Hack Slot Machine Games with Phone - Lucky Street

Well, the last match was a deathmatch, but this second one is what is known as an objective match. This, for the uninitiated, means that the match’s main point isn’t, necessarily, who would win in a fight, but to complete a certain specific mission better than the opponent.
At the time of this match going up, though, after the strats for this one are posted, though, you can still vote in match 1 for over a full day. Check out (and influence) the brawl between a man and a bird in an airport hangar!
Scenario:
Waterfront District - One of Many Fish Markets
Morning
“What do you mean you don’t have anything?”
*Markus was having his patience tested, certainly, by this particular supplier. It was hard to find someone in this region who could provide high-quality fresh fish at a reasonable price (especially considering that some of the fish the people of Los Fortuna considered "high quality" seemed to be overpriced, constantly out of stock, and of incredibly dubious quality from the rare few glimpses he had gotten of them), but this wasn’t the first time now that the boat he had chosen to be BADD GUYS’ regular ‘guys’ had turned up with absolutely nothing one morning.
“I dunno what to tell you, Mark,” a young man in a bandana and sleeveless striped shirt said, hanging by an empty stall he was never told not to man, “sometimes, when the captain heads off to celebrate a great haul, she just disappears for days on end, and then without her, we just don’t always have what it takes to actually catch enough to turn a day’s profit.”
“That damned Captain Moonshatter…” Markus didn’t get it. The crew of the Marquise was supposedly able to accomplish such things, yet still the captain wasted her time gambling instead of leading them to their potential? Leading them towards all these amazing fish? “Where is she, man? I’ll give her a piece of my mind.”
“A casino, probably, but… Ya know how many casinos are out here? And she never tells us where she frequents! If she did, the boys and I woulda dragged her out a long time ago!”
“I know where you can find her.”
A man in a dark rain poncho, pretty typical attire for this district, spoke, eyes obscured but some of his dark hair cascading out from underneath the thing. The hapless sailor and Markus turned to him, looking quizzical but expecting, before Markus broke the silence.
“There is nothing that isn’t shady about you, sir, but.” Markus smirked. “I think shady is what I need right now. What have you got?”
Fwup!
Before Markus knew it, the stranger had flicked his hands, and a stylish business card was in between Markus’ fingers. He looked at it, then, and read the name embroidered upon it. “Heartache Casino… Interesting.”
“She likes to go around in disguise on her gambling trips, sometimes as elaborate as a fat suit and a fake beard so nobody recognizes her. Only surefire way you’ll have to get her out of there is to get everyone out of there. If she’s there, she’ll get pissed off and blow her cover, for sure.”
Markus wasn’t an idiot, even if what he caught onto being suggested didn’t bother him. “…someone wants me to mess with this casino, huh? Well, none of my business, as long as she’s actually there. If not, I’m kicking your ass, got it?”
“You have my word.” The man nodded his head, and then disappeared into the bustling fish market.
That afternoon…
Sound’s Garden Eastern Strip - Heartache Casino
Arriving at the casino, Markus took a look around, taking in the bright lights, expressive designs, and loud sounds. There were so many people strewn around the casino, and just about any one of them could be the captain… Clearing them out was going to take time.
He needed a drink.
One irish coffee later, Markus was ready. He sat at a table in the lounge area, viewing the various (mostly drunk) casinogoers, trying to suss out which ones could end up being the captain. He was mostly unsuccessful. It seemed as if he would have to get his hands dirty and start actively kicking people out if he wanted to get anywhere.
More importantly, over the course of his stay, Markus had noticed something - one of the waiters at the bar had begun eyeing him, always keeping watch of him for some reason. He was planning something, souring Markus’ mood. With a dissatisfied grunt, Markus got up and started making his way towards the slot machines to get a start on kicking people out, and the waiter seemed to follow in his steps.
No matter the pace at which he went or where he went, the waiter seemed to be right there, a couple of steps behind him. Markus’ brow furrowed in anger. He’ll see just how far that waiter was willing to go to follow him. Even near the ATMs, far away from the bar area, the waiter seemed to be constantly following him. He even tried going to the restroom for a few minutes, and the waiter was still there when he-
For all of his thinking about the waiter following him, something, or someone had crashed into him, and found himself knocked down onto the floor from the impact, covered in… water? Beer? Something. He looked up and saw another waiter, a worried expression on their face as they profusely apologized.
A glance to the right, back at the original waiter, revealed that he was… smirking? Markus couldn’t quite make the waiter’s expression out, but one thing was for certain - he was taking joy in watching Markus stumble into the other waiter, and he had likely planned this.
That asshole.
Markus quickly got up, ignoring the apologetic waiter and began quickly making his way towards the other waiter, ready to give him a piece of his mind. He didn’t know why he did what he did or what he was planning, but he sure as hell was going to grill him until he told him that.
Upon getting close enough to the waiter and coming up from behind him, Markus firmly grabbed his arm to keep him from running away again. “Hey, you. What do you want from me? Why were you following me, and what exactly do you stand to gain from doing this, huh?!”
The waiter turned around, only to seem… entirely confused? “Sir, what are you talking about? I didn’t do anything - I don’t even know who you are, or why you’re here! I- I don’t want to make a scene, if you have any complaints you can bring them to my supervisors, just- I need to go back to the bar and bring food to the customers, you know? I-”
“Bullshit. I noticed you! You were constantly keeping watch of me, following me- hell, I went to the fucking restroom and you were still there when I came out! Don’t give me these crocodile tears, I know you want something from me!”
Just as the argument between Markus and the waiter began, someone else found their way into the casino - Peter Bequasimodo.
Earlier that afternoon…
Downtown Los Fortuna - Hotel Delmano
Peter had stopped a fair few crimes in his day, not to mention done some less than legal things in others where the rule of law was the real crime. It was certainly strange, though, that someone had thought to send him a handwritten letter at some point… It seemed someone had realized before he could stop a crime, he had to find his way there. He read and reread the text again.

The Heartache Casino will see a tragic failure today… Nobody can do a thing to prevent it, so kiss everyone who sets foot in it goodbye! Think you can get everyone to leave by X:XX o’clock?!

Great, Peter thought to himself. Someone wants to play some stupid game with me… Just perfect. Just what I need when things are starting to heat up more. Despite his immediate thought of annoyance, though, he couldn’t help but have a bad feeling about this… Who sent letters in 202X? Who would send them to him? Peter was usually pretty careful to cover his tracks, and his usual mode of transportation made it so that not even the snoopiest detectives could track him down.
Usually, he was able to use his more than capable skills to hack into the odd police database or private server, or simply use his stand to cut through so much crap, but with a letter, he couldn’t do any of that easy stuff. It would take some footwork to track down the source of this, let alone the location of this ‘Heartache Casino…’
Or, as an ally pointed out, he could just search up the letter’s return address online.
“…urgh, what am I thinking? Of course they wouldn’t actually give where they were sending this from if they wanted to stay this mysterious! This damn place they wrote down is just…” He blinked, looking at his screen. “The Heartache Casino. That settles it, alright. I’m being baited.”
Even if the threat was fake, just designed to get him to the casino, he would have to look into whoever had this much information on him… Seriously, who could have this level of knowledge when he’d barely done a thing in this city?
Beyond that, in the off chance it wasn’t an empty threat, there was a serious danger to other people there. He needed to minimize the chances of that if he could. That time was less than an hour away. He walked over to his bed and grabbed his gauntlet and pack. In a flash [Running in the 90s] appeared on Peter’s face and he disappeared into the information superhighway. It was time for Treagon to take care of business.
“You know,” Peter said, the mood he’d tried to psyche himself up for blending into the chill attitudes of the casino evaporating quickly, “it might not be much my business, buddy, but when I see people being shitty to service staff… That kinda thing really isn’t cool, yeah? Let the man do his job.”
“Stay out of this,” Markus answered tersely, shoving the waiter away as the man backed off, returning to ordinary business, “you think I don’t know that sort of thing? I’m here as a favor to people like that.”
There was a certain impatient entitlement to this guy that really bothered Peter, especially as he spoke like that. All the more, he was finding himself with reasons to kinda want to leave this guy crying and begging for mercy. “You’re really annoying, you know that?” He said, bluntly and with a sort of lax tone, grinning with malice as he stuck his hand in his pocket and leaned back. “I got business of my own to take care of, but don’t lemme catch you acting up like that again, yeah? It’s hard enough just scaring people off so I can look this place over… Shit! Barely half an hour left!”
“Wait, you mean to say you’re also trying to-”
The waiter happened to slink by, and after that moment, Peter was gone. Markus gave a confused look, but then, felt his own phone vibrating. Curious, he moved to open it up. “SCREEEEEEEEEEEECH!”
“Ffuck-!” He couldn’t help but fumble his device in alarm at the strange face on the screen, which vanished soon after, and as he looked up, Peter was standing around again, and so Markus grit his teeth. “You..!”
Peter, on his end, found the antagonism hilarious, and it was easy enough to accomplish that he felt good about the efforts therein. Now, anyway, it was time for him to get to work on finding a way to force everyone out of here…
He’d been spending these few minutes searching, but couldn’t find any sign of any sort of electronic tampering, or security footage of someone stealthily dropping any bombs anywhere, or whatever else might make him able to solve this problem in any better a way than this…
It was now exactly thirty minutes to the mystery time. He’d just have to get as many people to leave this place as possible, even as more constantly poured in.
Markus had also heard Peter mention a half an hour, and though he didn’t know of any sort of vague threat, he had a feeling that that created a sort of ‘deadline’ for this. Well, he didn’t know what to look for, so may as well go for quantity over quality, right? He’d force these people out of here.
Though both had the same end goal, the immediate shared contempt they held for one another, both immediately understood, had made this a contest. Never mind that they were far from the only two people who would see it as such, their prides were at stake here, and they resolved to completely show the other up as priority number one.
Open the game!
Location: The First Floor of The Heartache Casino, one of the many which dot the Eastern Strip of the Entertainment District.
The area is 50 meters long and 105 meters wide with each tile being 5 by 5 meters and the ceiling being 5 meters high as well. The green square represents the exit and the gray square is the way to the second floor, currently it is being sectioned off by bouncers who are only letting VIPs enter and exit. The players are represented by the circles of their respective team colors with Markus near the top center and Peter near the bottom center.
The grey circles around the center are ATM machines, and the white circle is a reception and transactions desk where you can buy or redeem chips. The two sets of blue tiles are restrooms, men’s restroom on the left and women’s restroom on the right.
The left side is the lounge area with a bar, denoted by the brown shape, tables represented by green circles, pool tables represented by the purple rectangles, poker tables represented by the red circles and roulette tables represented by the light blue circles. In the top left is a netted off area represented by the hollow blue rectangle where people can play darts and to its right are two rows of vending machines with water in the blue squares and sodas in the purple.
The blue rectangles, red triangles, and yellow hexagons are all rows and sets of slot machines. The blue ones are traditional slot machines, and the yellow and red ones are virtual slot machines. The blue slot machines pay out in chips and the yellow and red ones pay out in receipts that are redeemable at the reception desk, but all of them only take in money.
There are chairs around the slot machines, tables, and bar where appropriate and the place at the moment is mostly full with gamblers, loungers, and a number of roaming security guards and employees. In general if you are looking for a free spot at a table or machine you can probably find one with a bit of looking.
Someone has already disabled the floor’s sprinkler systems, and literally nothing will make them function. Curious.
Goal: Over the course of thirty minutes, cause more people to leave the casino than your opponent! It can be taken for granted, for balance’s sake, that there will always be people present to disrupt so long as a location isn’t completely rendered unable to function.
Make sure to have some subtlety with it, though, as the guards are as watchful as one would expect casino guards to be. Being too blatant or repetitive would run the risk of getting you in trouble.
Additional Information:
Patrons have 2 in strength and agility, 5 in endurance, 2 in gambling (in general they know how the games here work, but that doesn’t make them any more likely to succeed at them), and 2 in tenacity; in short, a mere mild inconvenience won’t be enough to completely send a person away, but they probably won’t tolerate repeated annoyances too long before at least moving somewhere else in the casino or outright leaving once they get fed up. They carry cell phones, wallets, and assorted amounts of casino chips. Ones on the West side of the floor can be assumed to be carrying food or beverages with them, according to the kinds of things one could expect to find at a casino.
If your actions cause significant risk of harm or death to patrons, rather than simply getting them to leave through various means, police will be contacted to provide further support to the guards, quickly becoming wise to your tactics and arresting you; the owner is rich, so the cops will arrive extremely quickly. If you are arrested for assault, manslaughter, murder, public indecency, and/or accidental homicide, you will no longer be able to gain points.
As wanton slaughter on casino grounds isn’t what your contact had in mind, murdered or otherwise slain patrons do not count towards total score, even if, yes, their souls have exeunt; paramedics will be under specific orders not to remove the bodies until after the time limit has passed, specifically to spite the attempt. And also you’re still arrested.

