Not Pounded By Twiddor Checkmarks Because I Blocked Every Person Who Has One, Despite Elon Mork Standing Outside My House In The Middle Of The Night Crying And Begging Me To Join Twiddor Blue

After a cloudquake wakes George in the middle of the night, he hops onto the social media platform Twiddor in search of information. Unfortunately, instead of emergency services, all George can find are scam accounts and bots posing as the Billings news media to sell cryptocurrency. The strange part is, these are all verified accounts with an official blue checkmark.

George soon discovers that Elon Mork, the head of Twiddor, has eliminated all verified checkmarks and installed a program called Twiddor Blue, providing verification to anyone who pays for it. This chaos has prompted many to start banning every blue checkmark account they see, and George quickly joins in.

But things get strange when a crying dinosaur comes knocking on George’s door in the dead of night. It’s Elon Mork, and he’s begging George to like him.

This important tale is 4,200 words of a needy T-Rex billionaire grappling with the fact that he’s a loser and nobody likes him. There is no sex, but there is plenty of satisfying catharsis.

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NOT POUNDED BY TWIDDOR CHECKMARKS BECAUSE I BLOCKED EVERY PERSON WHO HAS ONE, DESPITE ELON MORK STANDING OUTSIDE MY HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT CRYING AND BEGGING ME TO JOIN TWIDDOR BLUE

By Chuck Tingle

I wake with a start, sitting up in bed as a caustic rumbling fills my ears. My whole body is vibrating, humming with a strange energy that’s difficult to parse until a few random crashes from the other room pull things back into focus.

This is a cloudquake.

Just as soon as it arrived, however, the violent shaking disappears. I’m plunged back into relative silence, although the quiet of the night is suddenly dotted with distant car alarms and a scatter of howling dogs.

I carefully climb to my feet, walking slowly to avoid any broken glass that might’ve dispersed across the floor. I make my way over to the light switch and turn it on, bathing my bedroom with a soft yellow glow and observing the damage.

“Huh,” I sigh, feeling good about my initial survey. “Not bad.”

A few books have toppled off their shelves, and a potted plant scooted precariously close to the edge of my dresser, but it appears my home has escaped fairly unscathed.

I make my way through the rest of the house, turning on lights as I go and making note of the various changes. Overall, my initial reaction stays the same. I few knick-knacks have been moved or fallen to the ground, and it appears a surge in the power has reset most of my clocks, but otherwise things are solid.

The worst of the damage is a cup that was placed near the edge of the kitchen counter, which now splays across the floor in a twinkling shatter of glass and water.

I can’t help feeling like I got off easy.

Curious what’s happening across the city of Billings, I head into my living room and flop down on the couch. My laptop is waiting for me on the coffee table, and I open it up to start my investigation. The faint glow of my computer screen illuminates my face as I open up Twiddor, the social media app I typically use to get breaking news, especially when it’s local.

The first thing that pops up on my trending tab is a report from News Magazine Billings, describing the cloudquake.

“Experts are reporting this quake will result is several aftershocks well into the morning,” I recite aloud. “We believe the only way to stop these quakes is…”

My reading slows as I furrow my brow, not entirely sure what to make of this next part. I glance at the profile who posted this for a second time, making sure I’ve got things correct. This is, in fact, News Magazine Billings, a very trusted source and one that’s been verified by Twiddor. Their status as a legitimate news source has been officially marked by a small blue checkmark.

I take a deep breath and read this next part again, still struggling to understand the meaning.

“We believe the only way to stop these quakes is… buying as much cloudcoin as possible.”

A link leading away from Twiddor is left at the end of this post, likely redirecting to a place one could purchase their own digital cloudcoins.

Not entirely convinced by this reporting from News Magazine Billings, I keep scrolling through my feed, checking out the other takes on this disaster.

A user named Montana Breaking, also verified by Twiddor, is posting links to their gaming stream and is saying the cloudquake started because they don’t have enough views, urging me to subscribe. Another verified account from the Montana Public Safety Counsel is urging me to buy their NFTs.

Something strange is going on here.

Instead of going to the officially registered blue checkmark accounts, I dive in and start reading through what the others are saying, and this investigation quickly yields some unexpected results.

