Chapter 10: Chapter 10 – A Typical Day at an American Daycare Center

Peter and Karen stand in line at the Coffee Bean at the bottom of their building. It’s 11 AM. Peter feels his phone vibrate and ignores it. He’s next in line and turns to Karen. “I’ll get yours” He orders a large iced cold brew and Karem does the same. He makes friendly banter with the mustachioed cashier. 

As they wait for their coffees, Peter asks Karen “You think someone like him will ever make it?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Like, how many people like us does he take coffee orders from everyday? Potential connections, employers, people who could get his project made if he has one, or cast him, or whatever— I mean, he’s in the right place, but no one like you or me would ever give him the time of day because he’s wearing that stupid uniform and taking our order.” 

Karen nods absentmindedly. “Shame, really.” 

Peter’s phone vibrates again. It’s a text message that says “Pick up.” “Who the fuck keeps calling me from an unknown number?” The number is calling him again now. “Hello?” 

On the other end of the line is a chilling voice— disguised and distorted in a deep baritone. “I saw the proposal. I saw your minions hunting me down, tracking me. “You’ll get me money and you’ll sell ads, right?” 

Peter clears his throat. “Well…. negotiations usually take place over a slightly longer—“ Karen looks at Peter. 

The voice cuts him off, “Yes or no. Answer now before I hang up. I’m not fucking around.” 

“Yes— yes— of course. We can iron out the details later.” 

“Consider this the first episode. So put it on my bill or whatever.” 

“What?” The line goes dead. “Hello?” Peter stares at his phone. 

Karen shakes Peter’s arm. “Was that… him?” She whispers. 

“I think so. I think he wants to partner with us.” 

“That’s amazing!” 

“Yeah, holy shit…” 

“Holy shit. So should we tell everyone?” 

“Well… let’s wait a sec. Could’ve been a prank caller or something. 

#

— Meanwhile, in Bismarck, North Dakota, the shooter stands atop a grassy knoll overlooking a daycare center. He takes the SIM card out of his burner cell phone and snaps it in half, and then into quarters for good measure. He throws it over the fence into a river below. After waiting a minute, he throws the cell phone in after it. He stands behind a tree while he checks the ammo in his rifle and sidearm. Then, he watches the daycare center as the last parent at drop-off exits the building to walk to their car. He starts the stream and watches the live viewer number creep up. It seems to grow exponentially, always many more viewers than the time before. Perfect time to start selling ads. He turns to face the river while he begins his opening comments. “It’s a nice day out. I’ve decided today’s stream is going to be a little different/ I’m gonna be fishing… Just kidding, but not really…. I’ll be shooting fish in a barrel. Very. Very. Young fish.” The shooter swivels around to face the daycare center. “You probably can’t read it from here, but that says ‘Bismarck Childcare.’ Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Don’t narc on me, okay? Just kidding, I don’t give a shit. Police response time here is dogshit. Off we go—” The shooter flicks the safety off his rifle and skips down the hill to the daycare center. Later, the last parent at drop off would recall seeing a shadowy figure in their rearview mirror but admitted to thinking it was just a smudge on their windshield at the time because they hadn’t gotten their car washed in a while. 

#

As Peter and Karen get the push notifications from the news apps on their phones alerting them to the third, or possibly fourth shooting in a string of deadly shootings that have been live streamed on camera, they know it wasn’t a prank caller. Peter turns to Karen. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a very compelling pitch.” 

#

FBI Director Harris sits in the Oval Office, where he has a private conversation with The President. “Mr. Johnson. I hope you understand the importance of this matter. This lone gunman is making a mockery of our country and making our people fear for their safety. Whatever you need to do to stop him from carrying out any more shootings, I need you to do it.” 

“Yes, sir— is there any possibility of carrying out an emergency order to add common sense gun laws to national legislation? If we could prevent him from purchasing ammo and weaponry, we might be able to starve him, so to speak… um… as a supplement to other means.” 

“Are you fucking stupid” the President asks while staring out of the Oval Office window. “Understood, Mr. President. We’re gonna take this guy down. It’s done.” 

“Good.” 

#

At the FBI Director’s home later that night, he reads news articles on his iPad while he drinks himself into a stupor. He looks at the faces of the victims, which seem to multiply every day. He calls up his daughter to check in on her before he blacks out. He puts on his best sober voice. “Honey, daddy misses you. How’s college…good…good… how’s the internship? Going great? Good… good. Keep it up, dear. We’re very proud of you. And honey, be careful, okay? I know you always are, I just like to remind you because it makes me feel better. We’re very proud of you. Oh, I already said that.” He laughs. “Okay, I’ll let you go. I love you.” 

