Whence Cometh Evil

Whence Cometh Evil

Alexey LeVigne

While he stood firmly next to his duffle at the beginning of the stretched dock, Preston Schafer’s eyes rippled over the sandy grooves beneath a flexing surface, out toward where freshwater began to shimmer against the hot blue sky. Two white stripes sprayed from the stern of the largest boat on Higgins Lake, which was cruising swiftly away. He saw him. Preston was feeling—you know the feeling when, afterward, you are very pleased with your choices, kind of like you are giddy, maybe like you want to talk to strangers?

He couldn’t think of the last time he’d had a day so fiery and lovely. Even the light wind was hot, and it had a glorious nakedness in its scent. Only a couple of months bring this sensation to northern Michigan. The suffocated skin he’d worn for so long finally gasped and panted the deep summer air. It’d been a while since he had felt this enthusiastic about anything.

Look at him now, not simply pleased to discover that one of his theories was consistent in his lonely room. No, he decided to do something this time. Before, any half-hearted effort he could muster led to more paranoia, insomnia, and reclusion. He must ultimately succumb to purpose. Through this submission, in some way from somewhere in the universe, the powers that supported all the great doers and defenders who crossed giants in history would channel to him. Whether he succeeded or failed was not dependent on whether he lived or died.

He would need to be cautious. Yet, he slowly strode out onto the dock, contradicting the thought, and away from the brown wet sand. He hadn’t totally planned this out, but he had to finally do something.

The old Preston would never be walking on this man’s dock, out in the open, in the center of an arena. No longer did he care who saw him. Never again would he sling his head back and forth over his shoulders while he sheepishly passed out flyers that everyone threw away. Every time, it ended up being a waste of $30.41 and one public appearance—an asinine identity risk.

His thoughts were clearer than the water on each side of him. Shallow for so long, six feet, seven feet, eight feet, twelve feet—he could still see the bottom. The dock’s length was commensurate to the yacht it fastened. What’s that at the bottom? Zebra Mussels? Fucking kidding me? How? This lake was barely connected to the Greats. Probably because of rich assholes like this guy, Andrew, who just sent their yachts anywhere they wanted, from puddle to puddle, bringing invasive species after invasive species in—uhh, ballast water, yeah, that’s it—probably only so they have an excuse to put chemical treatments in the water. Then, they could mask dangerous or controlling substances in those chemical and lead the destruction, floating out to sea, engorging their yachts with limited, war-fueling oil that Rockefeller unnecessarily pimped the United States into developing a total addiction for, creating the corporate cartel of political investment, legislators voting with guns to their temples, keeping the sustainable options stifled, the research they paid for to discredit how much more sense even ethanol would make!

They were always up to something. Preston couldn’t fight all the fights. Stick to the purpose. Besides, how could the man know? Born, obliviously fucked into his comfortable class—what else could kings know?

Andrew had made some bad choices, which were going to have a devastating impact, but he was ketchup. The thought actually made Preston grin as he reached the end of the dock he was trespassing on. This gazillionaire—as sauce, for potato sticks.

Standing on the two-by-four construction, he pictured the man as a little white cup of shiny red ketchup. He was once a ripe tomato, not even aware of the fact that he was now a condiment, complimentary paste. Served with cola, fries, and a burger—a bit of red sweetness on the side to cover up the taste of shit. Does it taste good enough? Can the flavors decipher the recipe? Can we place this on a menu and get a third row of digits to post “999 million proudly served” to the sign? Who is eating it up with ketchup? Who’s just eating it?

Preston wasn’t after the cola or even the cheeseburger of the orchestration. Ketchup is far from a meal; it is the background. Yet, it’s just important enough to fuck your day up when you are someone who tries casting himself as a perfect image. He was after the man who took the first bite and said it was delicious. He was after Ronald fuckin’ McDonald.

Preston’s loose plan was to get everyone’s attention, spill a tiny cup of ketchup all over that awful clown, and watch with everyone else for a true malevolent nature to emerge in the hostility of reaction. Tomorrow could be the first day of many more lies, or the first day of our government as a police state.

