by Travis Knoll
I stood before a local art sculpture, that to me resembled a man’s body in a business suit with a Bald Eagle's head on top of it, a cigarette coming out of its mouth, giving a wink to everyone in the room as if it was always following you. The sculpture rested as the center focal point that accentuated paintings hung around the studio from the touring artists. They'd gathered around dressed to the Lifer nines, chatting like highbrow socialites, sipping their imitation Mouton Rothschild Bordeaux blend from the Chateau Rothinback. A woman wearing a flamboyant black feather flapper stated that the music was Mozartian in nature. I immediately corrected her, telling her that it was Gershwin.
There were fruity artist drinks that went with the discussions of each art piece, each person trying to figure out what the artist was trying to convey to us as the audience. These red, yellow and blue multicolored cocktails were partitioned together like oil resting on water, never mixing. The cocktail waitresses were wearing black miniskirts and white and black Phantom of the Opera type of masks with extravagant feathers where the eyelashes on their faces would be. Their right legs were covered with black patent leather and their left were bare up to the panty line.
Their shirts were cut in half, with the left breast revealed, only covered by a small piece of black electrical tape cut in the shape of a heart, concealing the nipple all in the name of art, and to serve all the plebeians that were marked as Lifers.
The woman with the Phantom of the Opera feather mask winked at me, and I took one of the multicolored shots, glanced around the place, and it appeared that I was clearly a bit underdressed, sticking out like a non-Lifer sore thumb.
Stephanie ran behind me, hugged and kissed me aggressively, her brown silken hair flowing over my face, as a smile blossomed in both of our hearts. My heart melted every time I fell into her dark brown eyes. Those eyes were cause enough to procure my mark, and I refused to agree with Cowboy that Lifes couldn’t mix with the Lifer's.
"You just must meet some of these people," Stephanie said.
She grabbed my arm and showed me some of her art work. Her beauty encapsulated me, the dark penetrating eyes, the Annick Gorta's perfume that hypnotized my senses, blazing my way to follow her. She took me to her section of art on display. One piece that she was showing was the original print of the black and white painting of the iconic figure that stood in a crucifixion ambivalently looking over the city skyline from atop a skyscraper.
"I owe this all to you. You're my inspiration..." Stephanie said with an endearing smile.
A German man wearing a black and white freshly pressed suit, who had a bit of an older appearance, with grey hair, a stoic look, and thick throwback 1950s German Rodenstock Tourtise eyeglasses, gestured at me with a smile and handed me his business card. The name on the card was “Black.”
"Stephanie has such a good boyfriend here, ja? What was your name?" Black asked in a Bavarian highbrow accent.
"This is my boyfriend and I owe this all to him," Stephanie said.
"You must be very well off, my friend. What is it you do?" Black asked as he peered around at the different art on display in the studio.
"I work in I.T.," I said, humbly.
"Where is your current place of residence, my friend?" Black asked.
"That is a good question. He hasn't even had me over to his place yet," Stephanie said with a wink, a smirk emblazoned on her face.
A painting in the corner of the studio got bumped and fell to the ground, with Lifers trying to rush to pick it up.
"Damn it. You'll have to excuse me, gentlemen. I need to take care of this," Stephanie said.
The man in the suit and I shared a common look, and we both watched Stephanie walk to pick up the painting.
"She doesn't even know where you live?" Black asked.
"Why are you here, Black? I know you don't even like art in the first place," I stated.
"Come on TaxMan, we're old pals, ja?" Black said, adjusting his German spectacles.
Black smiled at one of the waitresses. "Schone frau, ja?" he said, and took a shot from her tray. He lifted only his right brow at the beautiful woman, examining her scant attire, and turned his attention back to me.
"Nonsense. I love art. Of course, business is one of the finer arts, my boy," Black said condescendingly.
"Again, why are you here?" I persisted.
"I need your professional assistance with a bit of a conundrum that I am having," Black said.
Black stared at the vibrant-colored shot that hasn't congealed, like oil resting on water; he moved it and still it didn't mix together.
"What is this? Gone are the days of a glass of Scotch," Black said. He took the shot, making his face pucker, like he was eating a piece of sour candy.
March 8, 2035
San Francisco, CA
High-Rise Art Studio Apartment -- Soma
14:42
Black and I watched as Stephanie organized what could only be thought of as an abstract painting. The artist apparently drew inspiration from something similar to Jackson Pollock's drip paintings. It appeared to be a plethora of multicolored circles with black splatters dancing together in the center of the canvas. Black finished his drink and continued to pucker with each swallow. He pulled me to a private corner of the studio apartment.
"I'm retired and getting out of the game. I don't need the money," I said.
"You're funny. I don't believe that this is an option at this point. This came from our benefactor. Him," Black said. He pointed to the sky, insinuating it was from a great omnipresent deity that was above the both of us and was always watching us.
"He knows that you're the best," Black said.
I was quiet and I peered around the studio for a way to get out of the place undetected. Stephanie glanced and waved at me from the other side of the room. I wanted to leave the business and start a new life with her, and perhaps would even get my mark.
