The Netfly

I usually write some pretty bad nonfiction, as most of the readers of the Injun* know. Those who know me also know that I also write all sorts of terrible fiction that I usually keep to myself. Today, I figured I’d put up some of this shit and see how it goes.

The light goes on.

The Netfly walks into the room, carrying a large pot of water. This water goes into the coffee machine on the desk, next to the monitor. He powers up his computer, flips the light back off, takes a seat.

Though unkempt and bloody tired, he stays up every night to do this. First, he brings his web browser to The Board. He lights a smoke and takes a drag while skimming through all of the latest discussion topics of the day. There’s nothing unusual, just the usual unusual that passes for normal on The Board. The discussions range from personal diatribes on the horrors of fast food, to rambling anonymous nonsense, a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters flinging insults over nothing in particular.

Crass as always, thinks our Netfly as he begins to type. It’s over quickly (he’s done this many times before) and he hits the post button before the ash could even consider falling off of his cigarette. He sighs and takes a hit as the board updates.

Hello Internet, the Netfly here. I’m broadcasting tonight as I do every night, so listen up and discuss the show here.

This was followed by a link to a streaming audio station, playable through most music players.

Our hero flips through his music collection, searching for the perfect song to set the mood for tonight’s broadcast. With a bit of a grin, he queues up three songs in advance, his ’emergency buffer’. The music plays, and the Netfly turns the dial on his speakers up ever so slightly. He knew his neighbors wouldn’t mind.

Back on the board, things are picking up. The arrival of the Netfly usually caused the best sort of commotion, the kind that seemed to lift The Board’s collective IQ by a few points. He likes that. He also has some fans, unexpectedly, and he notices a post by one in his very own thread, sandwiched between a post of praise for his musical taste and one of derision for his habit of showing up “every fukken night”.

Hey, Netfly! It’s me, from yesterday. I took your advice, and she really liked it! We’ve got a date tomorrow, an actual date!! I wanted to thank you before heading to bed. Thanks, Netfly!

The Netfly smiles. Despite some bitter moments in recent history, he likes to think he has a way with women, one he’s more than willing to share with the rest of The Board in between songs. He runs his voice changer application and sets it way down low. As the song nears its end, he fades it into the background and begins to speak in a voice that isn’t his own.

“Hey there Board-dwellers, the Netfly is on the air. But you knew that, right? If you tuned in last night, you may remember a cat by the name of Deacon Blues, who was having trouble letting an important lady in his life know exactly how important she was.”

He starts up the next song in the background, the Steely Dan tune that the Board-dweller in question took his name from. The opening gave him plenty of time to finish his little chat.

“Thanks to a little advice from yours truly, his problems may very well be over, so this one goes out to you, Deacon. Maybe you should start calling yourself the Crimson Tide?”

The microphone is switched off, and the Netfly sighs. He pours a cup of java and takes a careful sip. It’s far too bitter. He takes another. He’s about to light up another smoke when his phone rings. He dashes towards the bathroom, shuts the door, and picks up.

“Hello?” His voice is considerably higher, and far less smooth than The Board got to hear.

“Mr. X? It’s Mr. Y from work. We’ve still got three guys out sick, so do you think you can pull two shifts again tomorrow? I know it’s kind of a lot to ask of you two days in a row, so it’s okay if you can’t.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just fine. I can handle it.”

“That’s good. I, err, heard from Mr. Z in your department about what happened with your girl. My condolences.”

The Netfly feels a terrible sting in his heart. “People just fall out of love sometimes, is all.”

“Well, I’d definitely want all the work I could get if I were in your shoes. Keep the mind off of everything, you know? I appreciate it, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Click.

He looks at his face in the mirror. Thanks to these all-night broadcasts, his eyes are starting to look sunken, his worry lines more worried. The stubble added to the illusion of a broken man, but he’d be sure to hack it off in the morning.

But for now, he has a broadcast to do. And it’s not like The Board has to look at his face.

Well, there we go. I usually keep stuff like that to myself, but today I was feeling generous/masochistic. This one goes out to 4-ch, a place I’m far more fond of than that other 4-place. And Donald Fagen, naturally, since I wouldn’t even write something silly like this if I hadn’t been listening to The Nightfly.

Oh, and my idiot friends. You know who you are.

*Deets, Kilroy, Sentry, collectively known as “All The Readership The Injun Actually Needs”