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FBI Agent Detmeier didn’t think he’d hang off a helicopter anytime soon. It was the furthest thing from his mind this evening. Television and movies certainly ruined the junior agent’s perception of the service. After completing his training in Quantico, Jim Detmeier proved adept at the computer-something he was always mildly teased for by his classmates. Even in the twenty-first century, the classical style of bullying still exists.
Because of that aptitude, his first job upon graduation last fall was the incredibly dull and monotonous Cyber Surveillance Unit. Since then, it’s been six months of monitoring shitty civilian tips and loose ends. If the Federal Bureau of Investigation had a hazing ritual, the Cyber Surveillance Unit would be at the top of the list.
Agent Detmeier spent most of each 12-hour shift monitoring specific individuals on the Internet for suspicious activity. These often come from anonymous tips or go into the FBI pipeline for a suspect’s continued use of suspicious sites, usually teetering around the dark web or more suggestive sites of varying perverse flavors. Most of the time, individual targets did very little else beyond looking at pornography and sports scores on ESPN. Thankfully, most of the targets had their laptop cameras closed. For every closed camera was another in full, unceremonious view. Detmeier would like to forget more than he’s seen in the last six months of old perverted penises than three lifetimes could make up for.
Jim strolled to his office outside Washington, D.C. He lazily swiped his badge at the entrance and again at the elevator to the tenth floor. Jim yawned twice while clutching his large mug of coffee and swiped one last time into his SCIF, or sensitive compartmented information facility. In that room, he shared a cubicle area with three other agents, each monitoring three given contacts during their shifts.
“So, Timmy, who do we have on the docket tonight?” Tim was the closest thing that Jim had to a friend in his new position. Jim hoped Tim felt the same, but he couldn’t tell. The other two agents with them tonight, a brooding woman named Felicia Parker and a tall former Division I basketball player named George Russell, sat quietly at their desks. Only Agent Parker mildly acknowledged Jim’s presence. Her eyes screamed, “You’re late,” without saying anything.
“Goddamnit, I hate when you call me that,” said Jim. He revealed a slight smirk that matched Jim’s like a mirrored image. “Ugh. Fine…Asshole. So, we have the same three people as last shift – the suspected car thief, the boring fertilizer guy, and the chronic masturbator.”
“Ooof, that’s tough. I get a new one tonight to add to my list after closing “Mr. Pyro.” Jim’s smile widened in a grin that screamed “obnoxious” and bordered “shit-eating.” The police in Dayton, Ohio, arrested Terry Tuttleman, 46, AKA “Mr. Pyro,” last Friday for conspiracy to burn his business down for insurance. It wasn’t necessarily a feather in Detmeier’s cap, but it gave his supervisor enough onus to provide him with more complex cases.
“So, who’s the newbie? I know you got the other two boring ones. Let’s hope this one is interesting.” The two boring targets Tim referred to were both cyberbullies at the high school level. Beyond a few anonymous tips, there was nothing the FBI could do until either escalated their childish banter. Jim looked at his email and task package list and found his new surveillance target: William Ames, a suspected dark web administrator. Things were looking up. He closed his eyes briefly and sipped his lukewarm coffee before turning to Tim. He had to think of a witty retort.
“Oh, whatever. At least I don’t have to sit there and watch my new guy type out Internet searches for Sydney Sweeney’s feet pics.” Jim laughed. He got him good. Tim started to chuckle but cut it off when he realized that would likely be most of his shift’s next 7-10 hours. “I got me a suspected dark web administrator – read it and weep!” His voice went into a southern drawl that sounded like he was the ringleader of a rodeo. Tim stared blankly back at him.
“Oh, screw you, that’s actually exciting!” Tim mimicked the finger (after all, the watchers were also being watched) and slinked back into his six-screen rig for another hour of monitoring Pornhub searches and Door Dash orders.
Jim settled into his shift setup after meeting with his supervisor to discuss his new target. Most of the surveillance job inside the SCIF was monotonous and tiresome. Without using a cell phone or regular Internet searches, each agent did what they could to ensure their eyes wouldn’t cross. As much as it sped up brain melt, a successful tour in this job wrote an agent’s ticket to bigger and better things within the Bureau. Jim could hang on that helicopter after all.
The first hour went smoothly. Both of Jim’s cyber-bullies had homework to do, so most of their searches involved Wikipedia and Chat GPT. Mr. Ames, however, was very strange off the bat. Jim noted a list of searches in his log. He stared at the list on the screen in puzzlement.
“Jazz influences of modern artists and rock music”
“Indian pornography and red circle sexy sexy”
“Metaverse article about the influence of technology and A.I.”
What the hell did jazz influences and Indian porno have to do with the Metaverse? Some searches and websites puzzled the brain, but those three made zero sense. Jim looked at his watch. 8:30 p.m. Break time. He left the secure facility and walked outside with his telephone in hand to call his girlfriend, Maddie. The phone dialed three times before she picked up.
“Hello, Clarice,” she said in a voice that attempted to mimic Hannibal Lectre. After half a year on the job, he thought she would tire of it. She did not.
“Ha. Very funny,” said Jim. “How are things going?”
“Not too bad. Just finished cleaning up after dinner with Janice.” Her roommate was sweet, if not mildly excentric. “Besides a bunch of random robo calls on my phone interrupting our meal, it’s been quiet here. Are we still planning to go to the farmer’s market tomorrow?” Jim had to do the mental math on how much sleep he could get before going to her apartment at noon to go to the Annandale farmer’s market before it closed at 1:30 p.m.
