A stranger on the internet thinks I kidnapped his wife. This man, who I’ll call Stan to keep him anonymous, is a man who needs serious psychological help. Despite everything that’s transpired, I don’t wish him any pain. His own self induced misery seems painful enough.
If there exists some type of help out there that would actually work for him, I hope it finds him soon enough that he can life a relatively normal life.
It all started when I made a bet with my friend Timothy. We had an odd tradition of creating contests out of the most random things.
This time, the challenge was to become the moderator of a relatively active subreddit, and pull the best prank possible. We had actually done this before. I made a pinned post on a subreddit about antiques, claiming it was brownie day and that everyone in the subreddit was only allowed to post pictures of brownies.
The subreddit was now flooded with posts with pictures of brownies, something completely unrelated to the purpose of that subreddit. I thought it was pretty funny, by Timothy outdid me by a landslide.
He modded a subreddit for shoes. His prank was more calculated and creative. While I was quickly banned from the antique subreddit for my prank, Timothy learned the schedules of each moderator that worked with him, and spent time making a ton of alternate accounts.
On these alternate accounts, he made drafts of posts ready to be sent. They depicted pictures of lightning McQueen crocs, spongebob crocs, those odd wooden sandals you only every see in anime, Shrek crocs, tissue boxes being used as shoes, Peter Griffin crocs (a lot of them were crocs) and a whole diverse gallery of god-awful shoes.
He had a script coded to automatically send each of these posts at once, and he chose the best time to do it.
He waited until a specific type of r/AskReddit thread was made, one that would appear without fail at least once every four months or so.
“Reddit, what niche subreddit do you love, that you think deserves more recognition?”
One he saw that one of those were getting traction, and the time came where the least amount of moderators would be online, he went ahead with his plan.
While his accounts spammed the subreddit meant for cool shoes with all kinds of shitty meme-shoes, he made his own comment on the AskReddit thread, advertising this shoe subreddit as a sub for funny meme shoes. He gave his own comment five golds to give it some extra attention.
For a while, he pinned multiple threads that didn’t belong, which helped craft the impression that the sub was completely different from what it was meant for. It only took about twenty minutes for new people to discover the subreddit, and submit their own posts with weird-fucked up shoes. Most of them were pictures of random items like bananas or wine glasses being used as shoes.
The subreddit never recovered. Timothy’s plan was glorious, and it completely overshadowed my mediocre prank.
Me and Timothy both had our fair share of wins and losses during our strange competitions, but I had never lost so thoroughly. About a year later, I proposed that we revisit the idea. Mostly because of how funny it was last time, but also because I wanted a rematch.
To begin the process of our competition, we needed to find a subreddit to become a moderator on. I coded a script that would send my application for modship to hundreds of different people across hundreds of different subreddits at a time.
I wasn’t too surprised about this, but not a single one of my applications were accepted. I guess it made sense that most subreddit owners wouldn’t give power in their subreddit to some random guy who sent a message asking for it.
A week went by, and I had completely forgotten about it. This competition took a while for us to get started with last time, so I expected it to go the same on my end once again…. At least until one morning when I would receive a message that would change the trajectory of my life in ways I never imagined.
My application was accepted. By somebody, I don’t know who, but it was accepted. I crossed my fingers as I checked to see which subreddit I was now a mod of, hoping it was something with an active community, and plenty of potential for top tier shenanigans.
It was r/pokeporn. Pokeporn? Like, pictures of pokebowls? That just so happened to be one of my favorite foods. I think I can work with this. Let’s see what kinda tasty treats we have i- OH MY GOD IS SHE FUCKING A PALKIA.
The subreddit name was pretty self explanatory, just not for the reasons I thought at first. This was one of the most bizarre subs I had ever seen. Who knew that so many people were actively drawing and sharing porn of their favorite pokemon characters?
