Cancel Toby Chalmers!: Chapter 10
Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.
Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 6: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 7: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here are Chapters 8 and 9: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 10.
Chapter 10
“Wow, they actually did it,” Toby announced to a hypothetical audience, alternating between primal rage catalepsy and giggly nihilism. He closed his laptop to avoid smashing it, then massaged his temples, blinking frantically. He clamped his jaw shut to stifle his screams.
All of his books’ Amazon listings were gone, as was his Author Page. So, too, had every trace of his fiction been expunged from Goodreads. Google searches turned up no literature, neither synopses nor cover art. Years upon years of honing his fiction yielded no evidence whatsoever online.
Toby had purchased author copies of his own titles before the great erasure, however: a hundred of each book, stored in boxes in his garage. Attempting to list them on eBay, he’d found his account deactivated. He’d left a copy of each in his local Little Free Library bookcase, and planned to do so again, probably. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure what to do with ’em. Would door-to-door selling gain me sales or bullet wounds? he wondered.
After composing himself slightly, feeling half-spectral, he reopened his laptop, to search for traces of his existence on social media. There, too, all evidence of his books and references to him as an author had vanished. Posts and replies branding him a racist remained, though, along with screenshots of his drunken meditation on blackness.
Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s call to action post had been edited, with every mention of Toby removed. Lest Toby feel entirely neglected, however, Joe had crafted a brand-new post in his honor, released to the masses just a few minutes prior. And, boy, was it a doozy.
Toby saw his own photo staring back at him—a squinting, smirking portrait that he’d always hoped conveyed wit, but feared imparted the opposite impression—the one he’d been using as his author photo for the last couple of years. Aside it was a second photo, its subject a strangely hirsute grade-schooler that Toby had never seen before. Beneath them, it read:
AN UNCLE’S ORISON
Oh, my wonderful, diverse social justice superstars, my much-valued supporters in horror fiction renovation, my Rocks of Gibraltar in the tempest, my radiance in the howling void, I beg of you, right now, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, please, please, please attend my plea.
After the opioid epidemic seized ahold of my sister Clementine, after she let horses sodomize her for bindles of heroin and became famous on the internet, after she overdosed in the carwash with nary a vehicle in sight, she made the courageous choice to check herself into rehab. The good gal’s been an addiction center patient for just over two months now, showing extraordinary progress, and I couldn’t be prouder of her.
Clementine has a tremendous heart and I love her dearly. So, naturally, I volunteered to take care of her son while she gets the treatment she needs. I’ve paid for his food out of my very own pocket, introduced him to some of my favorite horror films (Jordan Peele’s first, natch!), and ensured that he kept up with his schooling. Overall, Shadrach’s a great child—smart as a whip and nearly as handsome as his dear old uncle is—but he’s had some, let’s say, moral deficiencies that I’ve been helping him overcome.
As much as it shames me to admit it, the boy’s shown evidence of insensitivity to the black cause. I caught him laughing at an African American that he saw on TV, as if that individual was less human than those of other races.
Well, you know that Joseph McCarthy Jr. won’t permit bigotry in his radius, especially when it’s coming from his own family! Immediately, I devised a series of role-playing exercises to make poor, misguided Shadrach sympathize with black folks and their culture. The boy was showing great progress; congratulations were forthcoming. Then infamous racist Toby Chalmers came along and spoiled everything.
I don’t know how they first communicated—some sort of clandestine message board, I’m assuming—but one night, a fully grown fellow showed up on my doorstep, asking for Shadrach by name. The boy’s just eight years old. No way would I let him near a cisgender, racially challenged, straight man I don’t know.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Toby Chalmers,” the man answered.
“That evil fellow from social media who thinks that blacks are worth less than dirt?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Toby then declared. “Don’t you know that those coal-coated animals will never accept you, that they’ll rob and rape you any chance that they get?”
“Lies!” I shouted. “Black is beautiful! It is! Stay the heck away from my nephew or I’ll call the police!”
