MAD, BAD AND WRITING FOR WATTPAD

by @OutrageousOllo

PROLOGUE

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

Those were the words typed onto the screen by @skywalkerIV. He looked up at what he had written. The muscles in his hands quivered. He closed his eyes. He breathed in the moment. His last moment. Because directly after that, his brain exploded and splattered against the screen and keyboard in a thick, bloody, lumpy glue.

Smoke curled up from the barrel of the gun and into the nose of the cloaked figure standing behind the mangled head of @skywalkerIV. He sighed a deep, tired sigh before speaking.

"Don't blame me. You knew FanFiction was illegal here." He sounded suspiciously like another mysterious guy you'll meet later in the story. "What did you think this is? FanFiction.netPunk?" He turned directly to face you, the reader. The dim light from @skywalkerIV's computer shone onto part of his face and revealed a half-moon of scarred skin. "No. This is WattPunk. So sit back and enjoy. Because this is all canon. What I'm about to tell you, it really happened."

PART ONE: TOBACCO CAN KILL AFTER ALL

His name is @AngusEcrivain and if you don't know who the fuck that is, then you may as well give up on life and become one of Lord WattPad's bunghole-cleaners (colloquially known as "winning a Watty").

There he sat, in the dim light of his writing room, his pale, vampire-like skin illuminated only by the faint light of his solid-gold WattBook and the four cigarettes hanging from his mouth. Ecrivain's Specials—Smoking Causes Automatic Awesomeness. Nothing less for the man himself.

He wasn't writing, as it was only early in the evening and he wasn't in need of any more FAME. His supplies were pretty high. He had enough FAME saved to last him for the next three months, and that was if he stopped writing altogether and stopped getting any royalties, which would never happen. He was idly browsing the rankings, checking to see if he was still at the top of everything. Which he was. No surprises there. Even the non-Wattanized—those not touched by Wattpad's tender kiss—savages in the South Pacific knew who @AngusEcrivain was.

It wasn't his fault. After the roaring success of Tevun-Krus, he and @MadMikeMarsbergen were both propelled to fame and fortune. By the time Wattpad entered its fourth century, they were already on track to become the two richest men alive—after Lord WattPad, of course. Now, in the eighth, they were truly killing it. Kept alive by their daily injections of FAME, which they earned by having extremely popular stories, they were practically immortal. Nothing stood in their way.

Nothing, except for this shitty WattBook, apparently. @AngusEcrivain's screen flickered and buzzed, ants marching across the display. What a piece of junk. It had been a special gift from an anonymous fan. Usually he would have just thrown such a gift in the incinerator, but this one was a little more high-class than normal, as it was made of solid gold, with his "@username" engraved in the top-right corner. So he decided to give it a try. But now, it looked like it was going in the fire after all.

Now the image on the screen was changing, flicking from the live rankings to a picture of a cartoon bunny. It was a fucking weird bunny rabbit, nothing like anything he had ever seen before. Its eyes were bloodshot, its teeth were rotting and its paws had been replaced with gloved human hands. One hand was covered in gold rings and chains and the other was holding the biggest, fattest cigar @AngusEcrivain had ever seen. The rabbit laughed and a ring of American dollars floated around it, which was even stranger, as America had been dead since Wattpad's second century and forgotten by the third.

"Hey, Angus," the bunny rabbit said.

@AngusEcrivain shivered, though he wasn't sure if it was because of the way it was staring creepily into his eyes, or the fact it had just called him by a name, not an "@username," but a name. The use of names had been illegal since the fifth century. The only one who was allowed to use a name was Lord WattPad... but that was different, as he was fucking Lord WattPad. Oh, and non-writers, too, but nobody cared about them.

"Wanna have a puff on this?" the rabbit asked. "It will calm your nerves." The bunny clicked its bling-covered fingers and a flame appeared at the end of the cigar, the smoke trailing out of the screen and into @AngusEcrivain's nose.

He backed away. What the fuck? Had his FAME been tampered with or something?

"Come on, Dan," the rabbit coaxed. There it went, using another name. "You know you want it. Here." The rabbit held the cigar out to him, the gloved hand extending beyond the screen. Shakily, @AngusEcrivain reached out and took the cigar from the bunny. He balanced it between his fingers, trying to figure out why it felt so real.

