Trolls Don't Always Live Under A Bridge by @neilsehmbhy (500 words)

'You must obey your Master', interupts the percussive sound of my fingers on the keyboard. The  Darth Vader clock tells me its 9pm. Dinner should be here soon. Leaving the desk I contemplate switching off the laptop, my hand hovering for a fraction, but I leave it on and walk away.

As the kettle boils I think about what I've achieved today. 12 hours work visiting 7 blogs and 5 message boards. Peddling my own unique witticism and criticism. They call it Trolling. I call it work. It's viral marketing, stealth commerce. Guiding people to buy things by cajoling,ridiculing and bullying them. 

My ex called me a 'Manipulative bitch.' I call it influencing.

The principle is simple. People use social media to connect right?
Look hard on Forums and message boards and you can find some really messed up people. I just make them feel bad and slip the odd product into my posts.

Let me give you an example.  Adultery thread...Durex, Role play.. Ann Summers, Alcoholism. .Smirnoff. Simple.

Once people swallow a barrage of abuse they'll feel pitiful, vunerable. They click a link, and I get paid.  I'm good, I make sure I get paid.

Some call it 'Antisocial', I call it 'Pro social'. Love me or hate me when I troll its a talking point. I'm spreading the word, the gospel like Jesus.

Site hits go up, posters feel down and I get paid. I'm not a total bitch though, sometimes I'm nice. Sometimes I feel bad but it doesn't last long. People are stupid, they deserve it. It's only ever backfired once and that wasn't my fault. I was new. And  what sort of dumbass company makes some one push aspirin and scotch on a Self harming site.

That nearly stopped me trolling.I feet so guilty that I almost went back to work at McDonald's.  Only for about a week though, then I was fine.

A knock at the door tells me dinner is here so I grab my purse and anwser it.

'Pizza.' The delivery guy is cute in an Emo way, long dark black hair covering his eyes and his sleeves pulled down to hide the faint scars on his arms

Reaching into my purse I pull out a £20 note, just as I remember I'd ordered Chinese tonight. Excruciating pain blossoms from my chest.

Looking down I see a black handled knife buried deep, blood slowing seeping into my clothing and onto the floor.

Falling I reach out to grab him.

'Darla. My sister. She was only sixteen you bitch. Sixteen and you killed her with your poison. With your fucking stupid words.' He's crying, his tears mingle with my blood on the floor before he drops the pizza box and runs away.

The world turns black as I crawl back inside my flat, trying to reach my iPhone. Weak and bleeding out, the last thing I see is my laptop lying open on my desk.

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