“Sure, babe. Just slogging through this shift. I swear it will get better. I promise I’ll get on the day shift once I close another hot case.” Jim wasn’t entirely convinced that was true, but he had to give her a convincing lie.
“Yeah, you will, Mr. Rockstar. OK. I gotta go. Try to call me again on a break before I go to sleep around 11:30 p.m. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Jim said. He hung up and realized he would be a fool if he didn’t put a ring on her finger by the end of the year. He filled his lungs with the last deep breath of fresh air for the next three hours and returned to his desk.
The night continued as usual. After a few random chats with friends on Facebook, one of the bullies looked to call it an early night. The other bully focused his attention on a girl. A few D.M.s he sent to the poor girl’s Instagram made him cringe. Either way, he made a file for the new conversation in case it progressed into something more serious. Mr. Ames continued a dizzying array of searches that made no connection. If this guy continued to type out gibberish with no prospect of conversing with anyone online, he would suggest his supervisor dropped the case. Either way, he logged his next set of insane searches.
“California drought figures 2011 to 2022”
“After Hours Movie Quotes”
“Lion and witch and wardrobe”
“Lady PGA tour leaders of the last twenty years”
Jim continued to monitor the two active targets for the next hour. Eventually, Mr. DM gave up on his latest love, Lex, and fell asleep. That left Mr. Ames. His next slew of searches seemed as random as ever until Jim noticed something as he logged the final one.
“Heroism in the military and examples”
“Electric vehicles of the future”
“Realizations of horrific news for J.D.”
Jim looked at his watch. It was 11:16 p.m. He wiped his blurry eyes and looked at the last one: “Realizations of horrific news for J.D.” What? What is J.D. This guy did a lot of dumb searches, but that one seemed especially stupid. Jim waved Tim over to look at it.
“Huh. I have no idea. This guy seems like a nut job who is just typing random shit. Probably not a lot of the black market and too much black tar. I wouldn’t read too much in on it, bud.” Tim gave his coworker a reassuring pat on the back before returning to his desk for his monitoring.
Another long search came into his database, turning his blood cold. He saw the search on the screen: a single word written repeatedly.
Jim knew what an acrostic was. He quickly opened Ames’ file and looked at all the searches in a row.
“Jazz influences of modern artists and rock music”
“Indian pornography and red circle sexy sexy”
“Metaverse article about the influence of technology and A.I.”
“California drought figures and 2011 to 2022”
“After Hours Movie Quotes”
“Lion and witch and wardrobe”
“Lady PGA tour leaders of the last twenty years”
“Heroism in the military and examples”
“Electric vehicles of the future”
“Realizations of horrific news for J.D.”
He saw it almost immediately before moving towards the door of the secure facility to grab his phone: J I M C A L L H E R. J.D. was Jim Detmeier.
He nearly toppled over Agent Russell’s massive body as he darted out to grab his phone. He unlocked the screen and saw no missed calls. “Oh, thank god,” he said to himself. He scrolled on his phone for a second to calm down. He saw a single unread text message from an unidentified number in his area code. He could only muster a short gasp before calling Maddie immediately. The single text message said the same thing as the search: “Call her.”
The phone rang five times before Maddie answered.
“Jim, I didn’t think you were going to call, I was about to–”
“GODDAMNIT MADDIE DON’T HANG UP!” Jim shouted into the phone. “Maddie, are you OK?”
“Jesus, Jim, can you tone it down a little?” Maddie said. “Yeah, I am good. I was getting ready to go to sleep. What the hell is wrong?”
Jim couldn’t get the words out fast enough as he fumbled for his keys. Screw work. Work will always be there. He had to drive to see her and make sure she was OK. “Maddie, I don’t know what’s going on, but I think somebody is fucking with me.”
Maddie sounded puzzled. “Who is messing with you? How could they know – you’re FBI.” He interrupted her.
“Look, damnit, I don’t know.” He started the engine and nearly wrecked his car, putting it in reverse in the tight parking lot. “Maddie, has anything weird happened tonight? You didn’t say anything earlier, right?”
“Jim, I am fine. Besides the random robocalls, there’s nothing wrong.” Jim suddenly remembered the robo calls from earlier.
“Mads, what is the number? Is it the same number? How many times did they call?”
She took a second to go through her phone and made a noise that he knew was her sour expression. “Huh. I didn’t realize it, but they are all from the same number.”
“OK, Mads! Listen to me.” Jim screamed into the phone as he drove 86 mph down Interstate 495 toward the Wedgewood apartment complex in Annandale. He didn’t care if the cops stopped him. Hell, the thought of getting pulled over might be better. He might need backup. “You need to stay put wherever you are.”
“Jim, what the hell is going on? You’re scaring me,” Maddie said with increasing concern.
“MADS! I hope I am. You and Janice need to lock the front door, get into a safe room, and lock that door. Then you need to call the police and wait for me. I am almost there! Please stay on the phone with me. I am almost there.” Jim saw signs for her exit.
“Oh,” she said, “that number is calling again. Should I answer it?”
“Maddie, no! Just hang on. I am coming to you. Baby, please stay safe and get into a room and lock the goddamn door!”
“OK, Jim, OK!” she looked at her phone. “Whatever it was went to voicemail. I’m getting scared.”