"Wherever you go, he will find you, my friend. You know that, and he's been watching you," Black continued.
"It's nice to see you getting along with people, babe," Stephanie said as she walked up and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
"He's normally so antisocial," she stated.
"I must be going for now, but we will be in touch, ja?" Black said. He looked at the time on his limited-edition pristinely branded Pateke Philipe watch, and exited the studio glancing at me as the elevator door closed. Black was like me, in that he had a fabricated life, he was off the grid, but he was so well-protected from the people he worked with that neither the Uprising or the governmental powers that be could make him become a Lifer. I usually just listened to him, as he was intelligent and I got a lot of my work from him, which I never asked the source, as anonymity was always paramount in this business.
Stephanie tried to introduce me to another couple, but I simply ignored them, as she didn’t fully know me either.
My phone vibrated with a text message from an anonymous number.
"You'll have to excuse me, I need to take this," I said as I stared at the text message.
The text message was an encrypted security code and website to be entered into a secure browser that was saying that there would be more information to follow.
I quickly departed the studio apartment...
The back wall of the studio was loaded with graffiti like most of the city's alley's. At the top of the building were the Latin words Cave Adsum written in thick black paint. The main streets were clean to present a front that the Congressmen were doing their jobs moving the President’s agenda forward, and using the tax dollars to maintain Lifers’ perceived interests.
The battery on my phone was dying and I needed a charge. I peered around the corner and there were only a couple of Lifers walking on the streets, as this was predominantly a Lifer part of town. I pulled out a brick from the wall that had a plug connection for a power source to charge my phone, and the availability to use the Wi-Fi with a secured connec
tion if need be. The Uprising set up these essential signposts, signified by the Cave Adsum tags that I knew about, throughout the city. I plugged in my phone and immediately called Cowboy.
"Hey bro, did anyone contact you about a new job that has come through the pipeline?" I asked.
"Hot doggy, I knew you weren't retiring," Cowboy said.
"Did you read anything in the instapress about any new work in the area?"
"Instapress has been quiet, mang, just some rumors about the Mithra Man myths. It's all clean."
"Let me know when you're at the computer. We need to check this out."
"Send it to me."
I sent the code and website in a text message for Cowboy to put in the computer. Cowboy quickly placed the code and website in his browser. A notification came up saying thanks, and was immediately routed to a biometric fingerprint authorization scanner.
"Hey ya, mang, where did you get this?" Cowboy asked.
"I think from Black. Why?" I asked.
"Well, I haven't seen anything like this, it's asking for my fingerprint to authenticate."
"Don't touch anything. I'll come there now."
March 8, 2035
San Francisco, CA
TaxMan -- Underground
15:57
The doors flung open and I took off the Levi jean shirt and put on a fresh blue hooded sweatshirt. I noticed Cowboy was still by the computer trying to figure things out. The screen was yellow, like a caution sign, flashing, and only showed the thumbprint identification biometric scanner to place a fingerprint on the screen to be processed.
Cowboy stood, dazed. Neither of us had an idea of what this was. We sometimes did contract work, but we always knew who we were dealing with beforehand. Black was a bit of a shrewd businessman. He was the type of person that was nice to your face, yet was peering over your shoulder to see who you knew, but clear in his expectations.
"What do you think it is, mang?" Cowboy asked.
"I have no idea. It doesn't say anything. I'm resetting the system," I said.
I pushed the power button on the computer and nothing. The fingerprint scanner just kept throbbing consistently in front of us silently. I couldn't turn the computer off.
"Screw this..." I said, and unplugged the computer and the screen went black. Cowboy plugged it back in and the computer quickly rebooted the lost information and started with the same exact webpage showing the thumbprint authentication once again, but pulsating faster like a sporadic heartbeat that was alive. I looked at Cowboy with a raised brow.
"Should I just do it?" I asked, as Cowboy shrugged his shoulders.
"It's your funeral."
I scanned my fingerprint and the screen turned to a lime green color with the words “thank you for accepting the job.” The application closed and went back to my home screen on my desktop.
"What the hell is going on? What did I accept?" I asked.
"Are you sure that you got this from Black?" Cowboy asked.
"I didn't accept anything," I stated.
I brought up the same application and punched in the security code from the text message once again. The page was then routed to another page that was red like a stop sign and said it would destroy itself in less than fifteen minutes. The webpage revealed the job, which was to create an application that created a bot for a third party to be embedded into the IRS tax mainframe, to help Lifers lower their taxes.
Cowboy and I paused, silent. We sat down and both watched the seconds count down from fifteen minutes on the screen for the information to dissolve into the ether.
"So who the hell gave this to ya? Black doesn't operate in this area, does he?"
"I'm going to reply and say that I'm retired and not going to do it." I replied to the text message that I got from the anonymous number and was almost instantly greeted with a message stating that it was too late, thanking me for my help with this, as it was for the greater good, and the message would disappear on its own.
"At least it looks like it is going to be to help people, right?" Cowboy said.