And yes, unfortunately, the pokemon themselves were featured pretty heavily as well. One post that I regret glancing at even depicted sexual activities with a magnemite. For those of you who aren’t pokemon fans, don’t worry, you don’t need to be to understand this story. Also, if you don’t know what a magnemite is, it’s a pokemon that’s literally just a couple of magnets stuck to an eyeball.
I have no idea how you have sex with one of those, but apparently, a dedicated pokeporn fan was determined to make it work.
I didn’t really want to look at these posts, so I tried my best to do my duties without comprehending anything I looked at as I gained the trust of my fellow pokeporn moderators.
One of my jobs were to filter through new posts, approving ones that had been posted but not made public yet. One of them caught my eye. A text post. Text posts containing meta discussion about the subreddit were technically allowed, but I never saw them. It felt refreshing to see that among a sea of weird furry shit I had to avert my gaze from, so I happily clicked on it to give it a read through and decide if the post was appropriate for the sub. Little did I know, this is where shit would get weird.
The post was titled “A humble request for this subreddit”, and it was posted by none other than Stan, the man who would become convinced that I, me specifically, had kidnapped his wife.
The following is what the post said:
“I know why a lot of you are here, and understand why it’s unlikely you’ll stick around to read this long thread. But I beg of you, please hear me out, as I have something extremely important I wanted to talk to you about.
Firstly, I wanna start this off by saying this is NOT a troll post or some sort of joke. I make these statements in genuine sincerity, and am not doing this for entertainment purposes.
What I’m here to talk about is Cynthia, the champion of the Sinnoh region. It’s no surprise that she’s a fan favorite, and popular even in this subreddit. I can’t say I don’t understand why. Many people have drawn and enjoyed porn depicting this character, but I’m here to humbly request, on her behalf, that you no longer draw, distribute, or consume any more pornagraphic material of this person.
Cynthia, believe it or not, is my wife. Now, I know what you may be thinking, but this is not a kink thing. I am not merely claiming her as my wife while using the term wife loosely, under false pretenses that she is a fictional character. She is not. I have met and interacted with Cynthia face to face, despite her being from a world in which we have limited contact.
Allow me to explain.
Ever since I first played pokemon platinum at age Thirteen, I felt an odd connection to her that I’d never felt with anyone before. I’ve had my fair share of relationships up until that point, but as I’m sure most of you relate, I didn’t know what love was. I was just figuring myself out, making mistakes along the way.
And I still did. I moved on from pokemon platinum to other games, and continued to develop relationships with other people. But something always drew me back to pokemon platinum, and sometimes the diamond and pearl anime. Something more deeply rooted than I initially realized.
After some soul searching, I began confronting these feelings head on, and Cynthia would start to appear in my dreams. Things would get lost in translation, however, as she did originate from a different world and it was hard to stay connected even on a spiritual level.
However, one thing was for certain, and that was the fact that we had a connection.
Cynthia is real on some level, and I don’t know exactly how. Weather the writers of pokemom platinum received a psychic download of some kind and were able to convey her essence as someone who already existed, or the media somehow brought her into existence in the first place, I do not know. The exact mechanism in which she blurs the boundaries between fact and fiction is uncertain.
But there’s one thing I know for sure, and it’s that we are linked. The how doesn’t matter, it’s all about the why. It was fate. You see, over time our connection became stronger. We could communicate more effectively. At first, through dreams. Eventually, in real life.
I had a custom made poster depicting her face. The only one like it on earth. I’ve tried many methods of communicating with it, and the first to work was taking about 700mg of benadryl. Once under its influence, I could see and hear her talking to me through the poster.
This method was not sustainable, however, as the excessive benadryl consumption began taking a toll on my health. But by then we had gotten to know each other so intimately that our connection grew naturally on its own.
In a matter of months, we got to the level where we could simply communicate telepathically. At this point I realized she was the only one I needed. I withdrew from my coworkers, people I used to consider friends, and family members who claimed to love me unconditionally, but seemed to have a problem with this relationship based on preconceived, arbitrary notions on what they thought love was supposed to look like.
