Doxxed

Twenty five years ago. I was somewhat popular, so they loathed me. I was doxxed, so they came. They loitered around my driveway, harassed me each morning as I left for the station. They looked to be stopping by, on their way to someplace other than my shitty house. Perhaps Uni, judging by the backpacks and desperate beards.
“Are you a Nazi?” the alpha-beta would ask.
“Fuck off,” I told them. The attention felt good. “Leave me alone.”
“Are you a Nazi, though?”
He wore his greasy hair in a manbun high above that long, mouse-like face of his. Sometimes his buddies came without him, but then they were silent. Yeah – they needed this blonde-maned babyface in order to confront their supposed Nazi.
They never followed me, mind; just came by as though my house was some fucking skate park. Didn’t wear masks or anything, like they do when harassing other content creators – high profile content creators. I was offended, quite ironically. Blondie would say hardly a thing, other than:
“Are you a Nazi?”
And, “Are you a Nazi, though?”
Richard Spencer got punched, for fuck’s sake. Do you know what I’d have given for someone to punch me? Do you know how exponentially your viewership would climb, in those days, if one of these pricks would punch you? But no – the limp-dicked loiterers just fucking stood there. My videos got more and more inflammatory, more and more edgy. Revisionism, identitarianism; things like that. And yet, these limp-dicks just stood there, smiling like fucking mongoloids.
“Are you a Nazi?”
I wish I was a fucking Nazi. Look, I knew I’d never have pewdiepie-success, mainstream-success. I knew I'd never have Sargon-success, niche success. But maybe if I had been a Nazi, then these antifa pricks would have attacked me. Maybe if I had been a Nazi, then I wouldn’t have had to do what I did.
So, I set up those security cameras.
I had each one streaming to both my computer and to the supplier who had provided the cameras. They would hold the footage for a week, I was told. Expensive, actually. Anyway, it happened the first night after those cameras went up. I set my plan into motion, donned over my head a black cloth to mask my identity. I borrowed from some SJW I met on the internet one of those antifa flags – one so small as to allow my wrapping it around a brick whilst preserving the ballistic quality necessary to shatter my livingroom window. Had to drive all the way into London to get it. Told him – Norman, I think his name was - that it was for activism.
I left my house that night, anyway, and wandered into plain view of the cameras. I had to leave through the backdoor, mind, so as to contrive the appearance of my intruding from behind. The brick was heavy. I was fucking thrilled, honestly. I love breaking things.
But guess who I saw?
Babyface. Yes, babyface was approaching my home, and in his hand he carried his very own brick. He was slow, timid – but he was coming for me. I was flattered, so happy. Honestly. But do you know what? Babyface, the man-bunned nemesis of my somewhat-popular persona online, wore no attire. The world would not presume he was antifa – hell, perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he was a lone limp-dick, harassing me on his own volition.
However, the world would presume, would know, that I was antifa. Yes, of course it would. So, you know what I did? I crouched low to the ground, left the side of my house and approached him – all sneaky like – revealing myself through the gaps in my picket face only once I had gathered pace. I was in full sprint, committed when I launched that brick unto babyface – his long forehead caved and split like cheap cardboard, and he fell.
What did I do then?
I retrieved my brick, launched it clean through my own window and then fled towards the end of my street. Success. I had fucking nailed it, I thought. This was going to be massive. I imagined the headline:
Antifa mistakes owner of property, attacks bystander.
Christ, would have been easier to have just been a Nazi. So firstly, I had killed the man – cut him down in his youth, the courts would tell me. Yes, they found me out, imprisoned me for this. Because secondly – and I noticed this only once I had returned home to edit the security footage – I had picked up rather an inconvenient blooper. This blooper, of course, was streamed directly to the security company that early afternoon. They would thus hand it over to the police. This blooper, for fuck’s sake, starred me, leaving my car with that gay little antifa flag in hand.
Why didn’t he just punch me?