Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  My mouth is so dry, there is no way I can respond. My tongue works against the roof of it trying to form some bit of saliva, but there is none to be had. The sound of Quasi snickering to the side only makes it worse.

  Walking up alongside me, Ripley hands the gun off butt first. The weight of it almost jerks me to the ground, my throbbing right arm barely able to support it.

  “I know you said that lying down isn’t real good for you,” Ripley says, “but I would suggest doing it with Norma.”

  I look at both of them a moment before saying, “Oh, I don’t-“

  “In fact, I insist on it,” Ripley adds, his tone letting me know this point is non-negotiable.

  The words and the way they are delivered seems to convey that he knows something is about to happen. I’m not sure what that might be, though I am in no position to argue with him.

  “Okay,” I say, placing the gun on the ground and lying down beside it.

  Around me, I am vaguely aware of Quasi moving into position as a beat-up pair of plastic ear muffs hit the dirt beside me, a plume of dust rising in my face.

  “Here, you’ll definitely want these,” Ripley says, his voice somehow sounding even gruffer than it did a moment before.

  For the first time, I can’t help but feel like I am being set up, that whatever happened with the Winchester is only prelude to what I’m about to endure.

  “I’ve already loaded it for you,” Ripley says, “all you have to do is point and shoot.”

  All other sounds fade away as I shove the muffs down over my ears. The brittle plastic scratches against my cheeks as they slide into position, stinking of sweat.

  The dull hum in my ears is the only sound as I pull the end of the rifle back against my shoulder, positioning it as far from the previous impact as possible. My entire upper right quadrant throbs as I move myself into place and settle my cheek down against the stock.

  An inch in front of my face is the scope, a digital cross hair settling in over the target. Gone is any of the bravado I felt just a few minutes earlier, now replaced by the deep-rooted desire not to make matters worse.

  “Okay,” I whisper, placing the target in the center of the scope.

  Drawing a deep breath through my nose, I curl back my finger, the enormous weapon barking on command.

  It is the last thing I register before my entire world cuts to black.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Friday, January 21st, 2015

  3:46 pm

  I can still feel the groove beneath my fingertips. It starts just inside the ridge of my nose, sweeping in a perfect arc around my eye socket. The indentation continues a half inch above my eyebrow, stretching an inch and a half in total length.

  “Scoped,” I say, fighting the urge to run my finger along it once more, knowing my restraints will keep me from reaching my face. “Ever heard of it?”

  Pearson pauses for a moment and considers the question, her hands falling still.

  “I’m guessing you don’t mean being picked up by somebody? Like, noticed in public?”

  “No,” I reply, twisting my head, my mouth curling up a bit. “Scoped, as in impaling oneself on the scope of a rifle.”

  I pause a moment to see if there will be any response, but I push on ahead when none comes.

  “The plan was for me to fire all of the rifles and then start in with handguns,” I say, recalling the detailed agenda we had laid out with Ripley.

  He had seemed completely skeptical of the whole thing from the very beginning, especially once Quasi brought out the camera and began filming our exchange.

  Neither one of us had really considered before we went the kind of people we might encounter at a gun range. Just twenty-three miles from Nashville, we assumed the joint would be at least somewhat civilized. The place and the people there couldn’t be drastically different from what we were used to.

  How wrong we were proven to be.

  “But it turned out that none of the regulars wanted to be around with us carrying a camera,” I say, recalling that afternoon.

  “I bet,” Pearson says, the top of her head rising just a bit.

  “No, you don’t,” I say, raising my own head to see her for a moment behind the screen. “I don’t mean these people were bashful or shy, I mean they were right-wing militants.”

  My eyes go glassy as I recall the events of the afternoon, of the fear we both felt, the first time either one had ever encountered what could be considered real danger.

  “I thought for sure we were going to catch a beating,” I say, “if not worse.”

  “That bad?” Pearson asks, taking down everything I say as if practicing stenography.

  “Hmm,” I snort, allowing my backside to slide a bit lower in the seat.

  Within seconds, my rear begins to ache again, though I remain in place to give my neck some relief.

  “Think about it. Some very large, mostly ex-military, West Tennessee folks with heavy weapons. How do you think it went down?”

  Once more her typing pauses, allowing just enough time to pass for her to consider the hypothetical.

  “Scary.”

  “Very,” I say. “We sat there for three hours and let every last person shoot to their hearts content. We couldn’t wait in our car because they thought we might be filming their license plates leaving. We weren’t permitted to go home because they thought we’d go alert the authorities or something.”

  “So when you say militant...” Pearson begins.

  “I mean government-hating, full-on paranoid, militia,” I confirm.

  For a moment, I fall silent, thinking about us both in our ridiculous outfits sitting like a pair of frightened children in the corner. Neither one of us looked at anybody or said a word, just sitting and waiting.

  I can only imagine the kind of laugh those people had at our expense outside on the range.