⇒

Drew was gasping; hiking his knees up high as he attempted to race through short water and sinking sand. He sprinted like he did on his private school’s track, when there wasn’t water drudgingly resisting. The water wasn’t there—keep running—it was going to get shallower. He ran like he did down fields and up courts. Three season varsity lettermen pulled ass like you could not believe. The tushy currently separated from Drew’s shoulders by metallic pink bikini bottoms could vouch.

He looked to his left and saw his competition struggling to stand. The dude almost buckin’ bronco’d the chick into the water. He smirked. The sandy floor he dashed across climbed out of the water. Winning was in his nature.

Shit, it was in his genes. His grandpa was a winner—he put the last of his savings into a young telephone service provider venture.

This señorita—was it Carmen? Or Carley?—slid down his body like a firewoman and they both scrambled toward the plastic table set up on the beach.

His dad won when he studied business administration and became the CEO of the nationally known company, Torch Telecommunication, while Grandpa still controlled 51% of its stock.

His eyes peered past the steadily tilting bottle of Corona and toward the tan chick in the pink bikini. How old was she? Shit, he had not figured that out yet and now he was playing drinking games with her friends on the party beach of Flynn Island.

Hell, the whole Borden family benefitted luxuriously when Grandpa did finally sell his large piece of the pie and spread the deliciousness among his kin. Not to mention the additional bonuses distributed from a whipped cream will.

Drew and Car were going to be the champs here. The two tossed the tequila back into their skulls while their opponents had only just cracked their bottles.

When his father died, the mobile division was primitive in comparison to their competitors’ recent developments. The victor he was, Drew took over as CEO after graduating with a bachelor’s in business. Shortly after, he made a dicey decision for his company. Fortunately, it led to a quicker growth in customers than ever before. It allowed them to release a new variety of mobile products made with technologies that other companies hadn’t even begun to research.

So, he won again. He and his partner embraced to celebrate. It was too easy. Dropping the yacht’s anchor was always enough to get some fine thing to nearly simultaneously drop her bottoms.

His days in high school necessitated just a tad more effort, more reliance on his charm. He needed to make a big play in the game, then he pampered her with compliments, then he swore he wasn’t using her for sex, then he made sure he was her ride home, and then he banged her in his cramped Lincoln off a curb somewhere in her parent’s subdivision.

These days, he’d say, Shall we swim over to Gloria and have glass of 50 year Glenfiddich? Or perhaps you like bubbles, some Krug, Clos d’Ambonnay 1998? I have two bottles from a legendary acre of vineyard in Champagne. Either way, I’m starting you girls off with the best tonight.

Nah, he had spared the good stuff this time. He could tell that these were the types who came up north to party hard. Once Drew killed some time getting shitty with these Michiganders, he had decided to cruise back alone to his dock.

As he propelled onward, he saw his next-door neighbor, Mr. Finnegan, floating on his pontoon and casting a line into the middle of the lake. He was a nice, older man. Drew slowed his ship to spare the angler’s efforts from his wake and gave the horn two toots.

He usually spoke with the man at some point during his trips to his lake house. Typically, he’d shout out, How’s the fishing been! or, Anyone break in my windows while I was gone from paradise? but he was a little drunk and needed to get back to his place. Finnegan was kind, but truthfully, his chipped and appalling green pontoon disgusted Drew.

Drew’s mansion in Michigan was still just a gray dot interrupting the ring of darkening green growth that ran all along the edge of Higgins. He poured a personally sized dram of that single malt into a snifter to sip throughout the rest of the ride back. His focus tonight was to flush his mind and nurse every drop of relaxation from an evening that he seldom could have for himself.

The sun warmed its color as it descended behind Drew. There was still day left, but the world was gaining a roasted tint, threatening nightfall. The aromatic essences of his scotch distracted his senses and sped up the sailing. The gray dot was soon before him as a white stone castle at the other end of his dock. It was solid and modern in its blocky, geometric architecture. If pentelic marble did well for Greece, it’d do well for his getaway home. With his Princess now secured, he hopped down with a wobble onto the wooden dock to begin a stroll toward his Parthenon.

Keys in hand, he sauntered over his patio, passing the in-ground cement and stone fire pit he had constructed. Suddenly, his head heavily jolted forward. He felt a sharp pain, just glimpsed the concrete step as it rushed toward his eyes, then blackness dissolved sensation.

