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Throw back to that time me and my gal pal Brooke partied together! She was the inspiration for my panda prints!
I make sure to tag Brooke (so all Katy’s followers can hop over and take a gander at the mortifying images she posts to her account), and hashtag the shit out of the post, so every activist in the world will see.
I admit, I’m getting a small thrill out of this. It’s not my best work, but when something goes viral, there’s this surge of adrenaline. And Katy Dee’s post goes viral in a nanosecond.
My work here isn’t quite done, though.
Any journalist worth their salt will uncover the lie here, rushing to come to the aid of Katy and her reputation. But an even hungrier, greedy journalist will salivate over the opportunity to prove it true.
Hey, I’m not the bad guy here. The world loves a scandal. Give them a hero to shred, and the claws come out.
I create a metadata trail that can be traced, proving the two girls have been in communication over the past year. Deleted and backdated email logs. Internet HTML receipts of likes and social media shares from each other’s accounts that were deleted.
Then I bundle the proof into a zip file and shoot it across the Internet to one lucky journalist from my anonymous email account.
I sip my whiskey sour as I refresh Katy’s Instagram account, watching her followers abandon ship by the thousands.
My phone rings. A glance at the display shows it’s Ericson.
That didn’t take long.
One last sip of cocktail and I answer: “Naughty Playroom Escorts.”
His voice isn’t even bashful. No hint of shame. “I need a date for this Friday evening.”
“Yes, sir”—he is dominant, therefore I am subservient in my response—“any special requests that we can accommodate?”
He lists his preferences. Blonde (of course; check). Meek (submissive; I’ll work on that). As he will be attending a company outing, the escort is to be dressed accordingly. Over the past few weeks, I’ve observed his “company outings”, so I know just what to give him.
The date is booked, and I end the call by taking his credit card number. Hell, no reason I can’t have Ericson pay twice for his own revenge.
I recline back in my chair and lace my fingers together, my mind diving deep into the plot. I like to watch it play out mentally, like on a TV screen, so I can visualize the outcome. It helps me uncover any obstacles and required contingencies.
The art of revenge is all about knowing your target. Know what will hurt them. The design of the retaliation has to be appropriately measured in direct and equal comparison to the slight against their victim…my client.
You can’t just spread a rumor about someone on social media. Or slap some graffiti on a billboard. That’s artless, and frankly, lazy.
No, as a bully, Ericson Daverns needs his face pushed into an ant bed.
3
IDENTIFY
ALEX
The sound of the ticking secondhand is the soundtrack to my life.
I flip out the pewter pocket watch from my jean pocket. Click the spring cover open. It’s too dark to see the exact time, too loud in the night club to actually hear the tick, but checking the timepiece is a compulsion. It reminds me of why I’m here—that time is limited.
The tension in my shoulders eased, I tuck the watch into my pocket. Then I sip the club soda on the tiny industrial table before me. The club erupts with a pulse of flashing lights and a foghorn, sending a splintering shard through my skull. The clustered bodies on the dance floor gyrate even closer, hands lifted in the air, as if praising the god of debauchery.
The scene is ironic. In ancient Egypt, dance was used to tell the story of the gods—how the mother of creation established order through her song and dance. The ancients often danced in near-nude attire. They didn’t view nudity the way we do now; lust wasn’t a mortal sin.
As I look around at all the bare mid-drifts and revealing skin meant to lure in, a caustic thought comes to mind, how two thousand years of religious pruning has influenced civilization. Where once the body was worshiped and not viewed as a lecherous sexual device, being toldno, do not look, touch, wanthas made the human anatomy the most sinful desire in the modern world.
Everybody wants a taste of the forbidden.
Unless you have a higher purpose—one that makes you immune to temptation.
