(also it's wrong, very wrong, "Spencer is, on the surface, much saner than most of the Slenderstalked," my ass he is, what with all his crazy-ass rants and his ahahahaaaahahaha CHANGE FONTS NOW I am Jack's raging sphincter bullshit. An update may be in order, August my dearest. The "Spencer is a lying, cheating, dirty-fighting bastard" part was quite apt, though, I'll give you that.)
So, my fine readers, we check the blog one fine September, and find that the beautiful, elegant solution for figuring out who the fuck is posting at any time has been irreparably marred, with "Frankly, my dears..." not having any name in front of it what-so-ever. Terrible, absolutely terrible. Sends veritable shivers down my spine. What villain could've possibly done this?
Writer is his name.
Well, not really. Presumably he has a real name, like "Spencer" (as if that's HIS real name), but for now, let's go with Writer. As tempting as it is to go with something else, (like Dickbeat McQueen or Colonel Fucknubbin), let's keep this professional. And short, I don't want to overstay my welcome.
Without further ado.
Writer is an old...'friend' of Spencer's.
Well, 'friend' is an understatement. I don't know if we're talking lovers, fuckbuddies, but Writer is obsessed with our man, Spence, and apparently that's a feeling Spence never returned. The two of them were partners in crime, some terrible double-act, with Writer creating looped worlds, (labyrinths, mazes, that-one-scene-from-that-one-vlog-where-they-played-Hotel-California, whatever word floats your metaphorical boat) and Spence filling them with all sorts of terrible beasties. Or something of the sort. Elaine did a write-up of exactly what Loops are according to Spence over at her blog, which is where I'm getting a lot of this information on Writer.
Is he a Proxy?
I have no idea. He seems to be acting mostly autonomously...and you wouldn't expect one on Slender's strings to be so...possessive of a person in of himself. Sure, there's a whole load of "Father this, Father that", but it seems like it's more of a sidenote. This is getting out of the realms of hard fact and into speculation, but he seems...different.
Is he an asshole?
God yes. I refer you to the comments on this page, he must've spent hours crafting that list of insults. And I mean, look how he talks. Hell, I thought I was pretentious. Clearly I should step up my game. He's also creepy.
...Y'know, this whole 'subtitle' thing doesn't really work for me...I think I might just tell you a bit of an anecdote for my next point. I went to see Spence in the basement while he was still recovering, before he went to meet this bloke. We had a nice old talk. Poor bastard was half the way up the stairs, trying to climb his way out, so I sat down next to him. "Here you are, mate: get up, let's make you comfortable."
Then he looked at me, and I looked at him...something was wrong. What was that in his eyes...fear? He looked terrified, and terror was not an expression I expected to see in that smarmy cock's general vicinity. "Christ, mate, what's happened to you?" I remember saying, before I regained my composure. "I'm sure if Lori was conscious right now, she'd be knocked right back out again if she heard you were out and about."
Yes, Doc, I do remember you have a first name.
"Sorry, Leon...bad dreams." Spence eventually said, able to speak finally...but his eyes still looked haunted.
"Don't apologise to me, I'm not the one who needs to sew you back up if you pop a lung or something. I'm just checking up on you. Without a gun, for the first time in a while. Thought you'd be impressed."
"Like this? I couldn't hurt a fly." He grimaced, touching a delicate hand to the flesh under his shirt.
"Thus the lack of a gun. I think I prefer you like this, you don't scare the shit out of me. Though I do have another worry that is rather consuming...Keeping you safe from this...'Writer'."
God yes. I refer you to the comments on this page, he must've spent hours crafting that list of insults. And I mean, look how he talks. Hell, I thought I was pretentious. Clearly I should step up my game. He's also creepy.
...Y'know, this whole 'subtitle' thing doesn't really work for me...I think I might just tell you a bit of an anecdote for my next point. I went to see Spence in the basement while he was still recovering, before he went to meet this bloke. We had a nice old talk. Poor bastard was half the way up the stairs, trying to climb his way out, so I sat down next to him. "Here you are, mate: get up, let's make you comfortable."