  “By the time they all went home for the day, we had to pay Ripley a hundred dollars to stay open an extra hour, another hundred to rent the weapons I was supposed to fire.”

  The last words are tinged with bitterness, the afternoon still striking a chord within me. Not only were we bullied by a bunch of nobodies with guns, we were swindled by some old guy on a power trip.

  “You don’t sound happy about it,” Pearson says, picking up on the tenor of my voice.

  “Considering I made ten bucks an hour at Bob’s, that was half a week’s pay, before taxes.”

  A sound closely resembling a chortle is emitted from the other side of the laptop, though I let it slide. I can’t be certain which part of the statement she finds humorous, even less sure that I wouldn’t feel the same way if in her shoes.

  “And you only got to fire twice,” she adds, prompting me to continue.

  “Right,” I say, the comment pushing me back on track.

  “The idea was to start with the rifles, giving us some great images of me with a big weapon. After that, we’d pull out some handguns, basic nine-millimeter types that lawmen and drug runners use.

  “Finish up with some big canons, heavy forty-fives or something. Real Dirty Harry type of stuff.”

  Just talking about it brings a hint of a smile to my face, remembering the conversations Quasi and I had leading up to our trip. The sum total of everything we knew about guns we’d gleaned from television and a bit of reading on Wikipedia.

  If I were to go back now, my goals would be entirely different. There would be no need to have such a wide array of firearms, the objective being to simply pick a single piece and practice until proficient.

  The beauty of hindsight and all that.

  “But, like I said, second shot of the day and I was out.”

  Again I pause, forcing myself not to reach up and trace the scar across my forehead.

  “I came to a few minutes later thanks to Ripley rubbing the oil rag under my nose. By that time, the gun was already put away and Quasi was standing over me, holding the camera as close to my face as he could.

&
nbsp; “My right eye was almost swollen shut, that side of my face crusted with drying blood. Any pain I had felt in my arm was minor compared to the thunderous pounding in my head, coherent thought a distance memory.”

  Rolling over onto my left haunch, I glance past Pearson to the mirror behind her. Narrowing my eyes, I can see just the faintest shadow where the trench is still visible on my forehead.

  I’m sure to the guards sitting back there it looks like I am staring them down, though I couldn’t care less what they think. The odds are they are sitting there reading magazines or messing with their phones, barely looking up.

  If not though, it’s not like there’s much they can do to me at this point.

  “Ripley kept my two hundred dollars and pointed us to the nearest emergency room. Apparently, the sight of me rolling in with blood covering half my face was enough to get their attention because it only took them two hours to get to us instead of the usual ten.”

  “What was the diagnosis?” Pearson asks, her voice completely void of compassion, asking only for reporting purposes.

  “Concussion, eighteen stitches to close the wound,” I say, rattling off the information as I’ve done numerous times before. “First of either for me.”

  Her head rises to look at me for a moment, with me meeting her gaze, but I say nothing.

  “You say that as if it was just the first of many.”

  The statement is left open ended, though I know where she is going with it.

  “More of one than the other,” I reply, “but you’re not wrong.”

  I leave it vague on purpose. Prison life can be difficult, even for a minor celebrity. There’s no need to walk her through all of that story too.

  She arches an eyebrow at me, letting me know she doesn’t appreciate the evasive answer, but lets it go at that.

  “And all this was transposed onto film?”

  We both know she is already aware it was, having seen the footage. I have to admire her dedication to the task though, asking even the most obvious to ensure completely truthful storytelling.

  “It was,” I say, rocking my head forward in a nod, “but more importantly, it took things to an entirely new level for us.”

  I can tell each time I say something that catches her attention, as the typing stops and a quick glance is usually leveled.

  This time they arrive at the same time, silently wanting me to continue.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Wednesday, March 21st, 2012

  9:43 pm

  The ointment prescribed to me by the emergency room doctor has a nasty, antiseptic scent. No matter what angle I try to use in approaching my face, there is no way to keep the smell out of my nostrils, my eyes watering as I apply it. Caked onto the end of a cotton swab, it stings my healing wound for a moment as I smear it over the stitches.

  Once I am done, I cast the swab away, a shiny crescent visible across my forehead.

  “How’d you tell your mom it happened?” Quasi asks from the computer chair, watching as I stand with my back to him, examining my face in the mirror above the dresser.

  My nose and right eye are both still puffy, light red and purple bruising radiating out in a misshapen circle. Not pretty, but a lot better than it was two days before.

  “Work accident,” I reply. “Told her I slipped on a wet floor and hit my head.”

  “And she bought it?” he asks, a trace of amusement in his voice that I don’t much care for.

  I let the agitation show as I turn to face him, my mouth turned down into a sneer.

  “Made up an elaborate story about how I fired the kid that did it. She ate it up.”

  His eyebrows rise a bit in surprise, though he wisely chooses to remain silent.

  “You’re not the only one that can ad-lib on the spot, you know.”

  Again he opts for silence, raising his hands on either side of him, his palms facing me.

