THE LAST INFLUENCER
When the Vanity Plague hit, it wasn’t a virus in the biological sense. It didn’t boil your organs or blacken your lungs—it just made you vomit. Profusely. At the sight of a like button, a follower count, or a filtered face so clean it looked baptized by the algorithmic gods of artificial lighting.
The phenomenon began with a soft queasiness. A touch of nausea when glancing at TikTok, a subtle discomfort reading YouTube comments with “🔥🔥🔥” under every cleavage-enhanced thumbnail. Then came the tremors. The migraines. The ritualistic purging of entire timelines. Eventually, people were puking into their keyboards the moment they saw an Instagram reel of avocado toast.
By month three, social media was a ghost town. Twitter (now renamed Scream) tried to rebrand itself as “truth-neutral,” but it was too late. The stomachs of the masses had spoken. Zuckerberg went into hiding in a wellness pod in the Alps. Musk challenged the virus to a cage match and promptly disappeared into a black site.
But I survived.
My name is Luna. Once upon a brand, I was @LunaGlowWellnes—3.2 million followers, verified, sponsored by gut health gummies I never took and spiritual retreats I never attended. My abs had their own hashtag. My cat had a collagen deal.
When the Plague began, my followers dropped faster than Bitcoin at a bad TED Talk. I tried posting a raw, unfiltered selfie. Just me. Crying. Holding an onion like a rosary. It got two likes before the vomiting started.
The world unplugged. Cities went dark, not from war or collapse, but because no one wanted to be perceived anymore. The Age of Influence had ended.
But I… I couldn’t let go.
Now, I live in an abandoned IKEA showroom off I-25, somewhere between Denver and Oblivion. I’ve converted the “modern Scandinavian bedroom suite” into a low-fi studio. No cameras. No ring lights. Just mirrors and candles and silence.
They still come to me—my followers. Not online. In person. By foot, by bike, by stolen electric scooter. They find me because I offer something no one else will:
Attention.
Real, eye-watering, soul-flaying attention.
No filters. No edits. Just a person looking at you, seeing you, speaking your name like a sacred incantation. It’s addictive. Dangerous. Some beg to be witnessed. Others scream. A few burst into tears. One man climaxed in a beanbag chair.
They call me the Last Influencer. I didn’t choose the title. One night, someone spray-painted it across the facade of the building in feral pink letters. I left it. It’s better branding than anything I ever paid an agency for.
I don’t post anymore. I host.
My services are simple:
- 10 minutes of direct eye contact — barter only. Canned goods preferred.
- Personal affirmation monologue — I remind you that you matter. I mean it, too. Mostly.
- Digital exorcism — I whisper your old usernames into a jar of vinegar and bury it behind the parking lot.
Some want to be touched. I don’t allow that. Not since the Feedback Girl. She wept so hard I think her soul came loose.
Last night, a child came. Eight, maybe nine. Eyes hollowed out from years of screen-time before the purge. Said his name was Colby. Asked me to “like” him.
I didn’t vomit. I cried.
I told him I did like him. I said it out loud. Three times. With a pause between each one like a prayer. He smiled, and for the first time in weeks, I felt the faintest ping of what it once meant to be followed.
Not on an app. Not on a trend.
But on foot. Through the silence. Toward something real.
I am Luna.
The last influencer.
And you? You are seen.
Now pay me in peanut butter or get the hell out.