“I am almost there. I am..”
Just then, Jim heard three loud knocks on the door and heard a voice that sounded like his. He could barely hear it.
“Hey babe,” the voice said. “I’m here to help. Open up!” Jim’s bowels nearly loosened from the other end of the line.
“Oh, thank God, Jim. You’re here. Coming.” She hung up immediately.
“NOOOOO. MADDIE!!!” Jim screamed into his phone. He was a mile away from her exit and could see her apartment from the view of the treetops.
Agent Detmeier had the opportunity to lead the FBI manhunt in the incident’s immediate aftermath. Maddie’s phone was first analyzed at the forensics lab back in Quantico. The voicemail was only a few words. The voice on the message ran through countless samples and databases to find a source. The words haunted Jim, driving him to relative insanity…but he couldn’t let go. He could hear the words when he closed his eyes to sleep. He could hear it when he looked at old pictures of his beautiful girlfriend when she was alive. It was a constant. Those words.
J.D. ACROSTIC. J.D. ACROSTIC. CALL HER. CALL HER. NOT IN TIME. NOT THIS TIME.
Alex knew he had to stop looking at his phone so much during the workday. People live their lives. Nobody waits for the perfect moment to message anyone back. It just happens organically. So Alex waited on the receiving end for the notifications to pop off each day, avoiding everything from work to his close friends and loved ones.
He repeatedly told himself in the spaces between conversations that this monotonous dedication would pay off, eventually. While the conversations with Anna kept his pulse up daily, the other regular occurrences of Alex’s existence went back to a steady beat. After the kitchen blowup, things with Andrea cooled to Cold War levels of detente. A rhythm started again between the two: wake, word, dinner, and sleep. After Andrea collapsed in bed, it was Alex’s time. It was his ecstasy. For him, the day began around 9:30 pm each night.
Andrea and Alex got along. They even managed to have sex with each other in early December out of the blue. Andrea seemed to enjoy it well enough, even if Alex superimposed Anna’s perfect breasts onto Anna’s in his mind to help him finish. He still found time to look at the photo at some point each day.
As if that wasn’t motivation enough, Alex kept to his word to continue writing. Short stories and even a little poetry were the easiest to write. Compared to the short stories, Anna made sure to point out how terrible that poetry was in comparison. After a few more positive comments, Alex even considered writing a short novel but decided the continued positive reinforcement from her felt more immediate and thus more essential.
It was two weeks before Alex got another unsolicited photo of Anna. This time, it was her backside. He figured that particular shot might be coming because she kept talking about how she planned to see a tattoo artist to get a large piece done on her back. Anna told him to “wait and see” the exact spot on the backside of her body, so it was almost no surprise when she finally sent Alex a photo of her newest tattoo on his way into his office one cold Monday before Christmas.
The pic came without warning and comment, like the first one. The only thing Anna wrote underneath the pic was “new tattoo.” It covered from the top of her head to the middle of her thigh. Alex saw a beautiful Japanese Oak Tree that covered almost the entire right side of her back. The tree’s roots stretched to her buttocks, ending in the middle of her right cheek. She was fully nude but only saw a portion of the side of her breast. Either her husband Rodney took the photo, or she set it up on a timer. She smiled at the camera, proud of the tree and the artist’s work. Alex wished he could see more of her breasts but was not mad at first glance at her ass.
Alex thought it made sense that she would get a Japanese Maple tattoo. He remembered she told him that she planted three in the front yard of her house on the outskirts of Richmond. The message notification for the image came at a stoplight four minutes from his office in Lorton, VA. He wanted to respond before getting to work, where he would be easily distracted by it all morning as if he hadn’t already.
Alex could message her from his car’s ApplePlay if he had her cell phone number. When he asked Anna for her number the previous week, she said, “Absolutely not.” This “thing” was only a conversation transacted through Facebook Messenger. He wasn’t stoked about that but probably thought it best to play it safe, at least for their sake. Andrea was already suspicious of what he was doing on his phone all hours of the night. She probably had a similar situation with Rodney.
Alex just wanted a quiet parking lot with as few cars around as possible to park, what he called “thinking lots.” Every time he drove into a nearly empty parking lot, at least one car idly sat amongst the rows of empty spaces. The person inside always looked like they were contemplating the profound theories of the universe or the meaning of life. He found one a mile from work and took a few minutes to respond appropriately to what the picture deserved. He parked on the opposite end of a row of spaces adjacent to the shopping center’s ice cream shop and tax center.
Alex felt nervous for the first time since the first conversation in November. Dizziness hit as he turned off the car’s engine. The windows rolled down to let the fresh air in despite the chilling temperatures. Had he eaten? Why was he so nervous typing to her? He’d done it hundreds of times in the month or so they had conversed. For the last few weeks, it was a nightly event. Why now?
He wrote and deleted fourteen separate message responses before finally sending what he felt was the best. Anna responded almost immediately. That was very much unlike her. It usually took minutes or hours to respond to messages during the day.
Alex wasn’t sure what that meant. Was she sending her ass out to other people? Or her breasts? More? Was this not something special? He could not surmise the amount of time and effort spent chatting up another person. He had to know.
Alex sat in the parking lot silently for ten minutes. He stared at that last series of messages over and over again.
“Makes me think I made a mistake…”
“I’m sorry you misread.”
