Chapter 1: The Intersection of Despair

In the stillness of a quiet night, my car sat alone at a four-way intersection, the traffic lights blinking red, signaling it was time to stop. This late-night ritual often felt more like a stop sign after hours. On this particular evening, the weight of a stressful night hung over me. My ex-wife had vented her frustrations for what felt like an eternity, berating me for allowing our son, Tyler, to skip school to grab lunch with me. I argued it wasn’t a big deal—just gym class. After all, Tyler was already a cross-country runner, and gym wasn’t exactly vital for someone who jogged five miles daily.

My ex had a knack for turning a single topic into a tirade about everything she loathed about me. Engaging in conflict was pointless; it was easier to let her exhaust herself, like a fire that slowly dwindles to red coals as she shut the door in my face.

As I sat at that flashing light, I searched for a lighter. My foot pressed firmly on the brake, I rummaged through the center console, scattering scraps of paper and fast-food napkins without success. Frustrated, I switched the car into park and opened the glove compartment. Among the clutter—a pocketknife, the spliff I longed to light, scattered papers, a tire pressure gauge, an expired condom, and a tiny pair of mittens—there was no lighter in sight. I held the spliff delicately between my fingers, inhaling deeply to savor the scent, the aroma enveloping my mind like a comforting embrace. The traffic lights continued to flash, urging me onward, but I needed to ignite the spliff to escape the echo of my ex-wife's voice, which rang louder than the persistent hum of my tinnitus.

Surveying my surroundings revealed no other cars. It was dark outside, the outskirts of a small town, so I hardly expected much traffic. Nonetheless, I activated my hazard lights in case someone pulled up and wondered about my peculiar behavior. I bent down, sucking in my stomach, and felt underneath the seat with the back of my hand. Dirt and sand accumulated under my nails, a reminder of my neglect. Tyler always commented on how disgusting my nails were—sorry, kid, not everyone types for a living like your stepdad. I felt some loose change and what I hoped was a peanut but quickly realized it was just a pebble. Tossing it aside, I listened to a radio commercial promoting life insurance, a grim reminder of mortality.

Frantically, I searched my car, fixated on finding that lighter. If I had just driven straight home, I would have already lit the spliff. My stash of lighters was waiting for me there. Yet, it was more about the thrill of the hunt than the actual need to smoke. In retrospect, amid all that anger, I found a strange enjoyment in the search.

With no success inside the car, I resolved to try my last option. Outside, the night air was still chilly, and I shivered as I acclimated to the cold, my shoulders twitching like I was trying to dance to a tune I couldn't quite catch. On either side of the road lay empty fields, the soil hardened by the cold. I noticed an opossum scuttling along the roadside, and I pondered its feelings about the field—was it a home filled with endless food, or merely a muddy prison?

I pressed the spliff against the tailpipe, attempting a trick I once saw my friend use with a cigarette. I wasn’t sure if it would work, but I squatted there for what felt like ages, trying to coax some flame into it. After several attempts and a few inhales of thick exhaust, I finally managed to spark it up. The initial puffs were uneven, but the taste was smooth, a delightful blend of lemony weed and metallic tobacco. Sitting in my car, the warmth of the heater on my face, I exhaled the smoke, a mixture of good and bad—good from the spliff, and bad represented by my ex-wife. I didn’t care when the spliff extinguished a third of the way through; it felt like a small victory to have lit it in the first place.

How to Draw Evil Grin - YouTube

This video tutorial breaks down the steps to create an "Evil Grin" drawing, perfect for those looking to capture this unique expression.

Chapter 2: The Influence of Digital Culture

A few days later, it was November 2nd, and I found myself chatting with Tyler in my apartment.

“Cable TV surprises you. And I love surprises. It’s just the right amount of choice to not feel overwhelmed,” I remarked.

He looked up from his phone, unimpressed. “It sucks. There are commercials. YouTube is way better. I have an ad blocker.”

I sighed inwardly; I despised the endless options on YouTube. I craved the simplicity of traditional TV—just feed me the content, like a baby with a spoonful of mush. I’d never confessed my preference to Tyler; instead, I played along with his opinions. “What do you even watch on YouTube?”

“It’s not about what, but who,” he replied.

Standing behind the recliner, I didn’t want to sit but felt awkward lingering in the middle of the room. I yearned for a new persona, having grown weary of my own, which felt like a burden. I was overweight, indulged in vices, and apart from Tyler, had little to show for my life. I recognized there were ways to improve, but I lacked the willpower or motivation. Even in the presence of loved ones, my body felt like an ill-fitted shell for a messy soul. “Okay, who do you watch?” I asked.

“It's imperative that you watch Adamadama,” he said, trying out a new word. It made him sound a bit nerdy, but hey, I preferred my son be a nerd than ignorant.

How to Draw an Evil Grin - YouTube

In this engaging video, learn how to draw the iconic Evil Grin, exploring techniques to capture its sinister charm.

