Interview with the Troll: The Troll Chronicles

“I see,” said the troll thoughtlessly, and then slowly stumbled across the room.

“But how many posts do you have for me to comment on,” the Troll asked.

“Enough for a troll, I think,” said the Boy.

“Then let’s begin, dickwad,” said the troll, turning on the light.

“But I thought trolls didn’t like the light,” said the Boy, who wanted to say more but halted, he knew trolls were prone to hurl out insults at anyone for no reason other than to get attention. It was something in their blood. They had no control over it. But he had responded to the Troll and now here they were.

“Oh my God,” said the boy as the harsh yellow light flooded the room, exposing the troll for the first time. His skin was white and damaged like bleached bone. But it was the troll’s eyes which most caught the Boy’s attention. They were lifeless and dark, as if all hope and knowledge had been drained from them.

“You haven’t always been a troll, have you?” asked the boy.

“No, I was once like you,” said the Troll, slowly shaking his head, leaving clouds of dandruff billowing throughout the room like an asbestos shower.

The troll began his story: “I have been a troll for as long as I can remember. Like, say, about 1,200 days or so. The time all blends together after awhile. It seems like forever. Fucker.”

The troll’s story was at once mesmerizing and horrifying. From his early days in the Web sites on French Quarter of New Orleans, where he’d write “Swim faster” to those who saw Katrina ruin their lives, to scribbling “See how Muslims are?” on message boards during the riots in France. His was a story of loneliness, desperation and an unholy evil.

“So that’s the accent, I’d have never guessed it was French,” said the Boy.

The troll stopped. His preternatural stupidness was striking.

“French?!?! French?!? Are you kidding me? French? Those socialist bastards would have German accents if it weren’t for the U.S.” the Troll squealed.

The Boy tried to maintain his calm. He knew trolls were prone to automatic responses toward nearly any comment. He chose his next words carefully.

“How did you become a troll?” asked the Boy, his face tense with amazement.

The Troll chuckled. “For a while, I thought about how I had become this. Who had made me this way,” the troll stopped, tantalizingly drumming together his fingertips. “Then I kinda just forgot about it and kept doing what I was doing. You liberal jackass.”

The reporter was afraid. He knew the Troll was ready for an outburst. He watched the Troll closely. He was an amazing specimen. Not an ounce of regret, emotion or even thought appeared to reflect on the troll’s face. What they said was true – these were not humans, but something else entirely.

“So you don’t know who made you this way?” the reporter asked.

The troll stretched. The reporter could see the troll’s fingers, calloused and gnarled from years of hunting and pecking on a keyboard.

“Not really. It could have been Limbaugh, Savage, Coulter or even Wally George or Morton Downey Jr., you know, one of the leaders of the troll coven. The trolls with true powers. Or it could have just been a regular troll like myself. I just remember meeting one at Little Green Footballs. I felt a chill and suddenly I saw things differently. Suddenly a complex world had been made black and white. ‘What’s happening to me? I asked the other troll.

“‘You’re soul is dying’ he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it happens to all of us,’ ” the Troll said, looking at the Boy’s wide eyes. “I was afraid, just as you are now. You pansy.”

The Boy let the insult go by without a reaction. Then he realized that was agitating the Troll even more, but the Troll continued.

“Then it was the 2000 Election. And I gave in to it. Whenever I saw the name ‘Al Gore,’ I immediately wrote comments about him inventing the Internet or being the lead character in ‘Love Story.’”

The Troll looked at the Boy with disdain.

“You’re a real liberal piece of shit, aren’t you?” the Troll asked.

The Boy couldn’t help himself. He made the ultimate error when dealing with a troll. He looked offended . As quick as lightning, the Troll started to feed uncontrollably:

“You politically correct commie bastard! You want universal health care like the rest of the commies but taxes, taxes will raise. Like Norway, you fascist piece of crap. Always trying to shut down debate. You probably like Hillary. You and the socialist paper you work for. Liberal media. Iraq, so what? We have to kill terrorists! You love terrorists though, don’t you??? George Soros is paying you, isn’t he! Ronald Reagan is a genius! Trickle Down economy! Global warming is a myth!”

The Troll paused momentarily. The Boy was horrified but somehow attracted, the Troll was making no sense whatsoever, as is their way. The Troll took one last breath and screamed:

“Bill Clinton’s Penis!!!!!”

The Troll collapsed, momentarily sated. His body had been craving the copious amounts of random and stupid comments he so desperately needed to survive. The Boy was still. Afraid to move, afraid to speak. The Troll lolled back in his chair, drool coming from the side of his mouth, a dazed look in his mostly vacant eyes. Then he was back.

“Shit that was good,” the Troll said. “Anyway, since then, all I’ve done is go from site to site, 18 to 22 hours a day, looking for keywords so I could feed. You’d think people would learn, but they’d always respond to be, notice me. And I’d feed.

The Boy was sweating profusely now. The story was so, so, lame. He didn’t understand. But the Boy realized he rarely understood much. He was part of the mainstream media, after all. He wasn’t prone to thinking things through or making sense of anything, anyway. Suddenly the reporter knew what had to be done. He dropped his pen and leaped from the table.

“Please, make me a troll!” the reporter shouted.

The troll was slightly confused.

“What?”

The reporter was adamant, his face flushed.

“Please, make me a troll. I need this. I want this life. This is what I need!”

The troll shrugged.

“Ok, you’re a troll. There.”

“That was it?” asked the reporter, somewhat stunned at how easy it was.

“Yeah, you just have to want to be one. It’s always somewhat amazing that there are people that want this, but so be it. You’re a troll.”

With that the Troll was gone, vanishing in a cloud of Cheet-o dust and smoke.

The Boy raced to his car and drove recklessly toward his home. To his computer. He had trolling to do.

Next: The Troll Limbaugh.

Brilliant poster provided by Melissa McEwan. (This is David Koechner, btw)

–WKW

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