Then he looked at me, and I looked at him...something was wrong. What was that in his eyes...fear? He looked terrified, and terror was not an expression I expected to see in that smarmy cock's general vicinity. "Christ, mate, what's happened to you?" I remember saying, before I regained my composure. "I'm sure if Lori was conscious right now, she'd be knocked right back out again if she heard you were out and about."
Yes, Doc, I do remember you have a first name.
"Sorry, Leon...bad dreams." Spence eventually said, able to speak finally...but his eyes still looked haunted.
"Don't apologise to me, I'm not the one who needs to sew you back up if you pop a lung or something. I'm just checking up on you. Without a gun, for the first time in a while. Thought you'd be impressed."
"Like this? I couldn't hurt a fly." He grimaced, touching a delicate hand to the flesh under his shirt.
"Thus the lack of a gun. I think I prefer you like this, you don't scare the shit out of me. Though I do have another worry that is rather consuming...Keeping you safe from this...'Writer'."
Working on upping my pretension level to compete with Writer, I paused for effect like a right prick. "Now I've heard this name a couple of times over the last few years, but I think it's time you and I had a good long talk about just what skeletons from your closet we're going to need to bury."
He managed a chuckle. "Oh, finally going to have a conversation where you don't accuse me of being a fascist? Ask away."
"Don't worry, normal broadcasts will resume soon enough. Plus, your fascist self is the one who pays me, and I ain't going to bite the hand that feeds. Well, not TOO hard anyway." I had to think for a moment, to figure out how to phrase this at all subtly.
Then I kind of just went 'sod it'. "So are we talking 'rabid ex-boyfriend'? Because bro, I can relate."
"... we're talking obsessive partner that's so hard to kill that I couldn't just do the deed, I had to loop him. We're talking the one who gave me this..." He pulls up his shirt slowly, stiffly; three ugly, dark, waxy bars.
Burn scars. This all fit in with my research; when he left Writer, the classy motherfucker pushed him onto a stove. "Sexy." I commented dryly. "Now, 'loop him'? He seems pretty loopy already. Particularly for being obsessed with your fine self. No offense, but I wouldn't go there sober. Bit too rugged for my tastes."
He wasn't amused. Which is odd, I'm a pretty funny guy if I might say so myself.
"He can loop you and fill it with your greatest nightmares before he cuts off all your limbs. Maybe he'll just break you with words; you have to be careful 'cause he'll kill you without a second-" He bent over and dry retched. Lovely. I rubbed his back a little, looking away. "Easy there, tiger."
He didn't listen. He kept heaving and coughing, and black blood splattered the staircase next to me, before he fell sideways, unconscious.
"Well, fuck." I said, hoisting him up and slowly dragging him back down the stairs to Doc's operating table. "I guess that answers my next question."
"How worried should we be?"
"Don't worry, normal broadcasts will resume soon enough. Plus, your fascist self is the one who pays me, and I ain't going to bite the hand that feeds. Well, not TOO hard anyway." I had to think for a moment, to figure out how to phrase this at all subtly.
Then I kind of just went 'sod it'. "So are we talking 'rabid ex-boyfriend'? Because bro, I can relate."
"... we're talking obsessive partner that's so hard to kill that I couldn't just do the deed, I had to loop him. We're talking the one who gave me this..." He pulls up his shirt slowly, stiffly; three ugly, dark, waxy bars.
Burn scars. This all fit in with my research; when he left Writer, the classy motherfucker pushed him onto a stove. "Sexy." I commented dryly. "Now, 'loop him'? He seems pretty loopy already. Particularly for being obsessed with your fine self. No offense, but I wouldn't go there sober. Bit too rugged for my tastes."
He wasn't amused. Which is odd, I'm a pretty funny guy if I might say so myself.
"He can loop you and fill it with your greatest nightmares before he cuts off all your limbs. Maybe he'll just break you with words; you have to be careful 'cause he'll kill you without a second-" He bent over and dry retched. Lovely. I rubbed his back a little, looking away. "Easy there, tiger."
He didn't listen. He kept heaving and coughing, and black blood splattered the staircase next to me, before he fell sideways, unconscious.
"Well, fuck." I said, hoisting him up and slowly dragging him back down the stairs to Doc's operating table. "I guess that answers my next question."
"How worried should we be?"
"Colonel Fucknubbin" perfect. just perfect.
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