"See, that wasn't so bad." The bunny laughed. "Now smoke it." It clicked its fingers again and retreated back into the screen of his WattBook, fading into a swirl of those extinct dollars. Just like that, the strange rabbit was gone, leaving him alone in the room. The computer flashed back to the rankings, though he wasn't interested in them anymore. He looked down at the cigar in his hand, trying to figure out how and why it was still here.

"Smoke it, Angus," said a disembodied voice which echoed from the darkness around him.

"Oh, what the hell," @AngusEcrivain said. He took out the half-smoked Ecrivain's Specials and replaced them with the cigar. It was so fat, he had trouble getting his lips around it, but he managed, thanks to his experience with blowjobs. (After all, it takes talent to get your own cigarette brand.) He took a long puff, feeling the smoke swirl through his lungs and into his bloodstream. It felt amazing.

It was the best goddamned cigar he had ever smoked.

And, it was the last.

It took them days to scrape the charred remains of his body from the walls. The smell of tobacco made it far too obvious. His name was @AngusEcrivain, and somebody had just murdered him.

PART TWO: IF THIS WAS ANOTHER TALE, THIS WOULD BE A SUPERHERO ORIGIN STORY

Meanwhile, in an illegal FAME-manufacturing laboratory, @H-A-Spade was lowering a pH meter into one of the vats, testing to make sure the hydronium concentration wasn't too high. She could never get the mixture as perfect as the real thing—Lord WattPad was obviously doing something else to the mixture—but with the science she'd learned before all such practices had been outlawed by Wattpad, she could get close enough. Close enough that the addicts would buy it.

She checked the reading. Five-point-six. Good. That was perfect. Now all she needed to do was let it sit for thirty minutes. So she raised the pH meter and set off to do that, heading back to her desk. She woke her WattBook and after taking a moment to look at her desktop background—a photo of The Chosen One, a black-costumed vigilante who fought against the oppression of Wattpad—she opened up her email browser.

Bleh. Lots of messages from buyers, sure, but there was a mountain of pro-Wattpad propaganda to sort through first. God, she hated Wattpad and what it had become. She used to write, but she didn't anymore, not after seeing what was done with her words. No amount of FAME would tempt her.

One of these messages was a bit different, however. It was titled "PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT FOR THE DEATH OF A STAR," and it was from Lord WattPad himself. Curious, she opened the email and started to watch the video inside.

While she was distracted, a cloaked figure snuck into the lab behind her. He chuckled to himself and dramatically spun in a circle, watching the black fabric fly up around him. He looked up at @H-A-Spade, who was starting to weep as she watched the video, and then down at the vat. Perfect. He pulled a bag of bananas from his pocket and quickly began to unpeel them, tossing the edible fruit into the vat of FAME. It hissed and bubbled, releasing an odour worse than @MadMikeMarsbergen's notorious farts.

"Now watch and learn, here's the deal," he sung to himself, "she'll slip and slide on this banana peel!" He tossed the peels around on the floor and giggled, before running out of the lab.

The vat of FAME continued to bubble. It was the foul stench that eventually pulled the red-eyed, puffy-cheeked @H-A-Spade away from the keyboard and back towards her batch-in-progress.

"What happened?" she asked herself. "What is that god-awful smell?"

She leaned closer, taking a small step forward so she could get a better look at the mixture. Then it happened. The mysterious cloaked figure's master plan worked perfectly. Her foot landed on a banana peel and she slipped, falling headfirst into the vat of contaminated FAME.

If this was a superhero novel, like those appalling things @OutrageousOllo writes, you would quite easily be able to guess what happens next. But this isn't. Canon, remember? @H-A-Spade fell into the vat and screamed as the mixture began to cover her, burning her skin, causing it to rapidly blister and peel away, until a new, orange, fake-tanned skin appeared. Her clothes changed: her lab coat morphing into a plaid flannel dress. A beanie grew out of her skull, followed by a pair of thick-framed Drew Carey glasses. And then, her mind and body unable to take the pain and horror any longer, she died.

Another one bites the dust.

PART THREE: PACIFIC VORTEX! OR, THE TRAGIC DEATH OF @EYEEXEYEEYE

Sometimes when a man needs to go, a man needs to go. Doesn't matter if said man is sitting comfortably at home in front of the telly or in a tin can, flying forty thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean.

