Week 9: Edgelord
Sep. 11th, 2025 03:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inkstainedfingertips“Gays didn’t feel the need to rub their lifestyle in our faces for generations and life for everybody was just fine,” I say. “All I’m saying is, for the sake of the country, they should go back to the closet. Don’t ask, don’t tell and all that shit.”
“Why are you so mean?
“Mean? I’m not mean. I’m just telling you the truth,” I say with a dry chuckle. “The question you should be asking yourself is why you’re so goddamn soft? Why you’re so goddamn offended by somebody who’s unafraid to speak the truth.”
“This isn’t truth. This is just homophobia. Hate speech—”
“You’re gay, aren’t you? You like the dick, huh?”
The caller rambles on but frankly, I’m not listening. I never do. My eyes hidden behind my aviator shades, I glance at the monitor in front of me and smirk. The counter in the corner of the screen rises as more people log in to watch the show. I’ve got thousands upon thousands of eyes on me. It’s my biggest audience yet.
Half of them watch my podcast because they agree with what I’m saying. The other half watch because what I say pisses them off. Rage viewing, I believe the kids today call it. And once I have them in a good lather, they run off to talk about what an unrepentant asshole I am on their blogs or their own podcasts.
What these knuckle-draggers don’t seem to understand is that as that view-counter continues to spin like a goddamn slot machine in Vegas, they’re putting money in my pocket. Rage farming, which is my self-proclaimed job title, pays the bills nicely. Other people’s outrage has paid for this nice, state of the art home studio I broadcast from. I’m making a hell of a lot more doing this than I ever did in my first career.
“All right, that’s enough of your whining,” I say, disconnecting the call.
I sit back in my chair and shake my head, conscious of the camera on me and wanting to make sure I give a good performance. I pull the microphone arm toward me.
“See, folks, this is the problem with this country today. People like that guy. Truth is simple truth. It doesn’t have a political agenda, and it isn’t looking to hurt your feelings. It’s just… truth,” I say. “If you take truth personally or call those of us who are unafraid to speak it monsters or big, fat meanieheads, maybe you should look in the mirror and ask what the fuck happened to you? When did you get so soft? And why are your tender little feelers more important than speaking the truth?”
I grab my coffee mug, making sure the large middle finger is facing the camera, and take a swallow, letting my words linger.
“I submit that if you think your feelings are more important than truth, then you’re the problem,” I say. “If you’re really that fucking sensitive, you should probably just remove yourself from the world because let me tell you… this world is a cold fucking place that doesn’t give a shit about your tender little feelers. You’re too fucking soft to survive, so maybe you should go out to the desert and eat a bullet.”
And that is a blunt truth. The world is cold. The world doesn’t give a shit about you. That’s a lesson I’ve learned many times in my life. Straight out of college, I landed a job at my favorite radio station and worked my way up from the mail room to the research room, to on-air talent. And for twenty-five years, I was known as the “King of Yacht Rock.” It was great. I was living the fucking dream, man.
But then the internet and satellite radio destroyed the business and with it, my career. And after a quarter century at the mic, I was tossed out on the street with a pat on the back and a good luck. I didn’t even get the gold fucking watch. What I did get was a future filled with uncertainty and no idea how I was going to pay the bills. And that’s when I found my way to podcasting and began my nightly show.
“Okay,” I say and connect the next call. “Reggie, you’re on the Edge, talk to me.”
“Yeah, last week you said you didn’t believe women and minorities should be allowed to vote,” Reggie says hotly. “That’s the stupidest, most ignorant, and un-American thing you’ve ever said… and you’ve said some really stupid shit over the years.”
“What’s un-American about it?” I ask. “This country was founded by white men. When they drafted the original Constitution and laws that govern this land, women and minorities were not allowed to vote. And this country was better for it.”
“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Women and minorities have contributed more to this country—”
“They’ve contributed nothing more than division, racism, and a feminization of this country,” I cut him off. “America was truly a great nation when men were allowed to be men and not whatever they decided to identify as on any given day, and when everybody knew their place.”
“You’re a fucking pig—”
“I’ve been called worse by better. You’re going to need to be a little more original if you want to share my airwaves, buddy,” I laugh and disconnect the call. “Time for a break. I’ll be back on the other side of these commercials.”