  It is the first time we have seen each other since the incident, a fact that rankles me to no end. He claims he was off putting together the video for a few days and that he had to work all day today.

  We both know that holding down a job has never been a priority for him, the very reason a guy with his acumen is still living in his parent’s basement. More likely is that he has been hiding from me, sensing my anger over the entire incident. While it isn’t aimed at him exactly, I haven’t been real discriminating on where to level it.

  Having a misshapen face, a bruised arm, and a splitting headache tends to do that to a person.

  “So I assume you chose to grace me with your presence this evening for some reason other than to watch me clean my wounds?” I ask.

  The word choice may be a little dramatic, though I again feel the need to remind him that I am the one taking the lumps for this project. If at any point he wants to hand the camera over to me, I would be more than happy to trade.

  The question seems to jolt Quasi back to life, his face lighting up. His posture rises three inches in the chair as he looks at me, his mouth curling into a smile.

  “Did you get my message this morning?”

  I had seen that he called right after I got to work, knowing full well I wouldn’t be able to take it. Out of principal, I had deleted it without listening.

  “No,” I say, “missed it.”

  “Well, I was calling to tell you I posted the video this morning,” he says, running right past my blatant dismissal of his call without a thought.

  The annoyance lingers just a moment before surprise at his admission sets in.

  “Really? Already?”

  “Yup,” he says, smiling proudly, “ten-thirty this morning.”

  Originally, he had told me it was going to take at least two more days for it to be ready. For a moment, all ill will I feel falls away, a begrudging respect crossing my features.

  “How did you...?”

  “Worked basically straight through,” Quasi says, again employing his single shoulder shrug. “It was ready, so I thought we’d put it up and see what happened.”

  “But didn’t we tell the people on Twitter...?” I ask.

  “We did,” he says, this time shrugging with the opposite shoulder, “but isn’t it better to be early and surprise people than miss a deadline?”

  Exchanges like this one are what has been so comforting and so infuriating about being friends with Quasi over the years. If properly motivated, the kid can do great things. It’s just finding a subject matter that interests him for longer than a week that has proven next-to-impossible.

  While occasionally a bit humbling for someone like myself, it is also somewhat reassuring.

  “So, what are the early returns?” I ask, pushing myself away from the dresser and walking towards him.

  “I don’t know,” he says, offering me a mischievous smile, “I haven’t checked. That’s why I’m here.”

  A moment passes as we both stare at each other. Sparks of excitement ignite deep within, tempered by uncertainty.

  The success of the last video was so exhilarating, so unexpected, that the thought of backtracking on that progress is almost too much to bear. At the same time, that was merely my getting sick while drinking. This showing involves weapons and major personal injury.

  “Boot it up,” I say, stepping closer.

  In the chair, Quasi slaps his hands together in front of him, letting out a loud whoop. I ignore the sound and the pain it brings to my head as he spins around, working the computer in practiced movements.

  “Moment of truth,” he announces, bringing our newest video to life.

  At the top of the screen is the title, Chaz D Visits the Shooting Range.

  Not the most eloquent moniker in the world, but my mouth is so dry right now, I can’t begin to comment on it.

  In the video screen I appear, dressed in all black, standing in front of the building. Quasi lets it play as he scrolls to the bottom, my heart pounding as all breathing in the room ceases.

  “Bloody hell,” Quasi wh
ispers.

  I have no idea why he has decided to go British on me, but all I can do is nod in agreement. For some reason, the words seem to perfectly encapsulate both our thoughts.

  “You say this went up this morning?” I ask, my voice relaying the numb feeling creeping through my body.

  “Yeah.”

  “And already we’ve got almost nine thousand hits?” I say, my tone still low, disbelief obvious.

  “Eleven hundred likes,” Quasi adds, his tone matching my demeanor.

  “That’s...” I begin, searching for the right word. “Crazy.”

  “Mhmm,” Quasi agrees, pushing the cursor a little lower on the page.

  Lined in chronological order are three different comments, all coming in within the last two hours. Together we read each in silence, going through and processing them in turn.

  The top is from someone named Abbalicious, stating that these videos are too hilarious.

  The second was posted by somebody with the handle TaterBug08, a picture of a butterfly as their avatar. They too left just a string of laughter for the comment, an emoticon of a smiling face at the end of it.

  Both of these we skim over. If we had more of our faculties about us, or had they come in individually, we might have felt some swell of pride. Perhaps we would have even smiled.

  As is, they are completely overshadowed by the most recent in the thread.

  Posted just fifty minutes earlier, it is attributed to a user named NoddyGrl26, the picture beside the handle being a young woman in leather undergarments. My heart starts to pound as I stare at it, the increased blood flow bringing renewed pain to my aching face.

  “Are you seeing this?” Quasi whispers.

  “Yea.”

  “Are you thinking...?”

  I don’t respond. Instead, I just stare in abject wonder at what is written.

  The only thing hotter than a man with blood and scars is a man with tats! That should be Chaz D’s next adventure!