⇐

EEEEEEHHHHHHHHHH!

The jarring buzz of the break bell dictated the lives of those on the clock in the poorly lit Trenton, Michigan Dodge contract seat plant. Preston put down his screw gun and walked toward the contrasting rectangle of bright salvation created by the late morning sun which hung on the other side of the doorway. Everyone walked outside because the break bell said they could. The bell told them when they could sit, eat, shit, pray, piss.

He lit a worthless cigarette in his ’95 Taurus and rolled down all his windows to let the feeble breeze try to carry some of the heat out of his muggy, sunbaked interior. Each with their own vices, he saw his co-workers pile into cars through wispy gray tentacles. It was the first fifteen-minute break of the shift. 10:15 AM, and all around him, Preston saw people scurrying from the lines to the lot, loading themselves up like cocaine-addicted mice when the maze’s gate was dropped.

Mountain Dews cracked then fizzed, marijuana sparked then crackled, vodka bubbled over Aquafinas, energy drinks popped and fizzed, pill bottles rattled, chew tins smacked, smacked. All they did for thirteen minutes straight was sip, toke, sip, pop, drag, and sip in a mission to get as many different buzzes going in their chemical loop before the break bell told them to manufacture car seats again.

His breaks were spent thinking, even as stereos in the parking lot worshipped heavy metal and Little Wayne. It’d been three weeks since he learned that Andrew Borden would be visiting his place on Higgins Lake, and a week since he figured out exactly where it was. He had not been good at going out in public with his studies in the past. Before this idea swept him up over the last few weeks, he was very panicky about being too loud demonstrating his horrendous findings to the public. Imagine what they’d do to him, easier than abracadabra.

EEEEEEHHHHHHHHHH!

The mindlessness of his job let him leave his thoughts outside of the hot aluminum warehouse where they could breathe. The day was here, and he didn’t feel as shaky about the plan as he did three weeks ago when he first had the thought. He was more scared than motivated then.

Maybe it was looking around at some of the thugs he worked next to, some of the half-alive women with teeth falling from their gums—maybe that stoked the little flame inside him. Not because he couldn’t bear the sight of them, he’d worked with these types for ten years, but because he knew that it wasn’t their fault—the odds have always been against most of them.

When naked women and American dreams endorsed poison in a can during the most watched television event of the year, how can you blame families for being battered beaten and torn apart after a few gulps?

He needed to break the cycle and make a move. He needed to grab the culprits by the collar, shaking and saying, Hey you swine! They don’t want or deserve to be pumped full of shit you offer them as sustenance! They built your car, this house!

All would benefit from exposing the facts, and it was not like he was really going to hurt Andrew. He would go home today and pack a duffle bag with supplies.

Bizzclick, the heavy screw gun snapped into position each plastic cap he drilled, before he pushed the bucket seat along the track to Alfie for a torque. He was going to get gear, bizzclick, get in his white hoopty, bizzclick, and stake out Andrew Borden’s lake house. First, he needed to remember to swipe some bits for his drill before he left work.

⇒

Mr. Borden, your vehicle is waiting outside for you, sir, said an older guy sweating in an orange polo with a black cap and a Detroit Metro Airport worker pass clipped to black slacks. Detroit still had some of the biggest faggots out of all the cities in the world. Andrew Borden III, and call him Drew if you somehow end up on a first name basis, is the 24 years young, 1 year old CEO of perhaps the fastest growing cellular service company in the United States, Torch Mobile.

The fortunate bit about being in his position is that, when Drew didn’t feel like he could utter a single word to someone, he didn’t. Take the pathetically eager man here in front of him, who is likely much more than twice Drew’s age, ogling with widening eyes and wet lips for what he expects, after seeing the ride outside, to be an Independence Day bonus or some shit.

Speak? Play along with you like old television, like goddamn Leave it to Beaver right here in the hangar? Have a chat pretending like we kiss each other’s wives on the cheek, like we’re not strangers? Like we’re not liable to never meet again after this moment? Here’s to the twenty-first century, sir.

Instead, Drew said nothing. He gave the guy a hard stare, not moving a muscle in his face. He got up out of his seat, and continued with his hollow expression, glaring at the old man in orange. Even behind his custom Versace sunglasses, his eyes pierced with iciness that could bring a hot stinking day in the D to absolute fucking zero.

