IckVikchok Gets Garbaged (a VickyChokWiQi parody story)
of
MM1302
genre
confessions
Ickvick was infamous in certain corners of DeviantArt—not for her art, mind you, but for her comments.
She never scrolled to admire. She scrolled to accuse.
“This is stolen.”
“This is problematic.”
“This artist is secretly evil, I can just tell.”
Receipts? Nah.
Context? Overrated.
Nuance? Blocked.
Ickvick’s page was pristine and self-righteous, plastered with long journal posts titled things like “CALL-OUT (IMPORTANT)” and “WHY YOU SHOULD ALL AGREE WITH ME (READ OR ELSE)”. Every post smelled faintly of moral superiority and cold microwaved spite.
One night, after firing off her 47th accusation of the day, Ickvick leaned back in her chair, smug and satisfied.
That’s when her screen flickered.
A pop-up appeared.
⚠️ SYSTEM MESSAGE ⚠️
“You are what you post.”
“Huh,” Ickvick scoffed. “Probably stolen code.”
Then the room began to smell… bad.
Like old fast food wrappers, spoiled milk, and a conventions’ worth of unwashed rage.
Her fingers stiffened.
Her skin turned a sickly greenish-yellow, like a banana peel that had seen things.
Her arms shrank and bloated at the same time, puffing up like overfilled trash bags tied too tight.
“What is HAPPENING?!” she shrieked—except her voice now sounded like a kazoo being stepped on.
Her face squished inward, eyes bulging unevenly. One eyebrow slid off her forehead entirely and plopped onto her cheek, where it stuck like gum under a desk. Her mouth stretched wide, permanently frozen in a sneer, with crooked teeth shaped suspiciously like broken comment bubbles.
With a final SPLORP, Ickvick completed her transformation.
Where a toxic DeviantArt user once stood was now a Garbage Pail Kid–style monstrosity:
A lumpy, sticker-ready body labeled “ICK VICK – TRASH TALKER”
A hoodie fused to her skin, stained with digital sludge
Arms overflowing with crumpled screenshots labeled “PROOF (TRUST ME)”
A trash can lid halo hovering above her head, dented and rattling every time she tried to speak
She waddled to a mirror and gasped.
“I’M— I’M FANART OF MYSELF?!”
Every time she tried to accuse someone, her mouth instead spat out soggy paper slips reading:
“Context Missing.”
“Source: Vibes.”
“Maybe Log Off.”
Her notifications began to flood in—not call-outs, not drama—but cheerful little messages from artists she’d once harassed:
“Wow, great parody!”
“Love the gross expression!”
“Is this a Garbage Pail Kid OC?”
Worst of all?
They liked her better this way.
Reduced to a waddling cautionary sticker, Ickvick was finally what she’d always been inside:
a loud, sticky, exaggerated mess—harmless now, and impossible to take seriously.
And somewhere, deep in the internet’s recycling bin, the system message blinked one last time:
She never scrolled to admire. She scrolled to accuse.
“This is stolen.”
“This is problematic.”
“This artist is secretly evil, I can just tell.”
Receipts? Nah.
Context? Overrated.
Nuance? Blocked.
Ickvick’s page was pristine and self-righteous, plastered with long journal posts titled things like “CALL-OUT (IMPORTANT)” and “WHY YOU SHOULD ALL AGREE WITH ME (READ OR ELSE)”. Every post smelled faintly of moral superiority and cold microwaved spite.
One night, after firing off her 47th accusation of the day, Ickvick leaned back in her chair, smug and satisfied.
That’s when her screen flickered.
A pop-up appeared.
⚠️ SYSTEM MESSAGE ⚠️
“You are what you post.”
“Huh,” Ickvick scoffed. “Probably stolen code.”
Then the room began to smell… bad.
Like old fast food wrappers, spoiled milk, and a conventions’ worth of unwashed rage.
Her fingers stiffened.
Her skin turned a sickly greenish-yellow, like a banana peel that had seen things.
Her arms shrank and bloated at the same time, puffing up like overfilled trash bags tied too tight.
“What is HAPPENING?!” she shrieked—except her voice now sounded like a kazoo being stepped on.
Her face squished inward, eyes bulging unevenly. One eyebrow slid off her forehead entirely and plopped onto her cheek, where it stuck like gum under a desk. Her mouth stretched wide, permanently frozen in a sneer, with crooked teeth shaped suspiciously like broken comment bubbles.
With a final SPLORP, Ickvick completed her transformation.
Where a toxic DeviantArt user once stood was now a Garbage Pail Kid–style monstrosity:
A lumpy, sticker-ready body labeled “ICK VICK – TRASH TALKER”
A hoodie fused to her skin, stained with digital sludge
Arms overflowing with crumpled screenshots labeled “PROOF (TRUST ME)”
A trash can lid halo hovering above her head, dented and rattling every time she tried to speak
She waddled to a mirror and gasped.
“I’M— I’M FANART OF MYSELF?!”
Every time she tried to accuse someone, her mouth instead spat out soggy paper slips reading:
“Context Missing.”
“Source: Vibes.”
“Maybe Log Off.”
Her notifications began to flood in—not call-outs, not drama—but cheerful little messages from artists she’d once harassed:
“Wow, great parody!”
“Love the gross expression!”
“Is this a Garbage Pail Kid OC?”
Worst of all?
They liked her better this way.
Reduced to a waddling cautionary sticker, Ickvick was finally what she’d always been inside:
a loud, sticky, exaggerated mess—harmless now, and impossible to take seriously.
And somewhere, deep in the internet’s recycling bin, the system message blinked one last time:
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