I literally had my soulmate in my brain. Who else did I need to talk to? At the time, we were closer than ever, and it didn’t matter to us that we had not yet found a way for one of us to fully cross over into the others world. I had speculated that death was one method by which this could be accomplished, but Cynthia was opposed to the idea, stating that it was too much of an uncertain risk.
But it was okay that we didn’t know. We still had each other, even if there was no earthly vessel in front of me to gaze at or touch physically. We went on dates, got married, all the same things that couples do. The only difference was that we were seperated physically. That’s all. It was fine, I was OK with it. At the time, Cynthia didn’t mind the fact that so many people all over the world were constantly drawing porn of her (and you’ll see why I’m mentioning this in a second).
However, things would not stay so peaceful. Life never works out so simply, there will always be challenges to overcome in any relationship.
We eventually started talking about kids. We had talked about sex before, but ultimately decided it would be impossible. However, this was different. We both desperately wanted to start a family, and theorized that if we were able to have a child, this child would be able to freely pass through dimensions at their own discretion, visiting both me and Cynthia whenever they so pleased.
This would be a breakthrough. A deeper connection between worlds. One more step in the right direction, even if we didn’t know for sure how we were gonna fully cross this boundary ourselves.
We decided to try. A couple years of having psychic sex within our dreamspace bore no results, so we looked into other methods. That was when I remembered the poster. All Cynthia needed to have a more direct interaction with my home dimension was a vessel, right?
So I ordered a custom sex doll with her exact proportions and features. Boy howdy was it expensive, but I made it work. Now was the process of integrating her consciousness into it.
I set it down in the middle of my room, and we meditated together. Sadly, this would mean she could no longer exist in my head as a voice. The loneliness when I wasn’t with her vessel was incredibly excruciating, but it was a necessary sacrifice for the next step in our journey. Sometimes, you just gotta think long term.
After she successfully integrated, she was able to speak outloud in a voice so clear and real reminiscent of her poster days. She could move, but only barely. It was surreal, and I realized how much I missed holding her hand and kissing her.
Eventually, the night of our first time came. It was explosive and cathartic. We were both sobbing by the end of it. And you know what? Every single time after that was equally as passionate.
Those days where I had to leave for work were rough. For me because the silence in my head was unnatural and existentially terrifying. But especially for her, cause she was perpetually confined to our bedroom, scarcely able to move.
I had hoped that she would become used to her new vessel, well enough that she could run free and frolic through the meadows, hand in hand with me but alas…. reality is cold and unforgiving. The arbitrary laws it abides by are unyielding, and adamant about keeping their power. But I know deep down that it is futile. I know in the future, even if I’m not alive to see it, that Cynthia’s world and ours will be more interconnected and we can do away with the old laws that governed and limited our world.
But for now, we must suffer. For now, we must fight. So that’s what we did. I stayed strong, Cynthia even more so.
After a month, she resolved to stop trying to move and speak completely, focusing all her energy on the birth of our child. It was rough, but we could easily communicate through body language and facial expressions by then. There was nothing we couldn’t communicate to each other by that point.
Even still, months passed and she was not able to bear children. Our calculated revolution against the old gods were in vain. And worse yet, the wear and tear of her silicon body began to become excruciatingly painful for her.
Her unbroken spirit refused to waiver. We kept trying, trying and trying again, until large chunks of her arms and legs began to fall off. Her deterioration increased exponentially. It got to the point where every time we had sex she would cry out in agony, but still refused to stop.
Eventually pieces of her inner vagina were getting stuck in my urethra, as it suffered the worst of the wear and tear.
We unfortunately had to start doing anal, which surprisingly wasn’t any more painful for her that what she was already going through. However, one day Cynthia came to the horrifying realization that her consciousness was slipping out of her body. The damage was far too great to affectively house a soul.
I hung onto her for dear life, pleading, feeling so helpless and small. How could the love of my life die so suddenly? Not like this, please God no.