Once the victim realized what was happening to him, the cheery hearth inside him was rapidly smothered. The bulbous cheeks, the happy eyes—squashed, dulled. As the edges of those eyes turned down in terror, Drew reached into the breast of his suit jacket and handed the man a Benjamin for telling him that the car was here.

He spared the other valet who actually drove his custom Aston Martin Vanquish up, and gave him two Benjis. Sir! the valet began, Thank you so very much, Si--

The car’s door smacked shut and Drew avoided the headache by whizzing off to the highways heading toward I-75 north. As he zoomed over the white dashes he felt prying glances from Wayne County residents. His tints were as dark as the midnight coat of his whip. He knew what they were saying, it was, Who drives that thing? Must be filthy rich. Yep! He’s a coke dealer alright! She’s probably got a bankin’ daddy. Someone robbed a vault, I wanna fuck him, let’s jump her ass!

What they didn’t know, and what he would keep to himself behind the tints, was that he’s got eleven more sets of wheels valued similarly to the bad boy right here. But modesty was necessary. Downriver fuckwads were dumb enough to rip off your shit—even if the insurance was more than their mortgage.

He continued on a fine ride north, aware of the stressful edges that work often pushed him toward. Relaxation was the purpose of his overnight holiday. Speeding along smoothly, he left the factories and work and smog and duties in the dust of Detroit for the clean up-north air. That cliché, “the journey is the destination,” was born on I-75 northbound in Michigan.

As he went, everything changed from disgusting to enchanting, beginning with that pile of rot off the river and ending with the miles of wondrous thick in the U.P. that led to Lake Superior. No matter where you got off this northern path, the land would be more untouched than off any other exit south.

Drew made the unwinding journey when he was empty of executive energy. He would never know the repulsiveness of the ride back to Wayne County. His imagination led him to form a ritual out of soaring his $50 million Gulfstream G550 to California from Charlevoix—only about an hour drive from his place on Higgins.

Drew’s car spoke. He was receiving a call from his assistant and he’d better not be calling about some fucking science fair to deal with on a calming night off. Like the southwestern base stations fiasco. He pressed a button. Yeah, said the handsome man to the glossy dashboard.

Mr. Borden, I am pleased to inform you, Eric began, I got Monica on the hook, man! Going to that seafood joint tonight!

Nice, bro, Drew said, I was about to ask for a resignation if you were calling with failures on my night off.

Haha! No way, all the way! Eric said.

Sounds better than me on Thursday with Olivia, Drew said.

Aww shit, Eric said, let me hear it, man.

Listen to this, I had her ass-naked in my room, she just finishes my favorite part, we’re about to smash, and she’s like, Drew continued with a bitchy voice, going, “No. You think I’d just sleep with you over one dinner? That’s not how I play, we’re gonna need to be a something more than a mine and a diamond digger!” or some shit like that. I was fuckin’ pissed, Drew said, I never got a girl to my bed and didn’t smash. Since when does my money cock-block me?

Sucks, Drew. Try having a good night tonight, Eric said.

I will, Drew said, I scheduled me some guaranteed with one of Jonboy’s girls for after I spend a little time with Gloria.

You and those damn yachts, Eric said, It’s a Prince… what?

Princess 43, Drew said, just under 50 feet. Slick fly bridge. It’s the baddest mama on any Michigan inland lake.

Enjoy freezing out there, Eric said.

Its nice, I won’t.

Drew hung up the way he did when he and Eric both knew one of their brief conversations was ending.

Shortly after a bit more driving, from the expressway to county roads to cottage-lined gravel roads, after passing an abandoned white Ford tattooed with mud, probably left by northern redneck drunks, he pulled through iron gates and over a cobblestone driveway so level, he never felt a bump.

⇒

For the first time, the tempo of Preston Schafer’s entire life was being swept up in an accelerando. He was doing seventy up the middle of the expressway. He was no longer trapped in his blinded dim studio. Where, over and over, his ambition for changes were both realized and immobilized by the overpowering fear of failure. He couldn’t take that anymore. He was not a prisoner of society. The very course of human history relied on his mission. He was certain that he was the perfect candidate to stop the insanity.