He hangs up the phone. Before passing out, he mutters to himself, “by any means necessary.” 

#

Fritz arrives in Washington, D.C. the next day. FBI Director Harris meets him in a hot chicken shop. They hold their surreptitious meeting at a greasy table in the corner of the restaurant.

Director Harris wipes hot chicken dust from the corner of his mouth. “I know you don’t like watching the news--”

Fritz snorts. “Fake news. Every journalist should be tried for war crimes and executed. After being tortured.” 

“—But you may have heard about this kid. He’s been going around to different cities and towns. Shooting up places. Schools, daycare centers, movie theaters, you name it. Films all of it and broadcasts it live on his Youtube or Facebook or whatever. Real piece of work.” Fritz dips a handful of fries in the chicken dipping sauce and stuffs them in his mouth.

Director Harris continues, “He’s already hit four separate locations. He’s good at getting away. No local cops have even grazed him. It’s a problem now, but if he doesn’t get stopped soon, this is gonna be a big embarrassment for the US Government. Need to nab this son of a bitch. I can give you a real long leash here. But you gotta be fairly discreet.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Oh come on.. I know you’re itching for a good fight.” 

“I can find those anywhere.”

“Not like this.”

“I want to meet the President.” 

“Done.”

“The real one. President Trump.”

“Sure.” 

“And I want a medal of Honor.” 

“That can be arranged.”

“And I want a Wikipedia page.”

“You want to be tried for those war crimes on there, too? You realize most people think you’re dead, right? For good reason. And if they think you’re alive you’re not gonna be so free.”

“Send me back to Afghanistan, then. Or Ukraine. I can’t be here anymore. Do the sacrifices I’ve made for this country count for nothing?” 

“How’s it a sacrifice if you wanna go back so bad? You can’t have it both ways.”

Fritz glares down at the table. 

“Now don’t worry about all that. You take care of this thing for your country and we will be able to arrange something to make everyone happy. Okay?”

Fritz nods.

#

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Karen knocks on Peter’s door. It’s about ten minutes before their secret pitch meeting with the president of the company. He’s in from Manhattan and will be flying back tonight. His time is very limited. Karen can hear Otis Redding blasting from inside Pete’s office. Despite the reinforced glass, the down beats and half of the muffled lyrics are mostly audible. She knocks and enters.

Peter doesn’t turn around. He’s at his window desk— a plexiglass shelf just big enough for a laptop, which is suctioned to one of the floor to ceiling windows that looks out over the San Fernando Valley and 101 freeway below the building. It creates the effect that his laptop is floating in the air in front of him, while he watches out godlike over the Earth. He switches the window from what looks like porn to some spreadsheet. Like she’d care, or think he was doing any actual work for that matter.

He lowers the volume of the Otis Redding. “Can I get you a drink?” Peter asks. 

“No thanks. I want to be sharp.”

“Come on… don’t make me drink alone.” Peter walks over to the bar cart, which is situated under a giant framed photograph of Kobe Bryant slam dunking with his tongue out, and grabs a bottle of Monsho Pure Rye. He pours a couple thumbs of the expensive whiskey into a glass that’s still wet inside.

“Looks like you already were.” Karen remarks.

“You caught me. Send me to prison.”

He sits on the edge of his large cherry wood desk and leans behind it to grab a pill bottle from one of the drawers. He counts out 2, knocks them back, and washes them down with his drink.

“It’s a real party in here.”

“You can give me shit when you have a corner office, okay? It helps me keep everything in order. Let’s go pitch your big evil idea, alright? Make me proud.”

They take the elevator to the 45th floor. This floor is darker than theirs and much more narrow. The walls are wooden and less modern, like they’ve been left the same way since the building was erected. Even the ceiling lamps offer a yellow glow of tungsten rather than the blue-white fluorescence of every other light in every other floor in the building. Peter and Karen walk across the dark green carpet to a black granite reception desk. An ancient secretary greets them. Behind her is an oil painting of an old white man in a suit.

Karen can’t help but see the black oil eyes twinkle as they flash into focus to get a better look at them as they state their names to the secretary.

“Peter.”

“Karen.”

“Purpose of visit?”

“Development meeting.”

“Title of project?”

“Confidential.”

“That’s catchy. He’ll be ready shortly. Please sit on the couch while you wait.”

