Emily clicked on Lil Bub's Christmas message and watched her adorable face hang tongue all over the holidays. "Aww," she said to herself. Then she loaded Marnie The Dog's page and clicked through the snaps of Marnie lolling out of a tote bag and covered in tree-shaped cookies. "Aww." She scrolled down more and found a photo of Marnie and Lil Bub hanging out together, their tongues almost touching. "OMG!" she shouted out loud, and her heart started racing so hard that she had to get up from the computer and go take a shower.
In the shower she daydreamed about owning a puppy and teaching it how to play roller derby. She wondered if this would be the year when she finally scheduled her sloth saturation experience. When she got out she went on her phone and checked her email. There was yet another email meant for her across-the-pond doppelganger, UK Emily, this time from eHarmony, telling her that they were not able to find enough matches for her to allow her to become a member at this time. Emily winced in solidarity.
All during work she kept getting notifications from Plenty of Fish. UK Emily must have reactivated her account, and by the look of it she was going HAM on the UK dating scene. By the time Emily settled in to eat her nightly pot roast, UK Emily had already turned down six dates and accepted four more. You go girl, I guess, Emily thought, and wondered if she should open a Plenty of Fish account in the states. Nah.
The next morning she had a couple of butthurt messages in her inbox, including a particularly gross one from Up4Snooker2, who told UK Emily to stuff a malty oatcake up her minge. She could only see a thumbnail of Snooker, but he was obviously not a trophy fish. She thought about writing back to him but didn't want UK Emily to find out she'd been getting her emails for years.
It took a couple of days for the messages to slow down, but when they did they stopped completely. Emily wondered if an acceptable fish had been reeled in and had its head dashed against the side of the boat. Then she got a new notification. She sighed, because she liked sharing the funny messages with friends but it was also nice to get your own emails about your own domestic dealings.
This one was from what looked like a randomly-generated email address (bhe402sih929@freemail.free99.co.uk), with the subject line: "3 DAYS." When she opened the email it just said, "U DONT KNOW WHAT YOU DID PUT IT BACK U HAVE 3 DAYS". She shook her head and remembered why she'd never start a Plenty of Fish account. There were definitely plenty of fish out there, but not many worth mounting and even less worth hanging up in your man cave.
Emily closed her email and went on Lisa Frank's Facebook page to see if they had any memes about Mondays. They did but it was Thursday so she saved them to post later when she hadn't had enough coffee to drink before work. Then she logged back into her email and there was another message from bhe302sih929. It said "IN CASE YOU THOUGHT IM FUCKING AROUND" and there was a picture of her front door with a gloved hand wrapped around the doorhandle.
UK Emily, what have you gotten yourself into? she thought. She went into the spreadsheet she kept of UK Emily's correspondence, pulling out emails of people she might be able to get in touch with. She mostly received institutionalized spam from noreply accounts, but there was the odd old friend or classmate who had tried to find her with google and fired a shot in the dark that happened to skip over the pond into Oregon.
She forwarded the messages to all of the people on her list, and then opened bhe's email and wrote back to him to tell him that he had the wrong email and she was going to contact the UK authorities. At first she wrote Scotland Yard but then she wasn't sure if that was really a thing.
"U WOT THINK IM STUPID" was the reply, which begged an answer, but she was getting freaked out. She spent the rest of the day trying to find the right Emily on facebook, twitter, instagram - did they have UK alternatives to social media? She tried to imagine some: materate, flatfinder, nigelslist, but then she remembered that she'd gotten an email a few days ago from SMSlim, which helped British people hold fast to their resolution to take a social media diet. "Bangers and mash!" she cursed under her breath.
The next morning she woke up and there were a couple of auto-reply emails RE: failures to send. An old college friend named Bess had written back to say that she'd lost touch with her years ago but thought she was living in Newcastle. She had been for a couple of months, but even Emily knew she'd moved two or three times since then.
Emily had never wanted to get the wrong person's emails so much before. She was having a hard time enjoying videos of cute dogs wrapped in ribbons, and she could barely choke down her pot roast.
Around 2AM there was came another picture that showed UK Emily's door. This time it was kicked in. And another picture, which she recognized was of UK Emily's budgies, but when she'd seen them before they hadn't been smashed to pieces and covered in blood. "WHERE IS IT?"
She had to do it. She was getting desperate. She had to sign up for Plenty of Fish. UK Emily might be taking a holiday from Facebook, but her search for love knew no bounds.
