A massage room.
Coldblooded Mutanto, in a white robe, cucumber slices over his eyes.
Massaged by many hands.
Dr. Greg works tirelessly on his personal laptop. A quick eye might see him deleting hordes of mean posts about the Million Dollar Monster.
“DR. GREG!!!” Mutanto roars.
“Yes, master?”
“WHO IS THIS ‘PHONK’S SON?’”
“He is an online troll, sir.”
Mutanto smiles.
“Is he now? Fascinating. Phonk’s Son, going online, harassing poor humans who will one day end up being food in Mutanto’s belly and/or Mutanto’s employee and/or Mutanto’s slave? Hilarious.”
Dr. Greg has bags under his eyes that grow fuller by the minute.
“Phonk’s Son, Mutanto appreciates your work. Hell, you might even make Mutanto laugh from time to time. Wouldn’t that be a nice moment for you? Making Mutanto, the Million Dollar Monster, crack a smile? Rarely has a human ever held such a distinction unless Mutanto was eating them, or punching their human face, or stomping on their tiny, human testicles, as all testicles are indeed tiny compared to Mutanto’s big bag of pearls.”
“Your pearls are indeed large, Coldblooded Mutanto!” Dr. Greg cries.
“Large, like the Oyster Perpetual on Mutanto’s wrist.”
Though we cannot see Mutanto’s eyes, the drop in his voice detects a change in tone.
“Have any… trolls on the internet said anything about Mutanto’s big pearls, or the oyster perpetual on his wrist, or the Ferrari in his driveway?”
Dr. Greg furiously deletes a host of troll replies to Mutanto’s latest IG story: Him calling everyone losers and demanding they sign up for his scam academy.
Dr. Greg hesitates, “…No?”
“YOU LIE TO MUTANTO!!! FOR MUTANTO HAS SEEN YOU DELETE THE MEAN COMMENTS AND MUTANTO FINDS THAT USEFUL AND SO MUTANTO HAS SPARED YOUR PATHETIC, HUMAN LIFE WHICH HAS LITTLE WEALTH OR FANCY POSSESSIONS.”
“Yessir, Coldblooded Mutanto.”
“Phonk’s Son, the one thing in this world you are good at cannot phase Mutanto because Mutanto cannot see your posts because Mutanto’s employees/slaves see your posts and delete them before Mutanto ever reads them. This is called ‘Capitalism,’ Phonk’s Son. This is called, ‘Being Rich As Fuck And Never Having to Read Words Ever Again.’”
Mutanto chuckles, roars.
“Like being broke, having to fill out job applications, and leftover dinners, trolls are a poor people problem. You can go online and say whatever you want to Mutanto. Mutanto does not care because Mutanto is busy swimming in an ocean of Benjamins and not reading words. Therefore, Phonk’s Son, your strengths mean nothing to the likes of Mutanto. But you keep cracking open that reply box and trying to piss people off, while Mutanto cracks open a vintage bottle of Pinot you could never afford.”
Mutanto waves the harem of massage therapists away with a little flick of a wrist.
“Mutanto grows tired. Mutanto is going to take a nap. In the meantime, send me your best shot, Phonk’s Son.”
A grin.
“Mutanto won’t see it anyway.”