My television got rabies. I tried switching it off with the remote but it just flat refused to obey. Froth like Santa’s spunk started to pour out of the speakers, and the screen split across the middle, revealing thousands of jagged pixels like razor sharp shark teeth. Realising I was probably in danger, I darted for the door, but sprawled across the floor as I felt white hot pain shoot through my leg. The fucking television had bitten my foot off. I told it it was bad, but it didn’t give a shit. My foot bones rattled around inside as it rolled around on the floor in a seizure, like it was on PCP and cocaine at the same time. In desperation, I whacked it with the giant decorative wooden spoon we kept by the door for no real purpose. It didn’t seem to affect it.
I thought that was it, that I was a goner, bleeding out, alone, next to my psychotic television set. But then my mobile phone came riding in upon my computer, dressed in full battle armour, complete with kamon displaying its heraldry upon a banner, erect on its back. On one side, it held a large shield, emblazoned with a frightening demon face, and on the other, it had a lance which was far too big for it, and so dragged on the ground. It beeped chivalrously at me. Told me it was here to defend my honour. Then it spurred its computer steed on, charging at the television, which was still spinning in a spit frenzy on the floor.
The lance didn’t do shit. The television snapped it in two between its nasty gnashers, and flicked a dirty paw at my phone, sending it flying through the air. It smashed to pieces against the wall, leaving a stain like a squashed bug. The shield went rolling away like a loose hubcap. My computer tucked its tail and fled, leaving behind a trail of internet. I quickly lapped up some of the toxic yellow fluid to get out of that place.
I uploaded onto the Deep Web, where I was put under surveillance as a counter-terrorism measure. My gushing wound became a sensation on an onion site called gore-chan, which was annoying, because my pain doubled every time somebody downloaded me. To make matters worse, I became a node for covert ops. Secret agents slipped out with my blood, disguised as hemoglobin, secreting unseen into people’s computers. Then they snuck out through the USB ports and packed their television remotes with home-made chemical bombs. The fallout from the minute explosions as the unsuspecting perp pressed the power button infected their television sets, sending them rabid.
It was with some relief that I was eventually converted to pure raw data by some government computer nerds in an effort to cover their tracks.