Team	Combatant	JoJolity
Baker Street Rat Pack	Peter "Treagon" Bequasimodo	“I’ve heard that in Kansai, if the Yakuza who run Cee-lo Games catch you cheating, they shove two of the dice in your eyes and dump you in the river.” You really don’t like this guy much at all. If this man intends to undermine your protections, then you’ll teach him a lesson. Identify and find ways to interfere with your opponent’s strategies in favor of your own!
BADD GUYS	Markus Ness Mathison	“Nobody makes a fool out of Kishibe Rohan! I know you’re laughing at me in your head right now and I can’t stand it!” You really don’t like this guy much at all. If he thinks he can be so self-important all the damn time, he has another thing coming! Identify and find ways to interfere with your opponent’s strategies in favor of your own!

T5 Teams and Character Spreadsheet
T5 Match Schedule
Interested spectators, feel free to ask judges via PM to a link to our tourney’s official Discord server!

Subreddit Stats: walkingwarrobots top posts from 2020-06-30 to 2020-07-29 03:06 PDT

The Smol Engineer - Chapter 1

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Next Chapter

Alright, so this is one of the first stories I've posted publicly in a long time, and the first I've posted here. I've been granted permission by u/Tinyprancinghorse to write a story in his "They are Smol" universe.
Here is his Reddit page.
This is a link to his Patreon.
This is the link to the main homepage where all full stories are published.
And, finally, this is the discord channel where all the weird shenanigans occur.
I'm a little nervous, as I haven't published anything online in about 3 years, so here we go. Feedback is always appreciated!
Edit: Someone gave me gold for this mess, thank you.
Also, turns out I subconsciously chose the names Bill and Caroline, who happen to be 2 protagonists in TPH's Smol series. The names have been adjusted to avoid further confusion. Billiam is now Edward, and Caroline is now Marilyn. Sorry for the inconvenience.
~{o}~{o}~
Samuel Li-Anderson was barely 6 years old when the world was thrown into complete and utter chaos.
As the child of a semi-famous Astronomer, and one of the top heads working for the Canadian Space Agency, Samuel was one of the first individuals not under a contractual obligation to know of the mysterious object suddenly “appearing” in orbit around Jupiter. An unexpected phone call interrupted Monsters Vs Aliens playing on the television screen (much to his father’s chagrin the movie had no scientific evidence supporting anything about the movie, not that he would tell Sammy that). The subsequent scrambling of his Father to his “Professional Work Room” was cause for panic, and no small amount of curiosity.
Peeking his head around the study room door, Samuel was met with the image of Jupiter displayed across the large viewing screen on the left side of the study. He wasn’t sure why his father was frantically pacing around the room, shouting into the phone. It was the same image of Jupiter, like it had always been. The neat (in his opinion) swirly layers of colourful gasses, the far too many (in his opinion) moons, and of course, his favourite part of the planet.
The “Big Red Polka Dot of Doom,” as Sammy and his father nicknamed, was… not exactly gone. It was different. Darker. The edges of the normal image hidden behind a large dark object, kilometers wide, just… sitting there. Obstructing the red dot on Jupiter was something… Unnatural. Something tingled at the back of Sammy’s mind, an odd feeling overcoming him. It was too smooth, too angular to be natural.
To put it bluntly, it was weird. His Father’s phone conversation didn’t help quell his curiosity at all.
“-do you mean it just appeared? Objects of that size don’t just show up!” His father paced back and forth some more, creating a small breeze that ruffled scattered papers further across his desk. “Well, what –“ A pause, and a quick glance at Sammy, “No, I am... I’m sure. Yes, no one. What did our buddies at NASA have to say about it?”
Samuel watched as the object crawled its way across the screen, slowly disappearing around the far side of the planet. The screen shifted suddenly to a different view of the “Polka Dot of Doom” this one further zoomed out.
“-the UKSA too? ESA and the DLR? The same findings?” Samuel’s Father asked, fax machine spitting out papers as if possessed by an angry Llama. He snatched up a paper, eyes skimming the data briefly, before reaching for a new one. “Things don’t just move like that, Darcy. Are you sure we didn’t just collectively… Miss it?”
Unholy screeching echoed out of the phone and around the room as Darcy gave Samuel’s Father an absolute earful. The verbal lashing ended in several seconds, his Father rolling his eyes, before locking his eyes on Sammy once more, pursing his lips.
“No, listen, his birthday is soon. I can’t just up and leave him! No! No, I can’t, you know she hates me after what happened with… her sister. But I- Fine. Yes, I understand. Not a word.” Samuel’s Father placed the sheet he was holding on the desk, leaning against the wooden surface with a quiet breath. “Jesus, how many times you ‘gotta say “national security,” I get it. Not a peep. Promise. I’ll meet you there. Goodbye.”
Silence filled the room as Father and Son looked at one another, questions burning hotly in their heads.
“Daddy, what was-“
“How’d you like to go see Aunt Marilyn for your birthday, Sammy?”
“Auntie Mary!? Really?”
“Yeah, really! I know we haven’t seen her in a while, but I was thinking it might be a good idea to say ‘Hello” again, don’t you? She told me she’s super excited to see you again!”
“I haven’t seen her in forever, haha! When are we leaving, Daddy?”
“We’ll head out in the morning, buddy.” A moment passed, a sigh escaping his Father’s lips. “C’mere buddy.” He knelt on one knee, arms outspread, catching the excited little ball of energy that was Sammy. A long hug, and a quick kiss on the forehead, and Sammy ran upstairs, going to sleep as soon as he could so he could “Wake up sooner and leave sooner!”
With a heavy sigh, Sammy’s Father picked up his phone once more, dialing in a number he hoped to never dial again.
Sammy was so excited to see his aunt again, he worked himself into such a state that he ended up passing out. He managed to sleep through the shouting that lasted hours into the early morning.
~{o}~{o}~
“Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we-“
“Sammy! That’s the thirty-second- wait… thirty-third time you’ve asked. We’ve still got a bit to go, buddy. Auntie Mary lives really far from home. That’s why we have all those snacks in the trunk, remember?”
“I remember, Daddy. It just feels like we’ve been driving forever!”
The roads heading South were normally quiet, and today was no different. Having to camp out on the roads at night in a vehicle really made one appreciate the quiet of the forested landscape. Long hours of sitting still ignored, Sammy was actually enjoying himself. Although, reaching the last bottle on the wall gets tiring after you have the 10 387th one passed around. He was far better at playing I-Spy than his Father though. Not because he cheated or anything. He’d never do something as evil as that…
During the trip, Sammy’s dad had to pull over several times to answer the phone, each time stating the same response. “I know. I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon.” The people on the other end of the phone didn’t really like his answer all that much.
“So, Sammy, what do you think? Want to pull over and have lunch? Or did you want to wait another hour or two so we can eat lunch with Aunt Marilyn?”
“I can wait! I still have my gold-fishies, remember?” Sammy proudly held up his little container of fish, more than one missing specifically the tail. Sammy wouldn’t mutilate the poor snack creatures, he promises!
“Alright, I gotcha, I gotcha.” Sammy’s Father responded, glancing back at him in the rear-view mirror before looking back to the road. “Hey… want to see if we can get some good music again? We should be close enough to a city to get something again.” Sammy’s cheers were his only response.
Reaching for the radio knob, Sammy’s Father pressed it in, filling the cabin of the vehicle with a low static.
“I can’t wait to see Auntie Mary. I miss her a lot.” Sammy sighed.
“I know buddy. Don’t worry, we’ll be able to spend a while with her, and we can all play board games together, and eat ice cream at the park, like we did when you were younger! Aren’t you excited?” Sammy’s Father asked, exciting the child. His father released a small breath, a quick frown gracing his features, before his smile snapped back into place, chuckling at his son’s antics.
“Yeah!”
Sammy’s Father reached for the knob to tune the radio, the static of the station growing stronger. Turning it, the volume of the static only grew louder, prompting several more station switches, before a faint voice caught his ears.
“-has issued a state of emergency, please remain indoors and-“ The hissing of static immediately grew in intensity, before seemingly jumping stations.
“-reports of a massive object app-“
“-from the other siiii-“
“-emergency, ple-“
“-rester à l'intérieur-“
“Daddy, what’s happening!?” Sammy asked, throwing his hands over his ears, trying desperately to drown out the rapidly changing and warping noise.
“-gonna go far, ki-“
“-Nein! Ich-“
“-state of emer-“
“-my God! It’s-“
Click
Sammy’s Father smacked the radio’s power button, pitching the vehicle into a swift, consuming silence. Sammy stared in shock at his Father, trying to make sure that everything was okay, and that he was safe. A pregnant pause filled the car, before a brief chuckle bounced off the car walls.
“Well, that was sure something, eh Sammy?” His Father asked shakily, giving an attempt at a smile for his son. He shook his head, before reaching behind him, patting Sammy’s knee in reassurance. “Wonder what all that was about. Do you think-“
“Dad, look!” Sammy gestured out the window to his right, ducking down to look at… Something
Sammy’s Father whipped his head to the right, watching as a low, orange glow began filling the sky. Shadows danced menacingly as the orange grew deeper, darker, glowing from a point opposite the sun. Unease grew in the pit of Sammy’s stomach, unsure of exactly what was happening. He just knew it shouldn’t be happening.
A deafening crack split the skies, the sound powerful enough to rattle the moving vehicle several times over. It seemed as if the world itself lurched at the sound of the heavens splitting open. Trees bending and being forced away from the origin of the noise, birds scattering or dropping dead from the sky. The very ground shook from the intensity of this thing’s approach, tremors felt through every accessible surface.
An angry God had descended from the heavens, shrouded in fire, and speaking thunder.
It’s times like these that people forget the normalities of life. Times when a single incident shatters lives forever. Times where the mundane can become an individual’s undoing in the face of a God.
The deer was just afraid, darting across the road to sanctuary.
Sammy’s Father was in awe of the God descending upon the Earth.
Glass shattered.
Metal warped.
Bone turned to dust.
A collision was one of the most ordinary things to occur that day.
As Sammy stared out the rear window of the vehicle, car skittering across the pavement towards the embankment, he wondered why the God was here.
As the car caught the lip of the road, he came to the realization he wouldn’t be seeing Auntie Mary after all.
As Sammy stared up into the sky, darkness overtaking his vision, flaming metal wreck mere meters from his prone body, he watched.
Watched as the Angry God fell upon an unprepared world, flames licking at the very understanding of our existence, its voice lulling Sammy into a deep sleep.
~{o}~{o}~
It turned out, “Auntie Mary” didn’t want to see Samuel after all. It was a sad fact that he had been able to think about for a long, long time. What else was he going to do strapped in a bed day in and out, utterly immobile. That’s what tended to happen when you sever your spine. Left laying there, completely motionless in a small, quiet room. Without independence, dignity, left completely vulnerable to whatever person just happened to walk through that little white door to the left.
No, it turned out that Aunt Marilyn didn’t want anything to do with Samuel. It had shocked him initially that his aunt wouldn’t want to see him after years of being apart. Years since his mother had died, and the rest of the family simply vanished from his life. He couldn’t understand during those first few days he woke up. Why was he alone? Weren’t they visiting Aunt Marilyn? Where was… Where was Daddy?