As the ads play, the view counter on my monitor continues to spin as people continue to tune in and I laugh to myself. People are so fucking gullible. It took me a while to find my footing in the podcasting sphere. In those early days of my show, I was pretty focused on politics—on policy mostly. It was dry and boring. And I never had more than a dozen viewers at any one time. It was awful and I almost gave up.
But one night, as I was sitting on the couch watching one of those political panel programs where everybody just shouts over each other, I had an epiphany. Whoever said sex sells was right. Sex does sell. But hate and division sell far more than sex could ever dream of. It was that night, I scrapped my old shows and rebranded my whole format.
Selling hate is a cottage industry and I’ve made more in these last few years than I ever did as the King of Yacht Rock. My persona is the love child of Howard Stern and Bill O’Reilly—I am the Edge. My persona is aggressive. Brash. I’m raw, unfiltered, and I say the most outrageous things. In fact, the more outlandish and offensive my stance on an issue, the more people engage—some to praise me, others to demonize me.
I steer away from policy, or from anything substantive, frankly, and find the hot button social issues of the day—guns, gays, women, transgendered people—and put my thumb on it. Hard. It drives people out of their ever-loving fucking minds. And when my views begin to dip, all I have to do is say something even more outrageous and that number spins right back up.
I’ve been threatened. People have gotten in my face when I go out in public. People go out of their way to call my show to tell me what a horrible human being I am. They say they’ll never watch my show again. And yet, the number of my monthly subscribers continues to grow. I feel like I tapped into a vein of pure gold. People want to be angry. They want to be offended. I'm just making a living giving them what they want.
“Okay, because I’m a glutton for punishment, we’re going to take one more call tonight,” I say. “Gina, you’re on the Edge. What’s up?”
“I called you a couple of weeks ago—”
“Sorry, sweetheart, I can’t remember every chick I talk to. What did we talk about?”
Her voice is small. Soft. “I told you I was having trouble and that I was in crisis. My wife had just left me, and I had never felt so alone—”
“And you thought calling me would help?” I say mockingly. “Okay, so what did I say?”
“You told me I should kill myself.”
“Well, you obviously didn’t take my advice,” I say with a chuckle. “So, what do you want this time? Do you need some suggestions on the best ways to off yourself?”
“I want—”
“Do you want to go out with a bang? Are you looking to make a statement? Or do you want it to be painless and unremarkable?” I press. “Personally, I think if you’re going to do this because of some chick, you should go out in a blaze of glory this broad will never be able to forget. But tell you what, let’s put it to the crowd. Everybody, call in with your best ideas for how Gina here should shuffle off her mortal coil.”
“I’m not going to kill myself.”
“Well, that makes this call a lot less interesting,” I say. “So, if you’re not going to off yourself, what do you want?”
“I want you to stop being an asshole. I want you to stop spreading hate. I want you to try being kind.”
“I’m a truth teller, sweetheart. If you think I’m being an asshole, that’s on you,” I tell her. “Maybe you should try growing a pair, huh?”
“One of these days, you’re going to piss off the wrong person.”
“Oh, is that a threat, Gina? I’m so scared. Really, I’m shaking. In fact, I might have just pissed myself in fear,” I reply with a laugh. “Let’s be honest here, Gina, because that’s what I am—honest. You’re not going to do shit. You sit on the other end of your phone making threats, but you’ll never do anything because you’re weak. You’re pathetic. So, take your dyke ass off my line and go do something useful with your life. Like ending it.”
“Peddling hate the way you do has consequences.”
“You know what has consequences, sweetheart? Being a soft little snowflake,” I tell her. “This world is obviously too difficult for a fragile little thing like you. Frankly, I don’t blame your wife for leaving. I wouldn’t be able to stand living with somebody as soft as you. You’re pathetic, Gina. A loser. Seriously, do us all a favor and go drive off a bridge, would you?”
I punch the button to disconnect the call and glance at the monitor, watching the view counter continue to spin, counting every dollar as it does, and fight the urge to laugh. People really are gullible as hell. I don’t believe ninety-nine percent of what I’m saying, but the simple act of saying it is profitable as fuck. Like I said, hate and division sell.
Don’t blame me. Blame the people who are thirsty for this shit. It’s a position my husband—ex-husband now—couldn’t get on board with. He thinks my persona is disgusting. That what I’m doing is reprehensible. He called it exploitative. He didn’t understand that this is all just performance art. That this is what sells today. It’s a job and I’m simply playing a role.
