It was a cold morning in October when I checked my P.O. box for the last time. It was something my manager had suggested, getting a P.O. box. I didn’t see the need. Of my 3.2 million followers on YouTube, 97% were under the age of 14. And tweens don’t send a lot of mail. But my manager insisted, and I relented – so long as he footed the bill.
And it was there, nestled among the mailers and solicitations and court documents. When I saw the box, I was sure it was just samples from a potential sponsor. There was no label on the plain cardboard packaging, but that didn’t make a difference. Swag is swag. So I grabbed the box and any letters that look like they might have come from adult women in the greater LA area and tossed them into the passenger seat of my canary yellow Nissan 350z.
Later that day, after checking to see if any of my unsolicited DMs got responses, taking my kratom, and ignoring several calls from my manager, I began to brainstorm video ideas. People seem to believe that being an influencer – a creator, actually – is easy, but sitting there in my dope Los Feliz apartment and staring at a blank document on my brand-new MacBook Pro, that was real work. So when I gave myself a break to open fan mail, I deserved it. It turned out only one of the letters was from a legal adult and she seemed desperate anyway. So I threw that one right in the garbage.
That’s when I saw the unmarked box again and could tell it wasn’t just some marketing gimmick. And I knew I had my next video.
Although all my videos are set at 3 a.m. (that’s the witching hour), I film most of them around 9 p.m. That way, I have time to go hit up nightclubs in the Valley and “network” after. But I felt this time was different. I had no idea what was in the package, but I knew that what was contained within would be my next viral hit. So I went clubbing beforehand.
The ecstasy had almost all worn off by the time I set up my camera, ring light, and microphone. But I took a Xanax just to make sure. It’s important to take your job seriously. I gave myself a once-over with a lint roller, hit the record button and took a deep breath:
“WHATS UP GUYS! IT’S YOUR BOYYYY MARKUS! BACK AT IT AGAIIIIN WITH ANOTHER 3 A.M. CHALLENGE! AND THIS TIME, I GOT A VERY SPOOOOOKY BOX IN THE MAIL! COULD IT BE ANOTHER MYSTERY PACKAGE FROM THE DEVIL? COMMENT BELOW WHO YOU THINK IT’S FROM.”
And then I opened the package.
What happens next has the texture of a dream. It unfolds in the past, the present, the future. I see myself from the lens of my camera. Like one of my viewers would. I give a surprised smile to the audience I can’t see, maybe my first genuine one. As I remove the golden cube from the depths of the cardboard box, I’m so locked in I don’t even make the obvious Rubik’s Cube joke. As I absentmindedly fidget and twirl the device into the correct configuration, do I feel the gooseflesh running up my spine as the cube clicks into place? As the ancient ritual completes? I can’t remember anymore.
When those dudes in black leather show up I don’t even blink. I’m already gone. The lead one – appearing first in my periphery, then just behind the camera – smiles at me, his chiseled teeth eating into the ribbed flesh of his lip. He reaches out a monstrous hand and the bony fingers elongate, pushing up past crimson nails. The cohort laughs as I realize I’m going to have to get a second take of this video. Rusted chains tear through the floor. Probably from Mrs. Stoyanova in the unit below, who is always getting on my case about “partying too much” and “having a bunch of people over during quarantine.” The chains dig into my flesh, rending my skin from bones and tissue and I wonder: Is this what being canceled feels like? I wouldn’t know. I didn’t even have time to ask my tormentors to post the video to my second channel as they drag me to hell.
I play that scene over and over in my head. The only video my rapidly growing legion of viewers will never see. It’s dark down here, and lonely. The walls, the temperature, and scent of rotten flesh. I’m unsure how long I’ve been here, in this new body. Not long enough to become accustomed to the constant weeping and sounds of teeth scraping along concrete.
Still, I’m surprised when I receive an unmarked package from a putrid orifice in the wall. But when I open it, I know exactly what to do. As I remove the camera, ring light, and microphone from the box, I begin brainstorming again.
I need a new intro. For I have such sights to show them.