It turned out he didn’t get any of the answers he wanted in the coming weeks. Still, Samuel held out hope that his Father would waltz in through those doors, goofy grin on his face, to whisk Sammy away from this horrid place, and make everything alright again.
He waited for a long, long time. Waiting in a small, dinky white room, curtains half drawn to just barely allow him a glimpse of the world that remained after the Angry God fell from the sky.
The realization that Samuel was alone didn’t truly hit until he was present for the court ruling in which his guardianship was to be determined. Naturally, the closest living relative was meant to take care of the child until such a point where they could provide for themselves. Or, in Samuel’s case, indefinitely.
Unfortunately, in that courtroom, Aunt Marilyn didn’t arrive. None of the family did. The reasoning could be summed up in a neat and tidy sentence, received in a letter handed directly to the judge.
“I would never take in the spawn of that Negro loving whore.”
That day the reality of his situation set in. He was truly alone. There would be no one walking through that door to help him. No one to take him to get ice cream and play board games. No one to hold his hand as he walked… anywhere.
Samuel needed help drying his eyes that day. Thankfully, the nurses assigned to him were more than willing to help comfort him, if only for a little while.
So, laying in that small white room, light gently filtering through the curtains, Samuel watched the screen in the corner flicker with images. Images of strange creatures, entirely unnatural and completely alien.
As Samuel watched the images of the False Gods flicker across the screen, their colourful feathers on full display, four eyes staring balefully into the cameras, their too alien features, something died inside of him. Something all to innocent, and pure, was whisked away from the world with a terrible roar in a great ball of fire.
The little boy, smiling and running happily, staring up into the Universe in wide-eyed wonder as he listened to the complete amazement in his Father’s voice had died. Sammy died with his Father. Samuel was left a cold, bitter husk, resenting the creatures that had made him this way.
~{o}~{o}~
For all the damage done to the Human body, it was remarkable how far along medicine, therapy, and several dozen experimental STEM cell surgeries could take the Human body. Of course, none of that would be available to Samuel.
The government was falling apart, the entire economy torn to shreds. Public amenities were left abandoned for the most part, as no one wanted nor needed to work anymore. There were several staff members of the hospital who straight up quit once the economy collapsed into itself. The wealth gap vanished, for wealth didn’t really exist anymore, and the entirety of the population of Earth became equal to one another essentially overnight. That’s one way to solve a majority of global problems.
When you have the equivalent of space werewolves, raptors, and nagas running around, giving the world free limitless energy, and technology beyond your wildest dreams, people tend to just… Stop. In this case, the world stopped. There was really no need for…anything anymore. Everything Humanity had set out to do was accomplished, or very nearly there.
Samuel couldn’t fault the False Gods for doing what they thought was a good thing. They were helping in their own way, uplifting a species they deemed they had “accidentally invaded.” They were saving lives! The Karnakian’s, the tall, raptor like beings, were incredibly sorry about the whole incident, trying to make reparations they best they could.
With those reparations came technology, and in Samuel’s case, medical technology. What should have been a life-destroying injury quickly became a mildly irritating twinge in his nervous system, and Samuel could walk again. The medical knowledge of these False Gods was far beyond anything Humanity had accomplished, and for the first time in nearly 5 years, Samuel was beginning to wonder if his goals to prove himself against the False Gods was completely unachievable. How could he stand up to the beings that could literally do away with major parts of civilization as merely an after thought? They were superior in every way, physically, mentally, technologically…
But… there was a similarity between all four species after all. One that could always even the score in any unfair fight. Something used to turn the tides of war, or civilization for thousands of years.
Technology.
In the moment Samuel was ejected from the hospital, a minor hitch in his step, and a slight twinge in his neck, he came to a conclusion. He was going to become even with the False Gods after all. He would use their own instruments to raise himself to their level. He would prove to them that no, they could not just brush away his life with a minor slip in judgement, the roaring of thunder, and a sky full of flames.
Samuel was born that day, in a fire of spite and determination. He was going to learn. He was going to fight.
~{o}~{o}~
“Fight ‘em? Are ya crazy, Sammy?”
“It’s just Sam, Ed.”
“Aye, whateva’ you say. Yer’ still nuts though, thinkin you can fight ‘em.” Ed, Samuel’s initial contact in the black market and his damn near only friend, wasn’t very supportive of his goals. “I mean, have ye’ even seen the normal numbers these guys pull?”
“I’ve seen them,” Samuel admitted, a minor pause halting his hands, hovering over the scraps of an old model scanner brought down from the Zephyr Station (smuggled, of course). “But… That won’t matter once I-“
“Yeah, yeah, once you build whateva’ the fuck you think’s gonna help ya next. I know.” Ed turned, the blue light from the monitor lighting up his face in the dinky little warehouse the pair had sequestered. “But yer not listenin’ to me, Sammy.”
“I’m listening, Edwardo.” Samuel shot back, a wry grin etched on his face. He reached for the high-density capacitor from the scraps of the scanner and tossed it into their “useful garbage” pile. The rest would be sorted through, and in most cases, placed into an extremely tight coil of alien wiring to be melted with the near endless energy supplied by the new species.
“Yer really not,” Ed shot back, grimacing at the full name usage. He turned back towards the computer screen, focusing once more. “What I’m sayin’ is that ya shouldn’t be trying to fight em’. That’s suicide. Instead, you should-“ Ed paused for a moment, squinting at the screen, typing something else, before growling angrily.
“I should what, Ed?” Samuel asked innocently, rolling himself to his feet and sauntering over to where Ed sat, a minor hitch in his step. “Should I be… Helping you with that instead?”
“No, you can fuck right off, ya’ can.” Ed grunted, tapping at the keyboard several more times, scowl growing deeper.
“Are you sure?” Samuel asked smugly, leaning over Ed’s shoulder and looking at the lines and lines of code scrawling down the screen. “Because I can see at least five different spots you messed up. That might be why it’s not working.”
“Oi, no ya can’t!” Ed protested, palming Samuel’s face and shoving. “I’m just workin’ out the… the… Oh, fuck it! Fine, get yer smart ass ta figure it out, I’ve only been doing it for three weeks is all.”
Ed stood up from the leather computer chair with a huff, marching away to lean against the massive Nanofabricator set up several feet away courtesy of Samuel. He watched as Sam plinked away at the keyboard quickly, lines of code practically flying into existence by the hands of his friend.
“I dunno’ how yer’ so good at that shit, Sam. Yer’ only fuckin’ seventeen! I know guys who been workin’ on this stuff the second it was available, and ye come flyin’ in like some kinda alien tech wizard or somthin’.” Ed glanced around the workshop the pair had constructed together, further reaffirming his belief that this kid was some kind of freak.
Tech lined the walls, roof, and floor of the building. In the far corner close to the bay doors sat what appeared to be a mutant child of a Yamaha YZF and a Ghost from the old Halo games Ed used to play before the world got fucked up. Sleek, with purple reflective panels along the sides, and could damn near fly. Samuel said there would only be a week left of their prototype production before they could actually try it out. They might actually fly!
Near the back of the warehouse lay not one, but two Nanofabricators, both built by hand for a specific purpose, such as food production (an extremely necessary thing nowadays), or general use. The one behind Ed was meant strictly for part production, and it was damn good at it. All three were built by Samuel, with a little help from Ed mostly just doing the heavy lifting. Ed knew Sam had fucked up something in either his back or legs, so he wasn’t exactly the strongest guy around. But Ed would be damned if he wasn’t a smart son of a bitch.
The entire warehouse was the brainchild of Samuel, found by Edward, and created by the pair. It was their home. Their base of operations. Their humble abode. Their own Fortress of Solitude.
“You just have to familiarize yourself with it. Their tech isn’t exactly like ours, Ed. You’ve gotta think about it like they would.” Samuel called distractedly, tapping out a few more keystrokes. With a twitch of his hand, he ran the program, and the dull whine of energy weaponry filled the warehouse’s recycled air. “There, see?” Samuel spun around in the chair, a smirk on his face as he observed the lightly glowing weapon on the pedestal. “That should give good ol’ Mr. Kelly a run for his money when he and his goons show up again.”
“Ya fuckin’ nutter. How in the- No, ya’ know what, I don’ wanna know.” Ed sighed, slumping further against the Nanofabricator.
“What should I do, Ed?” Samuel asked, leaning back in the chair, hands behind his head.
“The fuck ye’ on about, ya’ smug bastard.”
“You were saying I wasn’t listening to you, and that I should-“
“Right, right. Wha’ I was sayin’ was, you shoudn’ fight ‘em. Ya’ can’t fight ‘em. I mean, have ye’ seen the reports o’ the space dogs-“
"Dorarizin’s.”
“Righ’ them. They’re fuckin’ huge, they are! Limbs as big as fuckin’ tree trunks, and three rows of teeth that-“
“I know, I’ve read the reports. They’re insanely fast, strong, tall, and can smell things from kilometers away with scary precision.”
“Aye, but what abou’ the snakes? They’re-“
“The Jornissians. A race of snake-like people that look like they’re ripped out of X-Com, can crush a car easily in their coils, and can see in infrared. I know, Ed.”
“But yer’ forgettin’ the-“
“Don’t. I don’t want to hear about the… About the Karnakian’s. I know they’re the tallest species. I know they’ve got four eyes, and can sense EM spectrums or some shit with one pair. I know they can tear through steel easily. I know they’re the reason there’s so little food, and the reason this whole planet is fucked up! They killed-”
“Jesus, there’s plenty a’ food, Samuel. Jus’ no’ a lot o’ Human food. An’ the world has new tech, more people, and new chances ta’ be who ya’ wanna be. You gotta stop listenin’ to that propaganda shit those idiots are blarin’.”
“They killed people trying to defend their own homes!”
“They were defendin’ themselves. Hey, ya’ can’t just blame ‘em all for tha’ one group of ‘em. They apologized an’-“
“Oh, yeah. They apologized. “Sorry for fucking up your planet. Here, have infinite energy and a fucked up world”. That’s exactly what-“
“Samuel!” Ed snapped, standing upright, “You can’ blame an entire species for somethin’ a small number o’ them did. If ye’ do tha’, you’re no better than-“
“I really, really don’t want to discuss her with you right now.”
“Righ’, I gotcha… Marilyn is one fuckin’ racist cunt though, ain’t she.” Ed sighed, drawing one hand across his face. “Listen, what I’ve been tryin’ to tell ya’ is… Don’ fight ‘em. You’re gonna get fucked up, and make the rest of ‘em angry at us wee Human’s. No, ya’ gotta prove yourself to ‘em. Ya gotta get up there and succeed where they fail. Prove ‘em wrong. Show ‘em they can’ just brush us off. Yer’ smart, one o’ the smartest I know, so if any of us wee’ fuckers can do it, it’d be ya’.”
Silence filled the warehouse once more, only interrupted by the occasional whirring of an energy conduit, and the sparking of the Nanofabricators. Samuel breathed deeply, sighing, before reaching a hand inside his shirt and grasping a small ring on an alien metal cord.
His Father’s ring had been given to him not soon after the court case that determined he was a ward of the government. The plain silver ring had a small inscription on it, inspired words that Samuel’s Father kept close to heart for years.