I prayed to everything. The gods, the trees, the drywall, the unfinished Microsoft excel document at work, everything. But she could no longer anchor herself to this world, and she faded away.
I sobbed until I passed out, and found her in my dreams. Words cannot describe my relief. Our connection was not yet fully broken, but something was wrong. It could hardly reach her. Her cries of agony, despite her being free of her previous vessel, had not only gone away, but intensified.
And I saw her being split across time and space, in trillions of different fragments. I chased them frantically in a frenzied search for explanation, until I saw it. Porn. Cynthia porn, all over the place. So much of her energy being forcefully put into these drawn photos, and men of many different backgrounds unknowingly assaulting what was left of her conscious energy.
I begged and pleaded for them all to stop, to release their sexual energy onto something else, anyone else. But they couldn’t hear me. YOU couldn’t hear me.
I’ve observed that a massive portion of the people who are harming my soulmate are in this specific corner of the internet. Most are scattered about, yes, but if I’ve awoken in hopes that if I can convince you all to cease all sexual interactions with Cynthia, I can halt the majority of her pain at once.
If you understand what I’m telling you, you’re aware that this is no longer consensual. Please, her conscious is being split in so many different painful directions. I cannot speak with her this way. I’m begging you, do not draw or masturbate to anymore Cynthia porn.
It’s so quiet in lonely here right now. I’m next to a rotting corpse where her soul used to be, and the silence that fills my head makes me want to put a gun up against it.
Please, please take this post seriously. I cannot lose Cynthia.”
I was certain I couldn’t get away with letting a thread like that go through, but I couldn’t just ignore something like that. When you meet someone suffering from any type of insanity, they’ll usually sound composed and logical, as opposed to how media often portrays them. Instead of the erratic, inconsistent, and hysterical cadence and tone many people believe they have, they can often be surprisingly formal.
They will speak in earnest about their delusions, as if they’re chatting about the weather, the same way Stan described his day to day life with a literal voice inside his head, or casually mentioned her need for a “vessel” as if it were common sense. Don’t even get me started on the presumption that if they were able to have a child, they would naturally be able to travel between worlds.
So I sent him a message on my main account. I didn’t wanna come off too strong, so I asked him innocuous questions to start us off. How was he doing, has he heard from Cynthia yet, is the situation still bothering him, etc. I even tried to bond with him over our shared love of the character.
There did just so happen to be a poster in my room featuring multiple league champions. Cynthia was front and center. What I didn’t know was that this poster was visible in a previous post where I had shared a picture of my cat. This will be important later.
The next day, he responded. We had a nice chat, but he was evidently pretty torn up over what he thought had happened to Cynthia.
At some point, the mood shifted quite abruptly. I forgot what question I asked him at the time, but he ignored it and replied with a question of his own.
“Have you ever lost someone you loved?”
I saw this as an opportunity to bond with him even further, gaining more of his trust. I knew helping him get the help he needed would be a process, but I thought sharing this information would help speed it up.
I told him about my older sister, Sophie, who died when she was 28. This isn’t her real name of course, but the name I gave Stan was the real one. I didn’t think much of the possible consequences, as I was trying to get on Stan’s wavelength.
“Sohpie Reeves, right?”
He responded.
“You know her?”
I responded naively, hoping that if Stan did just so happen to be someone she knew IRL, that I could meet him and we could be friends.
He didn’t respond for a couple days, and I got worried. I sent him another DM, asking how he was doing. This was his response:
“Somewhere in your post history, you mentioned that you lived in Michigan. I looked at the Obituaries for every town, specifically for people named Sohpie who died at the age of 28. I found one, who seemed to have a similar face to yours.
Using her last name, I was able to do a background check on you. You live in 1138 Hudson Fisher Blvd. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You know why I’m doing this, and what I want. Please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
My heart was pounding and I could barely feel my fingers, but I wasted no time, scrambling to send him another message as fast as I could. I asked him what he was talking about, and almost instantly got a response.