Chapter 3: The Dark Side of the Internet

Tyler was away for the week, and as my only child, his absence meant a rare chance to unwind. We shared custody equally, and it cost a fortune to prove my capability as a father. I even had to take a drug test, which I passed after a grueling four weeks of sobriety.

Reclining in my lazy-boy, I relished the aroma of a freshly rolled spliff—Blue Dream mixed with long-cut Kentucky tobacco, nestled in a simple rolling paper. This was my Friday night ritual when Tyler was gone. I opened Adamadama’s YouTube page, excited to check out the latest video. After a lengthy intro, Adamadama burst onto the screen, full of energy, his spiky blue hair resembling a cartoon character.

“This video is all about the ‘evil grin’ movement!” he exclaimed. “If death freaks you out, skip this video and check out something featuring cute cats instead.”

What was this Adam guy all about? I continued watching, intrigued that Tyler found this YouTuber engaging.

“Are the evil grinners a movement? A group? A cult? A sickness? I’m not sure! They claim to be pure evil. Oooohh. They post videos of their own suicides, and each one ends with the same chilling mantra: ‘We are the evil. We rid the earth of our parasitic entropy in our last effort to save ourselves.’ A bit much, I know. The oldest evil grin video I found is only a month old, so this is relatively new.”

He showed an image of the typical evil grin mask—large bloodshot eyes, bulging black pupils, spotted skin, and an oversized, toothy grin. I hated those bloodshot eyes. I paused the video to take a closer look. Adamadama continued, “During the act, they always wear the mask—this is crucial. Most videos are posted on TikTok, YouTube, Twitch, and Line, which is popular in Japan. So, did evil grin originate in Japan? They do have a high suicide rate, but so does the US. Just so you know, those countries don’t have the highest rates—according to Wikipedia, Guyana and Lesotho lead the way.”

As he speculated about evil grin, he ended the video with crude jokes about suicide, his upbeat demeanor contrasting sharply with the somber topic. He seemed unfazed by the tragedy unfolding before him. There was no buildup; he jumped straight into discussing teen suicide. I wished for a drink to accompany my spliff.

I reached for my phone, catching my reflection—a lazy smile gracing my face, the expression of someone lulled by social media and drugs. I texted Tyler.

“Did you see Adamadama’s evil grin video?”

“Yeah! That was wild. Finally trying out YouTube? About time haha.”

“Have you heard anything else about evil grin?”

“Nope, Adam’s video was all I’ve seen. It’s messed up, but people die all the time. I hope they found peace before they passed.”

“Me too.”

I quickly googled “evil grin” and stumbled upon a Reddit thread discussing it.

The conversations on Reddit offered a mix of insight and absurdity. One post detailed college drinking games based on evil grin, betting on the outcomes of videos. It spread like wildfire across Instagram and chat rooms. I lost track of how many evil grin videos I watched that night—mostly young, white males between 16 and 25. It was both heartbreaking and alarming. I sensed that this phenomenon was poised to explode into the mainstream.

The comments section was often more disturbing than the videos. The most upvoted comments typically included information on the deceased and ways to support their families, while others offered dark humor to alleviate the tension. The comments often fell into predictable patterns of empathy, jokes, and condemnation. The videos gained more views by the day, and it felt like it was only a matter of time before evil grin became a household name.

Chapter 4: The Mainstream Awakening

A week later, I was making sandwiches on my George Foreman grill while the news hummed in the background. Snow drifted lazily outside, and I felt an unusual sense of domesticity. I tuned into the BBC, hoping to seem worldly for Tyler, who was deeply engrossed in a game on his phone.

The anchor’s cheerful face illuminated the screen. “Tonight, we delve into a shocking underground internet death cult known as ‘Evil Grin.’” They had coined the term officially.

The anchor continued, “It gained international notoriety when a college baseball player from New Jersey livestreamed his suicide on Facebook just two days ago. His name was Leonard Van Steinberg, or Len, as his friends called him.” She described how Len started the stream cheerfully, discussing positive changes, all while donning his baseball uniform. “We cannot and will not show his evil grin video, and Facebook has removed it.”

I caught the scent of Tyler’s sandwich burning. “Shit.” I rushed to the grill while keeping my eyes glued to the television.

“You burned my food,” Tyler mumbled, oblivious.

“I’ll make another.” I tossed the charred sandwich into the overflowing trash, a task I loathed due to the sharp stench reminding me of mortality. At some point, we all end up at the bottom of a trash bin, and the more it stinks, the more I feel death encroaching on my insides.

“Mhm,” Tyler replied, barely registering my words.

I pressed down on the George Foreman, flattening the panini, and returned my attention to the news. “Toward the end of the video, Leonard donned the trademark Evil Grin mask, revealing he had carved smiley faces down his left arm with a sharp object. His right arm bore the words ‘PURE EVIL.’ He then recited Evil Grin’s mantra before leaping off the roof of his college dorm, eight stories high, keeping the camera trained on his masked face throughout the fall. The footage cut off when he hit the ground.”

In that moment, I f