“Talk to you at some point, I am sure.”
As much as he tried to shake it, Alex couldn’t stop rereading those final messages. When he realized he would be dangerously close to being late on one of the random days required to return to the office, Alex turned his car back on and drove the remaining mile to the building in silence. He thought about responding when he parked the car but thought better. Her status on Messenger showed she wasn’t online anyway. Or maybe she blocked him. Either way, it was best to leave it alone.
How dare she say that. How could it not be more? How could somebody send those pics and say those things without meaning anything more? It made him feel cheap and unwanted as if everything meant nothing. Uneasy feelings swelled around his body like his skin could lurch forward unprovoked. Walking out of his car, Alex spit on the ground, jammed his cell phone back into his pocket, and walked briskly into the building to stop himself from crying.
The phone stayed pocketed the entire workday. It came out again after work in the relative comfort of the shared apartment. Alex’s heart sank when he opened it and found zero messages. It did mean nothing, then. A short fantasy. A lucky roll of the dice. It was now gone. A digital “fuck you.” That didn’t stop him from staring at his phone for the remainder of the evening, waiting for a response. Alex barely touched the dinner Andrea prepared, which set her off. To Alex, the increasingly loud and verbally abusive accusations hurled at him felt muted and blurry to what he was focusing on, as if he was Charlie Brown and Andrea was the mother making squawking noises in the background. When he apologized later while Andrea was in bed, she said “OK” and rolled over, stifling tears. Alex closed his eyes and shook his head after that response. He even managed to stifle his tears welling up and returned to the living room to resume looking at his phone for a message that never came. So much for the closer relationship with his girlfriend. It was fun while it lasted.
The good feelings kept rolling. Still, no messages – empty screens and empty feelings pervaded everything like a rolling midwestern storm.
Alex continued to act like an asshole to everyone around him for the remainder of the work week before his December leave kicked in. The yearly holiday trek south to Williamsburg meant a solid week of family time. It felt needed this year. It meant distraction in a different setting because it looked grim on the homefront. He appeared visually unkempt and verbally abrasive towards his colleagues. At home, it was no better. Conversations between the couple almost became non-existent. Andrea told Alex she would sign up for a “Sip n’ Paint” art class at the center down the street on Tuesdays on top of the weekly girls’ happy hour on Thursdays. He grunted in approval. That was fine. More time to grovel alone. More time to attempt to look away from the two pics he had of her. He tried vainly to delete them but couldn’t muster the strength.
All the while, he saw Anna was online, resisting the urge to message her. He had more pride than that, right? It’s hard to convince yourself of that truth while feeling weak continuously. Is it better to be dead than left on read? There wasn’t a mental consensus on the answer to that.
He wanted to message her and tell her he was sorry. For what, he didn’t know, but the urge to do so and reinvigorate a conversation clung to his insides like plaster, making him more angry and bitter in the process. The idea of deleting her from his friend list also crossed his mind. The fantasy of telling her exactly why she was losing out on his friendship, or more, was the mental masturbatory emission oscillating in and out of his mind each night that shitty work week. That’s what he wanted to do.
He did none of those things. Everything was quiet. The anger only got angrier. The bitterness felt like a clutched fist packed so tightly he could draw blood. And still – nothing from Anna.
Alex left for his parents’ house in Williamsburg late on Thursday, the 23rd. All in all, he planned to stay there through the new year before going back to work on the 3rd of January. On the way down, Alex listened to an impressive array of depressing music. He spent the entire day before leaving, avoiding any closeouts and crafting the perfect blend of catchy and melancholy tunes, all with the common theme of sad and punishing lyrics about love, loss, and general sad-bastard behavior.
The morning he left for the break was the first time he thought about the “L Word” about Anna. He didn’t believe it was true. There was no way anything like that would happen. It took him nearly a year of dating Andrea before saying he loved her. Did he still? Despite all the drama over the last month, he thought so. That made the idea even worse.
That morning was also the first time he thought Andrea would or could leave him. Andrea decided to stay in town and relax. Going down to spend a solid week with his parents was never her kind of fun, anyway. She mentioned her parents might come from Baltimore. They kissed deep and hard before he left that evening. Another tear swept below their cheek as they did and said goodbye. He wasn’t sure why, but Alex did not like that.
Driving deep in the night on I-95, the playlist covered every sad hit from The Smiths, The Cure, Radiohead, and Nine Inch Nails. He thought about Andrea, the crying kiss, and the absence of nightly textual relations with Anna. When he arrived at his parents’ around 11 pm, he stayed with them to chat about work and life. He put his family’s presents under the tree, grateful that the large gifts for his sister Tess’s kids did not break. Her clan, thankfully, would not arrive until tomorrow afternoon, leaving Alex a solid morning to brood.
When he finally pulled his phone out, around midnight, sitting in his old bedroom, Alex saw a notification for Messenger on his phone. He nearly pulled a muscle opening the app, only to find it was his old friend from high school, Marty “Farty” Donnager. Alex and Marty worked together after high school at a fancy restaurant in town, Fat Canary, while saving money at community college. Eventually, Alex went to James Madison, while his dishwashing friend transferred to Old Dominion in Norfolk. It wasn’t who he wanted, yet Alex replied to Farty anyway. Maybe the sensation would feel like he was having his nightly conversation with Anna.
Alex regretted the conversation almost immediately. Fuck. In what world was Farty moving past him and rocketing along the way?
