Horrorcow Trotchky / Kyle Bern / Grace London Sedgewick - Connor on drugs

[Flowers For Sonichu]

Came across this guy's youtube and short stories blog and I think he has real lolcow potential.

Trotchky (power word: Kyle Bern) is a self-professed voice of his generation who sees himself as a renowned author and poet. In reality, he's an autistic college dropout wannabe tranny junkie edgelord who self-published a couple novels with his parent's money. He's taken to making youtube videos where he goes on long rants while under the influence of various drugs and writing extremely creepy short stories on his blogspot. He seems to think of himself as being the next David Foster Wallace/Bret Easton Ellis/William Burroughs/Jack Kerouac, and a wise voice. His work and videos seem to tell a different story.

Blogspot: http://trotchkys.blogspot.com/

Here are some of his choice short stories:

John, 18, and his girlfriend decided to kill a cop. Munching soggy pizza during lunch he pointed a finger at Jalenne and said, "So, after school. You still down for it?" She did a weird thing with her face and said I guess. That was all he needed to hear.
Finding a cop to kill wasn't hard. They both agreed parking cops would be the easiest to kidnap and torture. Sipping Coke in the Civic's passenger seat, she asked what the plan was. "Oh, no plan." responded John with a grin. "We just do it."

"Tell me the story again." "What?" "Tell it to me again." They're idling in a parking lot, watching a cop give out tickets. "Jesus Christ, John, why?" "I want to hear it." Her face does that weird thing again and then she says "I was raped." "By?" "By a cop." "Where?" "You know where." "Just say it." "In jail."

John grins like a banshee. "That's what I thought." He shifts the car into drive tears over to where the cop is standing. The cop looks at the car, trying to mask his confusion with an air of authority. That vanishes when John pulls out the gun. Then there's just fear.

He fires two bullets out the driver's side door. One hits the cop in the chest. He leaps out, drags the wounded body to his side of the car, and smashes the head in the car door. Other than the rattle of ice in Coke, Jalenne is silent. Why wouldn't she be?

It starts in a basement. Mold green paint chips off the walls all over the fucking place. A pair of feet enter the frame, which is to say a doorway, and a cat enters from off-screen to rub against the feet and then meow and walk away.

“Can I gag you with a fork?” He grins like the Joker. Just lying there, squinting up at him through cat litter and tears, you can feel your cock stiffening. You try not to let this distract you by shutting your eyes tight, stuffing your hands over your ears, and shouting for someone to help. He walks over and slaps you.

“Are you fucking nuts? This has always been about both of us! And what if someone actually did hear your insane cries for help, what then? To find you here, drugged and covered in my dried shit and cum, cat turds smeared all over you, litter sprinkled on top like a peanut covered Sundae...yes it's beautiful, we both know that, but they would never understand. Aren't I right, Kevy?”

Kevy doesn't, maybe can't, respond, just nods his head and smears cat litter across his lips.

“That's a good boy.”

Kneeling like a frog, he pats Kevy on the head.

Standing, “Right. So. Let's get the fun underway, shall we?”

A cat meows and brushes against a leg.

***

It's shot in a medium reversal of him dragging Kevy's body across the work bench.

“Murphmydjj...I...mmlove you,” Kevy mumbles through the fresh cat shit that's been stuffed in his mouth.

Brushing tools to the sides of the table in a clamorous swoop, he cackles and says, “I know you do, Kevy. That's why we trust each other for this.”

He hoists Kevy's naked body, which is covered with multiple species' shit, ejaculate, piss, and vomit, onto the table, then pulls Kevy back down, so half of Kevy's body is hanging off, limp but feet kicking in merriment or desperation, he couldn't say if he cared.

Then he gets really close to Kevy's face. Kevy sees his angelic blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair and thinks he looks as close to God, aka Kurt Cobain, as anyone ever could. Staring into the face of an angel, Kevy feels cold hands around his face that register as warm, and he lifts Kevy's head into position on the edge of the table.

To picture the position, picture what people sometimes call “curbstomping.” Now picture the exact opposite of that.

Kevy's face is bent back, with the top of his jaw nailed to the top of the table and the bottom of his jaw is stretched way open, showing his no tonsils all the way down the tube of his throat. It's nailed to the side of the table.

You feel this as the first day you got braces as a kid, how much that hurt. You feel this as little crucifixions all up and down your rows of teeth. You feel this as your neck about to snap.

Then he picks up the fork. He walks over to you with it slowly at first, doing a little dance like in Reservoir Dogs. You try speaking, but this just causes your tongue to freak out in all directions and, not wanting to die yet, you stop.

The first mark comes suddenly. He lunges at you unexpectedly and reaches deep, deep down inside your throat. He stabs the fork into your distended throat without restraint and you throw up blood and bile all over his hand. You taste blood and things you've never tasted before. It tastes like the blood coming from the puncture wound in your throat is flowing upwards.

