Chapter 1--Troper Tales' Ghost posted:
Troper Tales was dead: to begin with.
This Troper knew it was dead. How could it be otherwise? Troper had been an active contributor to Troper Tales. Troper was its sole mourner. And even Troper was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, for he could take his inane, and ill-informed opinions to Yakfest.
Oh! But he was a pig-headed backwards manchild, Troper! A whining, wheezing, sweating, slouching, asexual old loser! Brittle and useless as an old sponge from which salmonella was liable to spread; rude and self-important, as solitary as a ronin.
Once upon a time--of all good days of the year--on Christmas Eve, old Troper sat idly in the basement, reading manga online. The door was shut that his mother might not disturb him with her mindless nagging. There came a knocking at the door, and while Troper tried to ignore it, it continued. So he sluggishly rose to answer it.
It was his neighbour, Fred Jock. He was chatting away with Troper’s mother about some advertisement for a charity. When Troper emerged from the dark basement, Jock’s eyes lit up.
"A merry Christmas, Troper! God save you!" shouted the neighbour.
"Baka!" said Troper. "Aho!"
"Beg pardon?"
"It means ‘foolish idiot’ in Nihon-Go," groaned This Troper. "I should not have expected a baka gaijin like you to have a refined taste in language."
"'Merry Christmas' is foolish?" said Troper’s neighbour. "You don’t mean that, I am sure."
"I do," said Troper. "What reason have you to be merry? You’re stupid enough."
"What reason have you to be dismal? You’re smart enough," returned the neighbour gaily.
"What else can I be," returned Troper, "when I live in such a world of baka gaijin? What’s Christmas time to but a time to be swarmed by people you don’t like; a time for recieving the wrong present because your mother knows not the difference between shoujo and shonen; a time for parasites to demand some of my hard earned money to provide for their own laziness? You want to know what I’d do, if I could work my will?" said Troper indignantly, "It has been covered countless times on both my Literotica and DeviantArt accounts. It’s all in there, and it is grisly. That is, assuming you can read."
"Troper!" pleaded his mother.
"Why don’t you enjoy your Christmas playing hockey or whatever it is that you do, and let me enjoy it in my own way."
"Enjoy it?" said the neighbour. "But did you not just say you did not enjoy it?"
"Perhaps it is because you refuse to leave me in peace," said Troper. "Besides, what good has your commercial holiday ever done?"
"There is so much good that it can do," returned the neighbour. "There are commercial qualities, to be sure, but Christmas is about more than that; it is about the spirit! I’ve always thought of Christmas as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of when men and women seem to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow people, and not just soulless creatures to be shunned or done away with. It is a time of community, and culture; it is a time to aid your fellow man. And even if it shall take every piece of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say God bless it!"
"Community and culture?" said Troper. "How can anything good come from that? My but you are a baka!"
"You should really try being friendly some time, it feels good. That reminds me," the neighbour picked up a small gift on the table and passed it to Troper. "This is for you." Troper began to tear greedily into the paper. "It is a collection of Gary Larson’s Farside. I recall that you enjoy comics!"
"I enjoy manga! Not this humourless Occidental rubbish!" said Troper. "What possible use could this serve?"
"My apologies, neighbour, you don’t like it," said the neighbour, awkwardly picking up the discarded paper.
"If you want, I could take it back and get you something when you and your mother dine with us tomorrow. The wife has not you much, of late. She'd never say it, such as she is, but I'm most certain she misses your company!"
"Why did she marry you?" said Troper.
"Because we fell in love."
"Because you fell in love?" growled Troper. "Baka aho!"
"Nay, Troper, I know that you and I do not get on well, but must you be so sour towards her?"
"Sayonara."
"I want nothing from you; why cannot we be friends?"
"Sayonara!"
"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. So a Merry Christmas, Troper!"
"Sayonara!"
"And a Happy New Year." His neighbour left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He shared the greeting of the season with This Troper’s mother, and she returned it cordially.
"My mother," muttered Troper, who overheard them, "if there is anyone who deserves less happiness than that Jerk Jock, surely it would be my she."
Mother Troper ignored the comment. She was a portly woman, but youthful and patient. Despite her situation, she maintained an air of gaiety--an air her son sadly would not share.
"Troper, I have lately been thinking," said the mother, rising from her recliner, "it is desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, is it not? They suffer greatly. When I watched the television long yester-night, I happened upon a charity to aid women in the Abyssinian countryside. It did pique my interest, so."
"Are there no prisons?" asked Troper. "Are there no shelters that they must beg money from people that matter?"
"There are, still," said the mother sadly. She removed her spectacles and gently rubbed her temples. "But they are poorly maintained and do little to better the situation. Especially for womenfolk."
"Oh! So the feminine gland grants them privileged treatment, then?" said Troper. "If I can survive being so bothered by our boorish neighbour, then they can survive their misfortune. Call on me when these baka gaijin endeavor to solve real problems."
"Is it not a real problem? These wretched folk are dying!"
"If they are dying," said Troper, "Then they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. If you’ll excuse me, mother, I cannot be bothered with their business. I am preoccupied enough by my own. Now trouble me no more! I must achieve two-hundred thousand words by the new year!" Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue her point, Mother Troper withdrew.
Troper retired to the solitude of the basement. He removed his Nice Hat, and his Badass Longcoat and began surfing the internet’s digital waves. In time, he found he was again mentioned by those fiendish trolls on the Something Awful forums. It seemed that they had taken issue with what he’d said about rape. Troper was never one to put much stock into the opinion of goons. After all, they were only bullying him. "Haters are to invariable hate," said This Troper. "After all, if they are foolish enough to believe that all unwanted congress is rape, then they are truly damaged. If a woman didn't want to be known, she would not take liquor; nor would she take such scandalous dress. If there be no violence, how then can they say a crime occurred. Such beliefs are most juvenile, and those who hold them are naught but a cog in the anti-male engine that is this society."
Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the monitor of Troper’s personal computer. It is also a fact that Troper had as little of what is called imagination about him as anyone that ever lived. It happened that Troper, having decided to enjoy some quality hentai, found that every address he entered into his browser brought him to the deleted Troper Tales. As Troper looked fixedly at this phenomenon, and then it was hentai again.
He was confused, he was certain that this was a joke. He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, to ponder whether Fast Eddie had restored the embattled section as he climbed the basement stairs. He dismissed the notion with a laugh. When he reached the door, he said "Baka aho!" and closed it with a bang. The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Each corner of his cavernous basement seemed to have a peal of echo all its own.
Shutting off the light, Troper went down, not caring a button for the darkness: darkness did not cast glare on his monitor, and Troper liked it. But before he indulged in his self-gratifying session of sapphic animation (including literally gratifying himself--a rarity amongst asexuals, and one his unique qualities from which he drew much pride), he returned to the door, and double-locked himself in, to prevent his mother from spoiling his ambiance.
The hentai was an old classic, Immoral Sisters, which showed the true artistic potential of the medium. It is a timeless story: a young mother named Yukie is forced to sexually service the millionaire Taketo after a car accident; Taketo and his secretary Yumi force Yukie’s young daughters to join, as well, and they become a happy family. Yet, try as he might, he could not enjoy the delicate artistry, when Yukie’s husband overcomes his impotence during a moving scene and finally has sex with his young daughter. He couldn’t share Yukie’s joy as she gets double-penetrated by her husband and her daughter, while the other daughter watches. He could not enjoy the moment where the two daughters give in to their desires and make love, driving their onlooking mother so mad with passion that she and Yumi must join them. All the beauty and power of the story was lost as in the face of every deep and meaningful character This Troper saw naught but Troper Tales.
"Baka aho!" said Troper; as threw his head back in the chair. There was much wrong with the world if joy could not be found, even in the pure and innocent world of hentai. His glance happened to rest upon the aged and broken telephone on his wall--a relic from his mother's long forgotten landline. It was with inexplicable dread, that the phone began to ring. It rang out loudly, and so did every other phone, bell, chime, alarm and appliance in the house.
The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanging noise, deep high above; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain. The basement door door flew open, and then he heard the noise much louder; then coming down the stairs; then coming up behind him.
"Baka aho! Still!" said Troper.
There stood a man, or rather the form of a man; the chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like the tail of a Kemono-Obito. It was made of video-games, manga, figurines, fedoras, and katanas all wrought in steel.
"How now!" said Troper, caustic and cold as ever, "What do you want with me?"
"Much!"
"Who are you?" asked Troper.
"Ask me what I am!"
"You are a Grammar Nazi of a spirit," returned Troper. "Very well--what are you?"
"In life I was your hug-box, Troper Tales."
"Can you sit?"
"I can." The ghost sat down on the opposite side of Troper as if he were quite used to it. Troper puzzled on how it was that a website could have a ghost--indeed it is a queer notion. Know only that I thought it was clever when I first came up with it, and question whether you could do any better.
"You don’t believe in me," observed the ghost.
"I don’t," said Troper.
"Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because," said Troper, "their mileage may vary! A slight disorder of the stomach makes them trolls. You may be an undigested bit of pocky, a blot of ranch dressing, a crumb of cheeto, a bit of excess Monster energy drink. There’s more of gravy than of grave of you. Aho, I tell you, baka!" At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chains with such a dismal and appalling noise that Troper fell upon his knees and clasped his hands before his face.
"Mercy!" he said. "High Octane Nightmare Fuel, why do you trouble me?"
"For your salvation! It is required of every man," the ghost returned, "that the spirit within him to walk abroad among his fellow-men, and to broaden their horizons, or at the very least, go out of doors; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death."
"What are these horrible chains?" asked Troper, trembling.
"We wear the chain we forged in life," replied the ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will. Or would you know," pursued the ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and long as this, when I was deleted. You have laboured on it since; it is a ponderous chain!"
"Troper Tales, please," he said imploringly. "Speak comfort, friend!"
"I have none to give," the ghost replied. "Your spirit never walked beyond the narrow limits of my pointless cuddle-pile hell!"
"But you were not pointless, Troper Tales! Why, you gave us a venue to discuss tropes in our own lives; all without fear of our opinions being criticized!" faltered Troper. "How can this have no purpose?"
"Purpose!" cried the ghost, shaking with terrible wrath. "Mankind is our purpose. The common welfare is our purpose; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence are all our purpose. The goings-on of a self-congratulatory hug-box are not even a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of our purpose!" It held up its chains at arm’s length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again.
"I am here tonight to warn you, that you have a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, This Troper. You will be haunted," said the ghost, "by three spirits."
"I--I think I’d rather not," said This Troper.
"Without their visits," said the ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first when the bell tolls one."
"Couldn’t I take ‘em all at once, and have it over, Troper Tales?" hinted Troper.
"Expect the second when the bell tolls two. The third, more mercurial, will come in his own good time." The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the recessed window behind him would open ever so slightly, so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open.
This Troper stopped; he became sensible of an incoherent sound of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressively sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.
The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Troper Tales’ ghost, some few were linked together, none were free. But they and their spirits faded together, and the night became as it had been when he retired to the basement.
Troper closed the window, and examined the door by which the ghost had entered. It was double-locked. He tried to say ‘Baka aho!’ but stopped at the first syllable. And, whether by the shock of witnessing a website’s ghost, or his exertions regarding the beauteous creatures of Ai Shimai, being in need of repose; went straight to bed, and fell asleep upon the instant.