"No, child," Patrick muttered, his voice nearly as thick as his waistline. "No, child," he repeated, his fat thumbs thumping against the screen of his smartphone. The trolls were popping up almost faster than he could reply, but reply he had to. He could never let them win.
A notification popped up with a familiar ding. Leslie had tweeted something. "Last exit, Leslie," he muttered again, greasy sweat beading on his forehead. Dark sweat stains were spreading beneath his sleeves as he worked himself up, imagining his trolls getting pinned down by the police. His faucet shaped dick gently quivered as he began imagining himself being pinned down.
Another notification. Patrick cursed, realizing he'd spent too long thinking about those masculine officers. The Prime Minister of England? He must be replied to. Every xeet must be replied to. Every thought must be expressed. Every stalker must enjoy prison.