“I didn’t feel giant. I felt very, very small.” Words from Niel Armstrong after he had returned to Earth, in an interview about his trip to the moon. Little did that man realize how accurate his words would be in a Universe much larger than Humanity. When Humanity made it to the Moon, we were giants. We had traveled into space and planted a flag on another planetary body! That was huge! But now, everything Humanity had accomplished felt absolutely minuscule. Small accomplishments for a small people, in a universe far too big.
Samuel sighed, thumbing over the words once more, thinking about his Father. Normally, one would be worried about the wording slowly being worn down by the constant friction. Samuel had been too. That’s why he’d electroplated the ring in the most pure alien metal he could get his hands on, making it all but impossible to diminish. Turns out even metal from space followed the rules of electron imbalance. Fancy that.
“Listen… Thanks, Ed. I really appreciate it.” Samuel said quietly. “I know it’s hypocritical of me to think of the Karnakian’s like that, but I can’t just… I can’t forget what they did.”
“Then don’.” At Samuel’s confused look, he elaborated. “Don’ forget yer’ dad. Keep ‘im close to yer’ heart, and forgive, er… People fer’ their mistakes.”
“Thank you, Uncle Iroh, your wisdom knows no bounds.” Samuel snarked good naturedly.
“Oi, smartass, I’ll-“
A heavy pounding on the bay doors of the warehouse interrupted their conversation. Samuel sighed, tucking the ring back into his shirt, standing up with little effort and walking towards the prototype weapon the pair had made, hoisting it off the metal stand. The device didn’t have an internalized battery yet, so it was still drawing energy from the power grid.
“Hey, bastard! Open the fuck up and give me my fucking money!” A voice bellowed.
“That cunt is like Beetle-Juice, I swear.” Ed whispered, taking a glance at the new projection that appeared in the center of the floor. It was a top down view of the warehouse, currently focused on the twelve armed individuals at the door. One very angry looking Mr. Kelly was apparently trying to melt the alien metal reinforced doors through sheer rage alone.
“Execute order 66!” Ed announced, jogging towards the bay doors, and quickly wheeled the odd hybrid bike away from the now dangerous entrance. Two small patchwork drones lowered themselves from the scaffolding they had been resting on, fluttering down towards the center of the room with a faint whine. Their sides opened, out popping good ol’ laser weaponry, and awaited the commend to fire on the newly acquired targets.
“Money doesn’t have value anymore, Kel’s. The economy collapsed. It’s worthless now!” Samuel spoke up, microphones activating at the command gesture, which of course was the middle finger.
“I don’t give a fuck! You owe me and I’ve come to collect, one way or another!” A goon with a plasma cutter stepped forward, activating the device and starting to carve through the high-density doors.
“Hey now, don’t use my own plasma cutter designs against me. That’s just rude.” Samuel muttered, thumbing a toggle on the side of the weapon. The faint whine grew in volume, spooling up and preparing to fire. He cut off the microphones, before looking at Ed. “Open the bay doors.”
“You sure?” Ed asked, tucking the bike-hybrid behind a wall, slotting it into its home in the ground. He jogged to the other end of the warehouse, watching as the red glow of the plasma cutter slowly cut its way down the doors. “We still haven’ even tested tha’ thing yet.” Ed stopped beside a rather large red button. They decided they needed at least one large red button in their workshop, after all.
“I’m sure. This’ll be the test run. Simple. If not… Well, we’ve got the drones.”
With the slap of a button, the shutters flew open, surprising the grunt cutting the door and causing him to drop the torch. The remaining goons swarmed in, securing the entrance and pointing their weaponry at both Ed and Samuel, tracking lasers centering on their torsos.
“Well, well, well. I didn’t expect you to be-“ Mr. Kelly cut himself off glancing down at the thrumming blue weapon in Samuel’s hands. “…really? You really think that’s going to work? There’s two of you, and twelve of us.” He strode forward, stepping just outside of Samuel’s reach. “Even if you manage to kill one-“
Click
“…”
“…Did you just… Try to kill me?” A disbelieving Mr. Kelly asked.
“…Well, that didn’t work as-“
A blinding light spewed forth from the end of the weapon, reality shrieking as an inconceivable amount of energy warped the very air around it. Magnetic fields erupted throughout the room, launching alien and Human technology alike in seemingly random directions. The very lights of the building flickered as the near limitless energy from the grid was drawn at a rate far faster than believed to be possible. Arcs of plasma jolted around the warehouse, scorching the walls as the residual energy launched at any kind of outlet. The drones hovering in the center of the room were immediately vaporized by a combination of contrasting magnetic fields, and sheer, endless energy tearing through the space they had existed in prior.
Without warning, the beam shut off. The lights in the workshop immediately returned with a dull hum. A steady drip, drip, drip filled the air.
“…What. The. Absolute. Fuck.”
“Well… Tha’ was just a lil’ excessive, wasn’ it?”
Samuel dropped the remains of the weapon on the floor, giving the molten remains of the barrel a quick pass over before looking at the sheer devastation caused.
It was quickly noted that anything within 10 feet of the origin of the beam was immediately ionized and scattered as the sheer insane amount of energy tore through the structural integrity of atoms and scattered the particles that made up the universe. Anything 20 feet out was healthily charred, with a nice coating of fuck you to accent the melting of all matter directly in the path of the beam. The limiting range was apparently 50 feet, as the beam dispersed far too much, instead forcing the very air into a higher energy state, arcs of plasma still jetting around in an attempt to disperse and neutralize.
The very walls of the warehouse were melted, dripping molten metal onto the pavement below as a giant ring of nothingness sat there. The Nanofabricators that had been bolted into the ground had been ripped out and shredded to pieces, all centralized around the beam. The goon squad simply ceased to exist, and Mr. Kelly… Well, at least his shoes were intact. They had been quite nice when not filled with melted Human.
The beam had only existed for 2 seconds. The pair stood quietly, just basking in the sheer carnage one simple click could create.
“…I like it! Let’s do it again.”
“NO! Never again, Sammy!”
~{o}~{o}~
Turns out having the near limitless energy of a city being drained into one specific building was cause for a large amount of concern. A virtual sea of drones, police, FBI agents, and United Nations peace keepers that oversaw operations in the city swarmed to the warehouse, guns blazing and suits ironed impeccably.
Or, they found what was left of the warehouse. Shredded metal and scrap littered the street, scattered by the force of the roof caving into itself. The walls had been blown out by set explosives, burying anything that had been inside underneath.
Samuel was quite glad he had decided to retrofit an old motorcycle instead of making on from the ground up. This allowed him and Ed to use the bike-hybrid to escape from the scene at an incredible rate. The pair had to thank the separate energy core they had set into the bike for keeping it from being torn to absolute shreds. The current running through the bike had just barely kept it from being ripped apart by counteracting the magnetic field with a weak one of its own. The anti-magnetic paneling itself would have been shredded on its own, as the electrons would have been torn from the metal.
However, Samuel was even more glad they had a policy of not letting him wear a leg brace in the workshop, as he would have died along with the other schmucks in the Beam of Death™. So, as Ed and Samuel escaped, limping along on a bastard bike at little more than 60km/h, they resolved to always*, always* make backups of the data drive they had in Ed’s backpack. Additionally, they collectively decided to not fuck around with energy weaponry for the next little while, and just stick to good ol’ ballistics and minor lasers.
Well. They decided Ed would stick to just straight up ballistics. Samuel had gone an entirely different direction after the pair had gotten the hell out of the city: he took Ed's advice.
He decided he wanted to go to space. It was definitely not because he could get cooler, more modern technology, honest. No, he wanted to explore. He wanted to see what made his Dad so interested in the stars, and the universe in general. He wanted to take the little ring with the little inscription into the giant universe. He was going to get his dad to space, even if it would kill him.
So, after setting up Ed with his own brand-new warehouse and Nanofabricator, Samuel set off to the nearest governmental site in Canada (to avoid any potential misshapes Ed may cause) to apply for the training program to get sent off into space. He wasn’t terribly happy about the idea of sharing a ship with the absolutely massive aliens, but he was going into space, whether he liked it or not.
His Dad would see space with his son.
So, after riding to the Zephyr station on the kilometers tall space elevator, Samuel threw himself into training with a fever. He aced exam after exam, memorizing each and every little fact given to him. His spare time was given to either getting his bike into a functional state (minus alien technology, as it was still illegal to possess) or pouring hours and hours into readings and practice. He took as many courses as possible in the smallest time span, trying to wedge open his door to the universe as wide as he possibly could.
Naturally, he graduated top of his class, two years earlier than average. He was a prodigy in the academy, drawing impressed and hopeful looks from student and staff alike. He had to be extraordinarily careful when it came to his engineering expertise, however. He ensured that while he was the best of his classmates, he didn’t go overboard. The last thing he wanted was to be kept on Earth, educating other individuals in tech use. He kept it to a level that allowed him to be smug, without hinting the fact that he could have done all the required assignments in his sleep.
So, at the ripe age of 20, Samuel was given a choice. He could go anywhere in the Universe he wanted, on virtually any ship as he qualified for a lot of positions, and there were a lot of requests for Humans, oddly enough.
Samuel wanted to be at the forefront of exploration and technology, he wanted to be there when they discovered new tech, planets, and people. He wanted to be written into the history books as an equal to the massive, advanced races out there. To show every species that Humanity is just as capable as any other. He wanted to inspire Humanity to take to the sky and carve out their place in the vast universe.
With one hand thumbing over the inscription on his Father’s ring, and the other shakily reaching for the projection, Samuel made a choice. He found one single ship that fit exactly what he was looking for. An exploratory vessel, joint funded by the species that made up the Senate in an attempt to encourage cooperation, with a healthy dose of funding towards research and development. There was one empty position for an apprentice engineer, and one extra spot for a navigator exchange. The ship had specifically requested a Human join them and had been refitted with all the necessary infrastructure to account for the well being of said Human. His favourite part had to be the crew listing.
The ship mainly consisted of Dorarizins, the tall werewolf like creatures, and had only several Jornissians, the snakes. However, a slight grin crossed Samuel’s face when he discovered that there were no Karnakian’s on board. Not one single four-eyed raptor.
With an excited smile, Samuel hastily chose his position on that vessel. With another confirmation, the entering of his identification, and a scan of his academy provided Communication Beads, he was granted a position aboard. The ship’s name was curious, roughly translating to the Undoing of Mystery.
“I didn’t feel giant. I felt very, very small.” Samuel whispered. With a wry grin, he couldn’t help but squeeze his Father’s ring once more, reading off the inscription by heart. He would prove them wrong though. He would prove Humanity could be giant after all.