Emily didn't know exactly where her English counterpart lived, so she left her location as "UK." Then she tried to think of all the emails she had gotten, every interest she knew. She'd studied psychology, but obviously didn't really learn anything. She liked pop and Celtic music, owned birds - the budgies! :'( - and an outdoor cat, got lots of coupons for takeaway. She knew that UK Emily was a bit of a traditionalist, if she was being nice. Meaning at this point she was looking for a man a few years older, taller, maybe a doctor or solicitor. Old enough to really want kids. She named him Barry and gave him a dog, a flat that was too big and lonely for just him. She tried to think of what UK Emily wanted to hear. I've got a lot of love to give. I like to laugh. I want to find someone to cuddle up and watch Sherlock with.
She searched for all of the profiles that had UK Emily's age, but didn't find anything. She lowered the age range a couple of years and there she was. She had moved to Northampton, and was currently looking for work.
"Good morning, love, didn't expect to see girls like you on here. Thought it would be all slappers and chavettes, but you're right fit and look like you love to laugh. How do you feel about Sherlock and having a cuddle? Hope I'm not being too cheeky, I've just got a lot of love to give. Barry."
She clicked refresh over and over until she got a reply. "Hiya Barry, I'd love to get together. I'm out of town until tomorrow night. Can we get together then?"
Emily thought for a little bit and then wrote back, "I know this is going to seem crazy, but I have the same name as you and I've been getting your emails the last couple of years. I'm not sure what happened but someone is mad at you for something, and they're going to do something terrible. What is your email address, I need to forward you something."
Ten minutes later: "Fuck off you wanker." Barry was blocked.
Emily opened the email with the budgie again and scrolled through the pictures, shuddering. She looked up the local police department and gave them a call. They listened for a couple of minutes and then asked her to wait. They must have put the phone down instead of putting it on hold, because she then heard a man's voice in the background: "We've got another one. She's fucking mental." She hung up and took a shower.
There was another email waiting. "IVE GOT ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD. THAT MAKES ONE OF US." There were pictures of her apartment, her bed, her computer, her cat. Emily threw her phone on the desk. She didn't know what to do. Something terrible was going to happen, and she didn't know how to stop it.
Two hours later, she was on her way to the airport. It would take 12 hours to get to London, then another two to get to Northampton. If everything worked out she'd be there a couple of hours before Emily got back into town. She paid for Internet on the plane, and made another Plenty of Fish profile. This time she was Michael, who played it cool but just wanted a squeeze on the old strawberry creams. She messaged UK Emily and said she was just going to be in Northampton for the weekend's veterinarian conference, and wanted to find someone to show him around.
"I'm not a slag," UK Emily told him, waiting to be assured that this was true. Michael told her that he was thinking of relocating to Northampton, and was hoping to find someone who would go with him to see the shoe museum. Her told her that his mates kept calling it the shoeseum, and that he loved to laugh. She agreed to meet him at the train station when she was coming back into town. They'd pop over to the pub for a pint, and if things went well they'd meet the next day for a tour of the old shoeseum.
She checked her email and found the last message from bhe. She wrote back and told him that she would meet him at the pub. How much was she supposed to bring? He told her to FUK OFF U KNOW WHAT YOU TOOK.
When they finally got to Heathrow she hailed a taxi and asked it to take her to the train going to Northampton. The driver told her that she looked fagged. She told him that she just flew over from the west coast of the US, and then before she knew it she had told him everything. "Blimey," he said, and told her that he'd take her all the way to Northampton. "The name's Pete, and I'd be a right bastard if I charged you after hearing that."
Pete took her to pub that UK Emily had suggested. He insisted on coming in and waiting with her, saying that he'd already blown a day of work and might as well go on holiday. He ordered them two full English breakfasts, and although she wasn't very hungry she picked at the bacon, fried bread, tomatoes, eggs, mushrooms, black pudding, sausages, and even the baked beans, which reminded Emily of all the American foods she disliked. Pete had a shandy while Emily sat staring at the door.
After a while, a man wearing a track suit bottom and a tight Northampton football club shirt came into the bar. He kept his hand in his pocket, and took a seat at the bar. When the barman came over, he told him to piss off. Surprisingly, the barman did.
Emily opened Plenty of Fish and sent a message from Michael. "Ordered a pint at the pub - should I order you something?"
"I'm so sorry, I just got off the train and am a right mess. Some twat spilled their coffee on the seat and I sat in it. I'm going to walk home and change. I'll meet you in a hour and a half if you're still up for it."
Michael asked if she wanted him to come by, but she didn't respond. After a couple of minutes, the man in the Cobblers shirt got up and skulked out the door. "I have to follow that man, Pete," Emily said. "Thank you so much for everything."
Pete stood up and told her that he had to see it through. They hurried out the door and saw the man walking west towards the high street. Emily grabbed a free paper out of a street box and opened it like she was reading it to him. They followed the man at a distance, stopping once and again to pretend to argue about where they were going.