I got another text message from Stephanie. She asked where I was and I texted back saying that I was sorry and that I had to help a friend in need. I told her that we could meet later and that I loved her.
"I'm calling Black."
I pulled out Black’s new business card and dialed his number.
"Hallo, guten aben Tax. How may I help you?" Black said in the phone, his weaselly voice persisted in irritating me.
"I'm not doing this job. I'm retired, I told you that," I said. I raised my voice, but you could never phase Black emotionally, he was a true businessman.
"Tisk, tisk, my dear friend. It is too late. That job has been accepted, and not to worry, this is in conjunction with the Uprising, it is for the betterment of all Life. Remember herr T, he is watching, and we don't want to disappoint him, now do we?" Black said.
"Who is he, and what are you talking about?" I yelled in the phone.
"Patience, ja? You will be getting more information shortly," Black said, in an unnervingly calm demeanor.
"You know what? Screw you. I'm not doing this," I said, and hung up the phone.
"You want a buddy?" Cowboy asked. He walked to the adjoined car and grabbed a couple of beers. He tossed one to me and another text message chimed in my phone, from the anonymous number.
I dropped my beer as I glanced at the text message. It was a picture of my girlfriend bound and gagged. My heart sank. I placed my phone on the desk calmly and continued to run my anxiety-ridden hands through my hair. Cowboy grabbed the phone and looked at the picture of my girlfriend.
"What the fuck is going on?!" I said.
"We need to find out who this guy is, mang," Cowboy stated.
"I'm going to kill that motherfucker," I said as I picked up the phone and called Black.
"I knew that darn girl was no good for ya. She's a Lifer and day walkers aren't supposed to touch night walkers," Cowboy muttered softly as I leered at him.
"If you lay a finger on her, I swear I will kill you myself," I yelled into the phone.
"Good, I like the ferocity and ambition. So you're coming out of retirement then?"
"I'll do it, but this is the last time, and don't you dare touch her," I said.
"Not to worry, you shall be getting more information shortly."
The phone hung up and I stared at the picture of my girl bound and gagged. All I could do was try and control my thoughts and emotions.
"It's at her place, bro. I can see the picture that she painted of the silhouette of Christ overlooking the city," I said, pointing at the picture behind her.
"So what, they’re probably gone now..." Cowboy stated.
"She might still be there, bro. We need to check," I persisted.
"Whoa, whoa, mang, text her first. See if she has access to her phone," Cowboy said.
I texted her and nothing. We paused, glancing at each other. I couldn't wait when I knew that I should have stayed at her place originally.
"Let's go check real quick before the curfew alarm sounds, and if there's no sign of her, we can go. I have to be certain."
Cowboy grabbed from the locker a couple of earbuds that had a mic so we could communicate without having to text on our phones. He also took a multi-band radio that could intercept the police radio frequency to monitor everything in the area.
March 8, 2035
San Francisco, CA
High-Rise Art Studio Apartment -- Soma
17:27
Cowboy puffed an e-cig outside in the alley of Stephanie's studio apartment. He pulled out a brick that led to an outlet to plug into a hardline that garnered the ability to charge his portable devices. These waypoints were placed meticulously at the height of the Uprising around the city and were identified by the Cave Adsum words. Some weren't working anymore, but most gave patches of power and free off-the-grid Wi-Fi.
Cowboy tapped into
the radio frequency of the police radio with his small multi-band radio, monitoring their chatter, which was currently stating violations of fraudulent marks. He exhaled the e-cig vapor and talked in his earbud, telling me that everything was all clear.
I went into my girlfriend’s studio apartment and everything was in shambles. The art was turned over and the studio was destroyed. The suited Bald Eagle sculpture was broken in half, and the cigarette from his mouth was lying next to pieces of art and other artistic remnants on the ground, which were signs of a struggle and Stephanie throwing things.
There was a note taped on her painting, that is the only one not touched, of the silhouette of Christ. The note read: “the rest of the information will be sent to you shortly, thanks for the help...”
Cowboy overheard on the police radio that the Lifers next to Stephanie's apartment had been alerted of a break-in and the police were downstairs.
"Hey T, we have some hot and fuzzy downstairs. Move now!" Cowboy said.
"Copy, I'll meet you at the spot later. Make sure you're not followed," I said, dropped the note, and ran out of the fire escape window.
The FBI Agents and police immediately blanketed the area. Detective Slate turned to a white translucent curtain blowing from the breeze, and peered down the street at a figure of a man in a hoodie running away.
"He's at it again," Detective Slate said.
The clock on the newly constructed bell tower in the center of the city turned 18:00, and chimed six times, signifying the hour of curfew. It was followed by an intercom with a man’s deep, hypnotic voice telling everyone to be in their homes for curfew by 18:30. He ended every evening’s transmission with the words “keep your eyes on the prize, Lifers.” The transmission was followed by a hypnotizing song, that was bellowed in a female’s operatic voice singing, "You're a slave for me." The curfew alarm ended and the streets emptied as Lifers scattered toward their residences and the streets became barren.