Everything that Preston needed to complete or continue his life’s work was sitting next to him upon his passenger seat in a small yellow duffle bag. In the bag there was a mag-light, a power drill, a laptop, a couple of clips and his gun.

Traditionally, Preston was an introvert, so the lack of glory in his coming task didn’t bother him. He always had big ideas, yet, he would’ve really rather not talk too loudly about them. He didn’t even own a cell phone. He was always suspecting. That someone else suspected he had suspicions. Never sure how much he could share about his theories. However, after he visited this CEO, everyone would know about them all at once.

Ten years older than Andrew, Preston had little family and managed to nudge those few relations to falling out years ago when he first began rejecting the present world. He never went to the movies, bars, or entertained himself outside of attending to pressing matters. He studied computer science just long enough to be able to teach himself how to hack and dive into networks for the information he wanted. He woke up in the morning and sat at a computer that contained thousands of pictures, notes, documents.

He didn’t look in mirrors, but if he did, he would see stringy hair that bent and stuck up. His eyes, more gray than blue, would droop, but remain shifty. He wore thin lips made by defensive smiles.

Soon, everyone would fall victim to the allure of Torch Mobile’s superior technology. Unknowingly, they’d murder everyone on their cell plan. He pushed the gas a half-inch more.

Preston no longer cared. He had nothing else going for him. He was going to take his stupid life, and do whatever was necessary to expose the hypocritical world.

The scenery suddenly grabbed his attention. Everything was glorified. Trees were much greener than downriver. Preston internally felt he was doing exactly what was necessary. The address he uncovered was just a couple hundred numbers away. He pulled over on a shoulder, and began to walk toward destiny.

⇒

How was this happening. What the fuck! So much triumph in life until now. Pain ripped across his abdomen, paired with the discomfort of cracking dried blood, as he pathetically squirmed on his back to improve an irreparable position. He stopped and let his aching head sit straight. The sun was gone and dusk enveloped his castle. Above him on the high ceiling was a skylight that he couldn’t see through. Internal light bounced off of it and faintly showed a man who was equally vulnerable on a piano bench, waiting to die.

The grand piano—Drew bought it because, well, what the hell, why not? He was rich, it was a nice touch to the room, even if it was never played. Steinway and Sons. They made torture tables.

FUCK.

He’d been tortured. He was going to sue that guy to the streets—once he could get to his feet. He shook his whole body and clenched his jaw from the pain of trying to move or break or tilt over the bench that bounded his arms and legs. He was screwed. Looking back up into the skylight, he could see evidence that he had literally been screwed. The scrapes and shallow holes in his six-pack oozed with red from the madman’s drill.

The hell was he gonna do? He had come to Higgins for peace, and instead, Drew’s ass was beat by a middle-aged wacko. He could feel a breeze on his exposed chest. The man with the drill left and didn’t shut the damn door. He could yell for help though—oh, wait, no, no he could not. Was this the vague situation that he was warned of a year ago? He needed to get to a phone. Damnit!

Heeellllooo!

Someone was walking in! Shit, what the hell was going on. Admittedly, he needed a hand, might as well accept it. In here! Drew said.

Yooowhooo! said a feminine Californian accent, The door was open so I—Ooo! Ha-huh-hah, I see we’re getting started a litt—OH MY GOD!

Drew’s forgotten escort looked horrified by what she now saw.

Please, Drew groaned, don’t mention God right now.

BLHHAAH, the woman vomited on Drew’s imported carpet. We need to, the escort said catching her breath, get you to a-- BLUHA! hospital. I’ll call the police, what ha--

NO! Just untie me! Drew said.

The escort freed Drew and he staggered over to his suit coat, grabbing his wallet and cell phone.

The upscale hooker said, I just don’t understand what is go--

Just sit down and shut the fuck up for a minute, all right!? Drew said.

He riffled through business cards and platinum plastics, until he found the white rectangle in the back with only a telephone number on it.

⇐

Preston looked down at the sprawled kid in swim trunks lying on the step before the door. He was pleased with the result of using the heavy log of firewood instead of the mag-light. All the money in the world couldn’t shield a crook from being briefly knocked insensible with raw force. He picked up the keys off the ground, slid open the door, and dragged Andrew into the house by the wrists.

