Claptomaniac
Clap Burglars are Burgling Your Hard Earned Claps
People aren’t ignoring your articles, they’re stealing from you
You wrote what you know is an amazing story. It should have thousands of claps, but doesn’t. It doesn’t have a lot of fans, either. You’re suspicious. Something ain’t right.
Who’s stealing your claps?
That’s the mystery I aimed to solve.
What I lack in formal investigative training, I make up for in an undeserved sense of self-efficacy. At first, I thought Smillew Rahcuef was behind the whole thing. Mostly because he admits to being the notorious One-Clapper and, as such, lacks morals.
Also, because of this.
When I asked him if he’d been burgling claps, he said no.
I often give up on things at the slightest inconvenience, and this time would’ve been no different. However — apropos nada — a mysterious woman messaged me.
My hunt for the clap burglar would begin in earnest.
My flight landed in New York City. I don’t trust banks, so I bring my claps with me everywhere. I put them in a secure locker at the airport, and hailed a taxi.
It dropped me off outside a small diner, and I went inside. The woman who told me to meet her there hadn’t given me a name. She sat alone in a booth near the back, her dark hair obscured her face. I knew something was fishy as I approached.
Booths are supposed to be reserved for parties of three or more.
I told her so. “Booths are supposed to be reserved for parties of three or more.”
She looked up and smiled. “I know.”
Something metallic and hard pushed into my side. I looked to see the charming smirk of Sean Kernan. He held a revolver.
“Sit down,” he said. I complied.
Once situated, I looked to the woman. I realized who she was.
“Well, if it isn’t Jessica Wildfire,” I said. “I should’ve known.”
She ignored this and offered me a choice of several vape pens. I took one, and she stashed the rest of them in her jacket. “We’re waiting for one more.”
We waited longer than I think they anticipated. Kernan started getting antsy, and gave me insightful and humorous lessons. After explaining the danger presented by Republican dog whistles, in a pressing yet level tone, Wildfire ordered food for the table. I guzzled down mozzarella sticks.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic. Why’d we decide to meet in New York?” asked a jolly Tim Wise as he took his place at the table. I offered my mozzarella sticks and he took a couple. So did Kernan. Wildfire had her own plate of food and politely refused.
I ended up getting a second order of mozzarella sticks because they were very good. I offered to pay for them myself, but Wildfire insisted on covering the bill. Kernan ordered more appetizers for the table, including — hands down — the best vegetarian egg rolls I’ve ever had.
Wise bought us all a beer and explained with pointed intelligence, the issues of gun violence and white denial. I had to turn down the beer because my tummy can’t handle heavy beverages. He ordered me a hard seltzer instead, which quenched my thirst from all that deep-fried cheese.
I waited for a break in the conversation, then asked them the question that brought me there.
“It might be because my penis is so small, but I don’t see many claps on my articles. Do you guys have any tips?”
They broke out in hearty laughter. Kernan patted my back like a big brother. Wise & Wildfire reached across the table to pat my shoulders. Heck, I started laughing and patting myself too. They gave me some simple advice like not over-formatting, and making sure that what you write is worth a reader’s time.
After our delightful dinner, we bade farewell to each other, and I boarded a flight back home. As I reclined in my seat, 20,000 feet in the air, a thought struck me like the fist of my drunk stepdad.
Wait a goddamn minute. What the fuck was the point of all that?
Why would they call me there, just to give me dinner? And what was with all those pats and —
Oh my god.
I went through my pockets and overhead luggage. My claps were gone. I crawled into the plane’s luggage bay and found my claps had been taken from my suitcase.
The flight crew tackled me, tied me to my seat, and told me the authorities would be waiting at our destination. I didn’t care. All my claps had been burgled and I had nothing left.
But how?
I stared out the window, and the answer stared back.
