It could have been the perfect romcom. An ad was placed on Craigslist by a parent looking for a woman to tutor their son in feminism. The scene is set. Casting: Mark Ruffalo as the hapless student. As the world-weary feminist sent to save him, a woman who has a PhD in Women’s Studies but knows nothing about love, it’s Jennifer Lawrence, tripping into a café called JavaScript with the adorable clumsiness of a You’ve Been Framed cat. Last week the ad was removed, but I reproduce it here:

“My son, Nate, is 22 and a student at UCLA. He has been struggling with his gender studies class… and he has a big paper due in a few weeks. He’s a very typical young man his age – finds the whole idea of feminism and gender studies boring. However his graduation is dependent on successfully finishing this class.

“I’m looking for someone who is knowledgeable in this subject and can meet with him 2-3 times a week and help him develop and bring this paper to fruition… You can either meet him here, at any campus library or over lunch (he’s quite the sophisticated young man who enjoys elegant restaurants!)’’

If this was a film, Jennifer Lawrence would have read it to her best friend, a sassy African-American nail art technician with a hazy backstory. They would have become incensed at what this told us about the state of the world, parenting, privilege and the problem with men. But she needs the money – she’s just left her cheating boyfriend and his beautiful apartment.

In real life, the ad went viral. So numerous reporters emailed the mother, who put them in touch with her son, Nate Schermer. He said they’d received plenty of responses including, Schermer told the Daily Dot, some that were “nasty”. “People just assume things about people without even checking,” he said. Except sometimes people check. The first clue that Nate was not who he claimed to be was when his professor said she’d never heard of him. The second was when he stopped responding.

The people who trade in targeted abuse online exist in real life too. They live, shop, work. They wait

Slate reporter Ruth Graham discovered “Nate” was 27-year-old Nader Modgeddi. The first thing that appears when you Google his name is a warning: “He is a psychopath who abuses women.” Forty pages of his tweets are compiled on anti-harassment site Male Violence. “You’re a former prostitute with Multiple men who took a dump in you, you’re worthless :)” “Fuck you object ;)” In a 2014 column in the Guardian, Caitlin Roper wrote about her Twitter profile being copied to pimp her out for sex: “Tweets were sent out in my name claiming that I enjoyed being raped.” She went to the police – the sender was identified as Modgeddi. “He is so brazen about his incitement to rape me, so sure of his invulnerability, that he barely even tried to conceal his real identity.”

Modgeddi responded to reporters with a pic-n-mix of stories. The ad was a “social experiment” to tap into a “type of anger”, he told Attn.com. His later quotes suggest a person caught in headlights, squinting. “Women say they’re feminist but don’t support other people ,” he said in response to the comments around his hoax. “See, that’s not real feminism.” “Moral of the story,” he told the Daily Dot: “Dear Internet – know a troll when you see one.”

What would have happened if he hadn’t been exposed? What would the woman find when she arrived at the “elegant restaurant” with a copy of How to be a Woman and a new fineliner pen? There is no Pantone name for the darkness of a man who threatens women with rape online then attempts to lure one to meet him. The internet is often discussed as a place separate from the real world. But the people who trade in targeted abuse online exist in real life too. They live, shop, work. They post adverts. They wait.

In a romcom the story would have had a happier ending. Ninety minutes in, cut to the student standing at the tutor’s window at dusk shouting: “I am pro-choice. And I choose… love!” Just when he is about to give up, a flaming bundle drops from the window. A burning bra. He looks up to see she has shed her androgynous clothes, and with them, all barriers to happiness. As their eyes meet, we hear the opening chords of “Boys Don’t Cry”.

Yeah, that’s how it should have gone.

Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.uk or follow her on Twitter @EvaWiseman