“Pathetic,” I say into the microphone. “Let me say this: feel free to threaten me all you want. Just know if you come at me, I’m a proud supporter of our Second Amendment.”
I’m not. I don’t like guns at all. If there’s a blight on our country, it’s the unfettered access to guns people in this country have. But the Edge is a gun lover, so…
“If you come at me, you better have some serious firepower because I sure as shit do. And if you take a shot, you best not miss because I won’t. You feel me?” I say ominously. “Let’s take a break and I’ll come back with my final thoughts for the night.”
I hit the button to play the ads and glance at the monitor as I’m about to pause the camera feed. In the feed, I see the door to my studio opening behind me and feel a white-hot flood of adrenaline shoot through my veins. I spin around in my chair as a woman, short and petite, steps in. Her dark eyes are red and swollen as if she’s been crying but are narrow with a burning rage. But my gaze is fixed on the gun she’s holding at her side. I know who this is without her saying a word.
“G—Gina?”
“Consequences,” she says.
I hold my hand up. “Wait. You don’t understand. This is all an act—”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not going to miss.”
As I lay on the floor, blood pouring from the wound in my chest, the view counter on my monitor continues to spin. The audience for my final show is at an all-time high.
“Why are you so mean?
“Mean? I’m not mean. I’m just telling you the truth,” I say with a dry chuckle. “The question you should be asking yourself is why you’re so goddamn soft? Why you’re so goddamn offended by somebody who’s unafraid to speak the truth.”
“This isn’t truth. This is just homophobia. Hate speech—”
“You’re gay, aren’t you? You like the dick, huh?”
The caller rambles on but frankly, I’m not listening. I never do. My eyes hidden behind my aviator shades, I glance at the monitor in front of me and smirk. The counter in the corner of the screen rises as more people log in to watch the show. I’ve got thousands upon thousands of eyes on me. It’s my biggest audience yet.
Half of them watch my podcast because they agree with what I’m saying. The other half watch because what I say pisses them off. Rage viewing, I believe the kids today call it. And once I have them in a good lather, they run off to talk about what an unrepentant asshole I am on their blogs or their own podcasts.
What these knuckle-draggers don’t seem to understand is that as that view-counter continues to spin like a goddamn slot machine in Vegas, they’re putting money in my pocket. Rage farming, which is my self-proclaimed job title, pays the bills nicely. Other people’s outrage has paid for this nice, state of the art home studio I broadcast from. I’m making a hell of a lot more doing this than I ever did in my first career.
“All right, that’s enough of your whining,” I say, disconnecting the call.
I sit back in my chair and shake my head, conscious of the camera on me and wanting to make sure I give a good performance. I pull the microphone arm toward me.
“See, folks, this is the problem with this country today. People like that guy. Truth is simple truth. It doesn’t have a political agenda, and it isn’t looking to hurt your feelings. It’s just… truth,” I say. “If you take truth personally or call those of us who are unafraid to speak it monsters or big, fat meanieheads, maybe you should look in the mirror and ask what the fuck happened to you? When did you get so soft? And why are your tender little feelers more important than speaking the truth?”
I grab my coffee mug, making sure the large middle finger is facing the camera, and take a swallow, letting my words linger.
“I submit that if you think your feelings are more important than truth, then you’re the problem,” I say. “If you’re really that fucking sensitive, you should probably just remove yourself from the world because let me tell you… this world is a cold fucking place that doesn’t give a shit about your tender little feelers. You’re too fucking soft to survive, so maybe you should go out to the desert and eat a bullet.”
And that is a blunt truth. The world is cold. The world doesn’t give a shit about you. That’s a lesson I’ve learned many times in my life. Straight out of college, I landed a job at my favorite radio station and worked my way up from the mail room to the research room, to on-air talent. And for twenty-five years, I was known as the “King of Yacht Rock.” It was great. I was living the fucking dream, man.
But then the internet and satellite radio destroyed the business and with it, my career. And after a quarter century at the mic, I was tossed out on the street with a pat on the back and a good luck. I didn’t even get the gold fucking watch. What I did get was a future filled with uncertainty and no idea how I was going to pay the bills. And that’s when I found my way to podcasting and began my nightly show.