Preston tried to get the slightly stirred menace into a chair, but he kept slumping over. He wasn’t strong enough to hold him up and tie him down at the same time. He spent his money on computers, a gun, rent, organic groceries—not gym memberships. Instead, he flopped the guy onto a nearby piano bench, tying each limb to a wooden leg.

Preston breathed heavily after moving the physically built man. He saw Andrew’s eyes beginning to flicker as he started to come out of his temporary blackout. Preston leaned over him, palmed his chin and cheeks, and shook the stars out of the helpless billionaire’s head with an aggressive clutch, saying, Good evening, Andrew, you’re about to begin a very long night.

Huh, what’s this? Andy mumbled as the situation came clear.

You have made bad choices regarding the well being of the human race. You should not have been meddling without the expectation of retaliation, Preston said.

The hell are you fuckin’ on man?! Untie me or I’ll have you black bagged to Caracas! I know guys! the powerless said.

Releasing Andy’s handsome face, Preston turned around and reached into his yellow bag, pulling out the power drill. He loaded it with a fat bit, and squeezed the trigger.

WHIZZZZ—FUCK!JEZUSCHRIST!—WHIIIIZZZZ—AHHDAMNIT! the drill and Andy boy whined in chorus as Preston lightly dragged the spinning end of the tool in an X across his torso. The tied pig squealed and sobbed as little bits of crimson flecked onto the glossy ivory.

What’re you doing this to me for you piece of shit! the CEO said. Water rolled from the corners of his eyes.

Because! Preston said as his fist delivered a violent blow, The burden of being King has distanced itself, hasn’t it? You don’t have to see the hells you create for peasants, you don’t stand there as we reap, waiting to take your lot. You can come here, to this beautiful water, never looking into a single broken face. You’re floating a castle on the sea. You could go far away, and still spoil that is around you, Andyboy!

Preston figured Andrew was starting to understand the worst-case scenario he was experiencing, as he now had no reply. He hoped his captive saw him as a madman. Back to his duffle again, this time he pulled out a laptop, turned on the webcam, and centered it on the bellied up ass-wipe.

Now, tell me, Preston demanded, you approved the use of your company equipment to be turned into an incognito death machine, no?

Listen, if you want money, I can get it to you in boatloads, the prisoner bargained.

WHIIIZZZ!OHGODSHIIT!

Preston bored a circular red dot into the middle of one of those nicely cut abdominals.

Don’t insult, Preston said, I don’t want your money. I’m hardly interested in pawns—I only need you to get to the next evil. Now, if I have to keep asking, he threatened, I will end up pushing this bit here through to your back, understand?

Good, Preston said, now I need you to stop crying for God. There is no God who will help you. Be truthful, now, because if I am wrong about divine beings, you may still have a chance to save yourself from burning forever, but you need to stop the lying, you sinner.

Please, I honestly don’t know what the hell you are talking about, Andrew Borden III said.

WHIIZZZZZ—FUCK!!!OHGOD!STOPTHIS!

A deeper crater was made in the falsifier’s tummy. Preston snapped, Shut your fucking mouth. I am not a surgeon, but if I go much farther into those hard-earned lady-killing muscles, I’m sure you will internally bleed or spill bile on your fine carpet here. And what the hell did I just say about God?

“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent!” Preston quoted. “Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent! Is he both able and willing!? Then whence cometh evil!? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?!”

A little Epicurus lesson for you. Now shut the fuck up about God, you’re perspective is too perverted to speak of such entities, Preston said.

You’re a lunatic, what the hell is going on!? Andy’s voice was starting to shudder uncontrollably.

I am talking about how the very next thing I do to you will end your destructive life, if, you don’t admit to what you and I both know you have done, he said.

Okay, okay, Drew started. I was approached about allowing the American government—

United States, Preston interrupted, I hate when people lay claim on all of the Americas—how egotistic that is!

Preston was the boss now. He had things to do and say.

Okay! Okay, Andrew said, I was confronted by the US government, and was asked if I was interested in taking Torch Mobile beyond all cellular service competition. I was told they needed to adjust our satellites and some other equipment, but that I couldn’t speak about the agreement. They told me they would place us ahead of all other companies. I knew it wasn’t ethically sound, but I agreed to their offer. How could I not?