I haven’t been paying much attention to Twiddor lately, mostly put off by the antics of its new owner, Elon Mork, but it appears things have gotten even worse in my relative absence. Elon’s management has swiftly driven this website into the ground, old users jumping ship faster than new ones can apply.

Part of it was Elon’s bizarre, semi-fascist alt-right opinions, while others have simply left because Twiddor’s functionality is hardly worth the effort. However, on top of everything else, Elon just seems to make really, really bad decisions.

“I can’t believe the blue checkmarks are meaningless now,” I read aloud, taking note of several user complaints and picking a few to focus on. “How am I supposed to know which accounts are the real thing.”

But the answer to this question comes fast. It appears none of the blue checkmarks denote a real, verified source. All this signifier means is that whoever owns the account is paying eight dollars a month.

I stare at my screen for a long while, utterly dumbfounded by this incredibly poor decision by Elon Mork. The thing that places Twiddor above the other social media networks is its ability to deliver breaking news from verified sources as it happens. Not only that, but it’s a way for notable figures to communicate directly with their fans, and now I have no idea which accounts actually belong to these notable figures.

What happened this morning is a prime example of why this new system is an utter disaster. If the cloudquake had been worse and people needed to comminate with legitimate emergency services, someone could’ve died.

I let out a long sigh, deeply frustrated by this whole thing. I used to love going on Twiddor, not just for news, but to communicate with friends across the globe. I’ve made connections on this silly little website that have bloomed into all kinds of amazing adventures, opportunities and partnerships. Watching it go down in flames is excruciating, but what other option do I have?

I’ve considered just leaving the website, and to be honest there will probably be a day when this happens, but I’m not ready yet.

It’s then that I notice a slew of other comments I hadn’t seen before, most of them appearing in the depths of my feed. I have to scroll incredibly far to find them, despite the fact that most of these messages appear to be receiving all of the interaction.

It almost feels like these particular posts are getting buried.

Fortunately, my wandering eye can’t keep me away, and soon enough I’m reading aloud from a post that prompts a thankful smile to creep its way across my face.

It appears most people across Twiddor are simply blocking any accounts that have a blue checkmark next to their name, recognizing that this symbol not only does not show a legitimate organization, but that anyone who pays for this service is probably a moron who supports Elon Mork.

I immediately get to work, sorting through my timeline and searching for any accounts that feature a blue checkmark. I immediately block these accounts, banning them from ever crossing my computer screen again. The feeling is actually quite satisfying, and this satisfaction prompts me to ban even more. I gradually fall into a groove, working my way through hundreds of accounts.

Suddenly, my focus is broken by three unexpected knocks against my front door.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

I glance up from my computer screen, my muscles clenching tight as I freeze in alarm. Having someone come to your door in the afternoon is already plenty anxiety inducing, but the middle of the night it’s fucking terrifying.

Instead of calling out I just hold in place, hoping that whoever it is will just go away. They have no idea if someone is actually home this evening, and so long as I don’t make my presence known, it will stay that way.

A whole minute passes as I remain in this position.

Ding!

A new sound cuts through the silence, immediately drawing my attention back to the laptop before me. A private message has arrived in my inbox, tempting me to click it with a tiny digital notification marked by the number one.

Ding!

Another, message arrives, raising the number of unread messages to two.

My curiosity getting the better of me, I click on the latest notification, causing this unread message to erupt across my screen in black text over a stark white page.

Please respond, is all it says. This message is from the official account of Elon Mork.

More messages begin to flood in, rapidly filling my inbox as their staccato chime rings out through the living room. Every consecutive tone cranks up the horrible, sickening dread within me.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

I immediately slam my laptop shut, overwhelmed by the looming strangeness. That can’t possibly be Elon Mork, can it? I’m just a random guy blocking people with blue check marks, surly one of the world’s wealthiest men has something better to do than harass me about it.

Elon is an absolute idiot, but at least he seems principled in his pursuit of free speech. Using my free speech to block people that I disagree with is something he would support. Right?

Right?

Thump! Thump! Thump!

As the digital chimes are silenced, the analog pounding returns. Whoever is standing outside my front door is clearly not buying my faux absence, undeterred in their quest for my attention.

I slowly stand and creep through the living room, making my way towards the door in utter silence. I maneuver over to the nearby window, pressing myself against the wall and then peering around the corner.

