Fun:Ken's Gentlemen or: A Likely Story
It is 2:00 on a dreary afternoon. Ken DeMyer sits in his apartment, a sordid little space consisting of two rooms, the walls of which are plastered with newspapers and magazine cuttings of attractive men, all covered in incomprehensible pen scribbles. While he cooks up a meal, his mind jumps from topic to topic. Atheism. Homosexuality. Evolution. Homosexuality. Hitler. Hitler and homosexuality... Aha! Another brilliant rebuttal! Dropping his pot of boiled hotdogs, he sprints to the computer, alters the caption of a Hitler picture, and checks the Google rankings and most recent page view numbers. Buoyant, even exuberant, a wild grin across his face, he deletes and recreates his communication page, taunting his mortal foes, the Liberal Gentleman Club, with a witty appraisal of their failed attempts to vanquish him and a demure announcement of devastating operations soon to be unfurled. To provide them with too much information would be dangerous; he's no fool. Yet he knows his announcements will throw their forces into disarray. Indeed, if he throws in the term "likely," they'll be unsure if the danger is sincere or merely a bluff. An emergency meeting of the top Gentlemen will invariably be called to rattle together a feeble defense against his next move and, in the confusion, he will have free rein to force the Homosexuality article up another place on Yahoo, a devastating blow to the Secular Paradigm, a secret society meeting in west London.
With glee, he opens up tabs showing the pages which host the central Gentlemen communications and begins refreshing with great alacrity, awaiting a reply, a response, any indication that his message has been received. As fast as his fingers can fly, he switches tab, refreshes. WIGO, Talk, WIGO, Talk. Months of practice and the installation of a T1 line have instilled in him an almost superhuman response time, a vital edge in the ever present battle with the Atheists' Sacred Cow, an Indian mystic trained since before birth to seek out Creationist communications at lightning speed.
Every ten seconds, he checks the page-rankings again. Damn; no change. Something must be awry. He had been assured in recent communications with Duane Gish that Flying Fortress would be under way. Perhaps Gish has been captured by Homosexual Terrorists. No matter. He takes pause to make a series of minute changes to his messages. The foolish Gentlemen have thus far failed to realize that those changes are used to convey coded information of vital importance to undercover agents around the world. Suddenly, he halts; he smells something burning. But how?! He's set up cameras, traps, and paid the apartment's doorman to keep watch for Liberal Vandals.... The answer flashes through his mind: of course! — the doorman is a parodist!
He runs to the kitchen and sees that his hotdogs are burnt, the water boiled away. Damned liberals! No matter; he will win the war.