“Can I have a water? I’m feeling kinda parched in here.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Peter and Karen approach the couch. It’s velvet and smells like tobacco and clouds of dust puff up from its cushions when Peter and Karen sit. Peter crosses his legs, the hairs on his knees, visible through the holes in his jeans, standing up on end, despite the oppressive heat in the room. He scratches at a scuff on his tan suede chelsea boot. He checks his phone. No service or Wi-Fi. And calls out “Excuse me- what’s the wi-fi network up here?”

“There is none.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes pass. Peter and Karen don’t talk. The atmosphere does not invite conversation. Karen reviews her notes on her notes app. Peter tries to make himself comfortable. A loud bell tone phone rings out, jolting Peter out of his half slumber. The ancient secretary answers the yellowed cord phone.

“Yes? Okay, I’ll send them right in.”

She hangs up the phone.

“He’ll see you now. Go on in.”

Peter and Karen go past the granite stone counter of the reception, and the large wooden door to the conference room makes an iron sound like that of a drawbridge, and opens on its own. Peter and Karen step through. At the end of a conference table bigger than any Peter or Karen had ever seen in their lives (and they’d been to a lot of conference rooms) (and how did movers get the thing inside the room? It was all one giant slab and didn’t appear to contain any seams) sits a dusty old white man who bears a vague resemblance to the one in the oil painting. He has his shirt sleeves rolled up and his blazer slung on the back of his chair. He scribbles notes on a yellow legal pad. Next to his elbow is an old phone.

“Do come in. I apologize for the mess… I’m not usually in the West Coast office.”

Peter tries to make a joke. “How many maids does it take to dust this thing? Or is that what those window cleaner guys do at the end of their shift?”

The old man doesn’t look up from his scribbling.

“Peter and Karen. Forgive me, I spend a great deal of time in meetings so I do my best not to engage in conversation outside of topics pertaining to the content of the main agenda. Are you pitching a show about window cleaners… or cleaning ladies?” 

Peter and Karen exchange a look. Karen clears her throat.

“No, Mr. Kaiser. We’re here to pitch a show that’s very different.” 

“I very much doubt that, but please continue.”

“It’s a show about killing. Real killing.”

“So the 5PM news? Or the coverage of the war in Afghanistan? Or Dateline? Or Law and Order? I thought you said it was different.” 

Karen opens her mouth to speak. Clears her throat again, instead. Peter finds his voice. “There have been four mass shootings in the past month perpetrated by the same shooter. He has been filming all of it live. We are in contact with him and can buy the rights to this live stream. We can place ads on it. A lot of fucking people are watching. And this will make us a lot of money.” Mr. Kaiser stops scribbling. 

“How do you know he will keep shooting?” 

“We know.”

“How do you know he won’t be killed?”

“He hasn’t been yet.”

“How much will it cost to buy the rights to the stream?”

“We’ve worked out a deal but for the first season- what we’re calling a first season, 60k flat plus 2% on the back end of royalties and merch.”

“Have you found your first advertiser?”

“No. We’re getting close.”

“I’ll order 5 episodes. After the fifth episode we can reconvene and restructure the contract depending on the success of the program.”

Peter and Karen stand there, not sure how to contort their expressions. “Congratulations. Your show has been greenlit. You must excuse me. I have a lot of work to get done.”

#

After the pitch is sold, Disney Corporation sets up a subsidiary LLC that they hide within multiple corporate holding shells, so when it’s billed or taxed, or an advertisement goes through, it appears on tax sheets as “Midwest Electric.” Through this shell company, they are able to broker media deals with other brands and companies, and sell advertising space and time on the shooter’s stream, which regularly reaches a growing audience of tens of millions of unique viewers, even on bad days. At the beginning, it’s difficult for the ad sales team to sell ads on the ever increasingly valuable “show.” Firstly, they don’t look like a real company, and secondly, because no company or brand wants to associate themselves with the slaughter of innocent people by a rogue gunman— at least not from a public facing perspective— until a sex toy company— comfortable with alternative ad space and “niche” websites takes a chance and buys a 30% ad share on the stream for a steal— basically the same rate you’d get on ads sold during re-runs of antique road show on the 3:00AM slot— on a cable network. During the stream, and in the days after the stream, the sex toy shop sells out their entire inventory in factors of ten, and their brand name becomes a proprietary eponym. Then the floodgates opened. Major brands started fighting for ad space on the stream. Coke, Google, Amazon, Honda, you name it. They were buying time on the deadly stream. Even a “presented by:___” lower third banner cost premium advertising dollars. 

Needless to say, Disney’s gamble paid off big. The shell company was racking in tens of millions of dollars a week, and since Peter and Karen had major stakes in it, plus producing credits, they began to grow very very rich in a very very short amount of time.

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