Influenca

Influenca By Alexander Nader Hair Brained Press Copyright Copyright © 2023 Alexander Nader All rights reserved The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Cover design by: Pamela Nader Printed in the United States of America Contents Copyright Free Book Offer Dedication 9,456,231 9,456,287 9,455,869 9,455,300 9,455,109 9,458,726 9,458,720 9,459,211 9,459,429 9,460,048 9,463,899 9,501,003 9,503,124 9,503,131 9,506,950 9,507,018 9,507,420 9,509,623 9,510,100 9,524,807 9,524,802 9,524,825 9,527,382 9,528,400 9,528,392 9,528,395 Subject: Details of Recent Acquisition 9,540,654 9,545,812 9,545,848 9,546,012 9,546,013 9,546,019 9,546,017 Subject: True Movement FUBAR 9,546,802 9,546,791 9,546,793 9,548,109 9,812,753 9,842,123 9,842,499 9,892,790 9,892,416 Subject: Temporary Suspension (Terms of Service Violation) 9,892,416 9,892,416 Subject: Account Reactivated 9,942,811 9,946,019 9,947,874 Subject: Wonderful News 9,982,656 9,985,012 9,991,979 9,996,947 9,998,810 9,999,086 9,999,102 Acknowledgements Free Book Offer Get my novel Necrotown for free! To instantly receive a free copy of my novel Necrotown: Book 1 of Mountain City Chronicles, sign up for my newsletter on here. Dedication To everyone who believes the caricatures of real life found on the internet are real: please stop. 9,456,231 C all them stans, call them pick me girls, call them whatever you want, but all of my followers are completely dedicated to my feed. Their lazy boyfriends share memes while I show off memories of rock climbing in Thailand. Girls post cute images holding their boyfriend’s hand while double tapping every one of my shirtless selfies. Thousands of ‘feeling cute today’ posts in that one outfit that makes them believe they’re special, while I have a closet with enough Italians to start my own mafia. Nine million four hundred fifty-six thousand two hundred thirty-one followers—every single one of them wishes they were with me, and they like it. I lay in bed, staring at the metal blades of my ceiling fan. My alarm should go off any second. The delivery of my new truck is scheduled in two hours. The excitement kept me up late. Finally, a couple Benzos put me to sleep. No big deal. My daily routine only allows for five hours sleep a night, running on four won’t kill me. Linkin Park’s “Crawling” screams through my phone’s speakers. Cornell’s vocals on this track always get me pumped. Time to pre-start my day. I kick my graphite colored Bussati sheets to the foot of the bed and examine my lean figure. Flexing my quads makes my thighs swell. Nice to see the extra leg days paying dividends. Veins run along my body like a roadmap to physical perfection. I can’t spend too long admiring my hard work. My Tuesday ‘wake up’ live stream starts in forty minutes. I’ve got to get going. In the kitchen, I toss organic chocolate whey powder in a blender with water, two tablespoons of organic almond butter, a tablespoon of MCT oil, and a scoop of Super Greens. The greens are a flavorless powder that gives me all the nutrients of seventeen servings of vegetables without having to put anything resembling a plant in my mouth. It’s also surprisingly low on carbs. The concoction smells like someone is eating a Reese’s on the other side of the room. The shake isn’t about Keto: that’s so 2018. I tried the diet, just like everyone else, and didn’t like it. Twenty-five grams of carbs a day left me feeling woozy. And no, it wasn’t the ‘keto flu’. I waited it out for six months and felt like hell the whole time. Low carb has its merits, but I’ve found that roughly eighty grams per day keeps me feeling physically fit while still allowing all of my abs to show. I throw a few ice cubes in the Vitamix Professional Series blender, put the lid on, and hit start. While the shake blends, I take out my phone—careful not to open any social media applications so no one knows I’m awake yet—and check my email. The first two emails are from my manager, M. One is about a photoshoot I’m supposed to do for some new clothing line next week. The other is her daily warning about my follower count. I’ve plateaued at nine million followers for nearly a year and M won’t get off my case. She says if I don’t break through to ten million, bad things will start to happen careerwise and I believe her. M doesn’t joke. She doesn’t exaggerate or embellish. She speaks in such a direct manner, even run of the mill requests come off like death threats. That’s not an insult. M gets shit done. She’s the reason I’m about to take delivery of a hundred-thousand-dollar Dodge RAM. I add the photoshoot into my calendar while I try to think of a response. What can I say? I’ve tried everything—guest posts, giveaways, celebrity cameos—and nothing has moved the needle. People have spent the last two years stuck in their houses using their phones as a lifeline and I think they’re tired. Humanity is broken and no one is looking to follow a nice #SouthernCharmer like myself. I message M back that the photo shoot has been on my schedule. There’s no point in replying to the follower count message. Anything I can offer would be an excuse and M doesn’t accept excuses, only results. I’ve got to kill myself to get this goal, or she’ll murder me. The rest of my inbox consists of three flash sales from clothing websites with shoddy quality, one wedding proposal from a woman in Idaho, and an email from a guy named Action Manson asking me to wish his girlfriend a happy birthday. Pretty boring morning so far. I delete all three. I screenshot the wedding proposal and send it to my best friend, Mason Hill. He’ll get