Silly me, I assumed that Toby Chalmers possessed enough intelligence to realize that I’m not a man to be trifled with, that I have pal-o-roonies all over the planet, linked by a love of horror fiction more powerful than religion. Your strength is my strength; my strength is yours.
But then I began sighting Toby Chalmers when Shadrach and I were out in public—lurking in a parking lot’s periphery, seated behind us at the movie theater, even browsing at the comic shop. As I couldn’t prove that he was stalking us yet, I tried to photograph him with my cellphone, but the man kept hiding behind his hands every time I snapped a picture. Clearly, he was planning something terrible.
My worst fears were confirmed just a few nights ago. Shadrach and I had spent the entire day together, shopping and singing, dancing and gaming, grubbing and gabbing, as close relatives do. After an invigorating supper of lobster ravioli, I left the boy to his own devices while I attended to some Transylvoria correspondence. There are many exciting things in the pipeline, believe you me (OMG, OMG, OMG, one of my favorite movie stars is thinking about writing a monthly column for us! Keep those fingers crossed, fam).
A couple of hours later, with my evening’s editorial duties behind me, I looked at the clock and realized that it was my nephew’s bedtime. Naturally, a nurturing fellow such as myself would rather die than miss an opportunity to tuck that boy into bed. My heart was so full of love; indeed, I couldn’t stop smiling.
That lip curl upended itself when my door knocking went unanswered. Entering the guestroom that I’d donated to Shadrach for the duration of his stay, I found him absent. Most of his clothes were gone. The screen was missing from the window frame.
Indeed, it seems that evil Toby Chalmers has abducted poor Shadrach, undoubtedly to indoctrinate him further in Toby’s black-hating ways. I’ve already contacted the police, but I need the help of all of you good people, too. Spread these photos and this story all across social media, so that if either of the two shows their face anywhere, the authorities and I will be notified, and Shadrach can be deconditioned, and Toby Chalmers can face justice.
Now and beyond forever, I love all of you, my exquisite, intelligent, diverse pal-o-roonies.
“What…the…fuck?” said Toby. Before his eyes, by the thousands, Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s words accrued likes and reposts. Replies sprouted every second: “Toby Chalmers can’t get away with this,” “We’ll stomp that child rapist to mush,” “Stalkers don’t belong in our country,” and myriad variations.
This smirking sack of pudge actually thinks that I visited him? Toby wondered. He thinks that I abducted his strange, hairy-faced nephew? Do I have a lookalike out there? Nah, Joe must be fabricating this story, for attention. Where’s this asshole live, anyway?
A quick internet search revealed that Joseph McCarthy Jr. and Transylvoria were based in Georgia. That’s like three states over. No wonder the cops haven’t bothered me yet. Will they, though, sometime soon? Do the posts of social media jackals carry much clout with authorities? I doubt that there are many Transylvoria fans with badges, but how can I be sure?
Whatever the case, I can’t keep letting this lit scene fascist take shots at me. People incapable of writing horror fiction don’t deserve to control it. No one does. Art should always, always, always evolve unrestrained, and have its existence acknowledged. I’m gonna have to kick this loser’s ass, aren’t I?
Grinning at the thought of Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s mouth imploding under a clenched fist, at watching that slanderous scumfuck writhing on the ground, choking on his own teeth shards, Toby navigated Transylvoria’s website.
“Holy mackerel,” he soon exclaimed. “Transylvoria’s Media Outreach Luncheon—whatever the fuck that is—is just a couple of weeks away. Joe is signing autographs there and everything.”
Perhaps I can’t fight cancel culture as a whole, Toby thought, but I can at least hurt this malefactor, this prime pile of dog shit. How satisfying will that be? I can wear a disguise and devise an escape route. If I do happen to get caught, assault’s just a misdemeanor anyway. Totally worth it.
He flexed his fingers and stretched. A mad impetus had seized him. I’ll start a literary blog under a false name on a free site and whip up a dozen quick reviews, he thought. That oughta get me through the luncheon’s registration page. Their website doesn’t take payments, so I’ll pay the fifty bucks there, in cash. I can do this. I’ve gotta do this. Fuck Joseph McCarthy Jr.
Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 6: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 7: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here are Chapters 8 and 9: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 10.
Chapter 10
“Wow, they actually did it,” Toby announced to a hypothetical audience, alternating between primal rage catalepsy and giggly nihilism. He closed his laptop to avoid smashing it, then massaged his temples, blinking frantically. He clamped his jaw shut to stifle his screams.
All of his books’ Amazon listings were gone, as was his Author Page. So, too, had every trace of his fiction been expunged from Goodreads. Google searches turned up no literature, neither synopses nor cover art. Years upon years of honing his fiction yielded no evidence whatsoever online.
Toby had purchased author copies of his own titles before the great erasure, however: a hundred of each book, stored in boxes in his garage. Attempting to list them on eBay, he’d found his account deactivated. He’d left a copy of each in his local Little Free Library bookcase, and planned to do so again, probably. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure what to do with ’em. Would door-to-door selling gain me sales or bullet wounds? he wondered.
After composing himself slightly, feeling half-spectral, he reopened his laptop, to search for traces of his existence on social media. There, too, all evidence of his books and references to him as an author had vanished. Posts and replies branding him a racist remained, though, along with screenshots of his drunken meditation on blackness.
Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s call to action post had been edited, with every mention of Toby removed. Lest Toby feel entirely neglected, however, Joe had crafted a brand-new post in his honor, released to the masses just a few minutes prior. And, boy, was it a doozy.
Toby saw his own photo staring back at him—a squinting, smirking portrait that he’d always hoped conveyed wit, but feared imparted the opposite impression—the one he’d been using as his author photo for the last couple of years. Aside it was a second photo, its subject a strangely hirsute grade-schooler that Toby had never seen before. Beneath them, it read:
AN UNCLE’S ORISON
Oh, my wonderful, diverse social justice superstars, my much-valued supporters in horror fiction renovation, my Rocks of Gibraltar in the tempest, my radiance in the howling void, I beg of you, right now, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, please, please, please attend my plea.
After the opioid epidemic seized ahold of my sister Clementine, after she let horses sodomize her for bindles of heroin and became famous on the internet, after she overdosed in the carwash with nary a vehicle in sight, she made the courageous choice to check herself into rehab. The good gal’s been an addiction center patient for just over two months now, showing extraordinary progress, and I couldn’t be prouder of her.
Clementine has a tremendous heart and I love her dearly. So, naturally, I volunteered to take care of her son while she gets the treatment she needs. I’ve paid for his food out of my very own pocket, introduced him to some of my favorite horror films (Jordan Peele’s first, natch!), and ensured that he kept up with his schooling. Overall, Shadrach’s a great child—smart as a whip and nearly as handsome as his dear old uncle is—but he’s had some, let’s say, moral deficiencies that I’ve been helping him overcome.
As much as it shames me to admit it, the boy’s shown evidence of insensitivity to the black cause. I caught him laughing at an African American that he saw on TV, as if that individual was less human than those of other races.
Well, you know that Joseph McCarthy Jr. won’t permit bigotry in his radius, especially when it’s coming from his own family! Immediately, I devised a series of role-playing exercises to make poor, misguided Shadrach sympathize with black folks and their culture. The boy was showing great progress; congratulations were forthcoming. Then infamous racist Toby Chalmers came along and spoiled everything.
I don’t know how they first communicated—some sort of clandestine message board, I’m assuming—but one night, a fully grown fellow showed up on my doorstep, asking for Shadrach by name. The boy’s just eight years old. No way would I let him near a cisgender, racially challenged, straight man I don’t know.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Toby Chalmers,” the man answered.
“That evil fellow from social media who thinks that blacks are worth less than dirt?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Toby then declared. “Don’t you know that those coal-coated animals will never accept you, that they’ll rob and rape you any chance that they get?”
“Lies!” I shouted. “Black is beautiful! It is! Stay the heck away from my nephew or I’ll call the police!”