Unfortunately for @eyeexeyeeye, it was the latter. WattJets weren't very comfortable or accommodating for bowel movements, which was why he made a habit of never flying unless he absolutely had to. @AngusEcrivain's funeral was one such occasion.

"Excuse me," @eyeexeyeeye said to the man in the aisle seat as he squeezed past. "I gotta use the washroom." Not that "washroom" was a fair word to use. Try "small, plastic cubicle, with a vacuum toilet and a pump sink conservatively shrunk so it fits within half of a square metre." But @eyeexeyeeye really needed to go. He could feel a turtle head forming already.

A mysterious, hooded man came out of the "washroom" and held the door open for @eyeexeyeeye. "All yours, chief," the man said, before walking off and leaving him to it. It was hard to tell exactly what the man's expression was in all those shadows, but it almost looked like a grin.

@eyeexeyeeye shrugged it off and crammed himself into the little box, sat down on the throne and started pushing. Another annoying feature of the "washroom" were the screens—in front, above and behind him. They were large and constantly blasting WattTV, in such a way that it was impossible not to watch them.

"More breaking news," said an overweight anchor lady, in a horrible bright-orange dress made of different-sized Wattpad logos. "If the tragic death of Wattpad Superstar @AngusEcrivain wasn't tragic enough, more reports of terrible accidents from around WattLand are rolling in."

The image onscreen changed to a short piece of blurry surveillance-camera footage. It appeared to be of several adults running around in a glow-in-the-dark maze, holding laser guns. "As you can see here, @Silentis was horribly killed when the laser gun her opponent was using malfunctioned and fired a stronger, higher-frequency ray into her chest, vaporizing her heart and several other vital organs." On the video, a large, brilliant flash was seen, followed by several panicked screams. "WattPolice are investigating."

The WattJet rattled and lurched, which didn't help @eyeexeyeeye's rising nausea.

"Shortly after, in the northern region of WattLand, @Wuckster's mutilated remains were found near a campsite in the woods, scattered around a destroyed tent. By following the path of bloody entrails, the rest of his half-eaten body was found—deep in a bear cave. It all looked like another tragic accident—or it would have, if it wasn't for the half-crushed and devoured suitcase of raw-beef sandwiches found in the remains of @Wuckster's tent. Investigators at the scene are yet to determine: Was he an idiot with a deadly taste for raw meat, or did someone set him up, trying to lure the bear to him?"

"Definitely an idiot," @eyeexeyeeye commented to himself, squeezing out a few little pellets and feeling the cold water splash up onto his bum. "That guy always had some missing screws."

"Finally," the anchor lady continued, "we have the most recent death of this troubling evening: @Emmalee_Sky was brutally killed while skydiving when her parachute malfunctioned—not releasing fabric at all, but instead a bag of bricks, which did nothing to slow her descent. Authorities had to scrape her remains from the pavement. The only known witness was a dark, hooded man—also skydiving from the same plane—who ran away before he could be taken in for questioning."

Hooded man? @eyeexeyeeye thought to himself. "I just saw a hooded man!" he exclaimed, even though there was no real evidence to suggest the clothing choice was anything more than a shared fashion trend. Now finished, he needed to wipe his ass. He tried to stand, frowning. He was stuck in the seat.

"Huh?" he muttered, trying to wiggle himself free. His struggles did nothing but worsen his situation, leaving him sucked deeper into bowl.

"Help!" he cried, but his words were lost amidst the droning of the WattJet's engines. Panic rippled in his gut, as he gasped for help yet again. He had seen the hooded figure; what if he was the next to die? He scrambled with his hands, trying to find something solid to grasp and pull himself out with. He tried the sink, but the cheap orange plastic snapped under his weight.

"The one question on everybody's minds," Anchor Lady continued, "will this chain of accidents continue? Many pray not, fearing the answer is yes."

"No!" @eyeexeyeeye screamed, reaching out again. This time his hands found the flush—and, without properly thinking it through, he pulled it down. The vacuum kicked in, and with a horrible, unearthly slurping sound, he found himself sucked from the WattJet out into the frozen air, hurtling towards the dark, unforgiving ocean.