Preston smiled and said, Way to go, you have permitted the government to use your technology to send random bursts of deadly radiation into the ears of all of your customers for the purpose of first-world population control.

He got what he needed. Preston packed up his items, stunned Andy boy for good measure with the mag-light, and took off out the door.

⇒

Drew dripped blood onto his Italian carpet through fingers he held to his gut. In his other hand, he dialed the number, ready to say the predetermined words.

Silence answered, ending the tones. Hello, Drew said, something has gone wrong.

Then he hung up and began to wait. Why didn’t you call the police? the escort said.

Please, Drew said, just hold on—I need to think.

He didn’t have to think very hard to picture what was next. She wasn’t likely going to live to see the morning. In the short time she had been with Drew, she witnessed too bizarre of a situation for it not to stand out in her mind. They would not like that.

KNOCK.KNOCK.KNOCK.

Someone else was at his door. What the hell, it was Mr. Finnegan. Drew put on a shirt. What can I do for you? he said.

The angler lacked his perpetual retired-man grin, squeezed past into the living area, and took a quick look around. This is my neighbor, Drew said, Mr. Finnegan. Mr. Finnegan, this is—I’m sorry, with this shit show, what was your nam—PHT!

The escort’s head jolted back and she crumpled to the floor. Drew turned around and saw the dorky man, in his fisherman’s vest and Gilligan’s hat, with a straight face and a silenced pistol extended.

Okay, so that’s done, Mr. Finnegan said. Andrew, I am a consultant for the Director of National Intelligence, I am assigned to overseeing you while you visit Higgins. You called the number, a Senator from Wyoming called the DNI, and then the Director called me to immediately remedy what I could here.

Drew stood dumbstruck at how fast everything was happening.

I am going to guess, Finnegan continued, you told the man who did this to you about how your company was contacted by the government, yeah?

Yes, Drew said, I didn’t know they were killing people!

Come on! Andrew! You’re smarter than that, Finnegan said, You thought that they’d just help your company out, nothing on paper? You think they came to you, the youngest cellular service CEO, because they liked your spunk, wanted to give you a hand? They knew you’d take the deal, and you would be easy to get rid of, if needed. Likewise, no one checks up on senators in Wyoming. It’s an extensively planned circus, you see?

Finnegan continued, The man who assaulted you—and that is what we will say this was, a robbery and an assault—is a Preston Schafer. We narrowed it down based on highway surveillance. He needs to renew his tags and has a quarter tank of gas. Now we just wait to see which of the few nearby public WiFi hotspots he heads for. I assume he got this fiasco on camera?

Drew couldn’t speak. He nodded. He couldn’t believe how his whole life had just rolled over. His mind was racing. Are you gonna kill me? he asked.

Ha, hopefully we don’t need to make that kind of a mess, you’ve already killed one today, Finnegan said and gestured at the escort staining the carpet by the Steinway. If our computer scientist removes the clip from the web quick enough, we won’t.

✜

Preston did it, he actually did it. He was Paul Revere. He saw a blue sign with a McDonald’s logo blur past, so he darted from the left-most to the right-most lane. The exit for Roscommon came up quick and he slowed from ninety-five to twenty-five.

All that he had left to do was cut the clip to the important part, and upload the video to his favorite theorist forum. Then he would consider his duty to humanity complete. He didn’t care what happened after that.

He saw golden arches and turned his wheels into the parking lot. He grabbed his bag and walk to the door. Perfect, the inside was still open for twenty minutes. He hurried in and sat down at a booth. How wonderful it was, that it was from here, at a Mickey D’s, that the world would learn about the shit that has been going down. If the government contracted one corporation, they all could have been, and he was using Ronald’s free WiFi to blow the lid off of one hugely fatal agreement.

Sir, a young man behind the counter said, you are going to have to purchase something, sir.

For crying out loud. Piss off, I will by a Big Mac, Preston said, just give me a second.

He worked furiously on his laptop to prep the upload. He must look pretty suspicious; he had little dots of Andrew’s blood all over his arms. He was disheveled and unraveled.

We are closing down in a few minutes sir, the kid said, so if you want to order a Big Mac, you’ll hav—

Just back off alright!? I’ll get a coke! Preston said.

