His basement room was below the grade of the surrounding yard. His room had small hopper windows that only opened to about eight inches. When Victor regarded himself in the mirror he was certain he was at least twice as thick as that. Despite not really needing to be out of the basement, being trapped there gnawed at him. He found his anxiety level increasing. He became even more frustrated and angry
For a change, Victor did not go online to find relief from his feelings. He opened a game and entered single player mode, seeking comfort in the familiarity. It brought the profound realization that this was probably as good as it would ever get for him. He would never find comfort and caring in the way other people did. He was not like them and never would be. The only question was where did that leave him? What did it make him? What was his place in this world?
He probably could have gotten out of the basement right then if he wanted to. He could have put his shoulder into the thin pine door and shattered it into kindling. The door between him and the upstairs represented more than that. At this moment it was a barrier between the inside world and outside world. It was the barrier between him and them. He would go through the barrier soon and he hoped the world was ready for it. Life would never be the same for him. Nor would it ever be the same for the world.
There would later be speculation about what happened. There would be experts who talked about underlying psychiatric issues and decades of emotional cruelty. They would talk about the failure of the system and the phrase slipped through the cracks would be used more than once. But it was this day that it changed, with the locking of the basement door. With that small thing, it was as if Victor’s composition changed pH, moving from alkaline to acid.
While the young man locked in the basement was the same Victor who had lived in the house his entire life, in some ways that Victor never existed again after that day. He might as well have died in that basement or disappeared just as Stanley had encouraged him to do. What came out when the barrier between basement and world was finally shattered was someone who had only existed previously as a simple user name for logging onto a gaming server.
It was DeathMerchant6o6o6.
Did anyone notice? Not likely. Perhaps Victor didn't even notice himself. All he knew was that when he left single player mode and turned off his gaming console he felt different.
He spun in his computer chair and looked around his room. He stopped at the pegboard with its assortment of metal hooks displaying the knives and weaponry that so fascinated him. He got up from the chair and picked up his favorite knife. It was not a particularly well-made knife but there was something about the handle and the long, jagged blade that appealed to him. Holding it gave a sense of completion to a person who did not always feel complete.
Victor laid down on his bed, still wearing his clothes and shoes. He rested the knife across his chest and closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be a new day.
Perhaps even a new life.
20
At the appointed hour, Mohammed and Khebat appeared at the mosque. They entered discreetly through a side door and were greeted by the same welcoming party they had encountered last time, though they were anything but welcoming. These were the same muscled laborers who’d escorted them last time. Knowing what was expected of them, Mohammed and Khebat turned their backs on the men and extended their hands behind them. It was not a comfortable position. Mohammed well knew that some men in this same position lost their heads.
The roommates were hooded, flex cuffed, and shuffled into a waiting van. They did not talk between themselves and they did not ask questions, knowing that any discussion would only result in being violently clouted on the head. Although Mohammed still had a sore spot from the last time, at least his brains had not been boiled.
When the hoods were stripped from their heads, the pair found themselves again facing the same grim row of men as last time. Miran appeared to be the most sinister of the group. Mohammed wasn’t certain whether it was because of the expression he wore or because of the things he had seen him do. That very recollection, the memory of the boiling oil, forced Mohammed to scan frantically for a table and a kettle of oil, which thankfully he did not see. No matter. If Miran wanted to make him suffer, Mohammed was certain he had a full palette of techniques at his disposal.
Miran smiled at Mohammed's moment of panic, knowing full well where the young man’s racing mind was taking him. It pleased Miran. To see fear in front of him was the reward of a job well done.
"Your concern pleases me," Miran said. "It indicates that you fully understand the gravity of our situation."
Mohammed nodded. "Indeed I do. We've been working hard."
Miran chuckled. “Your idea of hard work is relative. I don't know where you came from before this so I don't know if you've ever really tasted hard work. I do know many of our brothers would argue that sitting in a warm, dry apartment playing on a computer all day is not the most demanding of labors."
Mohammed bowed his head. "I intended no disrespect to my brothers. All labor honors Allah. I only meant to imply that Khebat and I have worked intently on what we last discussed."
"Then tell me, what is this flash mob?" Miran asked.
Mohammed raised his eyes from the floor to the terrifying man. He did not like looking upon him, yet he was afraid of appearing disrespectful by not meeting the man's eyes. Mohammed related the story of seeing the flash mob in the crowded square and what his research had subsequently revealed.
"And you see an avenue for doing something similar in America?" Miran asked.
“Yes, but with a profoundly different goal in mind,” Mohammed replied.
“I assumed,” Miran chuckled. “You have made progress?”
Mohammed nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. I have been grooming an individual I think could be the one."
Miran looked doubtful. "I am not willing to approve such an operation until I'm fully convinced you can make this game into a weapon. How do you intend to do that?"
Mohammed hesitated. While he did not have every aspect fully thought out, he had explored avenues for how it might work. His mind raced, desperately trying to pull the pieces into place so he could present his ideas in a coherent manner.
