“Algorithms’re normalizing mob mentality,” I say. The children circle closer, spiraling into what feels like a classic Death Blossom. It’s more a combo Death Blossom and Gore Wheel because, like, some of their limbs are too short to flail at the proper angles. But they’re kids here. I cut them some slack.
The oil drums roar up from below, singeing our dress shoes. “Algorithms are loosening our agency from us,” I say, “and hardly anyone’s questioning it. You know? It’s gotta be one of the worst problems with social media.”
I’m flush to the wood pike, wrapped in feet of funky-colored shoe string. You flail and flail, back against mine, but I understand how you feel: algorithm-enforced mob mentality also angers you. Samesies. I get it.
“GET US THE HELL OUT OF HERE,” you say. I understand that, as well.
Death Blossoms were hardly made with children in mind, so the kids are being pretty complain-y about it. One kid on the 3rd ring out from us contorts, spasms, cries out. The 4th and 5th ring of children come to a pounce at the sound, which is pretty SOP for juvenile terrorist orgs as coked up as this’un. It’s hard to see beyond the spark and soot, but what’s left looks a pile of Nike slide pieces, teeth. The awkward Death Blossom cranks back up, the kids are wheezing and moaning, etc. But minus a minor now. That’s one less we’ll have to kill, I guess.
“Algorithms promote either strict agreement or disagreement,” I say. “Check it: they shove us all together, no questions, and wait for the echo or conflict, then show us what’s up when the comment threads get really hot’n’heavy. Zuckerberg is a real dick, right? Dude’s complicit. Dude’s probably into these digital scuffles.”
Most Death Blossoms end the same stupid way, and this cluster finds itself no differently: the top performers from the outermost rings battle, then the winner moves inward to battle the 3rd and 2nd rings, and so on. We’re left with a total of one-to-two Ring Leaders at the end of everything, and countless irate losers licking their wounds on the outside, scattered like bloody petals. It’s goddamn Barnum & Bailey’s, is what it is. Too convoluted, too colorful, for my taste. And it never looks like a flower.
“OH GOD THEY’RE SCREECHING,” you say.
“I know, right?” I say. “That’s all mob mentality on the internet is, man. Just screeching pterodactyls of opinion, unwillingly gravitating toward one another.”
I jerk my comb blade open — it’s a novelty switchblade comb that, with the right flick, extends an extra blade from the comb part — and cut us free from our tie-dye bondage. Everyone tends to overlook the comb blade. They just think it’s a blade comb. And since some of these youngins’ have gone Gore Wheel on us, a portion have their eyes closed. Bad move.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” I say, crushing coked-up kid-face with my charred bare feet, “I’m glad it’s connecting the like-masses to like-masses. I would never’ve found a group for felting kitten hair into boxer shorts without Facebook’s help. But come on! Now I can’t open the thing up without being blasted with clash, vehemence.”
“HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK,” you say, punching below you at the unrelenting rush of furious youth. “HOLY FUCK WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE.”
The Death Blossom disperses like I thought it would. Aim for the two Head Honchos (who, mind you, already hate each other) and all you’re gonna be left with is a confusion of piecemeal, angled flesh, wholly unsure of itself. Death Blossoms are inherently fail-ready like that. Plus: any mob can be broken up with a little prodding, limb-inquiry.
“All I’m saying,” I huff amidst a spinning lotus kick, “is that social media is going to have to go through a second maturation phase before we use it for any form of conversation beyond the algorithms that would, as of now, constrain it.” I dodge a ninja star. Catch the next one in my teeth with a metallic shhhing. Sling the sucker back the direction it came with a whip of the neck.
The Death Blossom becomes a puerile rubble beneath us, extremities as twisted as the logs that previously cooked you, cooked me. You are heaving for air. It’s all understandable. I’m also still miffed at Zuckerberg. That fucker.
“Why the aych-ee-double-hockey-sticks did we take a left turn at the stop sign, again?” I say. “We should have taken a right. We were supposed to be at the opera house an hour ago.”
“WHAT THE SHIT IS GOING ON,” you say. You grab me by the lapels. The embers behind me sparkle in your eyes. My heart aches for you.
“Dude, I get it,” I say. “I do. Look at me.”
There are torches in the distance, the clanging of swords. Nike slides clop against underbrush. The children — this was not the last of them. This was the first of them.
“I am totally vibing with you OK. Mob mentality? It’s internet-rampant, man. But lighten up.”