From here I can see my front stoop and the walk beyond. A figure stands in the dim glow of my porchlight, a T-Rex in an ill-fitting suit who has a look of utter desperation plastered across his prehistoric face. The second I notice him, the dinosaur’s head swivels to look directly at me.

My head pulls back and I drop to the floor in a sudden instinctual reaction, immediately wondering if I moved fast enough to avoid detection.

As strange as this reptilian creature’s appearance on my doorstep is, I’m even more flummoxed by the kernel of recognition his T-Rex face has sparked within my mind. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I could’ve sworn that was Elon Mork.

“Hello!” the dinosaur calls out, his voice wobbly and awkward. “I saw you in there, George. It’s not nice to ignore me.”

I say nothing in return, holding my breath as I press my back even harder against the wall.

“Okay then, suit yourself!” the dinosaur continues. “You’re missing out, though! I’m one of the richest people in the world! I’m very, very cool so honestly I really don’t need you to like me.”

Again, I say nothing.

In the quiet that follows, a strange sound begins drifting through the air—a sniffling that might explain my visitor’s wobbly tone. He’s trying not to cry.

“I’m Elon Mork and you should think I’m cool!” the dinosaur suddenly howls, his voice carrying out through the neighborhood.

This eruption is so loud that he finally pushes me into action, worried this yowling dinosaur will wake up the neighbors with his belligerent shrieks. As much as I’d rather not interact with this weirdo, I’m slightly less worried about my safety now that I realize how pathetic he is.

I move to the door, gazing out through the peephole.

Elon Mork stands on the other side, the dinosaur pacing back and forth as he wipes the tears from his eyes. It appears he’s having a very, very difficult time controlling his emotions.

“Hey Elon,” I gently start, the words immediately sounding strange as they roll off of my lips. “What are you doing on my front porch in the middle of the night?”

The dinosaur immediately perks up at the sound of my voice, his tortured expression shifting the second he gets even the tiniest shred of recognition. He abruptly wipes his eyes and clears his throat, fixing his posture and standing upright.

“Oh, sorry about that,” he fumbles. “I just—I wanted the show you something.”

Elon drops down for a moment, just out of view of the keyhole as he roots around and then slowly lifts and object into view. At first, I’m not entirely sure what to make of this white rectangular artifact that fills the creatures arms, but as I stare a little closer I begin to make out a faint impression.

“Why are you holding a sink?” I call out from my side of the door.

The dinosaur grins stupidly, as though it might make sense if I sit with my question a little longer. Eventually, however, he realizes I’m just not getting it.

“Let that sink in,” Elon finally retorts.

“What?” I question.

“Let that… sink in,” the dinosaur repeats, gazing at the front door with an odd expression on his face. The prehistoric creature looks like a puppy who is waiting to be congratulated after successfully fetching a ball.

The awkwardness of this silence is unbearable, but even if I wanted to respond I’m not sure how. What does he want me to say. Is this a joke?

“Okay,” is I can think to offer in return.

Elon hesitates for a moment and then puts the sink down.

“Is that all you wanted?” I call out. “It’s a little late to be showing up at someone’s house. I don’t even know you. I’m kinda feeling weird about this whole thing.”

“Oh—Oh, yeah,” the dinosaur stammers. “So the main reason I’m here is to say that you should sign up for Twiddor Blue and get a checkmark.”

“Wait, really?” I question. “You came all the way here just to tell me that?”

“Yeah,” the dinosaur replies.

I slowly unlock the door and open it up, standing face to face with the sniveling creature. He’d always seemed a little odd to me, but up close it’s easy to observe just how fundamentally out of touch he is. This prehistoric beast is just barely hanging onto his emotions, the need to be validated and liked completely taking over his brain and slowly curdling his personality into something shriveled and worn.

Maybe there was a healthy, happy dinosaur in there at one point—long, long ago—but whatever is happening now has little chance of pulling itself into alignment.

And why would it? Elon has more money than he could ever know what to do with. While most of us have to learn from our financial mistakes, Elon just keeps making them over and over again. He’s a perfect storm of failure.

“I don’t want a blue checkmark,” I state flatly. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you’re a celebrity,” the dinosaur retorts.

I shake my head. “I don’t know if you remember this, but you removed all the checkmarks from actual celebrities because they were making fun of you. All that a blue checkmark means now is whoever has one next to their name is dumb enough to pay you eight dollars a month.”