"In the flash mob I saw in the Hauptwache, the crowd eagerly did what they had been instructed to do. They saw participation as its own reward. They assembled without question and completely carried out the instructions of whomever planned the event, which I'm assuming was the man doing the marriage proposal."
"I'm not certain you could weaponize a random assembly of people," Miran said. "If there was anything in the instructions that even sounded remotely dangerous or threatening the recipients of the message would just go to the police."
"My plan would be based on the participants unknowingly acting on our behalf. It would be a ruse. They would think they were doing one thing while actually doing another."
Miran raised a wicked eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the idea. "Explain how you might do that. What sort of ruse could be used?"
Mohammed was thinking on his feet now, figuring things out as he went. He had not been this far in his thinking before but now it was coming to him. The plan was coalescing in his head here under heat and pressure, like a diamond forming from coal.
"In the same way in which the man presented the ring box to his beloved I want to convince strangers to present wrapped gifts to other strangers."
"You have my attention," Miran said.
"Have you ever heard the expression random acts of kindness?" Mohammed asked.
Miran shrugged. "I have heard it. I have also heard of random acts of violence."
"Imagine the two as one," Mohammed said. "Imagine a group of people brought to a crowded square and told they will be provided a mystery gift to give to a random stranger whom they think is deserving of a gift. Imagine an army of strangers who then give those gifts to other strangers within the same crowded square."
Miran could not help but begin to smile, his eye
s alight with the evil implications. The ferocity. The cruelty.
"Then boom," Miran finished, splaying his fingers in a semblance of an explosion.
It was Mohammed's turn to smile, both at Miran's eagerness and at his relief that he had come up with a plan that at least intrigued the leadership. "Yes, boom. An explosive device in each gift, set to detonate simultaneously."
Miran stood from his chair and went to Mohammed, standing toe to toe with the man and staring him in the eye. Mohammed’s smile evaporated and fear overtook him at the sheer proximity of the dangerous man. He felt the reaction in his bowels, the deep fear that this man might kill him at any moment, perhaps not needing him now that Mohammed had spilled his idea. Yet Miran reached out and heartily patted Khebat on the shoulder.
"I think your idea is brilliant. Nothing strikes terror deeper in the heart of citizens than the fear one of their own people may be turned against them."
Mohammed nodded. “So you wish me to continue building an ally in America? Mohammed asked
Miran nodded. "Yes. But you have to convince me that this plan of yours has merit."
"How?"
“By conducting one of your flash mobs here in Frankfurt,” Miran said.
Mohammed's face darkened. "I can do that but I do have concerns. We will lose the element of surprise. The unique nature of this attack will be revealed.”
Miran looked seriously at the younger man. "I think it may take longer than you expect for the story behind the attack to emerge. I think we can strike again before the method behind it is revealed. By that time, I will have you out of the country."
Mohammed's mind raced, picturing being forced to return to his war-torn nation, returning to desperation and poverty. "Where will I go?" Mohammed finally worked up the nerve to ask.
"Why, to America, my brother. So you can run your operation from a closer proximity."
Mohammed was speechless. Miran patted him on the shoulder again. "You have done well. These men will return you to the mosque. I will send a man to your apartment tomorrow and you will tell him what you need. The attack in Frankfurt needs to take place within the next week. During that time you will continue to work on the American. Launching the same operation in the United States will take much more money, much more logistical support, and much more risk. I need to see if this can work before I'm willing to take the risk."
"I understand," Mohammed said. “May I ask one thing?”
Miran nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead."
“If my American is reluctant, perhaps an offer of money would help him make up his mind. Am I free to offer that?"
Miran shrugged. "Of course, because he will never live long enough to spend it."
21
Sometime in the middle of the night Victor’s eyes popped open. The basement was dark, the only illumination coming from the various LEDs on power strips and other electronics. The house was completely silent. The experiences of the evening came back to Victor and he lay there processing them. He felt the heaviness of the knife blade laying across his chest but did not recall laying down with it. He felt around for his phone and found it tangled in the sheets beside him. At his touch, the screen lit up with an assortment of notifications.
The first thing he did was log into the social media account through which he had been communicating with CamaroChick19, or Amanda Castle as he now knew her. He saw he had a new message.
"Dude, I’ve been thinking about this. You definitely need to scrap any plans for doing a #knockoutgame. That’s some fucked up shit that will get you put in jail. Besides, I'm working on a plan to help both of us. It will get me out of my jam and will land you some cool video footage. Remember, you can’t be a viral video superstar if you’re in jail, right?”
The message continued.
“Listen, I know what you're thinking. You’re thinking, I don't know this chick. Why would she give a shit? But I do. I watched your videos and felt an instant connection. I knew you were someone who thought like me. Who might understand me. I don’t want to lose you. My life sucks sometimes and watching your videos helps. Messaging you helps. Don’t take that away from me.”
