“Log in, you bastard.”

Jack clicks Sign in.

Facebook.

Log in using Facebook account.

Click.

Facebook homepage.

No joy.

No Ficly.

No outpouring of creative expressionism today.

“Bugger.”

Jack sits back in his chair.

He contemplates how he’ll ever return to this sacredest of sacred internet hangouts.

Where randomness, experimentation, sequelisation et al are embraced warmly.

Hell, where even “sacredest” can pass for a word, since spellcheck is a devil that doth not exist here.

He sighs.

A sudden cliche’.

The lightbulb moment.

Bingo.

(That’s his name-o, ha ha ha.)

Jack puts his forever dusty laptop aside from atop his lap.

He stands.

He lifts his arms and grabs the talons of a swooping giant eagle which whisks him to a fiery morbid land and drops him into a vast volcano where Donald Trump threatens to throw Jack’s Facebook log-in into the flames below when Trump unexpectedly flaps his lips and says "you’re making things up again Arnold—

Jack stops typing.

Cthulu sleeps again.