by Ray G.
Okay, what to look at first.
Let’s start with her emails.
Deep breath.
Here we go.
She’s got two email accounts. There’s the ‘chocoboi’ one which seems to be dedicated to hookups. Plenty of white faces, asses and breasts here...as well as her trademark droll reticence...a lot of lookin’ good mas and when u tryna kick its. Looks like I was just one of many. But what did I expect? I knew what I was getting into. I needed my itch scratched and she scratched that sonofabitch so good.
Don’t get all nostalgic Eve. Dig. Dig deep.
Her other account, ‘sharkbitten20,’ seems to be the ‘real’ account. Correspondence with a Ms. Candace Curtis dominates this one. Let’s check out the most recent message, received yesterday, subject line: ‘I love you, but...’
I’m really getting tired of your games Sav. You’re barely home and you always have some bullshit excuse why you’re out late. I love you Sav. I love you with all that I have, but you keep doing this to me. I am not a dumb woman. I know exactly what you’re doing out there. I know you’re cheating on me. Sorry if I’m not blonde enough, blue-eyed enough or white enough for you. I know that’s what you like. I can’t change who I am Sav, although, sometimes I wish I could change the fact that I love you.
Damn. What a heartless bitch. Now I feel guilty. I’m one of the many ‘other women.’ Had I known I wouldn’t have done anything with her. I would have told her to go fuck herself.
Who am I kidding? I didn’t even ask for her damn name. Get off your high horse Eve. Stop acting so—
Shit.
My mom’s calling.
No. This cannot be happening.
I’m not ready for this!
Breathe.
Breathe.
A new email. It’s Alice...
Not an obsession, huh?
FUCK YOU ALICE!!!
I don’t have time for your bullshit. For all I care you can go—
I can’t talk to my mother. There’s no way I’m answering the phone. I’m not even going to listen to the voicemail. Why would my mom look? Why would she pry? I feel violated. I feel—
Fuck Alice!!! Fuck her to high—
Wait a minute. Let me see if I have her package. Yeah, let’s see. Fuck that two-faced bitch.
Scroll down.
Scroll down.
Next page.
Scroll down.
There she is. Fucking Alice Cummings.
Wyatt awakes, stretches, “The world over yet?”
Mom’s calling again.
“How can you be so nonchalant about this Wyatt?”
“Don’t really care. I don’t have anything to hide. Yeah, I may look at some cosplay porn every now and then, but who doesn’t?”
I don’t. That actually sounds pretty lame. I bet he’s into some twisted Sailor Moon shit.
Two voicemails now. Not checking them. Not ready for this.
Wyatt turns on the TV, some guy in a suit is talking, he wrote a book: Savage Bits: Passive Aggressive Madness in the Digital Age. I hate that title…and I hate him. An obvious opportunist. Happy now that his once neglected book has aligned with a big-fucking-deal moment. Wyatt’s interested. He’s leaning forward, eating it all up.
Phone rings.
Eve, you’re going to have to face that woman eventually.
Well, eventually isn’t now.
Just tune it out. Focus on something else. Fuck it, let’s see what the suited know-it-all is yappin’ about…
“—but that’s the problem. They allow us to get away with things we wouldn’t normally get away with. Things that would have us locked up or committed. Just think about it—we cheer with glee the more headshots we rack up; the more virtual blood spilled as a result of our actions the more satisfied we are. And we just sit there, so passively, bodies and minds turned off, mashing away at buttons, destroying life after life. This is not play, this is madness. Madness that I thought was going to destroy us. That was until this game came along.”
Is he for real? Just more of the same shit. Attacking the games. This dude’s a hack. When did he write this book? 1995? Gimme a break man. Wyatt’s digging him, “I hate to say it, but I think he has a point.”
