Chapter 2: The Birth of Nigel

Chapter 2: The Birth of Nigel

Navigating the Tractor Supply Co. website was, for Art, like exploring the ruins of a lost civilization. One built in 2003 and never updated. The user interface was a masterpiece of digital neglect, a chaotic jumble of oversized buttons, clashing fonts, and low-resolution images of impossibly cheerful farmers. It was slow. It was clumsy. It was perfect. A less secure system, he mused, would be difficult to design on purpose.

He clicked into Jedidiah’s account dashboard. The number sat there, glowing with a kind of holy, agrarian light: 897 Points. The system helpfully informed him, via a flashing star-shaped graphic, that 1000 points could be redeemed for a $10 Off Your Next Purchase coupon.

Art let out a short, sharp laugh. All that dedication—the loyal purchasing of chicken feed, engine oil, and mysterious ‘Bale Spears’—all for a tenner. He could make that much in the time it took his Nespresso machine to warm up. The sheer, unadulterated smallness of Jedidiah’s ambition was breathtaking. It wasn’t even a goal; it was a rounding error. And yet, to this man in Tennessee, it was clearly the summit of his Everest.

This, Art decided, was the core of the operation. He couldn’t just steal the points. That was blunt. Vulgar. It lacked the artistic flourish this situation demanded. A simple theft would result in a simple complaint. No, Jedidiah couldn’t think he was robbed. He needed to be bewildered. He needed to question the very fabric of his digital reality.

His eyes scanned the navigation bar. My Profile. Purchase History. Redeem Points. He clicked the last one.

The rewards page was a digital shrine to frugal, rural life. For 1000 points, the coveted $10 coupon. For 2500, a free Tractor Supply branded baseball cap that Art was certain came with a complimentary scent of manure. For a staggering 5000 points, a branded thermal flask. The banality was almost overwhelming.

But then, tucked away below the main attractions, he saw a smaller section: Convert Points to Product Vouchers!.

His smirk returned. Oh, this was much, much better.

A list of products appeared, each with a point value. A voucher for a free pair of work gloves (350 points). A voucher for a bag of premium wild bird seed (500 points). It was a menu of mundane possibilities. He scrolled down, his eyes scanning for the perfect instrument of chaos. He cross-referenced the list with his mental image of Jed’s purchase history. Jed bought dog food for his loyal canine companion, Buster (the name was on the account details, under an optional ‘Pet Profile’ section that was otherwise empty). He bought tools. He bought parts for machinery.

And then he saw it. An item so exquisitely useless, so perfectly tailored to be an object of pure confusion, it was as if the gods of petty revenge had placed it there just for him.

Voucher: One (1) 3lb Bag of Purr-fect Catch Cat Treats, Salmon Flavor - 200 points.

Cat treats.

For a man who, according to years of data, owned only a dog named Buster.

It was magnificent. It was a surgical strike. Spending all the points would be too obvious. But bleeding them, 200 at a time, on something utterly worthless to the recipient? That was art.

With the glee of a concert pianist hitting a final chord, he clicked ‘Redeem’. The system asked him to confirm. Are you sure you want to spend 200 points on a Cat Treat Voucher?

He clicked ‘Yes’ so hard he almost rattled the mouse.

A moment later, the points total in the corner of the screen ticked down. 697 Points. Jedidiah was now further from his goal than he’d been before his last shopping trip. The voucher, the system informed him, was now saved to his account, ready to be claimed in-store. Art pictured the scene: Jedidiah, proudly approaching the checkout, asking for his discount, only to be told he didn’t have enough points, but he did have a coupon for salmon-flavored cat snacks. The thought was so delicious he nearly giggled.

But the masterpiece was not yet complete. This was merely the opening act. He had created an effect, but he had not yet established a cause. Why would Jedidiah Stone, dog owner, suddenly develop a need for cat treats? The account needed a story. A cover.

He navigated back to the My Profile section. There it was: the mostly empty ‘Pet Profile’ form. Pet’s Name: Buster. Pet Type: Dog. Simple. Clean. Boring.

Art clicked ‘Add a New Pet’.

The blank fields beckoned, a canvas for his absurdity.

Pet’s Name: He typed slowly, savoring each letter. N-I-G-E-L. It sounded serious. British. Profoundly out of place.

Pet Type: The dropdown menu offered the expected choices. Dog, Cat, Horse, Chicken, Goat. Art ignored it and typed directly into the ‘Other’ field. G-O-R-I-L-L-A.

Pet’s Weight: This required a certain flair. A number that felt both specific and vaguely sinister. He typed 666 lbs.

Special Dietary Needs / Notes: This was the kill shot. This was where the narrative would be born. He paused, crafting the sentence in his head before committing it to the digital stone of the Tractor Supply Co. database. His fingers danced across the keyboard.

Nigel is a picky eater. He is currently pregnant and only enjoys salmon-flavored treats for his morning sickness. Please be quiet around him, he’s very sensitive.

He read it back, his lips curled in a silent, delighted laugh. Pregnant. A pregnant male gorilla. Named Nigel. Who weighed 666 pounds and required salmon-flavored cat treats for his morning sickness. It was a symphony of nonsense, a narrative so profoundly illogical that no sane person could possibly have invented it by accident. It was a digital fingerprint that could only belong to a ghost.

He clicked ‘Save Profile’.

The page refreshed. Now, under Jedidiah Stone’s account details, nestled right below ‘Buster the Dog’, was a new entry: ‘Nigel the Gorilla’.

Art leaned back, stretching his arms above his head, a wave of deep, profound satisfaction washing over him. He had spent a fraction of his enemy’s precious points. He had created a useless voucher for a useless product. And he had populated his nemesis’s account with a 666-pound pregnant gorilla with a delicate disposition.

He had not merely disrupted Jedidiah’s quest for a ten-dollar discount. He had planted a seed of pure, unadulterated madness. Now, all he had to do was wait for it to sprout.

With a final, satisfied click, he logged out, leaving the digital ghost of Nigel the gorilla to haunt the servers of the Tractor Supply Co., patiently awaiting its next feeding. The drizzle outside had stopped, but the game, Art knew, had only just begun.