His remains were never found—except by a shark, which quickly ate them.

PART FOUR: A HERO CAN SAVE US

@MadMikeMarsbergen figured it must have been an important announcement. Why? Because Lord WattPad was wearing his top hat. @MadMikeMarsbergen never really liked it, though he wasn't sure if his dislike was due to the nature of the message that was bound to follow, or just because of how goddamned ugly the thing was. It looked like someone had taken the top hat from your grandfather's grave, dipped it in paint, left it to crack in the sun, then stomped all over it, splattered it with ink, attached a flimsy red scarf, scribbled "once upon a time" above said scarf, then added a feather and ink bottle to its base and tried to pass off the whole pointless design and process as "fashion." Which is exactly the kinda thing Lord WattPad would do, being the freaky egomaniac he was.

"My lovely WattPadians," he began, his words coated with a sweet, caring tone that @MadMikeMarsbergen figured was probably as real as WattPad-brand maple syrup. "I know this has been a tragic day for many of you. Many of our favourite writers have perished. But know this"—he looked directly into the camera; his shrunken, dried-prune eyes looked like two little holes to hell—"I know who did this. This was the work of The Chosen One!"

@MadMikeMarsbergen's face was blank. He didn't react, even though he probably should have, as he was currently half-dressed in black spandex, with The Chosen One logo on his chest: a black-and-white circle with a graphic of Lord WattPad being boned up the ass. You couldn't see who the "boner" was, but you could see the effect it had on Lord WattPad, the way it made his face contort in a mix of pleasure and pain.

"As your honoured leader, I say this! I will—we will—get revenge on The Chosen One! For @AngusEcrivain! And for the others, too. He has crossed Wattpad, and that is a crossing from which one can never return! Watch out, The Chosen One, because by tomorrow you will be dead!"

The announcement ended and the screen of the WattBook went blank, leaving @MadMikeMarsbergen—or, as you now know, The Chosen One—sitting alone in the dark of his study.

He yawned. "Fucking gay," @MadMikeMarsbergen said, finally having a reaction. "What a gay cunt." Of course Lord WattPad would blame The Chosen One. But why would The Chosen One be responsible for any of those deaths? The Chosen One didn't kill people—except for bad guys and except for Lord WattPad, when The Chosen One finished figuring out how to sneak into WattTower. @AngusEcrivain was his friend. Sure, with @AngusEcrivain gone, @MadMikeMarsbergen was now the captain of Tevun-Krus, and definitely the richest man alive, but he couldn't think like that. No extra FAME shipments would fill the @AngusEcrivain-shaped hole in his heart.

His thinking was then cut off, as the sound of a faraway engine trickled into his study. He leaped from his seat and leaned out the window, surprised to see his wife @OutrageousOllo pulling into their manor. She was meant to be having a meet-and-greet with her Sponges—the collective and borderline-illegal pronoun she used for her loyal fans—but that mustn't have gone so well, judging by her early return. Crap! He had to get this black costume off and hidden before she saw him.

He darted around like the madman he was, working quickly to change, shoving the pieces of the outfit into their hiding places. The mask went under the bed, the chestpiece went behind the desk, the legs went inside the tank of the guest-bathroom toilet, and the shoes went up on top of the wardrobe, because @OutrageousOllo was only 4'11", and therefore couldn't reach that high.

Just when he thought he had finished—in good time, too, as @OutrageousOllo was now walking in the door—he realized he had left his The Chosen One undies on the end table, next to his easel, where he was attempting a still-life of the undergarments. Oh no! They would be a dead giveaway. He quickly rolled them into a ball and ate them, hiding them in his digestive system, so he could poop them out later if needed.

"Oh, hi, honey," he said as she looked in his direction. He held his hands out for a hug, which she unenthusiastically returned, looking around the room as she did so.

"Has my FAME shipment arrived?"

The question made @MadMikeMarsbergen sigh. "Yes. It's on your desk, where I always put it."

"Cool, thanks," she replied, breaking off the hug. "I'm off to inject and write. See ya!"