And it is a puncture wound: you can feel, hear, air whistling in and out of your throat and you know he's broken through. Over the next hour he takes his time battering your throat, making holes in it, playing with your endless blood and vomit, until there just seems to be endless blood.

A cat meows and brushes against a leg.

“Hey aren't you Bill Frasier?”

It's a gray 7-11 at nobody knows what time. Gray. Flicking fluorescent lights give the place a slowed down strobe effect. Gray everywhere. Bill Frasier pictures the gray as crude and all-encompassing, like he's a victim in a poorly shot snuff film.

Outside, a naked body is sprawled on the hood of a car, split open from neck to vagina. The ribs have been snapped into pieces and most of what was once housed inside is gone. The flesh on the outside of the gash that used to be a woman's body has been nailed hastily to the hood of the car, the tops of nails bashed in at weird angles.

A man whistles and walks past, fumbling for a Camel Light.

Bill Frasier stands at a 7-11 counter trying to open a candy bar. When he hears the voice behind him he starts, then focuses his attention back on the candy bar.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Hey, yeah, Billy! Remember me, Robbie Schwanker?”

Bill looks down, fumbling with his candy bar wrapper, avoiding eye contact, trapped at the convenient store counter.

“Uh, yeah, Robbie. Hi.” Pause. “How have you been?”

“Oh, you know, you know. I'm a regional manager over at Pep Boys now!”

“That's great, Robbie,” Bill says, sounding dead inside.

“Yeah...Jesus, man, I haven't seen you since Senior year! What have you been up to?"

Bill stops twisting the wrapper, looks at Robbie's gray eyes, eyes that thankfully recall to Bill no memory of who this person was, and he says, “Nothing. I haven't been up to anything.”

Bill dimly realizes that he has Robbie at a loss but he couldn't care less about this faux pas. Robbie tries a different tactic.

“So, what about Jeanie Blew? I remember you two having a real heavy thing going. Man, what happened? Everyone thought you guys were going to get married!”

“We did,” says Bill, and the look on his face prompts an “I'm sorry” from Robbie.

“Don't be,” says Bill, his voice now perking up, him starting to eat his candy bar. “It was just one of those things.”

“Didn't work out?”

“Nope.” Bill tosses a square of the chocolate into his mouth and masticates loudly.

There's a pause, and then Robbie lowers his voice to say, “So I guess you got divorced?”

“Oh no,” Bill says, appearing totally at ease now, pushing the last of the candy bar into his mouth.

“No?”

“Nope. I killed her.”

In my mind Macaulay Culkin's asshole is a prim pink bunny's nose, but in reality it's torn up, like my own, probably from years of hardcore drugs and sex. Macaulay Culkin's asshole is the first thing I see on my computer every morning, and sometimes I get so hard, I don't even need Viagra. I need the Viagra in the first place because I'm a heroin addict and I can't get erect.

Anyway, it was a typical day--me jerking off to Macaulay Culkin's asshole--when Todd Parker pulled up. "Todd Parker is a guy you're perpetually wary off but his coolness hypnotizes you because you want to fuck him and you want to be him," I scribbled in a notebook.

Knock, knock, knock.

Creeeeak. The door aches open to reveal Todd Parker. With a mini high top, leather jacket, tight red tshirt, and leather pants, and he looks like a porno actor from the 1970s. Todd sloshes around the gum he's chewing and he stares at me while I stare at the ground.

"So," Todd finally says. "Are you going to tell me the punchline or what?"

"Todd, I don't know the punchline," I whisper. "Just go away man." My voice barely rises above a hoarse rasp as I struggle to shut the door, but somehow Todd is overpowering me. He's pushing his way into my house. Somehow, he's moving the prison cell tight door over me, on top of me. Finally I can't resist, and Todd barges in.

"What's the punchline," Todd demands, and I say I don't know.

The grin Todd aims at me is made of ash. He walks over to me, puts me in a headlock, and rubs his knuckles into my hair.

"Get away," I squeal, and Todd actually lets go of me. I stand up, brush myself off, and look Todd in the eye. "What?" I say, daring him.

Todd sighs a fake sigh. "Oh," and then he speaks my name. "You don't want to talk to me like that. You really do not want to talk to me like that."

From his back pocket, Todd removes a small golden handle--a switchblade, which he wavves at my face before laughing.

"I'm just fucking with you," Todd says. Pause. "But...you do know what you have to do, right? That is, unless you're going to tell me the punchline."

"Todd, man, I told you, I don't know the punchline. I don't know the punchline. I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know the punchline."

"Well then drop those drawers, lover boy, because daddy's come for what's his--" Todd looks over at my computer screen. "Is that Macaulay Culkin's asshole?"

