Fictional Stories for Fictional Audiences

Much Ado About Going Viral

A Digital Farce of Filters, Fame, and Flops

Jul 14, 2025

PART ONE: THE WHISPERS OF THE ALGORITHM

PROLOGUE Chorus: From digital realms, where screens do ever glow, And fleeting fame doth fickle currents flow, Where youth doth chase the algorithmic light, And 'clout' doth reign, a queen both dark and bright, Our tale unfolds, of one, a hopeful soul, Who sought to master TikTok's fickle scroll. But heed ye well, for e'en in viral chase, A serpent lurks within a charming face. And though our hero, Lysander by his name, Did dream of glory, and of global fame, The 'For You Page', a witch of subtle art, May poison e'en the most authentic heart.

SCENE I. A chamber, softly lit by ring-light, in a modern dwelling. Enter LYSANDER, with a mobile device in hand, gazing upon it as if it were a crystal ball.

LYSANDER: (To himself, yet with the full awareness of a soliloquy, for indeed, his every thought is content) To 'post,' or not to 'post'? That is the vexing query. Whether 'tis nobler in the digital mind to suffer The endless stings and arrows of low 'engagement,' Or to take arms against a sea of 'shadow-bans' And by opposing, 'go viral.' To 'scroll,' to 'sleep'— No more; and by a 'sleep' to say we end The aching heart-burn and the thousand natural shocks That 'follower-counts' are heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To 'scroll,' to 'sleep'— To 'sleep,' perchance to 'dream' of 'trends' unseen? Ay, there's the rub; For in that 'sleep' of digital repose what 'content' may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal 'Wi-Fi,' Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long 'screen-time.'

(He sighs, adjusting the ring light with a dramatic flourish.)

For who would bear the whips and scorns of 'low reach,' The 'influencer's' wrong, the proud man's 'ratio,' The pangs of despised 'DMs,' the algorithm's delay, The insolence of 'trolls,' and the 'spurns' That patient merit of th' unworthy 'brand' doth take, When he himself might his quietus make With a mere 'unfollow'? Who would 'doomscroll' bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary 'feed,' But that the dread of something after 'posting,' The undiscovered country, from whose 'search results' No 're-post' returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those 'likes' we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus 'conscience' doth make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of 'authenticity' Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of 'clout,' And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their 'trends' turn awry, And lose the name of 'action.'

(A sudden, piercing notification sound issues from the device, a discordant chime in the quiet chamber. Lysander startles, his 'main character energy' momentarily disrupted.)

Hark! What sudden chime doth break my melancholy flow? A 'push notification' from the unseen realm? (He taps the screen, which immediately displays a new video. The footage is grainy, flickering with static, featuring a shadowy, distorted figure. From it, three indistinct voices, robotic and echoing, issue forth.)

VOICE 1 (robotic, low-fi): All hail, Lysander! Thou art 'Cottagecore' king!

VOICE 2 (singsong, with reverb): All hail, Lysander! Thou shalt rise above the 'thirst traps'!

VOICE 3 (echoing, distorted): All hail, Lysander, that shalt be 'Main Character' of all!

LYSANDER: (Aghast, staring at the screen as if confronted by apparitions) By 'Jove,' what eerie 'stitch' is this, That doth assail mine eyes and ears with such foreboding? 'Cottagecore' king? Methinks I am but a humble Purveyor of quaint fabrics and rustic scenes, My 'follower count' but half a million souls. And 'thirst traps'? Nay, my content doth hold no such base guile! And 'Main Character'? Good heavens, the very thought Doth make my 'followers' cringe, and my 'engagement' wane! Whence came ye, spectral voices, from the 'For You Page' depths? Speak, I charge thee, that I may be truly 'influenced'! Art thou a glitch, or prophecy divine? A cunning 'deepfake,' or a viral sign? Speak, if ye can! What 'trends' shall this poor mortal find?

(The video glitches once more, then vanishes into the ether of the internet. The device returns to the endless scroll of the 'For You Page' feed, filled with mundane clips of dancing teens and cat videos.)