At last the man stopped at the outside gate of a terrace house flat, which Emily remembered from the pictures. He looked around to see if anyone was near, then took a knife out of his pocket. He went inside and closed the door. Emily and Pete snuck up to the gate and let themselves in. They listened at the door. "What should we do?" Pete asked.
"She's going to be here soon. We should call the police."
"I'll ring them up," Pete said, but as he walked around the corner Emily got a notification on her phone.
It was a message from Plenty of Fish. "Hi Michael, ran into a friend outside the station and got a lift back to my flat. I'll be done in a couple of minutes. Why don't I just meet you at the pub like we planned?"
Emily pushed the door open and went inside. She slowly stepped up the stairs and into the flat proper. She could hear the shower going behind a closed door, but didn't see the man anywhere. "Who the fuck are you?" came a brusque voice from the shadows.
"My name is Emily. I'm from America, and I'm here to fuck you up!"
The man stepped out and flashed the knife at her. "Go home, cunt."
Emily moved behind the couch and grabbed the nearest heavy object, a barely-started-then-discarded copy of JK Rowling's The Casual Vacancy. The man surged forward, and Emily threw the book at him. It bounced off his shoulder and he grunted, then stabbed forward. She jumped to the right and threw her weight into his arm. He twirled away and dropped the knife. She jumped over the couch and kicked him in the back. He fell down on the ground. She put her hands on either side of his head and twisted. He shouted, "JESUS FUCK!" and grabbed at her hands.
Emily plopped down onto the ground and twisted his neck again. She was see-sawing it back and forth, turning it as far as she could. He screamed and screamed. The bathroom door opened, and UK Emily came out. She saw the two of them on the floor and started screaming herself. Emily twisted and twisted and twisted. She grabbed the man's chin and torqued his whole head back, slamming it back and down into the ground. His back cracked and his face snapped left, where it stuck. The man shrieked an awful noise like "Eeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaeeeee!"
"What the fuck? What the fuck!" UK Emily screamed. Pete burst in through the door and started shouting himself. She came behind Emily and tried to pull her off, but she wouldn't let go.
Emily bashed the man's face into the ground. His nose erupted in a cascade of blood and snot. She yanked hard, ripping off his ear and tossing it away. Her leg snaked over him and she arched back and with a nasty pop he suddenly went limp. She threw his body on the ground, hyperventilating, and pushed him away.
UK Emily grabbed the knife and ran into the bathroom and locked the door. Pete stared at the man's limp form on the floor and looked at Emily and kind of shuffled over behind the couch. She glared at him but he just shrugged and nodded at the mess she'd made.
"Can you go talk to her?" Emily said, walking into the kitchen to wash her hands. She watched out the window as flashing lights came down the street.
Once the police were inside, UK Emily finally agreed to open the bathroom door. She came out but wouldn't take her hand off her face until they threw a sheet over the body. "This is some kind of piss-up, right?" she kept saying as Emily explained what had happened.
The police wanted Emily to come down to the station, but she led them into the other room where the budgie cage was, and showed them the rest of UK Emily's cat withering on the fire escape. She opened the emails on her phone, and explained that she had tried to call the police department. She told them she just wanted to go home, back to America, where they only ate one fried meat per breakfast.
"Miss, what was this man asking you to give back?" the police questioned UK Emily.
"I don't even know, I've never seen him before. He's wearing a Cobblers shirt but he doesn't look like a Northampton man if I've ever seen one. Even footie fans here don't like the Cobblers. I wonder if it's about NI Emily." She explained that for the last several years she had been getting emails from an Emily that lived in Northern Ireland. "She's a right slag, always getting noties from Tinder and whatnot."
The police offered to give Emily a ride back to the airport, but at this point she'd had a very long series of days and could barely keep her eyes open. UK Emily offered to let her sleep in her guest room. She took Pete over to the pub and bought him a drink, saying that she couldn't bear to be in the house until they cleaned all the blood off the floor.
A couple of hours later, Emily woke up to the sound of UK Emily and Pete having a shag. They sounded pretty mashed and were both laughing their tits off, and she wondered if she'd stop getting PoF notifications soon. When she woke up in the morning they were both snoring, so she logged onto UK Emily's computer and downloaded her spreadsheet to the desktop. She left a note telling her that she had saved her life, and the least she could do was take her fucking email off all of these sites. P.S., she wrote, how did you mistype your own email so many fucking times?
Emily walked down to the train station and got a pass to London. She called work and told them she was going to take a few days off, and bought a guidebook. She hadn't planned to be on holiday, but she was damned if it wasn't going to be the dog's bollocks.
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