He's recently taken to making videos on youtube while strung out on drugs. He makes literally dozens a day: https://www.youtube.com/user/trotchky/videos

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/trotchky/
Post on Wrongplanet: https://wrongplanet.net/forums/viewtopic.php?t=231407
Medium: https://medium.com/@trotchky
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Kyle-Bern/e/B00JCUM804
Vine: https://vine.co/u/958125853546618880

He posts as both trotchky and trotchkys and is even autistic to use the same name in porno accounts. His youtube is a potential goldmine, but he seems to have been using this name for years.

His teeth and the way he talks is reminiscent of Nick Bate, but his videos definitely have a Taxman feel to them.

 

[Hat]

What a productive member of society.

 

[Chris did nothing wrong]

This man is the future of literature...

 

[HickoryDickory]

His cat is so chill.

He also appears to have his own Carrie Law... I like how he just zones out to eat candy.

 

[EI 903]

He seems to think of himself as being the next David Foster Wallace/Bret Easton Ellis/William Burroughs/Jack Kerouac

Truly the path to happiness.

 

[Slurms McCorgi]

his videos definitely have a Taxman feel to them.

Two maladjusted drug addict vloggers named Kyle...what are the chances?

 

[Aquinas]

I dont think 'faces of meth' commercials are grounds for being lolcows

 

[nude tayne]

a self-professed voice of his generation who sees himself as a voice of his generation

you don't say

 

[Flowers For Sonichu]

you don't say

heh, whoops. I suck at lolcow OPs but this guy is too good to pass up

 

[NumberingYourState]

He really pulls off the well

 

[Asandy31]

Reasons not to leave house:
Bad Weather...............

Morbid Obesity...........

Terrorism, Invasion of illegal aliens or extra terrestrials.............

Autism........................X

Score for the transgender movement, no dysphoria required, you don't even have to claim to be a woman because you like barbie dolls or the color pink anymore.

 

[Flowers For Sonichu]

tl;dr he was born in manhattan and he's 25

Good find, OP.

Try digging further than the 4th or 5th post

 

[UselessRubberKeyboard]

Try digging further than the 4th or 5th post

View attachment 72830

AKA trying to be J G Ballard and failing horribly.

 

[glass_houses]

AKA trying to be J G Ballard and failing horribly.

I'm actually thinking more like Annette LaPointe or Steven Sherrill, at least in comparison to style. Difference being that both of them can pull the stream of consciousness thing off pretty decently, and tell stories that have something to say. Trotchky comes across very much like a thirteen year old dipping their feet into fanfiction for the first time. Needless to say, thirteen year olds have an excuse for how badly they're writing. Trotchky doesn't. There's no flow, no decent imagery, and the prose stutters like a bad tv connection. If he tried a plain style he'd possibly read decently. The thing with people deliberately trying to force a certain style is that they're usually unsuccessful. They end up sounding like they're trying to copy random pieces out of other authors' books. Style is something that grows, not appears.

 

[Flowers For Sonichu]

I'm actually thinking more like Annette LaPointe or Steven Sherrill, at least in comparison to style. Difference being that both of them can pull the stream of consciousness thing off pretty decently, and tell stories that have something to say. Trotchky comes across very much like a thirteen year old dipping their feet into fanfiction for the first time. Needless to say, thirteen year olds have an excuse for how badly they're writing. Trotchky doesn't. There's no flow, no decent imagery, and the prose stutters like a bad tv connection. If he tried a plain style he'd possibly read decently. The thing with people deliberately trying to force a certain style is that they're usually unsuccessful. They end up sounding like they're trying to copy random pieces out of other authors' books. Style is something that grows, not appears.

From what I can tell, he went to college to become a writer and flunked out. He's had training so he has no excuses.

 

[Flowers For Sonichu]

YAY CAPITALISM HAS BEEN DEFEATED BY SHOOTING UP HEROIN IN YOUR MOM'S HOUSE

 

[nude tayne]

looks like the patriarchal-oppressive socioeconomic superstructure is crashing into slumber via IV drugs

you guys obviously do not understand metaphor

 

[For The Internet]

Are you sure he isn't trolling?

I can't believe anyone could be that bad at writing without being either a particularly untalented 12-year-old on wattpad, mentally challenged, or trolling.

 

[anephric]

Are you sure he isn't trolling?

I can't believe anyone could be that bad at writing without being either a particularly untalented 12-year-old on wattpad, mentally challenged, or trolling.

I don't know, both of my college "creative writing" class was littered with these types.

"I will write like my favorite edgy author to help bring about the revolution that benefits me personally and directly so I may be seen as a wise soothsayer of my generation and so I can eat Cheetos on my parent's couch and make money automagically."

 

[Flowers For Sonichu]

NEW VIDS

OW THE EDGE!

So not only is he autistic but also schizotypal

DIE CIS SCUM

Well, I didn't flunk out of college and have never done heroin so I'm pretty sure I'm smarter.