompousness.

The world was his oyster. His shit oyster. And he ruled it with the iron fist of a shit spewing dictator.