Gone! Like a 'story' that expires at dawn! And in the moment of its strange departure, My very spirit doth 'duet' with wild ambition. 'Cottagecore' king, above the 'thirst traps,' 'Main Character' of all! It rings within mine ears, a wicked siren's 'sound byte.' To think that I, whose 'grid' doth breathe of calm, Whose 'aesthetic' shuns the clamour and the strife, Might rise to such a dizzying height of 'clout'! But how? My rival, 'Chad, the Gym Bro,' doth reign supreme, His 'abs' and 'gains' a constant, vexing 'feed.' And 'Brittany, the Baddie,' with her 'lip-syncs' bold, Doth garner 'likes' that shame my verdant 'scrolls.' Can this be true? Or is it but a wicked 'filter' Upon my nascent fame? A 'glitch' of grand design? Methinks this vision, born of algorithms dark, Doth stir a hunger I knew not I bore. A dark desire, for 'metrics' ever higher. A lust for 'reach,' beyond the tranquil 'niche.' The 'algorithm' whispers, 'Thou shalt reign!' And in that whisper, 'authenticity' doth wane. The 'virality' doth beckon, grim and grand. Part one, forsooth, is now within my hand.

PART TWO: THE LAMENT OF THE LOST ALGORITHM

SCENE I. The self-same chamber. Ring-light aglow, yet casting shadows of doubt. Enter LYSANDER, pacing with agitated step, his device clutched like a scepter of digital fate.

LYSANDER: (To himself, practicing his 'main character' expression in the phone's reflection) The Algorithm hath decreed! No more shall I, Lysander, gentle purveyor of the rural eye, Confine my soul to simple, sylvan scenes, To milk-maids quaint and flow'ry garden greens. 'Cottagecore' king? Aye, but a king without a realm, A monarch niche, adrift upon the helm Of trending waves. The prophecy did speak Of 'thirst traps' conquered, and of 'Main Character' peak! But how to rise? To shed this gentle skin, And let the 'rizz' of true ambition in? My followers, bless their sweet, unthinking hearts, Do crave the tranquil, not the jarring starts Of new-found fame. Yet if I do not strive, This fleeting 'story' shall no more survive Than yesterday's 'meme.' Oh, what a coil is here, To be both 'authentic' and dispel all fear Of 'going viral' for the wrong-pitched note! The 'likes' I crave, though shallow, are my boat Upon this boundless, fickle digital sea. And so, by Jove, a 'challenge' I must see! A 'Day in the Life,' perhaps? To show my 'glow-up,' Or 'quiet morning routine' ere I sup On digital delight. But no! 'Tis far too mild! A 'Main Character' must never be so 'styled' As one who simply lives. Nay, one must perform Their very essence, brave the coming storm Of 'comments,' 'roasts,' and 'trolls' of dark intent! I shall unveil a 'Vlog' of bold ascent!

(He swiftly sets up his device upon a tripod, adjusting the angles with meticulous care, his face a mask of determined, albeit slightly constipated, gravitas.)

LYSANDER: (Continuing, addressing the unseen lens) Good morrow, gentle 'scrollers'! Hark, attend my plight! For I, Lysander, who doth shun the fight Of 'trending sounds' and 'diss tracks' of the vile, Do seek to share my soul, and for a while, Transcend the mundane. My 'aesthetic' true, (He gestures vaguely to a potted fern) Hath ever been of nature's gentle hue. But now, behold! A transformation grand! Today, I seize the moment, sword in hand, To be the 'Main Character' of my own, brief day! No longer shall I hide, nor simply 'play' The humble content creator. Nay! I 'manifest' My purpose now! My soul shall stand the test!

(He begins to move stiffly, performing overly-dramatic actions. He pours an oat milk latte with exaggerated reverence, sips it with a forced sigh of contentment, then makes a grand gesture towards a pile of books, visibly straining to appear intellectual. He picks up a novel, pretends to read a single line, then sets it down with a pensive frown, all while glancing nervously at the lens.)

LYSANDER: (Voice escalating in theatricality) Ah, the weight of contemplation! The burden shared By souls who deeply feel, and truly cared For all the world's deep woes! My coffee, too, Doth taste of existential dread, 'tis true! (He grimaces slightly, as if the coffee is actually bitter.) This quiet morning, with its gentle haze, Doth fill my spirit with a thousand ways To 'grow' and 'learn'! Each 'vibe check' that I meet, Doth prompt my soul to offer insights sweet! (He attempts a 'peace sign' with an awkward, flailing wrist.) I feel so 'seen,' so utterly 'relatable'! My life, a story, both 'authentic' and 'debata- Ble'! For truth, dear friends, is found in 'story-lines' That resonate, and meet the heart's designs!

(He then proceeds to attempt a short, complex 'dance trend' that is clearly not suited to his skill set, flailing his limbs with earnest clumsiness, his face betraying deep concentration and a dawning sense of self-awareness that something is amiss.)