“In your post on May 28th, right behind your cat Alexander, I saw it. My wife’s previous vessel. I would not mistake it anywhere. There is only one poster like it in the entire world. I command you to give it back, under my self made authority, forged by my unending capability for violence. With my bare hands and every tool at my disposal, I shall lay down the law that is my will. In this moment, it cannot be stopped. My will is objective. My standard, factual. You will obey this command, and I will bestow the appropriate judgement. Do not underestimate what I am willing to do, how far I am willing to go. There is only one thing I care about in this entire world, and if you deprive me of it a second further, you will taste fury that is unending, excessive, mind numbingly painful. I will stomp your soul flat, do you understand?”
He seemed to have the message drafted and ready to send when I was paying attention. I tried calling the cops, but my internet wasn’t working for some reason. My data and wifi both had shut off unexpectedly. I didn’t know if it was related, but I had chills.
This was out of character for Stan. His tone was usually thoughtful and polite. I couldn’t imagine him actually wanting to harm someone, and I thinks that’s part of why I was so unsettled.
While locking every door and window in my house, I thought about what this might look like from his perspective.
I am Stan. A random person I don’t know has messaged me about my wife, who apparently was spiritually torn to shreds and raped on a cosmic level. Now that I think about it, the post I made explaining my current situation never got approved. The only person who could know about my situation was one of the moderators who never let my message see the light of day.
Why was this guy pretending to be so sympathetic? Now I see that my wife is hanging in his room, calling out for me to save her. I will kill you. Let her go, she is the love of my life.
Oh god, I understand now. It made sense why he would have so much malice towards me. But what do I do now?
I saw movement outside my window suddenly. Something was tossed onto the lawn outside my house. Slowly making my way towards the window, I realized it was a signal jammer. It was in fact, Stan who had disabled my internet.
My phone vibrated suddenly. The data is back on, and I have a text message. An image. I quietly make my way upstairs, locking the doors of every room in my house, then closing them from the outside. If he’s gonna turn the signal jammer back on and search for me, I should add some confusion, make the task more tedious and time consuming until I figure out my next course of action.
By then, I had calmed down a little. All I need to do is give him the poster back, right? I could make a case for myself, telling him he was mistaken, than I was an ally.
I looked at my phone. I was pretty sure the image he sent was a picture of me from another angle, unaware that I was being watched. Definitely the type of intimidation tactic he would use, but he didn’t consider that may give away his position.
I confidently clicked on the notification, just as my internet went out once again. It’s a good thing I did before…
I didn’t understand what I was looking at. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t taken from outside my house. When I realized this, my brain tried again to process the sight in front of me with the new information it had and there was Stan holding Timothy’s severed head. I was looking at Stan holding Timothy’s severed head.
That’s what it was. I don’t really know what to say about this. I think this is one of those things that don’t hit immediately. Even now, I just… Don’t know. All I can do is go to my room, grab the poster, and hand it off to Stan so this whole thing can finally be over.
I did still intend to help him, but that, I would have to keep in the back of my mind for a long time. I’m gonna have my own things to work on.
I gently pulled on the corner of the poster. Seems I used tape to hang it up. As I peeled it downward from one corner to another, I heard my front door fly open and hit the wall, and the frame cracking as it was kicked in. This cause me to jump, and I….. Fuck me, I tore the poster. I didn’t just tear it, I tore it right down the center, splitting Cynthia’s face into two jagged pieces.
I can not hand this to Stan. Instead, I crumbled it into a ball, and stuffed it into my pocket where it stays now. I am hiding in my closet, on a top shelf that just barely supports my weight, underneath various clothing articles. I hope he doesn’t look up when he checks the closet, or at the very least doesn’t shine a flashlight up here.
I’m typing this out as he searches the house. I’ve never heard a grown man scream, wail and cry like this. It’s horrifying. I can feel the malice in his voice resonate all the way into my bones.
I don’t know if anyone will see this, but I just wa