Mark Zuckerberg was drunk. Not with power, nor with money. No, the billionaire founder of Facebook was drunk on Liquor 43. He had to be. Tom was coming over.

He had long loathed Tom Anderson, his social networking rival and and number one enemy. Tom was a scam artist, a hustler, and a prick of a jock; all of the qualities that Mark had loathed in himself. In short, Tom was everything he wished he could be, with the exception of one major detail; Mark was about eleven billion dollar richer than Tom could ever hope to be, a value that zipped rapidly up and down depending on the market, but which remained forever beyond the reach of the greasy glitter-stained fuckface. Fuck Myspace’s higher Alexa ranking, he was richer.

Another tumbler thrown out of the window of his penthouse, another echoed scream from the streets below. Another worthless fuckface, probably too poor to afford a lawyer. “I bet they post about that on their shitty Myspace blog,” Mark cackled as he tipped the sweet syrup back into his throat. The burning numbed hatred somewhat and his hands grew weaker as his tears welled up. The golden bottle tumbled from his hands on to the floor, rolling to the open doorway… stopping by Tom’s feet.

Horror and shame. Then, the brazen laughter. Like always.

“Hittin’ the bottle early, brah! I just got some Mickey D’s McGriddles, an’ you’re fuckin’ drunk!” He threw his bag of greasy meal at Mark, hitting him in his face. That was it. Mark’s eyes dried up and he clenched his fists in rage.

“Back off, Anderson. I called you here for a reason.”

Tom sneered at his rival’s greasy face and picked up the half-empty bottle. He chugged the rest down with one throaty swing and wiped his reeky smile with a deliberate horizontal wipe of his arm.

“Oh, fuck off, jew. You can’t do shit to me, Murdoch’s got my back. What, you gonna ruin me like I ruined the Friendster fag?” He the tossed the bottle back casually, hitting a meek and quiet staffer right in the face. She had just rushed in with papers.

“Quit shrieking bitch, I gotta talk business with jewboy here.” He glared at her. “Come back in a bit, I’ll have some use for you then.” She staggered out, shock and anger welling in here red eyes.

“Bitch has some chubrolls when she bends over, hate seein’ that shit when she’s suckin’. Maybe another bottle of this kike liquor will get me hard for her fat.”

This was exactly what Mark had planned. He pulled out another bottle-from Spain, but he could care less about Tom’s raging anti-Semitism at this point- and offered it to Tom, who ripped off the foil seal and began to suckle the glass slip greedily.

“Yeah Tom, keep drinking. You fuckface.”

“What?” Shock at the sudden backbone flitted across Tom’s face. Mark shut his soundproofed door and turned to Tom. “Enjoying the free booze? Think this is how a Harvard grad starts off a business meeting? In his own home? You know…I bet you do, goddamn hippie Berkeley fuck.”

Tom clumsily threw the bottle at Mark, who slooshingly ducked the clumsy throw. The liquor smashed into the wall, dripping and staining the newly whitened carpet.

“Oh Tom, Tom, Tom, I was was one of your first Myspace friends, bu you didn’t even notice me. Typical.” He stalked around the Myspace founder, tiger-like. Tom just stood, his skin goosepimpling with the horror of sudden sober realization. Licking his lips, Mark continued.

“Feel numb yet?”

“What? No! You son of a bitch, did you drug me?”

Mark smirked. “No, no, no. I ask only because you will want to feel numb.” By this time Mark had sauntered back to his desk, his eye still on Tom. Good, he thought. He is still in the Zone. “Honestly, I kind of want you to feel numb. Kind of. Still, you stole my idea for stupid profile-based applications, and I can’t have you doing that without some sort of special compensation.”

Tom was confused, and for once in his life was speechless. His jaw hung slack and a slight dribble of alcoholic drool slowly dripped its way out onto the floor.

“No words, eh?” Just the the pressed the button. He had it installed over a year ago, right below his desk, just for this occasion.

A trio of sex robots shot out from the ceiling and surrounded Tom. Their dildo lasers were charged and ready to go.

Tom broke down into sobs. “Oh God, the Friendster guy told me about this, and the Twitter guy too, he warned me….”

“Bow down before the one you serve, Tom,” he said with a cackle and an unzipping of his fly. “Sexbots, prepare the subject for penetration.”

Tom let out a scream of a thousand wronged souls. Social media was never the same again.