The dinosaur clearly doesn’t like this, not entirely sure how to respond. “It’s only eight dollars, though.”

“I don’t care if it’s eight cents,”I reply. “I don’t want it.”

“I’ll just pay for yours then,” Elon Mork states. “You’re welcome.”

“I don’t want it,” I retort.

The T-Rex hesitates, tortured by the fact that I’m refusing to budge on an issue that clearly means a lot to him.

“You can have sex with the blue checkmark if you want,” he finally states.

I grimace. “No thanks.”

“Listen, I just need you to like me,” Elon finally admits. “I wanna be one of the cool kids.”

“You can’t force people to like you,” I explain. “If you try doing that, they’re just gonna like you less. You can’t buy your way into someone’s heart.”

“But what if I give you-” the T-Rex frantically counters, but I cut him off.

“It’s the middle of the night, I know you’re super needy and weird about this kind of thing but, honestly, you need to get the fuck off my lawn,” I confidently state.

With that, I slam my door in the dinosaur’s face. I immediately get to work cleaning up my house, ignoring the continued knocking against my front door. I somehow force Elon out of my conscious mind, barely perceiving his annoying cries from the yard as I diligently go about my business.

It’s not long before my house is cleaned, the damage from the cloudquake fully repaired. Now that the glass has been swept up and every fallen book has been returned to its appropriate shelf, I turn off the lights and head back into my bedroom for some additional shut eye.

There’s still a few hours until the morning arrives, and if I fall asleep right away, I still might be able to function at work tomorrow.

I climb into bed, pulling up the blankets and lowering my head onto a plump, fluffy pillow. The second I settle in, however, a sudden pound against my bedroom window breaks my concentration.

Thump!

My eyes fly open, shocked and confused. It was one thing for Elon Mork to come to my front door, but this window faces into the backyard.

I spring from my bed and march over to the window, yanking open the blinds to reveal the tear-streaked face of Elon Mork staring back at me. The dinosaur is standing in the middle of a flower bed, his hand awkwardly raised to deliver another knock against the glass.

But it’s Elon’s other hand that has me concerned. Held tight in the T-Rex’s grip a small, undulating mass, the gurgling lifeform starkly visible—despite the darkness of the night—thanks to its vibrant cyan hue. At the center of this small creature’s body is a round maw, this sharp-toothed orifice clumsily opening and closing.

“Please join Twiddor Blue,” Elon Mork begs, his voice drawn out in a piercing whine. “Please. Please. Please.”

“Oh my God, no!” I erupt. “Also, what the fuck is that?”

The dinosaur glances down at the drooling lifeform in his hand. “This? This is Twiddor Blue.”

“It’s… truly horrific,” is all I can think to say. “I thought Twiddor Blue was an online thing.”

“Well, it was,” Elon admits, “but I’m all about innovation, you know? Everyone at the lab said my idea was dangerous and irresponsible, but I’m very smart and very cool so I did it anyway.”

I cringe as he says this, my whole body pulling tight and then releasing as the moment passes.

“Now you can have Twiddor Blue in real life, not just in the digital world,” the dinosaur explains. “All the coolest people use Twiddor Blue.”

I shake my head, my eyes lingering on the sloppy little creature as it snaps it’s chattering mouth. Every once in a while a long blue tongue will slip out from its circular lips, searching around on its flat face and then slithering back inside.

“You wanna join? Stevey Kings and The Drill are already signed up,” Elon informs me.

I shake my head. “You mean Stephen King and Dril?”

The dinosaur hesitates. “Well, no. We couldn’t get them. I tried paying for them, but you know, they we’re too busy or something.”

“Or maybe they just thought you were a fucking loser,” I finally retort, losing my patience. You need to get out of my back yard, Elon Mork. I’m not gonna sign up for your stupid Twiddor Blue.”

It’s this refusal that really seems to set the dinosaur off. I’ve told him “no” plenty of times, but there’s a distinct firmness in my rejection now—simmering anger lurking just below the surface.

“You’ve gotta join Twiddor Blue, though,” the dinosaur stammers, the words falling from his lips and a strange mumble. It’s as though he’s no longer hoping to convince me, just kind of talking to himself. “You’ve gotta join and think I’m cool. You’ve gotta join and think I’m cool.”

