He finds the more than 2,600 people that follow him on Twitter somewhat discomfiting. And yet he bemoans the fact that “Sometimes I tell them to speak to me. They don’t.”
I confess, I am one of those faceless thousands that follows him via Twitter. As I’ve mentioned previously, I’m a fan. I enjoy his ‘Twits’ not because of blind hero worship, but because Mr. Ellis often uses Twitter to deliver tiny slices of his beautifully crafted vitriol. I just like to see how he puts words together.
As to why I don’t speak to him, well, out of 2,600 faceless names, it’s hard to believe that my comments would be worth noticing. Then there’s the concern that if I should get his attention, like drawing the malign gaze of some Elder God from Lovecraft’s imaginings, I would find my life forever altered.
Should Mr. Ellis become aware of me, I would not be surprised to be awakened some morning in the wee hours by a pair of lanky hermaphrodites, wearing black leather and crinoline. They would look at me through the fisheye lenses of their goggles, and titter as they administered multiple mind-altering drugs, drugs crafted in some dingy basement lab in Hangzhou, drugs that were not technically illegal because their molecular structures were so brand-spanking-new they had not yet even been named by the Federal Government. With veins pumped full of happy alkaloids, I would doubtless dream horrifying dreams of eviscerated prostitutes and talking police dogs, bowel disruptors and nanobots that crawl beneath the skin like hungry cockroaches.
If I were lucky enough to eventually awaken, I would surely find myself in Mr. Ellis’ secret lair. I can only imagine the stench of stale Red Bull, whiskey, and semen that would surround me. And there, perched upon his throne of human bones, would be the man himself, madness glittering in his unblinking eyes. And even if I managed to avoid being flayed, filleted, or exsanguinated, I could only anticipate that most wretched of wretched fates: British cuisine.
So now you can appreciate why I try to keep a low profile. Far better to tapdance naked in the gaze of Barad-dûr than to draw Mr. Ellis’ attention down upon myself. Far better.