[This article contains actual tweets from Gears of War lead designer, Cliff Bleszinksi.]
Upon boarding his private jet, Cliff steps out of his Gucci Brooklyn GGs and into his favorite footwear: custom-made slippers adorned with the comically large faces of Dom and Marcus, two main characters from Gears of War. After insisting Lauren, his wife, pour them two glasses of Hennessy Paradis, he gets comfortable in one of the plane’s leather chairs and contemplates on the fulfillment of his own life, along with the distaste he’s accumulated for the belittlers he encountered while growing up.
How did I do it? I’ve pulled off the impossible: I’m both super fucking cool, and wealthy. I struggle to think of anyone who’s done what I’ve accomplished. And I did it on my own. The kids in high school may have thought I was a loser, but look at me now. I’ve got cash, credibility, and most important of all, a pristine puss to smash for an eternity. Where are those naysayers now? Probably standing in line at some fucking 7-Eleven, hoping they can get lucky playing the lottery. Fucking losers.
Cliff retrieves his cell phone and opens the Twitter app.
Heh heh heh…yeah. That’s right. Chew on that, motherfuckers.
Cliff reclines in his seat and closes his eyes, satisfied with his 63-character affront. He tips the glass of wine to his lips and imbibes the luxurious alcohol his wife has just handed him. He asks Lauren if she would mind massaging his temples while he ponders on the special Star Wars: The Force Awakens screening they viewed hours before their flight. She accedes.
The new Star Wars was so bad-ass. The only thing missing was a hero who didn’t play by the rules. A quiet protagonist made of grit and muscle. All man, baby. With a jawline twice that of Superman’s. Yeah, that would have been real cool. And instead of a light saber, he’d have an assault rifle of sorts. And it’d have a chainsaw attached to it. Now that would have been fucking legit.
Cliff’s thoughts then begin to drift back on the negative.
I wonder what my classmates in high school would have done had they known the kid whose asshole they damaged with all those wedgies was going to have the privilege of attending a secret screening of the first Disney Star Wars. Shit their pants, I bet that’s what they’d have done. No, that’s what they’ll do. Right now, when I ruin the movie for all of ’em.
Cliff shifts in his chair, readjusting his asshole to diminish the imaginary chafing he’s manufactured. He takes his phone off of sleep mode and taps the Twitter icon.
Heh heh heh. “Mute me.” It’s text. You can’t mute text. Fucking losers will never know what hit ’em. And now the peons think I’m drinking beer. Idiots.
For the next forty-five minutes Cliff goes on to ruin every major plot point in The Force Awakens for his social media followers, laughing maniacally after every post, gulping glass after glass of Hennessy Paradis with no concern over its outrageous price. As a conclusion to his spoilers, and as an extra insult to all who’ve wronged him, he passively boasts:
Cliff slides the phone in his pocket and stumbles from his seat. He walks to the bar to concoct another drink, and his wife—heading to the restroom for a “tinkle”—tells him she believes he’s had enough.
“Don’t you tell me what to do, woman! You sound just like them! Just like THEM!”
Cliff pushes a tray of liquor off the bar in a fit of rage. The bottles smash against the fuselage and liquid runs to the floor, accumulating at the angry face of Marcus attached to Cliff’s foot. Holding back tears, Cliff looks down at Epic, his wiener dog, trapped in a cage next to the bar. He drunkenly drops down on all fours and glares into the cage. Epic, with his muzzle buried in his paws, can do nothing but stare back, frightened.
“Who the fffuck do you think you are?”
Cliff uses the sleeve of his Armani sport coat to wipe the spittle from his frothing maw.
“You’ve done nothing but mock me since the day I brought you in. You’re laughing at me, both of you. Every goddamn second I turn my back, you fuckers point and laugh. ‘Look at the nerd. Look at the fucking nerd and his video games! Wasting his life with his pathetic fucking video games!’ Well no more! You hear me, Epic!? NO! FUCKING! MORE!”
Cliff lifts the small cage by its metallic bars while rising to his knees and heaves it across the plane. Epic yelps uncontrollably as his confinement tumbles over rows of chairs and crashes to the floor. Lauren yells out from the bathroom, asking Cliff if he’s just thrown the dog again.
“Yeah I threw the dog! Yeah I threw the fucking dog! And if you both don’t start showing me some fucking respect around here, I’ll throw both of you out this goddamn plane!”
Cliff stumbles backward getting on his feet and repeats the action of wiping the anger from his lips. He struggles to pull the phone from his pocket. When it’s finally in his hands, he returns to Twitter.
“That’ll teach you. That’ll teach all of you to doubt me ever again,” he whispers to himself. He collapses to the floor, removes his slippers and clutches them on his chest, crying as he eventually falls asleep, his cheek soaking in puddles of his own sadness.
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