“Okay,” I say and connect the next call. “Reggie, you’re on the Edge, talk to me.”
“Yeah, last week you said you didn’t believe women and minorities should be allowed to vote,” Reggie says hotly. “That’s the stupidest, most ignorant, and un-American thing you’ve ever said… and you’ve said some really stupid shit over the years.”
“What’s un-American about it?” I ask. “This country was founded by white men. When they drafted the original Constitution and laws that govern this land, women and minorities were not allowed to vote. And this country was better for it.”
“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Women and minorities have contributed more to this country—”
“They’ve contributed nothing more than division, racism, and a feminization of this country,” I cut him off. “America was truly a great nation when men were allowed to be men and not whatever they decided to identify as on any given day, and when everybody knew their place.”
“You’re a fucking pig—”
“I’ve been called worse by better. You’re going to need to be a little more original if you want to share my airwaves, buddy,” I laugh and disconnect the call. “Time for a break. I’ll be back on the other side of these commercials.”
As the ads play, the view counter on my monitor continues to spin as people continue to tune in and I laugh to myself. People are so fucking gullible. It took me a while to find my footing in the podcasting sphere. In those early days of my show, I was pretty focused on politics—on policy mostly. It was dry and boring. And I never had more than a dozen viewers at any one time. It was awful and I almost gave up.
But one night, as I was sitting on the couch watching one of those political panel programs where everybody just shouts over each other, I had an epiphany. Whoever said sex sells was right. Sex does sell. But hate and division sell far more than sex could ever dream of. It was that night, I scrapped my old shows and rebranded my whole format.
Selling hate is a cottage industry and I’ve made more in these last few years than I ever did as the King of Yacht Rock. My persona is the love child of Howard Stern and Bill O’Reilly—I am the Edge. My persona is aggressive. Brash. I’m raw, unfiltered, and I say the most outrageous things. In fact, the more outlandish and offensive my stance on an issue, the more people engage—some to praise me, others to demonize me.
I steer away from policy, or from anything substantive, frankly, and find the hot button social issues of the day—guns, gays, women, transgendered people—and put my thumb on it. Hard. It drives people out of their ever-loving fucking minds. And when my views begin to dip, all I have to do is say something even more outrageous and that number spins right back up.
I’ve been threatened. People have gotten in my face when I go out in public. People go out of their way to call my show to tell me what a horrible human being I am. They say they’ll never watch my show again. And yet, the number of my monthly subscribers continues to grow. I feel like I tapped into a vein of pure gold. People want to be angry. They want to be offended. I'm just making a living giving them what they want.
“Okay, because I’m a glutton for punishment, we’re going to take one more call tonight,” I say. “Gina, you’re on the Edge. What’s up?”
“I called you a couple of weeks ago—”
“Sorry, sweetheart, I can’t remember every chick I talk to. What did we talk about?”
Her voice is small. Soft. “I told you I was having trouble and that I was in crisis. My wife had just left me, and I had never felt so alone—”
“And you thought calling me would help?” I say mockingly. “Okay, so what did I say?”
“You told me I should kill myself.”
“Well, you obviously didn’t take my advice,” I say with a chuckle. “So, what do you want this time? Do you need some suggestions on the best ways to off yourself?”
“I want—”
“Do you want to go out with a bang? Are you looking to make a statement? Or do you want it to be painless and unremarkable?” I press. “Personally, I think if you’re going to do this because of some chick, you should go out in a blaze of glory this broad will never be able to forget. But tell you what, let’s put it to the crowd. Everybody, call in with your best ideas for how Gina here should shuffle off her mortal coil.”
“I’m not going to kill myself.”
“Well, that makes this call a lot less interesting,” I say. “So, if you’re not going to off yourself, what do you want?”
“I want you to stop being an asshole. I want you to stop spreading hate. I want you to try being kind.”
“I’m a truth teller, sweetheart. If you think I’m being an asshole, that’s on you,” I tell her. “Maybe you should try growing a pair, huh?”
“One of these days, you’re going to piss off the wrong person.”
“Oh, is that a threat, Gina? I’m so scared. Really, I’m shaking. In fact, I might have just pissed myself in fear,” I reply with a laugh. “Let’s be honest here, Gina, because that’s what I am—honest. You’re not going to do shit. You sit on the other end of your phone making threats, but you’ll never do anything because you’re weak. You’re pathetic. So, take your dyke ass off my line and go do something useful with your life. Like ending it.”