“Come on Wyatt. You can’t take this guy seriously. He’s just—”
He shushes me. The suited dick continues…
“What this young man has done is nothing short of genius. The artificial intelligence engine he has created is simply divine. Unlike the soulless bots that people other games, the incredibly detailed faces in Can You? are bursting with personality. They laugh at us. They mock us. Egg us on. Beg us to shoot, and that’s just what we do, because we cannot take the judgment.
“The game asks us a simple question: ‘can you?’ But it’s not inquiring about our capacity to kill; it is a question of our ability to deal. In a strange way this game may save lives by forcing us to reconcile with our most internalized, deeply personal and often shameful thoughts.”
Fuck this guy. I’m contemplating swinging from a tree by the neck. How in the fuck is this sick game saving lives?
“I get what he’s saying,” Wyatt says. “The game is exposing us. Not just the fact that we’re full of shit, but that we like being full of shit. It works for us. We’re not ready to be real. Realness leads to madness.”
“But Wyatt, there are probably people out there right now killing themselves and this jackass is saying the game is saving lives.”
“They’re making a choice to do that. They can’t live with everybody knowing their shit. But think about it, before they were exposed what kind of lives were they living? Fucking lies Eve. A life of fucking lies. And those lies were driving them crazy. Maybe they didn’t feel it, but they were going to explode eventually. Lose their fucking minds eventually. The fact that they choose to take their own life saves ours.”
“That’s bullshit Wyatt.”
“Just look at you Eve. How long were you going to hide inside the internet?”
The audacity of this dude. I should kick his ass out. I’m doing you a favor motherfucker! You don’t challenge me in my own damn house. You disrespectful sonofa—
There goes my phone again.
FUCK!!!
You like this, huh?
This is the good shit.
Just keep munching your popcorn.
Damn it I wish I knew where you were. I would destroy you if I could. Yeah, you. I’m fucking tired of you! Leave me alone! Get outta my head! Get outta my life! I don’t live to amuse you! You boring fuck!
WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???!!!
I want out of here. I want out of this world. Out of this life. Living a lie wasn’t so bad. It had its perks.
I gotta do something.
I gotta do something.
But what? What can I do? Please tell me. What should I do? Can I go to where you are? Answer me. Answer me right now goddamnit! Can I go to where you are?
Be cool Eve. Don’t lose it. Don’t mind them. They just want to watch you lose your shit. They’re sick. Don’t pay them any mind. But what should I—
Music. Need to listen to some music.
Pop the earbuds in. Time to go away for a little while.
Let’s go with some Satie, Trois Gnoss—
I don’t get it. Why the game? Why did he have to use the game? Why not hire a team of hackers to hack accounts? Expose us that way. Why the damn game? He made us participate in this. He made us play ourselves. We were supposed to be shooting pleading mothers. We were supposed to have the upper hand. He tricked us. He tricked us good.
Music Eve. Get lost. Get away.
Okay. Here we go. Trois Gn—
What’s up with Wyatt? He was so awesome earlier. Sweet even. Now he’s acting strange. Siding with the enemy. Something’s not right.
Just press play.
No!
Something’s off.
I gotta figure this out.
Things are different. I bet you know why. Tell me. Tell
me what you know. Right now! I don’t care if I can’t hear you. Just say something. Shout it. Maybe that will work. No…actually...let’s try something…I’ll close my eyes…empty my mind...
Okay, here we—
Amy.
What about Amy?
Hold on.
Let’s not do anything.
Not just yet.
I have to see about Amy first.
No.
I can’t see about Amy.
There is no Amy?
That’s it, isn’t it?
That’s the trick.
Amy doesn’t exist. She can’t exist. You felt bad for me. You put her there to make me feel better. She was a plant. Like some Truman Show shit. She doesn’t fit. She was too perfect. Came at just the right time. Right when I needed her. There’s no way she can be real.
Fuck.
Now I’m really fuc—
Actually. Wait a minute.
I got it!