Silly me, I assumed that Toby Chalmers possessed enough intelligence to realize that I’m not a man to be trifled with, that I have pal-o-roonies all over the planet, linked by a love of horror fiction more powerful than religion. Your strength is my strength; my strength is yours.
But then I began sighting Toby Chalmers when Shadrach and I were out in public—lurking in a parking lot’s periphery, seated behind us at the movie theater, even browsing at the comic shop. As I couldn’t prove that he was stalking us yet, I tried to photograph him with my cellphone, but the man kept hiding behind his hands every time I snapped a picture. Clearly, he was planning something terrible.
My worst fears were confirmed just a few nights ago. Shadrach and I had spent the entire day together, shopping and singing, dancing and gaming, grubbing and gabbing, as close relatives do. After an invigorating supper of lobster ravioli, I left the boy to his own devices while I attended to some Transylvoria correspondence. There are many exciting things in the pipeline, believe you me (OMG, OMG, OMG, one of my favorite movie stars is thinking about writing a monthly column for us! Keep those fingers crossed, fam).
A couple of hours later, with my evening’s editorial duties behind me, I looked at the clock and realized that it was my nephew’s bedtime. Naturally, a nurturing fellow such as myself would rather die than miss an opportunity to tuck that boy into bed. My heart was so full of love; indeed, I couldn’t stop smiling.
That lip curl upended itself when my door knocking went unanswered. Entering the guestroom that I’d donated to Shadrach for the duration of his stay, I found him absent. Most of his clothes were gone. The screen was missing from the window frame.
Indeed, it seems that evil Toby Chalmers has abducted poor Shadrach, undoubtedly to indoctrinate him further in Toby’s black-hating ways. I’ve already contacted the police, but I need the help of all of you good people, too. Spread these photos and this story all across social media, so that if either of the two shows their face anywhere, the authorities and I will be notified, and Shadrach can be deconditioned, and Toby Chalmers can face justice.
Now and beyond forever, I love all of you, my exquisite, intelligent, diverse pal-o-roonies.
“What…the…fuck?” said Toby. Before his eyes, by the thousands, Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s words accrued likes and reposts. Replies sprouted every second: “Toby Chalmers can’t get away with this,” “We’ll stomp that child rapist to mush,” “Stalkers don’t belong in our country,” and myriad variations.
This smirking sack of pudge actually thinks that I visited him? Toby wondered. He thinks that I abducted his strange, hairy-faced nephew? Do I have a lookalike out there? Nah, Joe must be fabricating this story, for attention. Where’s this asshole live, anyway?
A quick internet search revealed that Joseph McCarthy Jr. and Transylvoria were based in Georgia. That’s like three states over. No wonder the cops haven’t bothered me yet. Will they, though, sometime soon? Do the posts of social media jackals carry much clout with authorities? I doubt that there are many Transylvoria fans with badges, but how can I be sure?
Whatever the case, I can’t keep letting this lit scene fascist take shots at me. People incapable of writing horror fiction don’t deserve to control it. No one does. Art should always, always, always evolve unrestrained, and have its existence acknowledged. I’m gonna have to kick this loser’s ass, aren’t I?
Grinning at the thought of Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s mouth imploding under a clenched fist, at watching that slanderous scumfuck writhing on the ground, choking on his own teeth shards, Toby navigated Transylvoria’s website.
“Holy mackerel,” he soon exclaimed. “Transylvoria’s Media Outreach Luncheon—whatever the fuck that is—is just a couple of weeks away. Joe is signing autographs there and everything.”
Perhaps I can’t fight cancel culture as a whole, Toby thought, but I can at least hurt this malefactor, this prime pile of dog shit. How satisfying will that be? I can wear a disguise and devise an escape route. If I do happen to get caught, assault’s just a misdemeanor anyway. Totally worth it.
He flexed his fingers and stretched. A mad impetus had seized him. I’ll start a literary blog under a false name on a free site and whip up a dozen quick reviews, he thought. That oughta get me through the luncheon’s registration page. Their website doesn’t take payments, so I’ll pay the fifty bucks there, in cash. I can do this. I’ve gotta do this. Fuck Joseph McCarthy Jr.
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