LYSANDER: (Gasping for breath, pausing mid-flail, sweat beading on his brow) Alas, this physical exertion doth reveal The truth of purpose! How my muscles feel The 'flow' of art, the rhythm of the 'sound'! No longer 'soft-launching,' but upon this ground, I shall 'unleash' my spirit, bold and free! No 'gatekeeping' here, for all the world to see My journey forth! From 'cottagecore' to 'clout,' No stone unturned, no 'trend' I shall not scout! For I am 'him'! I am the destined 'star'! The 'main character' of wherever you are!

(He attempts one final, grand flourish, misjudges his footing, and stumbles slightly, catching himself just before tumbling off-screen. A strained smile is quickly plastered back on his face, but his eyes dart nervously.)

LYSANDER: (Under his breath, to himself, but loud enough for the imagined audience) A minor 'glitch'! A mere aesthetic flaw! The art of 'virality' doth follow no fixed law! This shall indeed 'go viral,' I am sure! My raw 'authenticity' they shall adore! For who would mock a soul so truly bare? (He coughs, adjusting his linen shirt, trying to regain composure.)

SCENE II. A digital chat, displayed on a separate screen. HORATIO, his friend, is typing rapidly.

HORATIO: (typing in a chat bubble) Didst thou behold Lysander's latest plight? A 'Main Character' moment, dimmed by awkward light. He sought to 'slay,' but 'twas a ghastly sight!

CHAD, THE GYM BRO: (typing, with many flexing emojis) His 'rizz' hath vanished, like my 'gains' in sleep! The 'cottagecore' hath made his spirit weep For 'likes' he cannot earn, nor ever keep! A 'simp' for fame, with no true 'alpha' grace! His 'aesthetic' crumbleth, in this public space!

BRITTANY, THE BADDIE: (typing, with many laughing emojis) He tried to dance! By Venus, 'twas a crime! His 'moves' were stiff, his 'rhythm' out of time! He thought he'd 'eat,' but he just made us 'cringe'! His 'flop' is trending, to our sad revenge! The 'tea' is hot! The 'ratio' is grand! His 'clout' doth vanish, like wet sand from hand!

HORATIO: (typing, a touch of weary resignation) Alas, poor Lysander! Doth he not perceive How 'performative' his efforts now deceive But his own heart? The Algorithm, shrewd and sly, Doth mock the 'try-hard' with a knowing eye. He grasps for fame, a shadow in the night, And dims the very 'aura' of his light. For 'authenticity,' once his gentle guide, Hath cast him forth, to ego's bloated tide. The prophecy, methinks, was but a jest, A cruel prediction, putting him to test. And now he flounders, in a sea of 'shame,' A 'Main Character' known but by his 'cringe' name. Exit HORATIO, shaking his digital head.

SCENE III. The self-same chamber. Lysander sits amidst the remnants of his 'vlog' setup, scrolling through comments, his face a contorted mask of bewilderment and rising anger.

LYSANDER: (Reading comments aloud, his voice growing strained) "Cringe Lord," they call me? "Awkward on the 'gram'?" "Didst thou consult the 'vibe check' ere this scam?" "His 'aesthetic' broke!" "A 'flop' for all to see!" "He looks so 'pressed'!" "No 'rizz,' just misery!" (He slams the device down onto the table, his hand trembling.)

LYSANDER: This cannot be! My efforts, pure and true! To give the 'people' what they thought they knew They wanted not! These 'trolls,' with venomous 'reply,' Do seek to undermine my destiny! Chad, the Gym Bro! Brittany, the Baddie! Ay, They sow these seeds of doubt, beneath my sky Of rising fame! They fear my destined rise! My 'Main Character' status in their envious eyes! The Algorithm, it doth serve their spite, To hide my 'reach,' and quench my dawning light! But I shall not be swayed! My purpose true, Shall 'clap back' at these naysayers, bold and new! For in this war of 'clout,' and bitter strife, A ruler's hand must sacrifice a life! (He snatches up his device, scrolling rapidly, a dark, calculating glint in his eye.) Not life of flesh, but 'digital repute'! A subtle 'cancel,' borne of bitter fruit! The 'thirst traps' they command, I shall expose! Their 'unpaid ads,' their 'shadow-banning' shows! And if to rise, I must their 'metrics' slay, Then so be it! The 'prophecy' shall have its way! For now I see the path, both dark and grand: To crush my rivals, with a digital hand!

PART THREE: THE CRINGE OF A CROWNED KING

SCENE I. The same chamber, transformed. It is now bedecked with gaudy, mismatched 'aesthetic' props: a velvet drape, a faux-vintage gramophone, an oversized plastic sword. Ring-lights blaze, almost blinding. Lysander is clad in an absurd, 'cottagecore' meets 'streetwear' ensemble, attempting a regal pose.

