SPLIT YOUR TONGUE

Some cunts live for the glow of the screen, the vibration of the notification, the moment their words spark a digital wildfire. Day after day, they wage their wars on Twitter timelines and Reddit threads, throwing opinions into the void and waiting for the applause. Or the backlash. It doesn’t matter which. The reaction is the reward, the fuel for their endless campaigns of outrage and validation.

Each faction has its ringleaders, self-appointed generals in battles that never end. They rally their followers, whipping them into frenzies over the latest manufactured conflict. The left. The right. The deaf. The dumb. They are all fighting, endlessly, for dominance in a war no one can win.

One post is never enough. Neither is two nor ten, nor a fucking thousand. Social media feeds overflow with shit-stirred opinions, each one thrown at the virtual wall in the hope that something, anything, sticks. They’re not interested in building connections; it’s battlegrounds they want. And every time the flame war dies down, they start another, desperate to keep the noise alive.

The ringleaders feed off their followers’ loyalty, turning their rage into a commodity They bark orders and opinions into the void, not noticing—or caring—that their army is made of shadows. Half the followers are bots, the other half lurk in silence, scrolling past without a second thought.

The louder they scream, the emptier it all feels. They spend their days crafting posts designed to provoke, their nights scrolling for fresh enemies to fight and upset. The hours blur together in a haze of likes, shares, and comments, none of it real, all of it consuming.

And when the screen goes dark, when the wifi cuts out, what’s left? Certainly not a fucking victory. Just silence. A silence they’ll not be able to bear, because it reminds them that none of this matters. Their followers won’t remember them. Their enemies won’t care. The words they’ve typed will disappear into the endless scroll, buried by tomorrow’s drama.

But for all of their short term impact and grief caused, it’s not the loud ones who are dangerous. It’s the quiet ones. The lurkers. The people who sit in the shadows, watching, reading, absorbing. They don’t need likes or retweets. They don’t join the fray. They’re the ones who wait. They wait for the noise to die down, for the chaos to eat itself alive.

Because when the factions burn out and the ringleaders fade into obscurity, it won’t be the loud who inherit the earth. It will be the ones who said nothing at all.

Their name is Kenneth Underground.