He watched her go and sighed again. You know, sometimes he didn't think @OutrageousOllo was the same girl anymore. She'd changed. Just little things. Like today. And the other day, when he had caught her reading issue seven of @JossWhedon's Fray. Ugh. What was cool about a graphic novel featuring a badass Vampire Slayer from the future? Fucking nothing. That's what. That comic was fucking lame. And once upon a time she'd agreed. Once, she would have helped him use it for toilet paper, which was the only true use for anything with @JossWhedon's name on it. But not anymore.

The FAME had gotten to her, that's what'd happened. She was addicted. Sure, he was, too—all the long-time superstars were, as it was the only thing keeping most of them alive after all those years—but he wasn't nearly as bad as her. He rationed his FAME, only injecting just enough to keep old age at bay. But @OutrageousOllo took it all, as fast as she could get it, treating it like the drug it was. She didn't believe in writing for the soul anymore, only for the FAME.

Not me, he thought. Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. He just lived his life from one writing day to the next. He said to the empty room, "Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters."

But today—or what was left of it—wasn't a writing day, he decided. Not anymore. It wasn't a day for @MadMikeMarsbergen. It was a day for The Chosen One. Lord WattPad had declared war on The Chosen One. And if it was a fight Lord WattPad wanted, it was a fight he would get. Because this vigilante was bringing his best serving of justice.

First on the night's agenda: finding the true murderer. A dark, mysterious, hooded cloak was the only clue he had to go by, but it was good enough. By tomorrow, the true murderer would be dead.

PART FIVE: SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE OTHER BAD GUY

When @OutrageousOllo saw the amount of FAME being offered for the dead-or-alive capture of The Chosen One, one thing was for sure: @OutrageousOllo had to have that FAME.

It had been a long time since she had last felt any true happiness or enjoyment towards anything. All that life for her consisted of was waking, writing, eating, injecting her daily FAME, writing more, going to Wattpad events, writing, and then sleeping. Others probably thought she was quite dull. Or maybe just obsessed with making more FAME. She knew her husband @MadMikeMarsbergen thought that.

The last time she had some real fun was when she accidentally instigated the murders of her rivals, in a complicated scheme involving a tractor, a water-ski rope and lots of dishwashing powder. And even then, it wasn't that fun, as she never told anybody it was her that did it (and she felt bad). If @MadMikeMarsbergen knew she'd done that, he wouldn't like it. He wouldn't understand that she was only doing it for the FAME. She wasn't even injecting it all at once, like it looked—she was hiding it, trying to stockpile enough so they could both leave, run away to some place which was neither touched by Wattpad's greasy fingers, nor overrun by the nightmares created by @MadMikeMarsbergen's old buggy laptop. Then neither of them would need to worry about FAME, Wattpad or The Chosen One ever again.

If she was going to escape Wattpad and take @MadMikeMarsbergen with her, she was going to need a lot of FAME. This reward for The Chosen One might just be enough to do it.

She snuck up to @MadMikeMarsbergen's study to see if he was paying attention to her and the house, or if he was too engrossed in his writing. She actually found the door was locked, which was perfect—it meant he was serious, and had no chance of coming out anytime soon.

She got changed into suitable clothes for hunting villains—black jeans and a dark, hooded cloak—and snuck out the window, venturing into the night beyond.

It didn't take her long to find The Chosen One—of course it didn't, he was a masked vigilante, his behaviour patterns were her specialty. She also had a monopoly over superhero stories on Wattpad, so it was entirely likely this "Chosen One" guy had read her story for inspiration.

He was standing rather epically on top of a steel skyscraper, leaning over the side and watching WattCity rumble and gurgle beneath him. That was when @OutrageousOllo approached from behind, injecting a triple shot of FAME so she would have the strength to face him. She was about three metres away when he heard her—or he must have, anyway, as he straightened up and turned around to face her.

She could see the stubbled frown through the mouth-hole of his black mask. It was nice stubble, she noted. He had a nice jaw, too. Kinda like her husband, @MadMikeMarsbergen. Maybe in a different situation she might have been attracted to him.

"So, you've come," The Chosen One said, his words both deep and familiarly haunting to her ears. She didn't exactly know what he meant by that, but she also didn't really care. Sure, he was crazy (-hot), but the reward said nothing about keeping his mental state intact.