Wow. Farty was a well-to-do family man, and Alex was barely in a relationship, pining over somebody who didn’t want him. He guessed he could make it until New Year’s with his family. Without Andrea here and the nightly conversations with Anna, he focused on spending time with his mom, dad, and sister’s family before the event.
The next few days came and went. No messages. Tess’s family came for two days to enjoy Christmas, leaving on the morning of the 27th. Alex spent the next two days helping his parents with various projects around the house. He moved boxes into the dusty attic and helped his father organize the garage. His conversations with his girlfriend became shorter and shorter. Her parents came on the 26th from Baltimore to spend a few days with her. At least, that’s what she said happened. After the way Andrea kissed him before he left, Alex was never sure what would happen over the break. It did not come as a surprise when Andrea sent him a message saying she was moving out of their apartment before he returned from his parents. The parents were there with their cars to help her move everything out.
When she broke the bad news, the first thought was to freak out and scream. But it never came. The only feeling at that moment was understanding and a sense of release. Of course, there were apologies. They were both sorry. She hoped they would stay friends. Alex didn’t say that back, though. She also said she would always love him, which brought them both to tears. She planned to move back to Baltimore with her parents before deciding what to do next, which made perfect sense. Andrea planned to get everything out by the time he came back on Sunday.
Before she hung up the phone, she asked him if there was anyone else – any reason why things deteriorated so badly. She wondered if he was talking to somebody on the phone all that time in the last month. “Maybe that would explain why you have been so vacant in almost everything else, Alex. That would at least make me feel a little bit better about all of this,” she said through muffled sobs. He decided to lie to her one last time. A sweet lie that would keep her at ease and keep him from having anything broken to pieces when he got back on Sunday afternoon.
“Of course not, Andrea. I’m just sorry things didn’t work out. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Alex hung up that phone call on the 29th and went into the bathroom to let out a few tears and scream into a stack of towels from the closet—a throbbing headache formed in the back of his head. After wiping the moisture away from his eyes, his first thought was to check his phone. No messages. Fuck. He needed a drink desperately, finding only a few non-suspiciously out-of-date beers in the back of his parent’s fridge. It would do. Alex was ready when New Year’s Eve came around two days later. If he planned to have a few drinks at Marty’s party before the Andrea breakup happened, he wanted to get blackout drunk now. Alex booked a hotel at the Hampton Inn directly adjacent to the distillery and told his parents he wanted to be safe because of the plan to tie one on. They understood.
Alex wrote and deleted a series of messages in his phone’s notes section to Anna the evening before leaving for Marty’s event. Marty said the place planned to have a “bitching spread,” complete with an open bar and heavy appetizers. They messaged each other and planned to meet at eight. He deleted the messages before putting on an old suit jacket he kept from high school that matched his khaki pants and headed out the door for the rideshare to check into his hotel room. No regrets. No feelings. Just alcohol. He brought a few airline bottles of Jack Daniels purchased earlier that day to down before leaving his room after he checked in just in case the party was boring.
Copper Fox Distillery is best known for its Virginia-made craft whiskey. They are the self-proclaimed “Home of American Single Malt” in how specific locales in Scotland held that title. It was a perfect place to decompress the previous month. He could put both behind him with enough luck and rye. Alex loved whiskey and now had a perfect excuse (his complete lack of love life/motivation/everything) and a backup plan (get blackout drunk, puke, rally, and crawl back to the hotel less than a football field away from the bar). Perfect.
Alex felt good after a few hours at the distillery. He mixed and mingled with Marty’s friends and had a few drinks. He told Marty’s colleagues of his early work origins as a busboy and dishwasher just after high school. Everyone had a few laughs. Even Marty enjoyed having Alex around. He had a few more drinks. Alex even initiated an exciting conversation about ancient Rome with a bartender on break in the cold. The few cigarettes he bummed him were worth the conversation he stumbled through about the “Year of Four Emperors,” something he couldn’t quite remember from college. The time was 11 pm. He had a few more drinks.
Alex was utterly hammered by 11:30 pm. To his surprise, he managed to get shitfaced and forget all of his problems, issues, and heartache. That is until his phone buzzed with a notification. It was Facebook Messenger. He clutched his phone, set his drink down, and stumbled outside to light the last cigarette bummed by Mr. Roman Empire using a small promotional box of matches from Copper Fox. He squinted his eyes and steadied himself against the cold brick wall of the building before opening the text.
That managed to sober Alex up quite a bit—enough to be coherent.
Alex returned his phone in his coat pocket and looked at the blanket of stars. The night was surprisingly cold and clear. He could feel the chill against his body, even with the liquor fusing into his bloodstream. The world started spinning more than usual as the focus went in and out. As the clock struck midnight, he hunched over and puked out an evening’s worth of whiskey, crab dip, and cubed cheese.
Happy New Year.
Stage Three: Bargaining
January 2, 2022
After Saturday’s recovery, Alex was ready for Sunday to leave and drive outside of Richmond to the Shortpump Mall and meet up with Anna. He didn’t think she would bring her husband and kid with him, at least not after what she said on New Year’s Eve. Yet the possibility of a husband meetup and subsequent beatdown was still on the table. The risk-reward scenario played and came up heads: he would proceed. The midnight puker extraordinaire spent most of Saturday hung over, rereading the messages from the previous day while sipping on blue Powerade and eating slightly stale crackers.