“Peddling hate the way you do has consequences.”
“You know what has consequences, sweetheart? Being a soft little snowflake,” I tell her. “This world is obviously too difficult for a fragile little thing like you. Frankly, I don’t blame your wife for leaving. I wouldn’t be able to stand living with somebody as soft as you. You’re pathetic, Gina. A loser. Seriously, do us all a favor and go drive off a bridge, would you?”
I punch the button to disconnect the call and glance at the monitor, watching the view counter continue to spin, counting every dollar as it does, and fight the urge to laugh. People really are gullible as hell. I don’t believe ninety-nine percent of what I’m saying, but the simple act of saying it is profitable as fuck. Like I said, hate and division sell.
Don’t blame me. Blame the people who are thirsty for this shit. It’s a position my husband—ex-husband now—couldn’t get on board with. He thinks my persona is disgusting. That what I’m doing is reprehensible. He called it exploitative. He didn’t understand that this is all just performance art. That this is what sells today. It’s a job and I’m simply playing a role.
“Pathetic,” I say into the microphone. “Let me say this: feel free to threaten me all you want. Just know if you come at me, I’m a proud supporter of our Second Amendment.”
I’m not. I don’t like guns at all. If there’s a blight on our country, it’s the unfettered access to guns people in this country have. But the Edge is a gun lover, so…
“If you come at me, you better have some serious firepower because I sure as shit do. And if you take a shot, you best not miss because I won’t. You feel me?” I say ominously. “Let’s take a break and I’ll come back with my final thoughts for the night.”
I hit the button to play the ads and glance at the monitor as I’m about to pause the camera feed. In the feed, I see the door to my studio opening behind me and feel a white-hot flood of adrenaline shoot through my veins. I spin around in my chair as a woman, short and petite, steps in. Her dark eyes are red and swollen as if she’s been crying but are narrow with a burning rage. But my gaze is fixed on the gun she’s holding at her side. I know who this is without her saying a word.
“G—Gina?”
“Consequences,” she says.
I hold my hand up. “Wait. You don’t understand. This is all an act—”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not going to miss.”
As I lay on the floor, blood pouring from the wound in my chest, the view counter on my monitor continues to spin. The audience for my final show is at an all-time high.
no subject
on 2025-09-12 12:05 pm (UTC)Seriously though, this is amazing. Your awesome writing skills plus your wit and intelligence as well as your compassionate nature all made this brilliant!
I love how loathsome the main character is. You've nailed exactly this so well, all of those asshole podcasters are the same person I swear. The whole time I was reading this I was infuriated by him, and when it got to the part where he was telling Gina to go and kill herself I was raging, he's just so realistically written. He reminds me of someone I unfortunately know and she is exactly that way, though in her case it isn't even a persona, it's actually her. The Edge being his nickname was hilarious and perfect to me.
But The Edge can never compete for the star of this, it so totally GINA <3
I love this line so much “Peddling hate the way you do has consequences.”
and then the repetition of "consequences" when she arrives in front of him!
I love so much how she's described as short and soft spoken, someone a guy like this would totally think is an easy target (until it's too late! *evil laughing*
also with her name, I'm headcanoning she's Italian haha)"Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not going to miss.”
an absolute icon. GOOD FOR HER.
I love this piece so much!! Brilliant, as always.
no subject
on 2025-09-12 12:44 pm (UTC)Ha, "The Edge," nice prompt tie in. I thought for sure I was going to bye-out this week.
Good for Gina, although given your type of universe, I sort've wonder whether her next action would be to kick his corpse out of the way, sit down in his chair, and keep the podcast going just like he did. LOL
Dan
no subject
on 2025-09-14 11:49 pm (UTC)I steer away from policy, or from anything substantive
That frequently seems to be the tactic, doesn't it? Why challenge people with real ideas when all you really want is to engage their rage.
I tie this whole trend of ugliness to Rush Limbaugh, who did a lot to destroy this country. And his legacy is still warping the country to this day.
no subject
on 2025-09-15 05:13 pm (UTC)Great job writing it!
no subject
on 2025-09-15 06:18 pm (UTC)hello
on 2025-09-16 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2025-09-16 08:05 pm (UTC)This would explain an awful lot of media.