She couldn't think of anything suitably corny to say, so she just left the silence as it was and leapt at him, trying to use her weight and enhanced strength from the overload of FAME to tackle him to the ground. But The Chosen One wasn't as weak as Lord WattPad's propaganda said he would be, and he easily shrugged her off, pushing her to the ground. The fight should have gone in her favour, and it would have if he was a normal guy, but he was running off his own shots of FAME and therefore more than an equal match.

Within seconds he had her tackled and pinned to the ground, holding her arms down with his knees, pushing on her shoulder with one hand and brandishing a switchblade with the other. He was about to flick it out when he noticed something funny about her face. Frowning, he pulled her hood off.

"Olive?" he exclaimed, too surprised to obey the law against names. "The fuck?"

Then it clicked in her mind, too, as she realized why his voice sounded so attractively familiar. "Mike? Shit!"

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, putting the knife away but not taking his weight off her.

"Trying to capture the fucking Chosen One. Which is you. So what the fuck are you doing?"

He sighed, sounding deeply annoyed. "I'm trying to find the bitch who killed @AngusEc— Ah, fuck it. The one who killed Angus and the rest of our friends. Who better not be you, by the way."

"It's not," she said. "Promise."

He let her up, helping her to her feet. "Okay, then what are you—"

"I wanted the reward," she blurted.

"Fucking hell, Olive. You don't need any more FAME."

"It wasn't for me. I promise." She looked into his eyes. "It was for us. I wanted enough so we could run away from Wattpad, and slowly wean ourselves off the drug so we wouldn't die suddenly, or suffer any of the other withdrawals."

The Chosen One frowned. "Really? That's what you wanted?"

"Yes!" she cried. "I know you hate Wattpad! I'm sorry!" She leapt at him again, but not to attack him, instead to wrap her arms around him and surround him in a hug.

"Awww," came a third voice from the darkness next to them. "How cute. Young love. Or old love? Bitches."

Then there was the bang of a gun, followed in quick succession by an unearthly cluck! as the side of @OutrageousOllo's face exploded in a shower of brains and bone. She let go of @MadMikeMarsbergen, fell to the concrete, and stayed there.

PART SIX: @MADMIKEMARSBERGEN'S REVENGE

@MadMikeMarsbergen looked from his wife's bloody, unmoving body and up into the shadowed eyes of the real killer, whose black cloak flapped invisibly in the wind.

"So, Mad Mike," he chuckled. "Oh, The Chosen One. We meet finally. How do you feel?"

On the inside, @MadMikeMarsbergen's emotions were raging—but on the outside he was calm and still. Instead of replying, he slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out four vials of FAME.

The hooded stranger didn't seem to care what he was doing. He was content with talking. "Well, I know how I feel. Amazing! Finally, Lord WattPad has noticed me! And when I kill you, he will love me!"

@MadMikeMarsbergen injected one of the vials.

"I bet you are itching to know who I am. Why I killed all those Wattpadders."

@MadMikeMarsbergen injected vial two.

"Huh?"

Vial three followed.

"Well, I'll tell you anyway. It's because Wattpad kicked me out, they shunned me. Banned me and my words. Said I was too 'toxic.' Well now I'm back, baby!"

Vial four. Finally @MadMikeMarsbergen spoke: "I don't care."

"What?" The figure pouted like a kid who had missed out on a lollypop.

"Have you heard of Darth Vader?" @MadMikeMarsbergen asked, changing the topic. He saw his foe sneer.

"Yes. I hate everything that isn't Wattpad!"

"Okay," continued @MadMikeMarsbergen, "so then you'll know what this is."

He channelled the power of the FAME pumping through his veins, lined up his hand to the cloaked figure's throat and clenched. He raised his hand, lifting his foe, too—who hung there, kicking and gasping as @MadMikeMarsbergen smugly looked on.

"What—"

"Firstly, in several seconds I'm going to throw you from this building. You'll die. Then I'll rush to Olive's aid, inject her with all the FAME I have on me, adding in the FAME she has concealed on her. She'll live. Next, I'll go kill Lord WattPad. And everyone will live happily ever after."

"Wait," the strangled man gasped. His hood fell off. The city light showed how scarred and mutated his face was. "I haven't told you who I am."

"Don't care," said @MadMikeMarsbergen. Then, true to his word, he flung the man from the building.

"It's @Paaaaaaroaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" he screamed as he fell to his death.