While perusing NBA box-scores at my desk, my diligent study is interrupted by an urgent knock at my door. I get up with an urgency that matches that of the one who is knocking, for I know exactly who is waiting on my doorstep:
A GrubHub delivery driver bearing my latest culinary indulgence of assorted items from a local gyro restaurant. Gyros, souvlaki, french fries, baklava, all of it and more is surely waiting for me as soon as I open the door. My mouth waters as I imagine the boxes upon boxes of already-paid-for food piled high on my desk, waiting for glorious ingestion. With no hesitation at all, I wrench open the door to receive my reward.
And am promptly tackled to the floor.
I can barely begin to formulate a thought on who would attack me unprovoked in my own home when a sinister voice growls from above me, “You’ve hated on me for far too long, DownToBuck.”
That gives me a clue. I am being referred to by the name of my online persona, which I am careful to keep separate from my real life. I am also being referred to as a “hater”, and it seems as if the person who is assaulting me is one who has been the target of my “hate”. But it’s hard to focus while a man who outweighs me by two times is lying on top of me, and the pain in my head from when I hit the floor isn’t helping either.
“The hate ends now,” the man says, and I briefly panic. Is this man going to kill me? No. He wouldn’t. No NBA player would dare eliminate a major source of their social media exposure, donated to them by way of my extremely popular highlight videos on YouTube. Still, I am relieved to see, out of the corner of my eye, my kitty Japurri Purrker waddle into the room to observe the proceedings. He’s a smart kitty. If my life is in danger, he will do something before the danger becomes imminent.
“The hate can’t end if I wasn’t hating in the first place,” I retort, perhaps unwisely. But I won’t allow myself to appear intimidated by a home invader. “You’re being oversensitive.”
I am silenced by a punch in the gut that temporarily robs me of breath. “Quiet!” the man commands, as if I have any choice when I am wheezing so pathetically. “Do you realize how much it hurts to have an esteemed highlight channel regularly make fun of your field goal percentage?”
Another clue. I have narrowed it down to one of two possible players, one who plays for the Hawks and one who plays for the Warriors. Given the boxscores I had just been looking at, I have an inkling of who my attacker is. “Believe me, Cam, my goal is to educate my audience, not to, as you allege, ‘hate’ on the players who I make videos for.”
“Do not lie to me,” Cam replies coldly. I wish he would get off of me, but he seems to have no intention of doing so, and my weak struggles make no progress in moving him. “You took glee in my failures. The tone of your writing betrayed as much.”
I don’t want to deny this claim, as it is a factual one, but admitting to my misdeeds also seems unwise. This man could cause me much pain both physically and professionally, if he so chooses. “So, what do you want from me?”
Cam finally gets up, which was a good idea on his part, as I could see Japurri with his ears back, ready to pounce on him with claws flailing. Japurri’s claws never get trimmed and are quite painful even when unintentionally deployed. An intentional attack would leave the victim very scratched-up indeed. “You’re going to make a video of me scoring 28, and the video description will have no negative comments directed towards me.”
A fair enough request. I was going to make the video anyway, and, given the impressive nature of his scoring, the video description would have been wholly positive even without Cam’s brazen (and criminal) interference. Wanting to hasten his departure, I meekly sit down at my computer and being the clip-gathering process.
“Oh, one more thing,” Cam says as he stands in my doorstep. I turn around and look at him as he brings out a box of food. “Thanks for the gyros!”
My mouth agape in shock, Cam waves cheekily at me with tzatziki sauce dripping down his chin, then closes the door, leaving me sore, hungry, and humbled.