Yeah, so it's a horrible reference

Nobody ever said that I was creative when I made this thing. Only that I made it. Yeah, me.
I'm Tom. Tom Parker-Fitzgerald, for the un-initiated. I like doing nothing, seeing new places, taking long walks on the beach, sleeping, and, oh right, not being a slave to a faceless tentacled ABOMINATION.

Yeah, suck it, this is a Slenderblog.

So let's get this out of the way before I lose interest with this altogether.
I was raised in a Slendercult. It's my personal belief that you give power to things by caring about them, so forgive me if I don't name names (SCIENTOLOGY). Yeah, I've got some pretty weird paranoias and moral systems from there (my childhood pretty much consisted of "IF THEY'RE NOT CHOSEN, STAB THEM IN THE FACE"), but hey, the second I saw Der Slender Mann on my fifteenth birthday, well.

I'd like to say that I burned the cult down to cinders while laughing like a badass. What I actually did was run straight into the desert while screaming like a little bitch.

I met a guy named Spencer there, in the desert. He seemed pretty nice, knew a lot about our little skinny friend, and used The Path to get me to New York.



I actually fared pretty well. I learned to grift (As in a grifter. Basically, a con-artist. A con-artist runs cons. Therefore, to grift is to con) in the cult to swindle more money so the cult could buy more ominous pipe organs or robes or something equally stupid mystical. I lived in woman's shelters and by eighteen, actually had a nice little apartment to myself.

Have you ever stepped out of the shower on your ninth floor apartment to see something looking (well, not actually looking because he's faceless) through your window? I have. So I opened the window and threw a flowerpot at Tall Dark and Ugly before I quickly sold the apartment and went on my way.

I ran for two more years, until I turned twenty; learned to fight as I went, became really good at using anything on hand as a weapon. Ended up using my downright gorgeous physique to stay... comfortably wherever I went, before it was time to pack up and leave the poor sucker to be disembowelled.

But yeah. When I turned twenty, I joined the Agents.

You don't like it?


Having Him in your head wasn't so bad, though. Still got a lot of time by myself, but the team dynamic was nice. As far as I saw it, we were putting those runners out of their misery.

You don't like it?


But as you would know it, this got to be not so fun anymore. I didn't like how ol'Slendy operated did shit, so in the middle of a mission, I turned around, shot my two "partners" in the head, and ran. They wanted to kill a kid. Only was 15. So it goes.


So it was back to running until now. That time as an Agent... I look 23. I am 27. That's the way it is, I guess.

And why am I making this blog?

Because I was rooting around in my head, checking out the stuff I got as an Agent (which Slendershit forgot to take out, stupid dunce) one of which is a kind of... database? Either way, everyone who's stalked has a ranking, or "priority". The higher your "Priority", the more people that are going to hide in your bushes and wear bad home-made masks while they comically invade your privacy.

A few have skyrocketed.

Including mine.

Now I wonder who the hell did that?

So I'm pretty much just putting this thing up as a taunt. Run run run, as fast as you can, motherfuckers. Try and catch up and you'll get a fork in the eyesocket.

Now, all I need to do is try and figure out who these other people are, and why they're high priority like me.

If only it was more simple.

Aha. Guess I should've known by now.

Expect the unexpected;


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