Academic Dishonesty

Hey guys,
I’m a college student at a college in Northwestern PA. I stay in an off-campus apartment with my roommate, Dominic (or “Dom,” as I’ll call him here.)
Recently, we got a letter in the mail, one for each of us, from the college. It was a typical form letter that used a bunch of unnecessarily large words to explain that they were implementing a new policy to fight academic fraud and dishonesty (see also: cheating.) It didn’t go into any detail about the policy, only that it was new and was now being implemented. It also said that students did not have to be observed cheating by teachers to receive non-academic sanctions.
We tossed the letters without much thought, laughing about how there was no way that they could lock us down anymore. There were already plenty of things in place to discourage cheating, anyway.
My personal “favorite,” as far as hilariously overdoing it, is our campus “testing center.” This is basically for people who miss test days. You email the teacher, and they put the test down in the testing center, and you go down there at some point to take it.
This isn’t why it’s crazy, though. The “testing center” is the closest I’ve ever been to feeling like I’m in prison. You walk in, and there’s a secretary and a campus rent-a-cop. You have to sign in, and then, you have to take everything out of your pockets, phone, wallet, keys, anything and everything, and put it in a little lock box that they have in there. Then, you go into the actual testing room, which is a small room with 10 or so desks. The walls are completely featureless, as are the floor and ceiling, other than the four security cameras hanging in each corner of the ceiling. The whole room seems to be heavily soundproofed, and there’s a big window where the secretary and cop can watch you while you take the test.
It’s a tiny bit excessive.
The only time I had to go in there was for an Intro to Psych test I missed due to a bad cold. The test was simple, though, and I was only in the room for five or so minutes, and I aced it.
Dom, not so much. He has always had a bad habit of finding better things to do than go to his Financial Accounting class. We both had to take it for our degrees, but I took it early, and too, my dad is a financial guy at Boeing, and all but did most of my homework for me. Dom, however, chose to wait until year three to take the class, and he fucking avoided it like the plague. I tried to tell him that he’d have to keep taking the class until he passed it, but it all went in one ear and out the other.
He was more of a “typical” college guy. He’d skip class (this one was in the evening) and go hang out at the Machine Shop, our local campus pub.
Anyway, Dom had to make up a test he’d missed. A midterm, no less, which he couldn’t avoid, as it was 10% of the semester grade, and he needed every point he could get. He came back that evening after taking the test, and told me of a plan he’d used to get around the testing center’s security. He had purchased a burner (essentially disposable) cell phone at the local Walmart, gotten dozens of equations, definitions and whatnot out of the textbook, and saved them as notes in the phone, which he hid in his shoe. He gave the guard his actual cell phone, and made it to the testing room with the burner one.
He waited until the secretary and guard weren’t watching him, and pulled out the cell and started jotting down as much as he could on the test paper. We’d heard enough around campus that they never checked the security camera footage unless something was very blatantly “off” about a particular test, but the teachers weren’t allowed to check based on how they assumed a particular student would do. This meant that, if Dom magically aced the test, it couldn’t be questioned, since the testing center was assumed to be impenetrable to cheaters. It turned out, it pretty much was.
Dom had just about finished the test, and slipped the phone back into his shoe. At this point, he noticed the secretary through the window. She was opening the locked box with his belongings in it. She took out his cell phone and was doing something with it. Dom was understandably pissed, so he walked out, slammed his test down on the desk, and snatched his phone out of her hand. The security guard pulled him back from the desk by his arm, and quickly handed him his belongings. He didn’t get a chance to say anything before the secretary handed him a piece of paper with the college letterhead on it. It was another copy of the “academic honesty” form letter we’d received in the mail. He got nervous, figuring that they’d somehow seen him, but the secretary simply told him to have a nice day while the guard opened the door and ushered him out.
When he told me this, I thought it was weird, but at the same time, a bit of karma. He did manage to cheat in the testing center, which was braggable, but he didn’t actually know if he’d gotten away with it.
About an hour later, we were relaxing, watching TV, when his (real) phone buzzed. It was a picture sent from an email address. The address was academichonesty@******.edu (i’ve left the name of the college out.) Upon zooming it, we saw that it was a photo that someone had taken of the same form letter from the mail. Dom was freaked out, not because this was getting to be kind of creepy, but because he figured that this meant he was busted. He started coming up with explanations, like he’d forgotten to turn off his “second phone” in the center and was simply turning it off. Obviously, this wouldn’t fly, but he was freaked out that he’d have to take the class over, or might even get expelled.
I told him to try and figure it out the next day. We went to our rooms (two bedroom apartment, it was pretty nice,) and around 2 a.m., I heard my phone ring, as i'd turned my ringer on at night so that I’d hear my alarm in the morning. It was from Dom, and simply said, “listen.” I turned the ringer off, and definitely heard shuffling around outside the door. I wasn’t thinking anything creepy, I was thinking burglar.
I grabbed the pocket knife that I kept in my drawer, and opened the door in a rush. There was someone there, in all black, with a clown Halloween mask on. The clown was holding a big, brown box. Everything seemed to go silent. Me and the clown both froze, staring at each other in silence. Right then, Dom’s door flung open, and he ran out in his boxers trying to get ahold of the clown. The clown threw the box at him, knocking him down, and ran out the open door of the apartment.
Dom was on the floor, half asleep and reeling from the blow of the apparently-heavy box, which had hit him in the stomach, sending its contents all over the room.
Papers. Copies of the cheating letter. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, the same exact thing.
Dom flipped, throwing the box and papers around the room. I felt bad for him. This was going way too far. We called the police, who were campus police, since we were still within their jurisdiction. They came over and we explained what had happened, filed an incident report, which the younger of the two officers dutifully wrote down.
The older cop asked about the papers, and we picked up a few and handed them to him. He immediately held the paper close to his face, and looked at the bottom left corner of one of them.
After scanning it for a few seconds, he muttered an inquisitive, “mhm,” and with that, tapped the younger officer on the shoulder, looked at us, and said an unfeeling, “have a good night, boys.” The younger officer looked confused, but gave a quick salute and followed the older one out the door without another word. We watched out the window. They reached the end of our small parking lot, and it looked like they were arguing. We watched as the older cop wrenched the incident report from the younger guy, took out a Zippo lighter, and lit it at the bottom, holding it until the flames nearly touched his gloved hand. The paper fell to ashes, completely burned before it touched the ground, and the cops got back in their car and drove off into the night.
We weren’t shocked, nor mad. We both felt the same drop in our guts. I looked atDom and could tell he felt the same as I did. Something was very, very wrong here.
Things got weirder. The next day, while on campus, we picked up copies of the daily campus newspaper. On the front was a stock photo of a guy in a clown mask, and the accompanying story stated that a student was rushed to the hospital after being beaten by a home-invader in a clown mask the previous night. That same day, as we were walking to the parking lot to head home, we witnessed campus police going around to each news stand and hefting the stacks of papers into garbage bags. It was only around 4 p.m.
That night, we literally barricaded the door to ensure that nobody would be getting in. We’d moved our dining room table in front of it. The table was small, but it was old, solid walnut, and very heavy, taking both of us just to slide it a few feet to the door. We did this right before we went to bed, and once the table was moved, the doors and windows locked, we retired for the night. About an hour after we’d gone to bed, I heard Dom screaming in the next room. I immediately went over and found him chained to the bed, with several heavy chains wrapped around above and under to hold him to the bed. The window to the left of how his bed faced was shattered. Dom was absolutely petrified, saying that the clown had been back and he’d woken up with the clown inches from his face, screaming something at him, but he was too terrified to remember what it was. I looked around and found that the chains were hooked with heavy D-hooks under the bed.
He got up and I did my best to get him calmed down. We went to the living room and saw that the table and door had not been disturbed, and the only sign of entry was the broken window. We went back to his room, and noticing that he was barefoot, I told him to wait since there would be shattered glass on the floor. I went in first, and to my immediate concern, there was no shattered glass. The autumn wind whistled through the broken window and over the sharp glass still hanging around the window frame. I looked out through the window and noticed that the glass instead lined the wooden deck in the back of the building.
The window had been broken outward. The clown was in here before we barricaded the door, before we’d gone to sleep.
We didn’t sleep the rest of the night. We were screwed. The police wouldn’t help, the campus staff wouldn’t help, they were all in on this. What the hell could we do?
The next day, we both skipped class, too tired and freaked to really do much of anything. We stayed home watching TV, trying to put this out of our minds, though we knew that more torment would be coming that night.
On a whim, I (very fucking cautiously) went out to check the mail. In it, among ads and “free play” cards from some casinos that we’d gone to, were two letters from the college.
I brought them back in and we opened them. The first one was a notice with a bunch of class CRN numbers listed, stating that Mr. Vascis (pronounced “vass-kiss”) had been fired due to absence, essentially, no-call-no-showing, and that his classes would be handled by Mr. Mayes for the rest of the semester. Mr. Vascis was one of the campus’ oldest teachers, who had been there well over forty years. He taught humanities, and freaked a lot of students out at first sight because he looked like a classic mad scientist. White hair that stretched out to the sides, typical old guy face, he looked pretty scary to a freshman, for sure. A lot of rumors also floated around, via female students, that he often made very inappropriate comments to them when there weren’t many others around. The second letter was another form letter. It stated that the recently-implemented academic dishonesty policy had been indefinitely suspended. It didn’t list a reason.
We were actually relieved. We figured that Mr. Vascis must have been the clown, and maybe it was all a coincidence. Mr. Vascis must have gone nuts, and the rest of everything, with the police and the newspapers, was some coincidence.
It only took one more day to find out.
We got back from class around 7 p.m. the next day, since I’d hung out in the lounge until Dom’s dreaded accounting class let out.
He found me in the lounge, and came in excitedly waving a paper. His test from the testing center. He’d passed with an 89%. Since everything seemed to have calmed down, we chalked it up to him being very lucky, and headed home.
Around 8 that night, a DHL van showed up. They had a package for Dom. Since it was nearing the holiday season, he figured that it could be an early gift from his parents. Since most of our cash went into this apartment each month, we needed all the help we could get. Instead, the shipping label said, “Office of Dr. Bertram Morris, President, ****** University. We couldn’t imagine what the president of the college would send him, so we went in and opened it eagerly. We figured that the college might have been sending out promotional stuff for the college football team or whatever.
We couldn’t have been more wrong.
Inside, padded by packing peanuts, was a thin, crappy jewel CD case with a DVD in it. There was no writing, or anything indicating what it was. We popped the DVD into the slot on the side of our TV, and a menu came up with one video able to be selected. We selected it and hit “play.”
The video seemed to be a cell-phone quality video, and it took a minute for us to realize that the camera was sitting on Dom’s chest of drawers in his room. We heard some mumbling, and the clown came into view. It was now dressed in a full clown outfit, mostly white, with big, puffy red buttons down the front, and large, black and red clown shoes. It was anxiously pacing around the room, mumbling, jittering, occasionally putting its hands to its face, like it was nervous.
Eventually, the mumbling became more clear. It kept saying, seemingly to itself, “you really should have told them….you know, you really should have told them,” occasionally punctuated with a nervous, creepy giggle. Eventually, the clown stopped by Dom’s bed. We noticed that Dom had already been chained to the bed, so the video must have started immediately afterwards, meaning that we didn’t get to see where the clown had been hiding the whole time. The clown stood silently, staring at Dom, giggling here and there, for about three minutes before it suddenly lurched towards Dom, screaming, “YOU REALLY SHOULD HAVE TOLD THEM, DOMINIC!!!” while inches from his face. Dom screamed in and tried to move, struggling with the heavy chains. The clown turned to the window, and with a forceful jerk of its elbow, shattered the window and jumped outwards.
This was the point in the video where I ran in and found Dom. I unchained him, and we went to check the front door. At this point, the clown came back through the window, picked up the camera off the dresser, and ended the video, punctuated by a low, “you really should have told them…”
The video ended, and we both just sat there, our jaws likely somewhere around our belts. The…president…of the fucking college…sent us that? We didn’t have a response for this one, but then we realized something. The end of the video, the clown was still in the room, and only a few seconds could have passed before we walked back into the room to examine the window.
The clown wouldn’t have had time to leave.