I’m you. You’re me. That’s it. That’s gotta be it. There’s no real you. Only me. You’re a figment of my imagination. I made you. You are not outside of me. In another realm. Or in another place. You are inside of me. You are with me. A defense mechanism of sorts. I could be going absolutely apeshit right now. Hurling myself out of the window right now. But I’m not. I’m ‘relatively’ cool right now.
So that’s it. I’ve split. Divided. Cloned my consciousness. Yeah. That’s what’s going on. There is no you. Just me times two…
Right?
No.
That can’t be.
You’re there.
I can feel you. But then again I could just be feeling the other me.
Damn it.
What the hell is—
“Holy fuck!” Wyatt shouts. “Dude killed himself! Shot himself in the face. Makes sense.”
Oh shit. The self-important fuckface offed himself. But why? I’m sure Mr. Savage Bits isn’t the only hack proclaiming his genius. But then again, dude probably wasn’t doing it for publicity. Seemed like the kind of cat who believed in something. Wanted to die for that something.
I wouldn’t die for anything.
But then again…
Damn it!
Fuck this ‘but then again’ shit! Pick something and just fucking go with it. This navel-gazing bullshit has got to stop.
Okay.
Okay.
I’ll see about Amy. I don’t care if she seems too perfect. I need someone like her now.
Damn it. Everything is falling apart.
My phone.
Maybe I should—
No.
Press play.
Just press play.
CABLE NEWS has been on for the last two hours. I don’t normally watch this shit. Only when something big happens. I find it comforting then. I dig how they are able to reduce big events to a few banal talking points. It feels like a seen-it-all, done-it-all relative patting you on the head while telling you everything’s gonna be okay. Of course they have to throw in a little over-exaggeration. Gotta do something to keep their target audience of bitter, middle-aged, limp dick, testosterone deficient, sky-is-falling types interested. The dick pill companies ain’t gonna pay the big bucks for ad space if no one’s watching. CNN, my least favorite of the bunch, is on now. An economist has the floor...
“—take manufacturing for example. The world produces its wares in countries like China because of the machine-like efficiency of their native workers. No frequent trips to the bathroom, no smoke breaks, no chatting with coworkers, no whining about healthcare or any other employee benefit for that matter. They just work...and work some more. Same task over and over again with minimal fatigue. The American worker cannot compete with this. They cannot adapt. To do so would require a betrayal of the American ideal. There’s no way we’re going to go from rugged individual to android.”
The host, “Yes, that would be quite a leap.”
A woman—elegant, long toned legs—laughs, “Like a real poll shift.”
“Like the magnetic poles?” questions clueless Rugged Ideals.
Come on man, it was obvious. She meant…
“No, I’m talking about in the voting booth. The huge shift in the American sensibility you spoke of would be tantamount to red going blue, blue going red. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Oh, I see, but that’s not the only dividing line. We can shift in other ways. For one, we can unplug. How about we not rush out to buy the latest smartphone the minute it hits stores? Or the latest tablet or e-reader. How about getting get off of the social networks?
“If we continue to consume the corporations will continue to produce. We need to severely limit our consumption of the things that we think enhance our identities and start identifying with our humanity. We must pull our heads out of the box.”
Elegant Long Legs piggybacks, “You brought up social networks—I feel they trick us into thinking they care about how we feel. Yes, they may ask us what we’re thinking or remind us to say happy birthday to a friend, but they do not really care. They’re just hungry for information. Valuable information.”
The host agrees, “The more we think they care the more information we will feed them.”
Rugged Ideals, “We are feeding a beast that will never be satisfied, but that’s not really the problem. We can load the networks with as much information as we please. How much they know is not the issue. The problem is that they are incapable of understanding the intrinsic value of what they know. They interpret it all as cold code.”
I’m outta here. Fox News time...
Perfect. Megachurch pastor, smooth talker...
“The church has always been at war with things that glorify the Devil so I don’t understand how people can say the church is out of touch. We are very much in touch. The internet is just another thing glorifying the Devil. Its sensibilities are very ancient in that regard, and the church specializes in ancient sensibilities.”
