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The afternoon sun shined brightly through the large windows of James Wood's expensive home.
It was exactly noon, but James was already on his second glass of dark scotch.
He sat in his leather armchair, completely ignoring the thousands of notifications vibrating on his phone on the coffee table.
"Let the teenagers on the internet yell and make their stupid jokes," he thought.
They had no real power. He was the one with the power. He was James Wood.
He took a slow sip of the burning liquor and stared at the wall, a wicked smile slowly forming on his face.
He began to plan his ultimate revenge.
He just had to wait for Michael Owen's ridiculous fantasy novel to actually release.
Once the book was printed and on the shelves, James would write the most brutal, destructive review the literary world had ever seen.
He thought to himself, "I will tear apart every single page. I will call the Elvish language a cheap copy of better writers. I will write that his characters are hollow, his world is boring, and his writing is just a sad joke. I will write a ten-page essay for The New Yorker that completely destroys his reputation among the elite readers. The internet kids might love him, but the awards committees, the publishers, and the wealthy readers listen to me. I will end his career. I just need to be patient and wait. I will crush him."
He felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
He leaned forward to pour himself a third glass of scotch from the crystal bottle on the table.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door of his study swung open.
His wife stood in the doorway.
She was wearing an expensive designer one piece, holding a heavy leather handbag, and looked at him with pure disgust.
Their marriage had been dead for years, surviving only on his high salary and her love for spending it.
"Hey, baldy," she said, her voice cold and flat. "Open any social media app on your phone right now. You are completely fucked. And I am going out. Don't wait up, I won't come home today."
Without waiting for his reply, she turned around and the front door slammed shut a moment later.
James's face turned red with anger.
He stood up slightly, glaring at the empty doorway. "Go ahead and leave, you bloodsucking sl**!" he yelled into the empty house. "You are nothing without my money! Keep spending it like the parasite you are!"
Breathing heavily, James sat back down.
He grabbed his glass of scotch in one hand.
With his other hand, he picked up his phone. He unlocked the screen and opened the X app.
Right at the top of his feed was a post with millions of views.
It was not posted by Michael Owen's official account.
It was posted by an anonymous account called @TruthInPublishing.
It was just a black screen with an audio waveform moving across it. The caption simply read: The real James Wood.
James pressed play.
Suddenly, a voice came out of his phone speaker. It was his own voice.
"Well, Mr. Owen," the recorded James Wood said smoothly. "Your new romance novel is quite the departure. It would be a shame if it didn't find the right audience. You know, my reviews can make or break a career."
James froze. His heart stopped beating.
The audio continued to play.
"Just look at Arthur Pendelton's last novel, or Sarah Jenkins's memoir," the recording of James continued. "They didn't see the value of my... private consultation fee. And their books completely flopped after my reviews."
Then, another voice spoke on the recording.
It was Evans, Michael's manager, sounding confused. "What exactly are you asking for, James?"
"I call it an administrative guarantee," the recorded James replied with a snobby tone.
"A small payment of fifty thousand dollars will guarantee that I call your book the triumph of the decade in The New Yorker."
Then, Michael Owen's cold, sharp voice cut through the audio clearly. "James, the only reason my book would ever need your review is if I suddenly ran out of toilet paper. If you want a handout, go stand on a street corner."
Then, the audio clicked and ended.
James Wood's hand went completely weak.
The heavy crystal glass slipped right through his fingers.
It hit the hardwood floor and shattered into a hundred pieces, splashing expensive scotch all over his shoes and the rug.
James couldn't breathe.
He scrolled down the page with a shaking thumb.
The entire internet had turned into a massive, angry mob against him. It was a complete disaster.
@NYTimesBooks:
BREAKING: Leaked audio appears to show top New Yorker critic James Wood extorting author Michael Owen for $50,000 in exchange for a positive review.
@ArthurPendeltonAuthor:
I can finally speak out! He did this to me three years ago! He demanded money, I said no, and he destroyed my book the next week! #FireJamesWood
@Bookish_Sarah:
This man needs to be in prison! He has been rigging the book industry for years! Michael Owen is a legend for recording this and telling him off!
The hashtag #FireJamesWood was the number one trend in the entire world.
People were tagging the police.
Other authors were coming forward with their own stories of James asking for bribes.
Thousands of angry readers were commenting on The New Yorker's official pages, demanding that they fire him immediately.
James dropped his phone onto the couch. His entire body was shaking.
He sat there in the quiet room.
His mind was racing. "How did this happen?" he thought wildly. "I thought I was safe. I thought even if Michael had the recording, he would never, ever post it. I am affiliated with The New Yorker! I am the top critic in the country! Nobody attacks The New Yorker! He was supposed to be afraid of me!"
But Michael had not posted it.
He had leaked it anonymously, completely destroying James without ever getting his own hands dirty.
A dark, boiling rage exploded inside James's chest. It was a blind, uncontrollable fury. His face turned purple.
"NO!" James screamed at the top of his lungs.
He jumped up from the armchair.
He grabbed the heavy crystal scotch bottle from the table and threw it as hard as he could across the room.
It smashed against a large, expensive painting, tearing the canvas and spraying glass and alcohol everywhere.
"NO! NO! NO!" he roared like a madman.
He kicked the heavy wooden coffee table, flipping it over completely.
Magazines and books flew across the room. He ran over to his massive, beautiful bookshelves.
He grabbed armfuls of classic novels and ripped them off the shelves, throwing them violently onto the floor.
He grabbed a heavy metal lamp and smashed it against his own desk, denting the wood and shattering the bulb.
He tore down his own framed awards from the walls, stomping on the glass until it crunched under his shoes.
He paced around the ruined room, screaming and breaking everything he could reach, his career and his entire life turning to ash in front of his eyes.