Victor stared at the message and read it several times. He couldn't imagine anyone had ever cared that much for his videos, yet maybe he was wrong. Apparently they were important to her. Apparently he was important to her.
He left that social media account and went to the other where CamaroChick19 was using her real name, Amanda. He stared at the girl’s picture, blowing it up until he could look at her face and try to read what might be going on in her head. Who was she?
Did she love him?
Could he love her?
Certainly she was the only person who’d offered him a kind word in as long as he could remember, but he had to do what he had to do. Some things were inevitable. He was not going to let a few messages from a girl he didn't even know keep him from doing something he wanted to do. Something like the knockout game.
With all his being he needed to strike against his former boss. His boss certainly wasn’t the first person in the world to wrong him, but he hoped he might be the last. His life entered a different chapter from this point forward. DeathMerchant6o6o6 simply did not tolerate the same kind of bullshit that Victor did. DeathMerchant6o6o6 got even.
His boss made him feel small and worthless. He was tired of being made to feel that way. The only way to stop it was to strike back so violently people would leave him alone. People would never wrong him again without thinking twice about the potential consequences. He would make sure of it.
He also decided that when and if he struck against his boss, he would not tell CamaroChick19. He was tired of being manipulated and pressured by people. What he did was none of her business. He would keep his mouth shut and see if they could still have a relationship. Surely what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, right?
With those decisions behind him, Victor checked his other social media accounts. He'd received no new comments on his video requesting ideas nor on any of his other videos. He closed the apps on his phone and only then saw he had a notification that he’d received a text message. That was unusual. The only people who ever contacted him outside of social media were his mother and his coworkers. Opening the text message, he found the unfamiliar number was his old boss at the gaming store.
Konkoly: Hey, dickhead, you can forget coming by the store and picking up your last check. I just got finished reviewing video footage from a lot of your recent shifts. You never did a fucking thing most days. You also carried out several games and I can’t find any record of you paying for them. I’m not paying you another cent. Don’t ever come in one of my stores again.
A knot formed in Victor’s stomach. While everything his boss said was true, he hadn’t been paid enough to work very hard. That wasn’t the worst of it. He’d been certain his last check would cover him for another month’s rent. He didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t have it. Someone who looked like Victor couldn’t just walk into the grocery store and fill out an application. Most places wouldn’t hire someone as colorful and dramatic as him. He didn’t know what he was going to do.
Victor thought about the last twenty-four hours of his life, about his mother, Stanley, and his former boss talking to him like he was nothing. Yesterday he wanted to do a knockout game just so he could ruin his boss’s day. He hadn’t even thought he was going to participate.
Now he was.
Victor was going to launch a knockout game. He was going to draw in the roughest punks and borderline criminals he could find. He was going to wade through them and punch his boss in the face. The only person in his life who seemed to care at all, CamaroChick19, would have to take a back seat for now.
Before he could change his mind, Victor moved over to his computer and logged into an anonymous web browser that would conceal his tracks. From there, he created a half-dozen new social media accounts and began sending out announcements and invitations.
; “#Flashmob #knockoutgame #KonkolyGames #CharlotteNC #7PM #freegames #wreckshit.”
Despite the indignity of being locked in the basement it didn’t take Victor long to actually get out. He could have broken down the basement door at any point but he didn’t want to invite the wrath. There was an unfinished half of the basement that was used for storage and contained a lot of his dad’s stuff. Wandering around there with a flashlight, Victor found the old coal chute in the wall. The house had long ago used a coal furnace for heat and this chute was where the coal delivery man shoved it into the bin.
The door was wired shut with a twisted coat hanger. It was a pathetic attempt at holding the door closed and could have been pulled loose by any determined thief. From the inside, it presented little challenge at all and Victor soon had the door open. The door was cast iron and heavy but flapped easily when the wire was removed.
He found a rickety wooden stepladder and propped it against the wall beneath the chute. He eased cautiously up the ladder, concerned at the groaning and cracking coming from the antique ladder. It occurred to him too late there was probably a reason the ladder hadn’t been used in a long time.
The top of the ladder hit right below the heavy chute door. After climbing a few steps up, Victor leaned over and began pushing his arm and head through the door. The door swung easily but it was a tight fit. By the time he had his head and chest out, his body was angled in such a way his feet no longer found the steps of the ladder. He tried to kick and wiggle to work his bulk through the door. The sharp cast iron grated against his flesh on all sides as he tried to gain ground.
He straightened his legs out inside the basement and got one foot braced against the sewer pipe. By pushing with his foot and clawing his fingers into the earth, Victor pulled himself free inch by painful inch. When he finally pulled his legs out, the heavy door banged shut and Victor lay immobile in the flower bed at the side of the house. He was coated in sweat from his exertions and it mixed with potting soil to form a crusty coating on Victor’s skin, making him resemble a battered cut of chicken.
Random Acts Page 13