A guy, comedian, responds, “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the internet glorifies the Devil—whatever that means. But what I have noticed is how maliciously it kills dreams. When I was a kid I saw this juggler perform in my local mall. I was awestruck. I knew right then and there what I wanted to do with my life. I thought that with a little practice I too be a juggler. Not saying that I thought it was easy, but it didn’t seem impossible. Now let’s say I had the internet back then and right after his performance I jump on YouTube to watch some juggling videos—for inspiration. First video I see, with like ten zillion views, is some fourteen-year-old kid juggling flaming Cadillacs. I’m instantly discouraged.
“That is the real problem with the internet—extreme points of comparison. We compare ourselves to people we don’t know, to celebrities, to former classmates, to family members. There’s always someone doing better than us—and instead of being blissfully unaware, like in the pre-internet age, we have pictures and videos showing us just how much better their lives are. For example, I got a buddy who goes to Vegas like every third Tuesday. Yeah, I may click ‘like’ when he posts yet another picture of himself standing in front of the Belagio fountains, but deep down I really hate the guy. I’m jealous.”
Megachurch, “That’s envy, that’s of the Devil.”
The comedian laughs, “Yes, I’m envious, but pastor...doesn’t your church have a website?”
This is boring. Let’s see what’s on CNBC...
A round-faced tech writer’s talking, an image of the Golden Gate Bridge behind him...
“—it’s not a well-known story. I think he wrote it a couple years ago. It takes place in the future, 3001 I believe. In the story there’s this booming black market where old cell phones are sold for top dollar. But it isn’t the phones themselves that are valuable. It’s the information within them that’s coveted. The people in this future world have lost all sense of individuality—very Orwellian—so they take on the personality of the people they find in the phones.
“It’s a rema
rkable story—very charming, very funny; and it made me feel proud. As a tech writer I spend a lot of time justifying the fact that a big part of my job is celebrating new technology—technology some people think is turning us into robots—but I disagree, I think there’s a lot of us in these little plastic rectangles. A lot of humanity.”
Time to go check out MSNBC...
All right. Now this is more my speed. Talking heads in boxes. Right now an obvious dick pill popper is ranting…
“I’m tired of all the romanticism. This game is a virus. It accesses your internet records and then uploads the data to various servers around the world. Changing passwords, canceling accounts does nothing. Once it gets the information it has you. That’s a virus.”
“A virus?” His youngish competitor in the adjacent box flashes an incredulous grin.
“Yes, a virus, and it’s affecting the lives of good people. There are politicians, policemen, CEOs, teachers, even clergymen who have never played this game, yet their personal information is all over the internet because of it.”
Youngish states the obvious, “Six degrees of separation.”
“It’s a virus, that’s all it is.”
Come on Dick Pills. I was kinda diggin’ your angle. Don’t concede to the punk kid. Oh, here he goes…
“We used to respect closed doors. Yes, everybody knew something was going on behind them, but we did not pry because if you closed your door it meant you did not want the world to see. For example, if you were a man with a mistress and you hid your mistress we respected that. We didn’t condone it, but at least you had the decency to maintain decency. Yes, these are wistful ideals and you probably think they are corny and foolish. But we need them. We need our ideals. We need our beliefs. They represent something else. Something more. Something to aspire to.”
“But it’s all nonsense.” Quite a range of incredulous grins on this guy.
“Yes, you’re right. It is nonsensical. That’s because it has to be. Just think—a king, a queen, a pharaoh, a pope—they are all merely flesh and blood humans. They are in no way biologically exceptional. So why do we protect them? Why not storm the gates and take them out? I’ll tell you why...we protect them because they are the figureheads, the human representatives of the ideal. If they exist and they are real then it is real. That’s why we shed real blood defending them. When we go to war we are not just fighting for self-preservation, we are also fighting to preserve the ideal because it is the ideal that gives the lives we are fighting to save meaning.”
