Master B

You’re clean. Honest. You’re clean.

It was Fred Browning’s big day. Today was the day that his ad firm was unveiling the “Chiquita” ad campaign. Fred was going to get the city, as he put it, “back on bananas”. Produce sales had dropped immensely in the last five years, and Fred was going to single-handedly bring them back up. He was refreshed, he was excited, and with his laptop and projector powering on, he was ready.

Fred had been working on this project for almost a year now. In front of him sat the CEO, the Chairman of the Board, and his entire ad and design team, as well as liaisons from all the major distributors in the area. And they were all looking at him. This ad campaign was going to make him fucking rich. No “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.

The CEO nodded to him. “Well gentlemen, I think we can begin.”

Fred began his presentation. He blazed through the intro, but on slide 8, the banana thumbnails had been replaced with something else… they looked like porn…

He clicked forward, no one saw it- he was ok. Right?

Someone in the back snickered. Shit! He kept talking. He couldn’t let that mess him up. Some goddamn intern was going to pay for that.

He clicked. PowerPoint closed, and up popped a folder holding files with names like “Boob32.jpg”, “Pussylckmeldy108.bmp”, and “Dicklab.gif”.

What the hell? This wasn’t his shit! More snickers from the back.

“Problem, Browning?” It was the CEO.

“Sorry, technical, just a moment”

“Well for Pete’s sake, Browning, you should have had I.T. take a look at your machine before you began.”

“Next time, Sir.”

PowerPoint was back. Fred’s brow was sweating. He clicked to bring up the ad proofs for “Bananas have Peelings, Too”, but instead a video began to play. It was dark.

“Browning, is this a joke?”

“Um, no sir, this isn’t my presentation!”

The video seemed to be of two young women engaged in sexual intercourse with a donkey.

“Browning, if you think this is funny, You’ve got… well, you’re wrong.”

“This isn’t a joke! Honestly! Something must have gotten on my computer!”

A voice from the back, “Why don’cha whack off at home! Don’t show us this smut!”

Deep in the Ethernet, there was a grumble. No one could hear it, but it was a grumble alright. It was a laugh- a deep, guttural laugh that came from a thick, sweaty, rotund beer belly that hadn’t moved in ages. It was the laugh of Master B.

On the screen one of the girls screamed “Oh! Give it to me! Give it to me good, you stubborn Ass!”

The donkey brayed with ecstasy.

Master B lives in the ether. The internet, the World Wide Web, anything with a connection is home to Master B. Passwords, Firewalls, Virus Scanners… they are nothing to Master B. He has all the keys, all the tools, he can get anywhere and do anything on the Ether, and he does.

Master B likes to embarrass. He loves to humiliate. He enjoys making people squirm uncomfortably, shift their eyes, and try to pull the attention away from themselves.

But Master B is always in control. He knows what you fear, and he turns your volume all the way up and broadcasts gay porn over the monitor.

He has two kinds of victims. There are those that are embarrassed, and those that are intrigued. He intrigues the frigid housewife, the twelve year old boy, the nighttime janitor, the quiet businessman. He embarrasses the high school principal, the female psych student, the advertising executive. Both goals are of equal importance, and Master B knows that there will never be a shortage of innocence or intrigue. There will always be those that hate what he forces on them, and there will always be those that love it. Such is the world. This is known by Master B.

Master B has no form, so they say. But some know Master B as a glob; a glob of a man who sits in his sweaty La-Z-Boy recliner before his computer. Now Master B was not always this way. Oh no. Master B was written many years ago by Garibald, a crazed tech major sitting in a computer lab at MIT. He was later expelled on the grounds that he was insane. But upon leaving, he brought Master B with him.

Master B was nothing then, just a silly little virus that wouldn’t harm a fli-adapter cable. But as Garibald worked and clicked away at the keyboard, he began to take shape. He began to take trips to the ether and back. Soon he was jumping to entire networks in just minutes. Master B grew and grew. Finally it became clear that if Garibald was to set Master B free, he would first need a home. So Garibald set him up with a cozy little port in an erotic domain, and Master B was quite happy. He began to eat. He ate the temporary internet files people discarded before their spouses returned, he ate the dirty e-mails, the passwords, the credit card numbers. Master B began to get fat. He rolled through his domain, placing a pop-up ad here, a trashy e-mail there, but then one day Garibald lost interest in him. Master B waltzed back onto his desktop, but he didn’t greet him. He sent Garibald an instant message, but he was ignored.

Garibald, it seemed, had been hired by a company to design software, and no longer cared for his obsolete projects.

Master B felt alone, he felt unloved. He drug his feet through the ports back to his domain, curled up into his La-Z-Boy and cried big wet tears that muddled with the IP address, mixing up connections in an adjacent database and ended up sticking $4.13 into some guy’s bank account in Portugal.