Alex said goodbye to his family around 8:30 in the morning and drove the brisk hour to the mall. He arrived around 9:50 am due to unforeseen traffic around I-64 just past Dumbarton. The mall was closed for another hour, so Alex parked near the front next to the massive Cheesecake Factory and sat in his car. Another “thinking lot,” he thought and smiled silently.
After scrolling through his phone for thirty minutes and taking a brief nap using his coat as a blanket, the mall finally opened. He went inside, found the Starbucks near the atrium, and messaged Anna on Messenger that he arrived. He got a venti drip coffee and sipped on it until she showed up. He thought the mall was surprisingly crowded for the Sunday after the new year. There were lots of families shopping in stores, perhaps using gift certificates they received over the holidays. He got a phone notification at 11:29 am from Anna.
Alex looked up from his phone to see Anna standing five feet away. Finally, there in front of him after all these years and the conversations. It was Anna in the flesh. She was taller than he remembered, but then again, they had not physically seen each other since they were children. Her curly brown hair sat just atop her neckline, where a flattering red sweater hugged her tight frame, especially her breasts. The black pants looked vintage and expensive. She completed the outfit with what looked like Doc Marten boots made of vegan leather. She smiled nervously and sat down.
Alex couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. She had a brilliant red shade of lipstick that starkly contrasted her white teeth. Of all the places to look at Anna, he wondered why he stared at her lips and teeth.
“So, how are you?” she said. Again, she tried to hide her nervousness. Her hands played with her gloves a few times before settling on her lap.
“I’m good. A good drive up here. Should be easy-breezy for the rest of the way up to D.C.” he hated himself for saying “Easy-Breezy.” “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Oh, no. I can get it. I just wanted to sit down before running up there. Be right back.” She got up and turned around. Alex couldn’t help staring now at her ass, thinking about the Japanese Maple tattoo that eloquently wrapped around her backside. She returned a few minutes later with a hot tea.
“So, here we are,” she said as she sipped slowly on the hot liquid. “It’s kinda crazy, right?
“For sure. This meetup is over twenty years coming, right?” They both laughed nervously together. Perhaps more nervous than either imagined. They continued the conversation for another twenty minutes. Unfortunately, it was painfully awkward. Alex kept staring at her teeth. Anna kept fuddling with her gloves on her lap while she wrestled up conversation points. Alex gave his Starbucks cup a full body massage as he tried to talk about anything other than his recent breakup with Andrea and the next few weeks at work. There were a few awkward laughs here and there, but nothing that felt like the beginning of a Hallmark Christmas movie like Alex hoped.
Eventually, Anna excused herself to go to the bathroom. Alex let out a deep sigh when she was out of sight. He wondered what to discuss next, googling “coffee date conversation topics” in desperation. Most importantly, he worried he was blowing this chance to engage with her. When else would the stars align with them in the same area simultaneously? He continued to mess with his phone when he received a notification. Surprisingly, it came from Anna.
Anna came back to the table two minutes later. Alex faked like he would continue talking on Messenger before laughing and putting his phone away. They both laughed at that. Tensions loosened, and the conversation grew relaxed. They eventually managed to talk like they always had. A phone application no longer feels like a replacement or extension of their connection. It was there. It was happening at the moment. It felt real. Alex managed to look away from Anna’s teeth as requested. He did not stare at her chest, even if he joked about it once or twice early on in the conversation. Alex focused on her eyes and how they interacted as they talked. He thought that was something he could never duplicate talking to her online in the small hours.
They managed to grab another pair of drinks. After Alex paid and picked them up at the counter, he turned to find Anna standing before him.
“Let’s walk and talk,” she said. So they did. They took their beverages on the go, strolled around the mall, and window-shopped. He loved how she commented on the price of mundane items like puffy jackets no one would ever wear or the boutique soap store with vegan and gluten-friendly options. While they half-giggled through a Hot Topic near the end of the mall’s easternmost wing, Anna grabbed Alex’s hand to get his attention. The warm feeling that rushed up his spine was akin to his first sight of Anna’s naked chest back in November. He watched her pick a LEGO set for her son at the store.
A quick conversation at the mall in the late morning turned into an early afternoon adventure. By 1:30 pm, Anna looked at her watch in astonishment. “Oh, shit. It’s getting late. I have to get back to the fam,” she said. A slight frown appeared on her face. She touched him again now. This time, it was on his right shoulder. Her brow relaxed as she spoke. “Where are you parked?”
He didn’t want to show his disappointment. “Um. I parked towards the front near the Cheesecake Factory.” He hoped she asked him to walk her to her car at least. A few more minutes in a foreign lot would be worth it. He wasn’t doing anything anyway. What did he have to look forward to when he got back into town? A half-empty apartment? He just hoped she left the ice cube trays.
“I’m parked back by the Dillard’s way on the other side of the mall. We are closer to your car. Can you drive me there?” Alex did not hesitate to say yes. They walked a bit longer until they reached the main entrance and walked outside. It was surprisingly warm for the new year. They got into his car and began the brief drive around Short Pump Town Center Circle to the back of the wall where she parked. Along the way, she made a few cracks about the cleanliness of his vehicle. He didn’t care much. Alex just wanted to savor the moment. After she left the car, who knew how long it would be until they saw each other.