WHOOPWHOOP!

Shit, the police were there and the short confession was only at 60%. Preston needed to hold them off.

Alright! Preston said as he held his pistol in the air, Everybody get the fuck out of here! Right now! Unless you want to get caught in crossfire!

The employees scrambled toward the nearest door—Preston was their shepherd. He looked out the window saw that the police already had their guns drawn too. 72%

Two more squad cars pulled up, and a megaphone said Drop Your Weapon And Come Out With Your Hands Up, Palms Forward! 81%

Preston knew he was going to jail now. But if he could live, he’d be able to support his video with testimony as well. He’d come quietly, as soon as the video finished. 90% come on! He slammed his fist on the table of the booth he was hiding in.

PTAFF!

His gun released a bullet. Preston could faintly hear through the glass, Shots Fired!

Well, fuck it, 96%. He was Guy Fawkes. Once the people learned of his sacrifice for the world, he’d be a Halloween costume. Preston began to aim and shoot at the increasing number of cop cars and officers. He was going to make it. The video was gonna go up and everyone would learn the reason for his lunacy on this night. He shot until he had no more bullets, he may have hit a cop, he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t really care anymore. He was saving millions of lives today. He continued to duck behind the back of the booth. He looked at his screen—the upload bar was full, Whence Cometh Evil?—100% Complete.

He won. He finally had reasoning behind all those years spent behind all those documents. He had stopped th--

WHACK.

Ouch.

His fingers met a wet gash in his hair. He forgot what he was doing, stood and turned around. He saw golden arches on the black visor of a kid standing there, holding up a metal fryer basket. Didn’t he know this guy who was wildly gritting his teeth? He struck Preston with another heavy swing to the cheek. Preston stumbled backward, and looked back at the kid.

PTAFF!PTAFF!

Brains blew out onto the restaurant tile, the condiment station, and the boy’s black visor as a cop was able to take two clear shots to Preston’s back and head.

⏏

What a courageous act by this 17 year-old, the anchorwoman said, The City of Roscommon and the crew at Channel 5 Local applaud you for being so brave!

Thanks! I have always watched a lot of action flicks, and I think about what I would do if a bad guy ever came around, said the kid.

Well, you are a real hero, Sean. That’s it for the City of Roscommon, home of Sean Kowalski—the young man who used a fryer basket to help police take down an armed criminal who had robbed the former CEO of Torch Mobile, Andrew Bor—

Drew turned off the TV. He was now unemployed, and decided to stay on Higgins for a couple of days. It happened so quickly.

His whole life happened fast. The money, the company, the cars. That night.

They threatened him into resigning the day after the shootout. He couldn’t believe how efficient they were. And he wasn’t sure whether to be thankful to no longer be a piece of the scheme, or pissed because everything he worked for—or apparently was guided to—was as deader than Preston. That nut was right, after all. Drew moved to his backdoor and looked down at the step. His video wasn’t even up long enough to be copied. 2.3 seconds, he had heard. The DNI’s computer guy was skilled at his job.

The most that any run of the mill, obsessive conspiracy fiend saw on their laptop late at night, juiced on pots of coffee, was a flash. A video popped up in a new thread, among thousands of threads authored by other manic theorists, before it disappear forever. It was a brief dot, within a sea of dots all concerning the same topic. It didn’t exist long enough to even be clicked. Drew walked outside to a chilled morning, not yet warmed by fleeting summer sun.

The hundreds of millions more who were perfectly satisfied—with their aluminum siding, their bags and jackets, their hand-me-down home goods or grand pianos, their gas stations and grocery stores, with their bottles of water and cans of food, and cell phones—they saw a good story. The unlikely, scummy-looking teen, working the nightshift for minimum because he dropped out a year ago, became a hero when he acted out a video game fantasy on that guy who robbed that affluent CEO and shot bullets at “our country’s public servants.”

Drew knew what was ahead. He would live with the truth of that day for the rest of his life. If the thought ever crossed his mind—they’d know it.

He walked halfway down his dock and saw the cruel green pontoon captained by a tipping Gilligan’s hat.

They’d know it, and Drew’s thoughts and brains would splatter all over, too.