Soon the two became bored enough to have as close to a fling as Venus would allow without any hope of any form of physical abuse from Fuckwad; no matter how uncanny her cartoonlike immitation of every bad experience he’d ever had with a woman; no matter how well-mixed her combination of sexual manipulation and conservative judgemental vemon. For once in a situation like this, meaning an insanely unhealthy situation, Fuckwadsworth played his so called cards right, but did in the end become a bit tangled and then sought a wee-bit of consolation from a girl he knew from before, had always kind of liked, named GossipySue, or Gossipy for short. “Hey, uh, are you by any chance the only person in [this very small town] who can keep a secret?”
When Fuckwad had long since let go of the matter in every possible sense, had come to find peace in the silence between himself and Venus, Venus ended up hearing of that one weak day in his life, from Sue -- that he’d come to her, weeks and weeks before by then, and the two ladies supposedly went on to talk about what a fuckwad our semi-anti hero, Fuckwad, really was, for having been upset over what really wasn’t much of a fling, wasn’t much of a fling at all. As flings go, it just really wasn’t, wasn’t really, wasn't ever getting upset to the point of showing feelings, feelings of an almost human nature; really wasn’t worth all that at all. And finding that Fuckwad had turned to a local girl, for consolation in that weak moment, was reason enough months later to bitch him out shamelessly and deflect anything resembling an explanation; he had soiled, or dented her chances of getting back with those REAL ex-boyfriends, less clever but more massive and inclined to making sport of her physical frailties than Fuckwad.
To them he wrote, by way of his ancient machine, this old old computer of his, a tricycle on the information superhighway, if you will, called the internet -- that which makes majenta possible -- even probable -- probably virtual -- to them he wrote:
“This has been more of a spectator sport to me for some time -- it’s true, it’s all true. I’ve entered and come out the backside of a machine -- not a pretty one at that. There seemed to be moments of free falling at one time or another -- seemed but no. Not even the tiniest movement did I manage to call my own or at least enjoy in my own way which wasn’t eventually taken in by the machine, and interpreted by the machine, for the machine, about the machine. Reduced -- cheapened. Consolidated within the parameters of nothingness - nothing came of it, so nothing happened. All Venus asked of me was that I fuck around with her, compliment her as cleverly as I could, then blackout the whole little episode on the same evening that she decided to; all GossipySue asked of me was that I bow down to her husband’s interpretation of my role in the sexual world, which was based on the only bit of gossip there has ever been of me in [this very small town]. Here’s what I bow down to -- a feature offered by these wonderful people at Hotmail -- it’s called, Block Sender. Can you guess where I’m planning on sampling this feature for the very first time? I’ve got a couple ideas in mind right this second, maybe you can guess -- but the two of you, I really think you two should talk more often.”