LYSANDER: (Addressing his device, set for a 'LIVE' broadcast, his voice now a forced, overly-deep baritone) Hail, loyal subjects of the 'For You Page'! Behold your King, who turns a troubled page! The 'metrics' rise, the 'engagement' doth extend, As false pretenders meet their bitter end! Chad, the Gym Bro, with his performative flex, Did seek to 'ratio' my humble texts! But I, with cunning 'deepfake,' subtly wrought, Did show his 'gains' were by false means begot! His 'brand deals' withered, like a fading 'trend,' His 'clout' did plummet, till it met its end! (He gestures with the plastic sword, narrowly missing a fragile vase.)

LYSANDER: And Brittany, the Baddie, with her 'lip-sync' plight, Whose 'filters' hid the darkness of her light! I 'exposed' her 'scams,' her 'unpaid ads' laid bare, Her very 'rizz' now filled with bitter air! Her 'comments' now a wasteland, bleak and grim, Her 'likes' but ghosts, upon a distant limb! The 'algorithm,' once a foe to me, Now serves my will, and bows upon its knee! For I have learned its secrets, dark and deep, While lesser 'influencers' did sleep! I bought the 'bots,' I faked the 'viral sound,' To seize the crown upon this digital ground! The 'prophecy' fulfilled, my reign begun! A 'Main Character' for all beneath the sun! (He beams, striking a pose, holding his breath for the anticipated wave of adulation. The comment section of his live stream begins to fill, but not with praise.)

SCENE II. The comments section of Lysander's live stream, scrolling rapidly and ominously.

USER1776_NOFILTER: LOL. His filter broke.

ANONYMOUS_RATIO: Wait, Lysander, you literally just deepfaked your own face.

C_R_I_N_G_E_LORD: He admits to bots? #CancelLysander #Hypocrite

HORATIO (in the chat): Alas, the chickens come home to roost.

SCENE III. The chamber. The air crackles with unseen digital distortion. Lysander's face, on the live stream, begins to flicker.

LYSANDER: (His smile falters as he glances at the comments, then back at his reflection in the phone. His 'aesthetic' filter, previously perfect, begins to warp. His eyes stretch, his mouth contorts into an unnatural grin, pixels dance across his features.) What fresh hell is this? My 'filter' doth betray! A 'glitch'? A 'bug'? My perfect visage, pray, Return to form! My 'image' must be pure! (He frantically taps the screen, but the distortion worsens. His face becomes a grotesque, pixelated cubist nightmare, half-formed, half-destroyed, frozen in an eternal scream. His voice, too, begins to glitch, sounding like a skipping record.)

LYSANDER: (Voice distorted, like a broken robot) N-n-n-no! Th-th-th-this can-can-cannot be! My-my-my... My f-f-f-face! My-my 'p-p-persona!' Th-th-they s-s-s-see!

(Suddenly, a new video, clearer than the one in Part One, hijacks his live stream. It is the three figures, not shadowy or mystical, but three utterly bored, gangly teenage boys in a cluttered garage, cheap voice changer in hand, recorded on a cracked smartphone. They are eating stale chips.)

BOY 1 (through a cheap voice changer, sounding slightly bored): Yo, so, like, that 'Cottagecore' dude actually believed us?

BOY 2 (munching loudly): Yeah, we just, like, DM'd a bunch of randoms. It was for a 'prank vlog' we never finished.

BOY 3 (adjusting the voice changer, now clearer): All hail, Lysander! Thou shalt be 'Main Character' of all! LOL! Dude, he was like, so cringe. We just picked random phrases, no cap. His profile was, like, right there. So easy.

(The video of the three boys loops, playing over Lysander's grotesquely glitching face on the live stream. The comments section explodes with: "THE PROPHECY WAS A PRANK?!" "OMG HE BELIEVED IT!" "THIS IS SO CRINGE I'M DEAD" "LMAO LYSANDER'S FACE THO." Lysander lets out a strangled, distorted cry.)

LYSANDER: (His voice a mangled, digitized shriek) A pr-pr-prank? My-my-my destiny... a-a-a lie? My-my-my 'clout,' my-my-my 'influence' did die For-for-for this? Th-th-this base, this-this-this 'cap' most foul! My-my-my 'aesthetic' shattered! My-my soul doth howl! (He clutches his now horrifying, permanently glitched face, as reflected in the phone. The device emits a final, high-pitched whine, then the screen goes completely black. The ring-lights flicker once, then extinguish, plunging the chamber into darkness.)

Silence. A single, tinny notification sound echoes from the dark: "Your account has been deleted due to multiple community guideline violations."

BLACKOUT.

Thank you!

Prompting Culture

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