Garibald left, and Master B felt cold and alone for the first time in his existence.

He withered. He had nothing to live for. Now that Garibald was gone he no longer had someone to report his mischief to. He had nothing.

But then came the kicker. Master B awoke one morning to find that his domain had been deleted. He was without a home, the final insult. Garibald hd gotten rid of it during the night to free up some space on the mainframe, and Master B was left to fend for himself.

But this time, instead of crying, Master B got angry. He had been given the skills, he’d been given the tools, all he needed was to use them. His creator had destroyed him, and now Master B would destroy his creator.

It was relatively easy. He knew all of Garibald’s weaknesses, and just like that, he filled the new server with smut and traced it all back to Garibald. He lost his job in six hours.

Having ended his first victim with almost no effort expended, Master B began to toy with people. He filled his arsenal with files and in no time at all he was popping porn onto people’s computers and ruining relationships. He never looked back.

Master B enjoys porn. Smut. Perv stuff. He likes cock, cooter, cunt, cooch, clit, dick, shit, tits, hoochies, ass, carpet, hooters, scrotums… He embraces straight, gay, lesbian, bi, bestiality, furries, showers of all kinds, gaspers, necrophiliacs, dentrophiliacs, pedophiles, technosexuals, teratophiles, katoptronophiliacs, everything! Master B loved it all and embraced it all. He puts these things on peoples computers when they aren’t looking, and he enjoys nothing more than to watch what happens.

Master B was waddling across the ether when he came across a sobbing victim. The man was huddled at his desk with big wet tears streaming from his eyes. Master B loved pushing his victims farther into sorrow, so he began a download and suddenly the man’s screensaver showed several couples fornicating and vomiting all over each other. Master B chuckled. Most people were revolted by Roman Showers, and this man was no different. A giant grimace appeared on his face and he began to click, escape, shut down—

No! It would not work! Master B backed off for a moment, and the screen returned to normal. The man wiped his tears away. His office was empty. It was very late, not even the night janitor was in. He was working on an ad campaign to replace one he’d lost earlier. Master B prodded again, a video of some “Furries”. Two mascots, a bear and a pig, were groping the other’s missing naughty parts. The man looked quizzically and began to laugh.

“No, that wouldn’t do” thought Master B. He changed it… Foot fetish, hand fetish, leg fetish… the man was dumbfounded, he seemed almost content to watch Master B scroll through his list of revulsions. What else could he do to press this man’s buttons?

Hybristophilia! …no, that wouldn’t do, all he had were several pictures of people holding guns and giving each other sultry looks. Oh, yes, he had just the thing! Mysophilia. Up came a picture of a woman shoving a conifer sapling up her shaved vagina. It was working. Master B was back on top as the man grimaced once more and tried to click away the image. But Master B wasn’t finished, oh no, he was feeling malevolent this eve, and he was going to end this man. A few clicks, a connection here and there, he began to inch onto the man’s motherboard.

Then boom! Algolagnia! Videos of women cutting off their fingers during intercourse! Faunoiphilia! Naked mole rats having sex! Pyrophilia! A young boy was setting his rock-hard genitalia on fire!

The man was repulsed, he was distraught! He jumped up to make sure no one had entered. But Master B knew there was nothing the man could do. Control Alt Delete? HA! That hadn’t worked since Windows 3.1! He was more interested now, inching more and more of himself onto the man’s computer.

Vorarephilia! Women skewered naked being roasted over flames!

The man was beginning to panic, and Master B was laughing.

Macrophilia! A man receiving oral sex from a 700lb woman!

He was typing furiously! His face was turning red! He began to whimper! It was time! Master B broke out the big guns! He pulled out videos! Turned the volume all the way up!

Klismaphilia! 60-year-old men getting enemas and screaming in pain and ecstasy!

BDSM! People with limbs cut off, vampires fucking, and men with oversized libidos thrusting them into eye sockets!

There were screams, shouts, gasps of pain! Orgasms of every shape and size! The volume was so loud, the man was afraid people on the neighboring floors might be able to hear, but he was powerless to stop it!

Murders! Slayings! Fantasized Rape! Sex with Children! Women consuming feces!

And Master B pulled his whole body onto the man’s circuit board, total control of the shaking figure in front of him!

Finally there were women and men shoving cockroaches into every orifice! They screamed and screamed and screamed and—

The plug dangled from the man’s hand. He lifted the CPU, walked down the hall, and dropped it into the incinerator, where it blazed in a green flame for a brief moment.

He stepped back, breathing heavily, looked around, then walked back to his desk.

He pulled out his laptop, logged onto the network, and checked his e-mail.

Everything was fine.

He’d just gotten a virus, that’s all, everything was fine.

…for now.