I Found Something Disturbing While Metal Detecting

Part Two https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/4mtw9f/i_found_something_disturbing_while_metal/
You guys remember those cornfield mazes they had near Halloween time? I was always so terrible at those, no surprise seeing as how my sense of direction is somewhere on par between Mapquest and Apple Maps. I’d get lost in those for hours. My friends, like any good friends, would always get out before me, stand on top of the stairs overlooking the maze, and shout out wrong directions to me. To this day I can’t even go inside an Ikea without having a panic attack.
As much as I hated being inside a maze, there was one thing I loved about them. My dad and I had a ritual for a long time before they stopped having them in my town. The day after they would tear it down, we’d grab our metal detectors and go hunt for buried treasure in the now empty field. Our “treasures” usually consisted of bottle caps, pull-tabs, some loose change, and if we were really lucky, some jewelry, but it was all about the thrill of the hunt. One person even gave me $40 dollars for finding their car keys.
Our hobby stopped around the same time they stopped hosting the mazes; they hadn’t had one in three years. Out of curiosity, I asked my dad about it. He’s on the city council, he knows these things—at least he acts like he knows everything. He told me they stopped because there was a problem with teenagers using it as a place to drink and hook up after hours. I didn’t question him about it, and it sure explained all the beer bottle caps we found over the years.
I had the bright idea earlier today to go out and hit up the field for old times sake. My metal detector was sitting in the garage looking so pitiful, so I dusted it off, threw in some fresh batteries and drove down there. I got out of the car and looked around. The once bustling city attraction was now nothing more than a desolate, abandoned field taken over by knee high weeds.
I was out there for maybe an hour before I got bored of digging up bottle caps. When I got the center of the field, I turned to leave, and that’s when my machine let out a long, loud signal instead of the usual short and sharp beeps of a coin. I was going to pass it up since it usually doesn’t make that noise unless I found a soda can or something.
I don’t know what made me do it. I was tired, sweaty, and hungry and I just wanted to go home. Yet I still got on the ground on my hands and knees with gardening trowel in hand and dug. I got maybe an inch in the ground before I felt my shovel collide with something hard. I could see something colorful in the dirt. Found the soda can, I thought. I pressed my shovel into the earth one more time before out popped something I wasn’t expecting. It was large, square, and pink. I picked it up and gave it a look over until I realized what I was staring out. Underneath all the dirt sat an older model cell phone, maybe an original Samsung Galaxy or something.
Excited about my unusual find, I stuffed it in my pocket along with the days treasures. (Which consisted of three pennies, a hot wheels car, and something that looked like it fell off a tractor.)
The phone itself was as dead as a squished opossum on the side of the road, but I stuck my phone charger in it anyway more than a little surprised to see it filling up with juice. I pulled the memory card out of the side of the slot and stuck it in my pocket. Then I left the phone on the counter and let it charge while I went about my business for the rest of the night. I honestly forgot all about it until my dad pointed it out and asked where it came from.
I announced, quite proudly I might add, that I had found it metal detecting today. I could see his eyes light up in interest at the memory of our forgotten hobby. We even used to belong to a metal detecting club that would hold contests each month for the best finds. If we were still involved, the phone would surely have won the prize for most unusual find. His behavior changed when I told him where I found it though. His smile dropped to a disproving stare that seeped with disappointment like I had just told him I was going to be a teen mom.
“You’re not supposed to be over there,” He said sharply. I blinked in surprise.
“Why not? We used to go there all the time.” I pointed out.
“It’s private property. I don’t want you going over there.” He said. I was quite shocked. I thought he’d be way more accepting of the fact that I found it in the old field. So what if there was an NO TRESSPASSING sign? Since when had we ever listened to those?
I pressed the issue, but he just got irritable, which made me irritable. He played the, “You’re a girl; it’s not safe card,” “And I played the, “I’m eighteen years old! I’m an adult!” Pretty soon we were having another shouting match.
“An adult! Ha! I’ll let you say you’re an adult when you stop pissing the bed!”
Seething in anger from him going over the line, I grabbed the phone off the counter, but he stopped me and demanded I give it to him.
“Why?”
“BECAUSE I SAID SO, RACHEL!” He hollered at the top of his lungs. Once he threw the parent card, there was no use trying to negotiate. I handed it over, knowing I still had the memory card in my pocket.
I stormed to my room without looking back and slammed the door shut, before collapsing on my bed in tears. He had changed since mom left three years ago. He had changed and so had I; and neither of us had changed for the better.
My dad became really over protective of me since then and I hate it. I want my independence. He treats me like a child, but at the same time, how can he not since I’ve been acting like one? Ever since mom left without even saying goodbye I’ve… taken a few steps back, so says my therapist. I’m more emotional, immature, and, well, as you read, I turned into a bed wetter.
I punch my pillow in frustration. How dare he play the bed wetter card! He knows how sensitive of a topic that is for me! I let out a moan of frustration and sorrow as I hold my pillow tight against my chest as I continued to cry.
Whenever I get in a fight with my dad I… I like to pretend I’m little again. I like to pretend that this pillow I’m holding between my arms isn’t a pillow at all. I like to pretend it’s my mom. I pretend she’s holding me against her chest and stroking my head like she used to when I was little, back when she still loved me. Why else would she have left us? If I concentrate really hard I can almost smell the perfume she always wore. But that could be because I used to spray it on my pillow before I ran out and found out they discontinued it.
It’s all pretend though, picturing the perfect mother in my mind. My therapist says it’s all part of the grieving process. Maybe if I was seven. 18 year olds don’t spray furniture with perfume and pretend it’s the mother that abandoned her family. 18 year olds shouldn’t still cry from the hurt. 18 year olds shouldn’t pretend they are seven and crave that person’s embrace like an addict craves heroin. And 18 year olds shouldn’t wet the bed.
One day three years ago she just never came home from her job teaching at the high school. We called her work and she never said anything to them. All her stuff was still here, her car still parked at the school. We called the police and at first they suspected foul play, but then they noticed another teacher was also missing. A male teacher. And then they found the emails. She had been having an affair and the police put two and two together. She had run off with him to start a new family. I knew my parents had been having problems, but I didn’t think she’d go that far. We’ve never heard from her since. I don’t think I could even recognize her voice anymore.
I look up at the clock and let out a sigh. I really should get ready for bed just incase I fall asleep. I reach under my bed and pull out the package of bed wetting pants. Too many times I’ve fallen asleep before I got changed only to have to take the walk of shame to the laundry room with soiled clothes and sheets.
I begin to tug my pants down, only to remember the memory card in my pocket. I pulled it out along with my phone and swap them out. Maybe looking through someone else’s life will help me forget about my own. After changing, I turned off my bedroom light and plopped onto my bed. Phone in hand I searched the memory card. It was just a bunch of pictures of the high school. Some pictures of food, some of random teenagers around campus. As I suspected, it belonged to a student.
Along with the pictures was a video file. I clicked on it. It was taken on an older phone, so the picture quality wasn’t that great, but you could still clearly hear voices and make out the shapes of faces in the poor lighting of the phone. I recognized where they were immediately when I saw the tall rows of corn in the back round. The old maze. Well duh, I thought after a second, that is where I found the phone. I watched as the owner turned the phone around. Two giggling high school girls clearly a little buzzed by the sounds of their voices. My dad wasn’t kidding; it really was the teenage drinking zone.
I watched the video of the two blonde teenagers carry on as they staggered through the maze in the dark giggling. “Shh, shh I hear someone.” One of them said, while she herself was anything but subtle. The video panned out to the stalks of corn where two blurry outlines of people could be seen on the other side.
Two other voices began to play through the phone. I thought there’d be more teenagers, but I was surprised to hear two adults talking. I strained to listen, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then the figures began to embrace.
“Those two adults are making out.” The owner of the phone whispered.
“That’s Mr. Chancler! Whose he with?”
“OH, EM GEE! It’s Mrs. Brook! My history teacher!” the other girl squealed.
I immediately felt my blood run cold. Mrs. Brook is… my mother.
I continued to watch, my eyes, and ears now intently glued to the screen. The figures on the other side came into focus better as the girl zoomed in. I could make out my mothers long brown hair. I turned my volume up to max on my phone and listened as they began to talk again.
“Run away with me, Stayce.” The man said as he brushed my mothers hair from her face. I felt my blood boil as I watched. This was the man who stole my mother from me!
“We’ve talked about this before.” My mom said. He let his hand fall limply to his side.
“Why not? Why won’t you leave hi-“
“I’ve told you! It’s not about him! I’m not leaving my daughter! I love you, I do, but I can’t just pack up to a different state and leave her behind.”
I could feel fresh tears sting my eyes and blur my vision. But wait… if she was so adamant about not leaving me behind, where was she? Had he convinced her to go? I paused the video and checked the date it had been taken. It was the day she had gone missing. I continued the video and watched them argue back and forth for a while. Things were getting heated, and a growing sense of dread began to build inside of me. The tension between them continued to escalate until a loud BANG filled the air. I let out a choked sob as one of the figures slumped over onto the ground.
“OMG,” One of the girls screamed. They dropped the phone and I could hear them run away. The phone landed next to the stalks of corn and remained propped up pointed towards the scene so I still had a good view, albeit much lower.
I was shocked when I focused my eyes through the stalks to see not my moms’ body, but that of her lovers. I thought for sure he had shot her. Was it… was it the other way around? Had she shot him? I could hear my mother’s screams; the sound brought all the hairs on my arms on end.
“RICHARD!” She shouted. She dove to the ground and leaned over his body. “Richard! What happened?” she turned him over and saw the bullet wound. Her head snapped around and that’s when another figure appeared out from the cornfield into the clearing wearing a Halloween mask from the movie Scream. “What did you do!?” She shouted.
“Shut up, bitch! Get on the ground!” The muffled voice through the mask said. She looked down and saw the phone recording a few feet from her through the stalks. She grabbed it and made a run for it. All I could see was the ground flying past as she ran through the cornfields. “I’m coming for you, Stayce!” The other voice said.
She continued to run until she came to a dead end in the maze. She turned around only to hear him approaching. She held the phone up in front of her to record. I could see my mother’s terrified face looking straight at me.
“I know you’ll find this. I love you, Rachel. You’ll always be my baby girl.” I watched as she got on the ground and began to dig a hole in the soft dirt with her hands before burying the phone. Although I could no longer see, I could still hear the muffled conversation.
“I know it’s you, Tom, take off the mask.” She said.
“Shut up!”
“Why, Tom?”
“You’re cheating on me!”
My eyes widened in terror as I heard another BANG. I sat on my bed un moving for a good 30 minutes before the shock wore off and the tears finally came. My mom, she knew I metal detected that field every year and left me this video as a warning.
My mother never left me. She was stolen from me. Stolen from me by my father.
Edit: Thank you everyone who has shown interest. I'm working on a follow up piece to let you know what's been going on since I found out the truth. I thought this would be as simple as handing over the evidence to the police. Turns out it's not.