I back away from the window as Elon begins to pace, stomping through my flower bed as he repeats this crazed mantra over and over even.

“Hey, calm down,” I fumble, my initial fear suddenly rumbling back with a vengeance.

“You’ve gotta join Twiddor Blue like Stevey Kings!” the T-Rex suddenly shrieks, completely losing it.

The dinosaur punches my bedroom window, shattering the glass and then kicking at it with his large, clawed feet.

I let out a startled yelp and stagger back, shocked by this violent eruption. Elon doesn’t stop, shattering the entire pane with his now bloody hands and feet. He’s too consumed by blinding low self-esteem to feel the pain of his wounds, barreling onward like some frightening murderous robot.

Meanwhile, the strange creature in Elon’s hand begins to squeal and gurgle with delight, clearly excited about the prospect of a brand new sign up.

Adrenaline surges through my body as I turn and sprint from my bedroom, running down the hall and hitting my front door. I frantically struggle to unlock it, vaguely aware that the breaking glass behind me has stopped and that Elon Mork is probably inside.

Suddenly, a figure is sprinting through the darkness behind me, coming up fast. I open the deadbolt, but there’s not enough time to pull back the door.

I duck away as Elon slams against the door, but when he turns to face me I’m ready for him. I punch the screaming dinosaur square in the face, sending him reeling as he awkwardly holds his bloody snout.

“Just get on my cool website and think I’m cool,” he groans.

“Go fuck yourself,” I shout, throwing open my front door and bounding out into the evening.

I rush down the front steps and make a sharp turn onto the street, my bare feet slamming hard against the sidewalk as I flee into the darkness. Suburban houses line the road on either side, their lights dark as the residents slumber peacefully.

“Help me!” I scream. “Elon Musk is obsessed with making me join Twiddor Blue!”

I glance back over my shoulder to see that the angry dinosaur is hot on my trail, my prehistoric stalker pumping his arms furiously as he struggles to catch up with me. There’s no question Elon is out of shape, but his natural T-Rex reflexes put him at a distinct advantage. No matter how hard to struggle to push ahead, the space between Elon and me only shrinks over time.

Meanwhile, the houses remain dark and foreboding. Nobody can hear me screaming, all of them already back in bed and resting peacefully after a brief interruption from the cloudquake.

I can hear the squeals and hisses from Elon’s bizarre blue starfish growing louder in my ear, the creature’s hunger only elevated by the thrill of the hunt. In a matter of seconds, that sharp-toothed jaw will be latching onto my skin.

A light in the darkness suddenly catches my eye, two bright beams of illumination cresting the hill to our right. I glance over, not entirely sure what I’m looking at but startled by just how fast they’re moving.

I barely have time to react, and neither does Elon.

There’s a loud bang as the dinosaur flips over the hood of a speeding car, his reptilian body cartwheeling through the air and then slamming against the pavement in a mangled heap.

The vehicle doesn’t slow at all, so it’s hard to catch a glimpse of it, but I do manage to note that the driver’s seat is empty. As the car speeds away I notice the logo for Stressla, Elon’s very own electric car company. Stressla just started doing driverless deliveries in our neighborhood using these autonomous vehicles, despite protests from our local community that the cars were driving recklessly.

“Ohhhhh fuck,” Elon groans from his heap on the ground. His limbs are twisted and tangled, likely broken from the fall.

It appears the little blue creature has flown from the dinosaur’s hand, bouncing along the cement and coming to rest directly before me. The checkmark snaps it’s sharp little teeth and lashes its tongue.

I don’t hesitate, taking my shoe and stomping on the frightening, otherworldly entity. It pops under my heel, splattering across the pavement in a vibrant squirt of cyan.

“Call the ambulance,” Elon Mork croaks.

“I’m on it, I’m on it,” I mumble, hardly feeling like this asshole deserves any help, but calling anyway.

“Tell them to send an ambulance with a driver,” he moans. “The driverless ones are very dangerous.”

It’s not long before the medics arrive, loading Elon up and carting him off to a nearby hospital. As the ambulance slams its doors and pulls away I hear one last snippet from the dinosaur.

“Do you think I’m cool?” Elon asks his nurse. “Want to join Twiddor Blue? I’ll pay you!”