A minute later, they arrived in the back of the mall. The cars were sparse on this side. Most of them sat idle in tiny pockets. “That’s me in the silver BMW.” Of course, she had a vintage silver BMW. It sat in a row all on its own towards the back of the lot between the Dillard’s and the Hyatt House Richmond, a small boutique hotel located within the mall property.
He parked next to her and idled the car. They sat in silence for a few seconds. “Well,” Alex said. “I guess this is it. It’s been a lot of fun, and I h….” Anna stopped him from speaking with her lips. The lips on the mouth he couldn’t stop staring at. The mouth he couldn’t believe he was now kissing. Her tongue came seconds later. Slow at first and then in circular motions around his. It felt like his first kiss all over again but with more experience and knowledge about the opposite sex. Anna motioned for him to turn the car off. He obliged. Nobody was around. Alex guessed this was a lot for a different kind of thinking.
They continued kissing for a few more minutes. All the while, Alex kept scanning beyond her curly hair to see if other cars or mall security were riding about. About five minutes into their make-out session, Alex’s right hand ventured into uncharted territory for Anna’s right breast. She moaned a bit when he grabbed onto her and sucked harder on his lip. She pushed him back.
“Does your seat go back anymore?” She began running her right hand up and down his thigh. It only took her a few seconds to feel him. She felt how hard he was in his blue jeans. He just wanted to be let out like a rabid bat in a cage. Alex moved his chair back as far as possible.
When he finally got into place, Anna unzipped his pants to find Alex standing at full attention. She scanned the lot one last time before swallowing the majority of Alex’s hard cock in her mouth. She moved in rhythmic motions up and down, slowly incorporating her hand into the mix. Alex wasn’t sure what to do other than enjoy what was shaping up to be the best blowjob he ever had. He grabbed the left steering wheel with his left hand for control and set his right hand on top of Anna’s head to set the pace even if she knew what she was doing.
About a minute into it, Alex could start to feel the butterflies travel down his stomach and into his crotch. That old familiar feeling. He was going to bust. Right as he was about to finish in her mouth, Anna promptly stopped, removing both her hand and mouth from Alex’s body. She had a small well of tears in her eyes. She wiped her mouth and looked down.
“I’m sorry, Alex. I can’t finish. I…I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I like you, but I can’t do this. Forgive me. Forget this.” She wiped her mouth one last time with the palm of her hand and her tears with the back of the same before grabbing her purse and exciting Alex’s vehicle without saying a word. She looked briefly at him before getting into her vintage car and speeding away.
Alex stood silently in the parking lot for several minutes with his unzipped pants. His penis was now as flaccid as he thought it would ever be. Leaning back and zipping his pants back up, he let out a giant sigh before turning his car on and exiting the mall towards I-64 and northern Virginia.
“What a fucking disaster,” he said to himself as he drove off. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for it. And now look at me. I’m blue-balled and more confused than fucking ever.” He tried to focus on anything other than what had just transpired on his trip back to the D.C. metro area. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. As fucked as it was that it happened, he half smiled at the thought of her lips firmly planted on his. A small well of tears formed in his eyes as he approached Interstate 95. He shook it off and focused on the road head. It looked like traffic near the exit.
People have been taking social media and the Internet way too seriously lately. On top of that, the political candidates of certain parties continue to bum me out. With all this sadness and political incorrectness going on today, how about having a little fun. I think we could all use a laugh…why not do it with political BDSM fan fiction?
It was a night of political gridlock in South Carolina. Another city, another long and intense debate. The assembled masses of ardent supporters flocked to the auditorium to hear their candidates speak. Fingers pointed and mouths flapped the truths of a continued socialist nightmare looming in the distance horizon should any of their political counterparts win the election. Candidates blamed President Obama and his political stranglehold on the Republican party patriots. The air was thick with opinions and casual racism. It was an exhausting event. Nobody felt that more than Ted Cruz.
Ted Cruz was tired. After spending the majority of the evening sparring with his Republican foes on stage, all he wanted to do was go back to his dressing room and relax for fifteen minutes before his car came to take him to his hotel. The next day meant more stops on the campaign trail up north in New Hampshire. Cruz shook his head and thought how long the road was to election. More cities. More hands to grip and grin at. More. More. More. How could a face like his continue to smile with so much pain behind it. What he needed was a break. He needed a release. But how?
Cruz told his assistant Grace that he would be in his dressing room for an half hour or so before his ride came to get him. He did not want to be disturbed. His shoulders slunk as tiredness sank into his body like a cold Calgary winter. He just needed to close his eyes and relax. As he turned down the hallway of the auditorium’s backstage, he walked into the room marked “T. Cruz” and opened the door.
This WAS his dressing room, at least earlier in the evening. In fact, his bags and briefcase were still on the chair beside the back table. Everything else in the room was different. The most noticeable difference in the room was the presence of his foe, Donald Trump. Trump sat upright with back was turned to Senator Cruz. He was still wearing his suit from the debate. Well, most of it at least. He rotated around from the back table and grinned at his guest through his ivory white porcelain veneers.
“Oh, hello Ted,” Trump said. “It’s good to see you here. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.” Trump began to sway his generous white hips back and forth. Frank Sinatra played low on a small set of Bose speakers nearby. Trump looked both calm and reserved. More importantly, he appeared to be in a mood largely foreign to Ted over the last few weeks: relaxed. Ted wanted to relax as well, but not with Trump around. That went double for him in his own dressing room.