Hazard Pay - First Draft

Leslie’s happy tonight.
Therefore, I’m happy tonight.
We chose a cozy diner, a five minute drive from her apartment. Somewhere warm and kind to celebrate. She sold her first children’s book. Twenty pages of a puppy learning about how even though his mommy isn’t always home, she loves him very much.
It’s pure fucking poetry. Well, not literally.
We polish off our hamburgers, I drive her to her apartment and get a little kiss on the cheek. No invite up for hanky panky, but I don’t mind. There is work to be done.
Most people’s jobs involve a certain degree of context. A farmer raises crops for a specific purpose. He understands the multitude of factors in raising this crop, in nurturing life from frozen earth. More importantly, he realizes the necessity of his work. To feed, to create, to produce.
My field of expertise lies in direct contrast to the productive occupation. Context to me is deadly. Knowledge is lethal, and asking questions advertises your will to die a sudden and bloody death.
In the trunk of my car is a small red backpack. A man I don’t know gave it to me this morning. In my pocket is a burner phone. My task, in theory, is quite simple. Identify the snitch. Place backpack fifteen feet near target. Call the phone. Be at least a block away in under thirty seconds. Blue truck. Undercover cops. Remain undetected.
Await a text message to pick up the dead drop. Twenty grand in cash.
Drive. Slowly, deliberately, and most importantly, inconspicuously. Cruise down streets in given search zone. Look for undercover cops. Whoever is about to get this backpack got some kind of witness protection. Must have pissed off the wrong people.
I find them fairly quickly. Two men in casual clothing await outside a rundown apartment building. The truck is still, engine off. Good. No need to tail.
Cops look around too much. Their necks snap and lock, scanning and hunting. Danger around every corner. When they walk, their strokes are too wide. Their stance too authoritative. Subtle, maybe, but always present. They don’t stand like men, but like warriors. These boys are on edge. But where is the snitch?
Continue to drive. Pass the boys, find a parking spot at a nearby gas station, pop trunk and wear backpack. Done. Make my way back to complex. Done. Both cops are smoking now. Someone should tell them that’s bad for their health.
Good thing it’s night. Even better, a poor neighborhood. Low lights, and plenty of foot traffic far more threatening than I.
Walk. Wait. Watch.
Opportunity.
Deposit backpack driver side rear tire. Skulk. Return to the shadows. Watch again.
Out comes a snitch, carrying a suitcase. Short man, bearded, clearly sweating. I wonder what’s inside?
Dial the number. Turn and walk away. A rookie would look over their shoulder, but I’ve done this too many times.
Blast. An explosive belch echoing into the night. Dust, then silence. My guess is between twenty or thirty corpses, judging by the sound at this distance. Eerie quiet after a blast. Then come the screams and cries. Wrong place, wrong time. On the sidewalk lay fathers, sons, brothers, mothers, daughters and sisters. But shit happens.
Receive the message. Retrieve the dead drop. Pick up a brown paper bag. Sit in the back of a cab, fingering cash. Bringing some out and taking a deep whiff. What an enchanting smell.
Go home. Collapse into bed. A regular routine. Maybe I’ll go for a jog in the morning.
I awaken to the cold tip of a suppressor presses against my temple. Two unnecessarily massive men flanking my bedside. No words, no reason, and most assuredly uninvited. Part of me wanted to guess cops, maybe I'm somebody's loose end. No use whining and begging. No need to try to rise and fight. Just ask for a cigarette and a shot before they spray your brain matter over your very comfy bedspread.
They don't say anything.
Instead some creepy mother fucker at the very end of my bed, dressed in a tan suit like some kind of asshole leers forward, tall as an oak and thin as a rail.
"Mr. Blackwood," he whispers. Barely audible. Outside voice, dipshit.
"You're needed elsewhere."
So a black sack gets thrust over my head with a small flap to breathe through, and I know not to ask any questions. In this line of work you sit still and keep quiet until told otherwise. Inquisitive fucks end up dissolving in tubs of acid, and I don't think my health insurance covers that kind of shit.
A long van ride, bumpy as shit, smelling of formaldehyde and rotting meat, and very poorly ventilated. After what I guess is an hour or two I'm shoved into a building, down some stairs, and into a room by the muzzle of a rifle. Lovely.
Off comes the sack. Blinding light, and I find myself in a room smaller than a prison cell, totally devoid of any color besides the bleak gray of concrete. A single light dangles from the ceiling, sometimes flickering. Very cliche. The man in the suit, who doesn't and hopefully won't tell me his name, simply hands me a small yellowed piece of paper and walks out.
It reads pretty plainly. "Sit in this room until released. Ask no questions, make no sound. For every hour of service, expect $100,000 direct deposited into a Swiss account, to be accessed after services rendered. Coordinates to be given afterward."
Whatever they're about to do, I don't want any part of it. No one pays that high, and even this is an unusually low amount of information.
I pass the time the same as I did in my stints in prison, sleeping and daydreaming. I never got solitary, but I'd heard of it fucking you up mentally. Sometimes the wall would talk to you, and your only human interaction came when that cardboard tasting meal would get shoved into the slot.
Most men, when convicted and sentenced, pay dearly for the rest of their lives. Branded men, not free. Trapped by their designation as a felon, a threat to society. Doesn’t matter the crime, or the manner of execution. All that matters is the category. I paid dearly to the right people to clear my record. Maybe one day I’ll get a desk job. Broaden my horizons.
Given the nature of whatever assignment I’m about to receive, part of me has begun to doubt this possibility. Hours, hours, hours. Time is becoming difficult to discern.
Grumble, rumble, aching. Holy shit I'm hungry.
With no warning, the door swings open. Creaking metal and another over-sized goon, and oh boy here comes another piece of paper.
"Congratulations, Mr. Blackwood. The real task begins. Outside is a duffel bag, a single Glock G26 9x19mm pistol, along with three magazines of ammunition, and twenty five thousand dollars cash. You must survive for twenty four hours. Restriction: You cannot leave city limits. Cell phone must remain on. Authorities cannot be contacted. Failure to comply will result in execution."
Flip over the card. Shit, shit, shit, shit. I've heard of these gigs but always assumed they used immigrants or some shit. Man hunting costs a pretty penny and no one is going to miss some illegal smuggled in a fucking barrel. On the other side is the banking password, account number and a phone number.
"This account becomes active after forty eight hours. In addition to your previous earnings, you will earn another $100,000 per hour you survive. Should you not survive, all money will be sent to your primary beneficiary." Leslie. Hoo-boy is she going to be confused. I think I told her I worked in finance or some shit. She worries too much, and this kind of job would break her little heart.
No more questions, only instinct. Rush up the stairs, past the goons and slam open into the outside world. Sunrise. Chilly air. Breathe in, breathe out.
No time to waste, no time to think, no time to panic. Only instinct.
Instinct feels like something to be disdained and forgotten in the modern world. Humans in 'civilized' cultures live with this absurd conviction that fucked up things will never happen to them. If you work in such occupations as I have, you often see the sheer randomness of violence, and how easily a life can be overturned into a beautiful clusterfuck. I place a bomb by a car, and anyone could be shuffling down the sidewalk, consumed by their own thoughts. Then all of a sudden POP! Now you live the rest of your life with only one leg. So sad, too bad. Organized crime and collateral damage can often go hand in hand. Nothing personal, really. I’ve been blessed with a lovely apathy, a submission to universal chaos.
My main surprise comes from my designation. I have a reputation. Likeable, punctual, and mother fucking efficient. Targets of this nature are generally forgettable people of society. Homeless, destitute, immigrants, mentally ill, the usual suspects. Whomever has chosen me decided they want some sport in this.
Now, in the briskness of a late November morning, with the sun shining on the back of my neck, I find myself in the middle of a park. Empty, cold, barren. React. Observe. Survive.
Area round me way too fucking exposed. I have no idea who is hunting me, whether or not they are alone, and why exactly they have chosen me. But a twenty four hour period implies a possible survival, a slight degree of sportsmanship.
I sprint. To my right I see a road, and a couple of taxis parked in a neat row. Men smoke and converse in a confined circle, almost like penguins huddling for warmth at the south pole. They all turn to see the dipshit with the beige duffel bag, slightly out of shape and out of breath. "A thousand dollars to take me where I need to go. No questions asked."
I bend over and feel a slight cramp.
"An extra grand if you don't say a word."
I might as well splurge this cash. I fucking hate small talk.
Now I'm in a cab that smells equal parts curry, shit and sweat. A balding, middle aged man wordlessly plows through morning traffic, nearly tipping as we rush to my best and only friend's little slice of suburban heaven. Still in the city limits, so not breaking the rules.
Cell phone must stay on. Tracking purposes I assume. I unzip the bag, pull out the pistol, admire how pretty it is, toss two one thousand dollar stacks into the front seat and slide a magazine into the pistol. Vibration. A single text message from Leslie.
Good morning!
A little kissing face next to it. Isn't she a doll? She even uses punctuation. A real classy lady.
Time at 6:52 A.M. It dawns on me I don't know exactly when my twenty-four hour period ends. Like most things in my life, I just ignore the implications and rest my face against the freezing glass.
We've arrived. My boy still hasn't left the house, his shitty Toyota still clogging his driveway. His wife's black BMW is no longer in the driveway. Did he finally catch her boss balls deep inside her? About time.
Out of the cab and it speeds away. Two grand for his morning already. Not bad hazard pay.
Inside Bobby is drinking already. I don't hear little gremlins screaming and running around the house, so I'm assuming the kids aren't home.
He looks up, red eyed. Bleary. He's been crying.
"Hey Alex," he croaks to me, refilling his glass. "The fuck you doing here?"
There is no time to explain. I take out my cell phone and place it on the counter, quickly scribbling Leslie's phone number onto a piece of scratch paper.
"Bobby, I can't explain much to you right now," I start but he holds up a hand.
"What's the hazard pay, Alex?"
"A lot."
He nods. Downs the glass, performs a refill with shaking hands.
"I'll pay ten grand."
I reach into the bag, pulling out ten stacks.
"Fifteen," Bobby says. "I need cash for a lawyer."
"Done."
I leave the phone and run to the small glass bowl that contains Bobby's various keys. Wife's keys are gone.
Tsk tsk.
"Didn't Sasha love this bowl?"
Bobby isn't really paying too much attention. He simply nods. I pick it up and smash it on the floor. "See ya tomorrow, Bobby."
Next thing I know I'm in Bobby's car, speeding to my apartment. I don't know how long I've got until they figure out that I don't have my phone. Part of me hopes its not cheating, the other part doesn't give a shit.
I'm outside. Officially 9 A.M. Little old Ms. Yeltzin already went out for groceries. She's always been a doll and a lovely neighbor, so I help her carry them into the elevator.
Never in too much of a rush to have good manners.
I bid her good morning and walk down the hall. It’s amazing how different the lives between two people can be, how utterly alien my predicament must be to her. Hello, Ms. Yeltzin, I may probably die today. Oh hello, Alex, I can’t wait for jeopardy tonight.
The door to my apartment swings open. No huge goons. No creepy tan-suited fuck face.
There is, however, a man in a black hoodie.
Instinct. Draw the pistol tucked in my jeans.
Click.
Mother fucker I didn’t chamber a round.
He turns and we share a moment of dumbfounded astonishment. Apparently, we are both terrible at this. All I can do drop my weapon and charge, feeling the pistol in his right hand and twisting his wrist to force his release. He grips me at the waist, slamming me against the opposite wall, knocking over dishes in my kitchen. Instinct, instinct, instinct. Reach for a ceramic bowl, smash it against his face.
His balaclava blocks his features, but the blood seeps through the fabric. Another smash. Another smash. The slight crack of bone. I take his face and slam it into the hardwood floor, the thick sound of slamming a slab of raw meat on concrete. Blood pools. Hair, brain, bone, lifeblood, and a few teeth. Does this asshole have any idea how hard this shit will be to get out of my God damn kitchen? It's fucking everywhere.
The phone rings. I search his pockets. No wallet. No identification. The phone continues to ring.
Answering machine. The soft lilt of Leslie's voice.
"Hey Alex," she begins. How musical her voice is!
"You didn't answer your phone so I decided to call your home phone. Just a reminder that we're going to my parent's barbecue this weekend. Be sure to make some brisket. Anyway, see you later. Love you."
She hangs up. God damn it I forgot I need to make brisket by Friday. Why brisket anyway? Maybe I’ll just make pork instead, give it a nice pineapple rum marinade, and roast until the meat is so tender it shreds effortlessly with the tongs of a fork.
One thing at a time. The door to my apartment is still open and I've just smashed a man's skull in my kitchen. Unfortunately, no clues as to who he was or why he was here. However, whomever is hunting me isn't doing it alone. Perhaps this is more of an elaborate hit? Not nearly enough hazard pay for this bullshit.
I hear Ms. Yeltzin out in the hall, calling out to me. I tell her I'm fine. Just a slip. Such a sweet old gal.
Further down the hall, the elevator opens. Heavy clad footsteps make their way towards my apartment.
I find the pistol.
Pull back the slide, chamber a round.
At least their blood won't get into the hardwood.
A spent magazine drops to the floor. Two men lie slumped in a hallway. If their blood wasn't splattered all over the wall, beginning to congeal beneath them, it would look like they were sleeping.
I lean down to pick up the emptied magazine and stuff it back into the bag. Damn things are expensive. Waste not want not.
The whole exchange had been a shit show. Who knew a firefight could be so chaotic?
Ears still ringing. I really should see an ear doctor. What are they called again? I can't remember.
Heavy scent of gunpowder. The copper taste of blood. One of the corpses still twitches, mouth hung open like he has something quite important to say.
Wash hands. Change coat. New pants. Comfy running shoes. Exit scene. Pray Ms. Yeltzin doesn't contact the landlord. Think about remodeling the kitchen, maybe cleaning the oven sometime next Thursday. There's this weird brownish goop stuck to the side.
Drag bodies inside, leaving inconspicuous trails of blood into the apartment. How heavy are the dead! Close the door gently, lock it for good measure. Down the stairs, into the brightness of noon.
Several aspects of this chase have become quite clear. Someone, somewhere, decided a man was to be hunted. Whomever chose my fate does not seem to be interested in killing me personally. Usual grab bag of disposable goons. No one professional. Almost like playing a game on easy mode. At some point, one expects for the tutorial to end. With this kind of cash on the line, where are the big boys?
In the car. Drive to the nearby Mexican restaurant. Order a torta, al pastor por favor. Gracias. Hand a twenty with a smidge of blood on it.
Pick a table facing the sidewalk. Massive windows covered in various fliers. DJ this and salsa night that and blah blah blah.
Finish quickly. Nothing like adrenaline and slow roasted pork. Good combination.
Observe a white van park across the street. Wait for several minutes, then leave.
Around the block. There's that van again.
Time to move.
I open the door, listening to the chatter of strangers. Someone's dog won't stop shitting in the laundry room. Someone else's mother just won't shut the fuck up. Listen, listen, listen. Someone should not be like the others. A sudden crack above me. A small hole appears in the glass window behind me, a cobweb of cracks probing the pane. A second crack. The pane shatters.
