Instahate

“Log off!”

“I’m just getting my point across,” snapped Wilf Roscington.

“Put the goddamn truth phone away,” demanded Riff Voss.

“Alright, alright.” Roscington tapped the send button and then placed his phone in his pocket. It blew up. The sound of the vibration was faint but built to a frenzy with all the messages.

“I told you this would happen. I told you I would be able to conquer the Web. Look!”

Voss looked at Roscington’s screen. He saw messages of pure vitriol spring up on it.

“Yeah, you said it.”

“That’s right. I’ll be receiving this hatred all week. These people are so touchy.”

“They wouldn’t be if you didn’t spread lies—”

“No, no, no. I spread the truth. That’s why it hurts so much.”

“Whatever, we’ve gotta—”

“Hold on. I just got a message from Kita Coles. She writes, ‘I thought you were smarter than this.’ Ha!”

“I know you’re smarter than this. That’s why it surprises me that you’re using your powers this way.”

“I’m only declaring what other people say. In our culture, we find ourselves mute to all of the bullshit that people pump into the digital atmosphere. I’m not one of those people. I choose to make it clear that the reality might hurt but it's like getting surgery. You’re going to feel a bit of pain in order to heal.”

“That’s your rationale?” Voss asked.

“It’s my motto and my creed.”

The phone continued to rattle with messages. Rosccinton’s face glowed from the screen illuminating each time a message was delivered.

“Okay, you’ve made your point. You can bring the damn thing, you know. Mobile and what have you,” Voss rationalized.

“I just need the Wi-Fi to catch all of this,” Roscington fired back.

Voss grabbed Roscington’s arm. The young man shrugged violently.

“Off of me, man! I’m putting in work here!”

“If we don’t make it to this dinner, our dreams of scholarship are blown. If we don’t get the scholarship, our parents will look down on us and our futures will concern asking people what they want: sprinkles or jimmies,” Voss retorted.

“We’re already in school. That scholarship will be up again in a few weeks. Relax. It’s just $2500. I could get more playing the market.”

“But it’s the Whitehead Award. This name carries weight, you know that. Any college freshman who receives it will go on to win the Browning Prize most likely. That’s $10,000.”

“And tuition is $50,000 a year. You say the names carry, but it’s really just a big scam. You’re printed in the New Sweden Times and you’re a name, maybe. But what I’m doing could net us hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions. Possibly billions.”

Voss looked at his smartwatch. “C’mon.”

Roscington finally relented. His phone continued to vibrate. The pulses felt like money in his mind. Each electric tremor produced a flurry of chemicals in his head that made a tingling sensation on top of it.

He followed Voss down the flights of stairs into the open parking lot.

“Ah! My audience is all around me. I can literally feel the hate spewing forth from the fingertips of my adoring fans. I’ve set the trap. Now, everyone’s falling into it. The only way that I can say I’ve been more fortunate is receiving this award,” Roscington declared.

Voss looked confused. “I thought you didn’t care about it. I didn’t say that. I want to be regarded. Prestige is the way to go. Even if it is for such a measly sum.”

“Let’s go,” Voss said.

“I just need to turn off my phone. I don’t need the microphone picking up all my messages.”