“Make myself comfortable? Are you serious?” Cruz began to point his finger at Trump in the same manner he did on stage just minutes before. Little did Cruz know that it was one of Trump’s biggest triggers. “What are you doing in my dressing room?” Trump was the last thing Ted wanted to see this evening, especially after the way he was viciously attacked just minutes ago.” Or so he thought.
“Oh, right…about that. I decided to consolidate our rooms for the evening. I think after the things I said, we need to talk it out and see if we can find some common ground. Maybe we can explore more. Can I pour you a scotch?”
“No, I don’t want anything to drink, I want you to get the hell out of my room!” Cruz’s sad, pudding face curved down. His lips drew back from his teeth and he began to anger more inside. The sensation felt hot. He felt something else inside as the anger droned in and out of him. Something new weaved into the insanity of his hate quilt. It wasn’t his opposition to women’s rights or his support to overturn the Gay Marriage Amendment. It was something else, deeper even. Was it…love? acceptance? No, surely not. How silly. This wasn’t some schoolyard kids game. This was his room and he wanted Trump out.
But the kid gloves were off, and so was Donald Trump’s pants.
“Shut the door, Ted,” he said. Trump proceeded to take his shirt off and add it to the small pile of clothes on the floor. His look was strong and determined.
“Absolutely not,” Cruz roared back. “I’m not going to stand for this in MY dressing room. If you want to change, you should go do it in your own room, Donald.”
Cruz’s voice began to tremble. His lip quivered as a small river of cold sweat began to trickle down his ample forehead. “I….I want you to leave Donald.” Trump merely looked back at him and shook his head from side to side.
Trump sauntered towards Cruz. He began to touch himself through his Armani boxers. “You like what you see, Ted?” His eyes were piercing. “That’s a big rod of New York steel pointed straight at you. I’d like to introduce you to Trump Tower.” Cruz jumped back. He was about to flee from the room before Trump ramped up again. Trump’s voice, louder now, seemed determined to keep Cruz there with him. Alone. “Just you wait, it’s gonna be HUUUGE.” At that moment, Ted realized this wasn’t a normal situation. This was special, and Trump had chosen him. On the dresser in the room, near the tanning cream and vat of children’s tears, was a giant bottle of petroleum jelly. But for what?
“You’re all talk,” Cruz Said, “and I completely meant what I said up there tonight.” Cruz did not shut the door, but turned his back to it and walked closer to Trump, who continued to touch himself. “I don’t even think you’re a true Republican. You come from a town that’s socially liberal, supports abortions, and is entirely focused on the media. You’re self obsessed. Imean, look at you. Why the hell won’t you stop touching yourself. You are not displaying the values of a good candidate for this party. This must be how they do it in New York, because it is certainly NOT how we do it down in Texas or up in Canada. Does this get you off talking down to me like this, treating me like a piece of meat?”
“As a matter of fact, it does. I am dominant, and I need a good slave.” Despite the hesitation and confusion in his eyes, Cruz continued to listen. Trump pulled a ball gag, handcuffs, and blindfold out of a duffle bag next to the crumpled pile of expensive clothes. “Well, Texas,” Trump said, “I’m about to whip some New York values out of you.” I want you to put this blindfold on and ‘feel the burn,’ as they say.
Senator Cruz had enough. It was time for him to leave. He shook a disapproving head silently at Trump and headed back towards the door. As his sweaty palm gripped the door knob and turned it clockwise, he released his grip. Ted could not believe what he was doing. He lifted his cell phone up to his ear to call his assistant. Trump looked hesitant once again. His jowls turned up in disapproval. But there washope there, and not the kind that Obama continued to spout over the last eight years.
“Hi, Grace, it’s Senator Cruz. Yeah, I am going to need another half-hour before you guys take me to my hotel.” They continued to talk for a few more seconds. Cruz stared into Trump’s piercing eyes. “I guess something just came up.” He closed his phone and kneeled down on the ground towards Trump: his first act of submission.
“Alright, Ted,” Trump said with a wide smile across is artificially tanned face, “let’s make America great again.” Trump walked past him and shut the door.
“How does it feel?” His head is perspiring into think rivers against his bulging neck. She voices concern without answering the question.
“I just don’t know,” she says. The hope and anger drain from his eyes. Something has knocked him off his high vantage point. he is defeated and broken all at once. The magician is out of tricks.
“You are a goddamn liar! I can’t believe we are arguing over this!” He can’t help but scream in her face.
I’m braking every promise I made to myself when things started getting bad a few years back. People think they are so goddamn open-minded when it comes to life and love. I never thought it would get this bad. I can close my eyes and feel the small steel blade cutting like butter against the arterial highways of my body. But I know that’s all a fantasy. I’m hoping to keep that a fantasy. Who likes blood, anyway? I faint at the sight of blood. What would I do if I saw all of that coming out of me? Would I pass out from shock? From disgust of the blood, or disgust in myself? It’s hard to tell which one. That’s one guessing game I don’t want to participate in.
John dipped his head deep into the cold water. It felt good on his head, which felt like it was burning. He shook his head of the thoughts that ran through his mind like a freight train. He opened up the bathroom door in just enough time to sing happy birthday to his son.
“Shut the door, Ted,” he said. Trump proceeded to take his shirt off and add it to the small pile of clothes on the floor. His look was strong and determined.
Delusional Thoughts From Fantasy Island 