A young woman shrieks. Crowd begins to scatter.
I didn't even hear either shot, this right here is some bullshit. Even worse, I just stopped and stared like some fucking idiot.
Run, run, run. A slow man is a dead man.
A third crack. Shot from behind me, I presume. Down an alley, run, run, run. Lungs close to collapsing. I wonder what my blood pressure must be? All I ask is to not be shot in the dick. That's just professional courtesy.
Opposite side of street. Whoever shot at me must have been observing me based on the distance. Don't stop running, nearly get run over by a rather angry old man and disappear into an adjacent alley. Slump next to a dumpster. Catch my breath, attempt to not have a heart attack.
I have a bigger problem, more so as to how they found me. In a different car, no phone, just a pistol and a duffel bag.
A duffel bag. A stranger's duffel bag.
Oh God damn I'm a fucking idiot.
Unzip, reach inside. Just money, money, money. Pull out the cash. Run it through my fingers. Fwip, fwip, fwip. Here we go. Once again, one of these is not like the others. A little chip blinks a happy crimson every other second. Toss it into the dumpster, slam the top shut. Run further down the alley, hide behind a pile of massive black trash bags. Jesus this shit would smell better if they kept actual bodies in these things. Wait. Watch and wait.
Nothing special happens for awhile. I expected someone on my tail at a moments notice.
My only human interaction comes from a bum who proceeds to take a very sizable shit near the dumpster. Don't look inside, buddy. That cash is not for you.
Here comes the van. Parks a little too close to the curb.
Hold your breath. Out pops a goon. Same fucktard that woke me up by pressing a gun to my head. Is he alone? No one else exits the van.
He moves forward, steps over the shit, roughly pushes aside the bum. He doesn't take too kindly to that. Goon grabs skull, slams into brick wall. Collapse. He may be dead.
Wait until he opens the dumpster. The noise should mask my movements.
The shifting of metal. I stand. Draw the pistol, and fire.
I miss.
He attempts to scurry away but can't outrun the good old fashioned spray and pray. Good thing he's the size of a barn because I could barely hit the side of one.
So in a way, I've announced myself to everyone in a wide radius. No time to dawdle. Ears may hurt like hell but I don't have the time or patience to deal with the authorities.
Fish keys out of pocket. Draw weapon from dead goon's suit jacket. Carry duffel bag with no traceable currency, I presume. Open van.
Prepare to flee.
Somehow the gangling tan man just sits and smiles. Predatory grin. Receding hairline. Just a God awful suit I mean really just poorly fitted, bad color. Looks uncomfortable. Probably leaves a rash.
That creepy mother fucking voice in the passenger seat.
"Going somewhere, Mr. Blackwood?"
Should I shoot him? Seems unwise.
“We should probably leave the scene, Mr. Blackwood,” tan man drawls. He doesn’t speak as much as words drip from his mouth.
“You can drop me off in a moment.”
No time to argue, enter the van, slide key into ignition. Speed away. Left, right, left, right, stop at a red light. Now the normal human being would be concerned, even shocked to see the same man who thrust them into this rather unfortunate predicament, but a degree of professionalism is required. Drive. Pull up to the curb. Let him pop open the door.
He pulls back his suit jacket to reveal a sterling silver watch.
“1:29, Mr. Blackwood. Seventeen hours to go.”
Door slammed shut. Tan man saunters off into the wild.
What do I do now?
For now I simply drive. Plenty of gas in the tank. An hour passes.
Each person that walks down the street could be a hired thug. The person in the car next to me may empty an entire clip into me in stand still traffic.
Perhaps the van can be tracked? Such a thing seems likely.
Pull over, get out. Move, move, move.
More time passes. The trail must have gone cold to my hunters. Walk on the street, wary of my fellow pedestrians. How odd each person lives their own insular life. How many times have I passed someone in such mortal danger?
My greatest comfort from my lifestyle derives from the secret sense of an apex predator. When I wreak havoc, I know exactly where the danger will be. I’m never the one caught unawares. That’s the secret to a clear mind. No paranoia for me, no guilt and certainly no fear.
Even now, I feel calm. But certain that my troubles are not over yet.
Alone. Nearly three o’clock.
Sidewalks, trash, exhaust and nothingness. Cities have their own charming sense of loneliness. Surrounded but alone. Except for Leslie.
Ahead of me rings a pay phone.
I’ll assume it’s for me. Be disappointed if it isn’t.
Pick up. Gum near the receiver. Pick and drop.
“Hello?”
No response.
“Hello?”
Breathing.
“Mr. Blackwood. We hope you’ve enjoyed your rest, but I’m afraid the time has come to resume the hunt. You have fourteen hours.”
Static.
I look up, behind and around. No one near me. Nothing around me but the distant sounds of traffic. So the hunt has resumed. Whatever means of tracking they have, I don’t think it’ll be of any use to sabotage it. I open the duffel bag, feel inside, smell the cash, pocket the final magazine and zip it closed. Walk. Not far from the canal. Down the hill, two blocks away. Continue the walk. I’ll need to call Leslie sometime tomorrow, get the address for her parent’s place. This will be the first time I’ve met someone else’s parents and that brings more anxiety than my hunt. Wonder if they’ll like me.
By the canal. Nearly four. Time sure flies when you’re prey.
Whir.
The fuck is that?
Louder. Whir, whir, whir, whir, whir. Soft blades slicing late afternoon air. Whir.
I’m on a pathway, in familiar territory. Leslie and I sometimes make this walk by the canal on Sundays. Her church isn’t too far from here. Some joggers pass me by. One stops and places their hands on their hips, staring at something above.
Drones. A small pack of white little drones. What are they carrying?
Well, they’ve making a beeline to me. So I’m going to assume it’s a little bag of bullshit. Not a gift I’m interested in receiving.
Run.
Sprint.
Fuck it, book it, they’re faster than they look God damn it fuck fuck fuck fuck
Down paths, between trees, the world around me stares at a rather averagely dressed man run for his life. I hear a click behind me, as a drone deploys a bag.
“What the hell is that,” I hear behind me. Someone must have picked up the bag.
The earsplitting blast of explosives. I’m far enough away to keep pace, but the other drones are still there. Whatever is in those bags, grenades, bombs, explosive dildos I don’t fucking care. Fuck that shit. Lungs breaking, boiling, heaving. Heart attack or explosive, death comes for me.
Back by the street. Drones continue to follow. A public service announcement – before crossing the street, look both ways. When being chased by drones probably bought from Amazon or some shit bringing explosives, just cross the fucking street.
Nearly clipped by a cab. The usual shouts of derision and scorn. Coming from souls with the luxury of life, able to rules without deadly consequence.
I need a store front. Inside. Any kind of building.
Whir Whir Whir Whir Whir Whir Whir we’re coming for you Alex Whir Whir Whir
A shopping mall of some kind. Inside, inside, inside. Safety in numbers.
Through a revolving door. Stares from confused shoppers. A resounding batch of clicks from above.
Run a bit farther, you fat fuck. You’re not dying in a mall. Well, several people outside are about to, but that’s not your problem. Go, Go, Go.
Nowhere near the entrance when the blasts go off. Pandemonium, chaos. Throngs of monkeys clawing past each other, shucking packages and purchased items.
Up an escalator. Inside a large retail store. Sit in a sea of women’s pants on sale now for 75% off and if that’s not enough to convince you to buy, they’re also buy two get one free how can you say no to that? Well I do. Breathe slowly. Find a water fountain. Suck it dry. Wipe face with wrist. Remember I forgot to shave. Prepare to flee once more.
I walk for as long as I can. People mill about, confusion reigns. No additional explosions, no delusional gunmen, just a few unlucky people dead and maimed by the entrance. Exit through the rear. I wonder what Leslie would say if she knew? Tell me that each corpse and victim might destroy and bankrupt families? Now, now, Leslie. We don’t talk about these things. Just don’t think about it. No one should bring work home, unless you’re a chef.
Speaking of cooking, I need to make brisket at some point.
I could use a drink.
Out the back, wander. Sirens, sirens, sirens. They sure are busy today.
Grab a cab.
I know where to go.
Lean back in the seat. Finger the holes in the fabric. Pull threads, wait. Eye every vehicle nearby. Dead eyed stares of commuters. Blank faces. Nothing to see here, move along. Forget.
Tip the cabbie. Keep the change.
Out on the sidewalk. Sunset.
Push through the door. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, neon casting a deathly glow over beer stained pool tables. Stool.
Crumbling wood, ancient stools, moldy air.
Take a seat. Two dollar pours. Sit and wait.
For what? Drones? Dogs? Thugs? A tank?
Resources don’t seem to be an issue for the hunter. A tap on my arm.
Sasha. Blonde pony-tail, maroon lipstick. Head cocked to the right. Same insane eyes.
“Hello, Alex.”
Bad sign.
“Hey Sasha.”
Watch the barman pour. Make sure he doesn’t slip any shit into it.
She swings into the stool next to me, a glass filled with a pinkish liquid. Vodka cranberry.
“You here on work, Sasha?”
“No, Alex. Pleasure.”
Beer glass placed in front of me. She’s lying. Or at the least, I don’t care if she’s lying or not. Risks aren’t something to take right now.
Grab the back of her head with both hands before she can react, slam it onto the counter. Break the beer glass over her head, liquid, blood, hair splattering everywhere. She doesn’t rise or even scream, just a slight moan as her arms twitch limply by her side. She’ll lose consciousness soon. Probably die before EMTs can arrive. My fucking ass she would show up by accident.
Through dim light I place a bill on the counter and leave. Several other patrons don’t seem to even notice, just eyeing the bottom of their own glasses.
I’m out again, wandering. Waiting.
I don’t really know where to go. But they’ll find me, and at some point the luck must run out. Hope begins to dwindle.
White vans appear in the lot as I disappear into an alley. It’s always the hidden places, the thin veins and passageways that save me. My legs ache. My hands are covered in blood. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Through a fugue state I wander. Delusions.
Bobby and I watch Sasha wait outside a club at nearly three in the morning. Our target exits, sees Sasha and drunkenly propositions to her. Several stacks of bills, no questions asked. Led him into an alley, and cut his throat with a tactical blade. We just watched at the end, as he crawled towards us. Unable to scream, his eyes begging. Help. Help. Help. Expensive button down clotted with that heavy black blood that precedes death. Artery severed, unable to clamp shut. Dead, dead, dead.
It's night and I’m hungry. I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing. There’s a gas station. More importantly, it has an outdoor bathroom.
Inside. Hand several bills covered in blood, get the key. Wash hands. Splash water on face. Cup hands and drink from the tap. Cool and metallic in the mouth.
Return key. See diner. Hunger.
Sit down, order a burger. Too greasy, the buns shriveled and slippery in my hands.
A man sits in the seat across from me.
Bobby.
“Hey Alex.”
Shit. Bobby is expensive, whoever wants me dead is sparing no expense.
“Hey Bobby.”
“Shit day?”
I snort.
“You could say that. I met Sasha.”
His face twists almost imperceptibly. Something between anger, understanding, and longing.
“I didn’t know if she was working this job, but I’m not taking any chances.”
Bobby places a pistol on the table.
“You get one pass, Alex. If anyone else puts a hit out on you, you won’t get a courtesy call.”
Seems too easy.
“Go out the back, now. You’ll get the drop on them.” He leans back in his seat. I can see him weighing the options. My head or our friendship.
I stand, legs like jelly. Too much exercise for me today.
“After you’re done, leave the pistol. And the bag. Then hide.”
Taking all my cash Bobby? Dick move.
I stand to leave.
A boy with his mother tells a joke to her. She laughs uproariously. The boy is pleased by this. She looks a bit like Leslie.
Stand and walk towards the bathroom. See an entrance to the kitchen. Pull out pistol, pull back slide. Quick and clean, then run. Leave everything behind. Take one risk. Trust Bobby. Sorry your ex-wife is probably dead. She won’t slice my artery.
Through the door. Nothing but mildly confused Latinos watching a tired man with a gun. Walk by each one wordlessly. Flipping burgers and the scent of frying fat.
Rear exit. Voices murmur on the other side. Two. Both deep.
“The whole thing is pretty fucked up,” says one. The other grunts in agreement.
Deep breath.
Burst through, two confused men in dark suits stare with cigarettes still burning in hand. Close enough to reach out and shake their hand. Neither know what to do, but simply stand like deer in the headlights.
One shot clean through the head, brain matter splattering through a gaping new hole in the back of the goon’s head. The second tries to reach towards his hip, but I put three through the chest. He crumples backward, breathing heavily as his lungs fill with blood. The man can’t move his arms. Blue eyes. He’s crying. “Please,” but blood clogs his throat.
A final shot through his forehead.
Take out the cards with banking information. Drop the duffel bag. Listen to the clatter of the empty pistol.
I pick it up again, out of curiosity. Look inside the empty magazine slot.
A blinking red light.
Drop it again. Pull out full magazine from pocket.
Escape.
For as long as I can remember, I run through the night. Through bums and whores, through doped out teenagers and sad lonely men. Run for freedom and life, untracked and unburdened. Flee, fight, survive. Dawn. I find myself at a different section of the canal.
Light shines from the east. I find the spot Leslie and I met. Where her dog attempted to maul my ankles. No one follows me. No one hunts me.
I have to somehow get back, so I follow the canal. I walk for hours, first seeing the morning joggers then women pushing kids in strollers. A warmer day than yesterday.
Home.
No bodies in my apartment, no blood on the floor, not even a shell casing left. Like nothing had ever happened. Collapse into bed.
Just don’t think about it.
I’m nervous.
Leslie drove, probing our way through the endless urban sprawl to a very upper-class suburb. Family has more money than I expected.
We stand before a doorway, beside a very well-manicured rose bush. Leslie looks to me and smiles. She can tell I’m uncomfortable.
Door swings open.
There stands a man.
A man in a tan suit. With a creepy smile. That strung out mother fucker.
Leslie moves forward to hug him.
“Hi daddy! This is Alex.”
He holds out a hand. I shift the brisket in my arm and clasp it.
Shake. Shake. Shake. Strong grip.
Feign ignorance for now. Walk into the home, Leslie chattering to her father. It’s clearly him, in the exact same suit, chafing himself to death. I half listen to their conversation, before Leslie decides to use the bathroom. “Play nice,” she calls. Disappears.
“Fuck you, man.” I can’t help myself, it’s quite unprofessional.
He doesn’t smile for the first time. His lips purse.
“I knew who you were, Mr. Blackwood. Leslie told me about you and I knew who you really were. Quite the reputation.”
We walk into the living room, a portrait hangs over the fireplace. The man, Leslie and a woman. Presumably her mother.
“I promised her mother to look out for her, and that’s what I do. The men who you’ve worked countless jobs for would suck my cock if I told them to.”
This isn’t a boast. It comes out flatly, almost exasperated, like such power is simply bothersome.
“I had to test you, Mr. Blackwood.”
A test. A rite of passage. Some fucking bullshit.
I have no response, no sardonic wit.
“Was it just a way to get rid of me?”
He shakes his head.
“She deserves the best, Mr. Blackwood. If you ever fuck with my daughter, what you lived through for one day will continue until the day you die.”
I eye the portrait, then the man. Was any of this worth it?
Leslie returns from the bathroom, berating her father for not washing the handcloths. Was she worth it?
Her hand in mine. Conversation between them continues but I cannot focus.
Was she worth it?
She squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
She was.

how to cheat a slot machine with a cell phone video

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JoJo's Bizarre Adventure OC Tournament #5 - Round 1, Match 2: Peter VS Markus

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