Chapter 12: Chapter 12 – The Intersection of Government and Commerce

FBI Director Harris is on the phone with The President. The President is apoplectic. He rants about how the shooter and his stream is embarrassing the government more than ever and how the corporations and brands advertising on the stream were communistic, traitorous scourges of The Media, proof that the Jewish Agenda had wormed its way into the very structure of American Society, beyond the point of no return; the wood had rotted and you could push the whole thing over with the weight of a feather and the least we could do was nail this trigger happy son of a bitch to a cross, so we could have a brief respite from the tormentations of his laughter as our country marched itself to the gates of Hell. The President only talked like this when he was very upset, so FBI Director Harris knew he had to turn the screws on his own department. If they didn’t come up with something good, fast, he could lose his life, or worse: his job. 

After hanging up the phone, Director Harris pours himself a few generous thumbs of whiskey. He knocks the glass back and it goes down satisfactorily. He stands up, puts on his suit jacket, and marches down the hall, his feet clacking on the marble floor with each step. In the war room, he commands respect— far more than he feels he deserves. The small arm of suited employees, graduates of Quantico, tops of their class at Harvard, future leaders of the free world, and they’re looking up at him, from their leather office chairs lining the great spit shined maple wood table. His assistant shuts the door and sits in a chair in the corner. Harris waits while silence descends on the room. 

“We’re going to have a battle ahead of us. A great battle. We’ve been fighting on many fronts, yes. Fighting for the freedom of this country. Every day. As the men and women of this office did before us and will do after us. But we have a threat, today, and for the foreseeable tomorrows, which we need to focus in on, for the time being. You’ve read the intelligence. You’ve read the articles. I’m sure your friends send them to you and ask you for insider information.” He pauses for laughter. “Submit their names to background check as soon as this meeting is over.” He smiles and waits for the second wave of louder laughter to dissipate. “And you’ve watched the streams. Plural. Again, and again. In slow motion and still frame. You’ve seen the faces of your fellow Americans as they are gunned down in full 4k resolution. And… even worse, you’ve seen Coca Cola ads playing alongside these grisly murders. Again, it is a thin line between us and those who seek to destroy our freedom. We can’t let this monster run around like this anymore. We can’t let him destroy freedom. We’re redirecting all of the resources we can until this motherfucker is dead.” People in the room are cheering now. “Is that too PC for ya? We’re gonna hunt him down until he’s hanging by a noose made from his own intestines. NSA are you fucking listening?” The room erupts in whoops and hollers. FBI Director Harris slams his hand on the oval conference table with the amber eagle embedded in its center. “God bless America— now get to work.”

As the heartened employees go off to their individual departments to dig up leads and redirect resources, they chat enthusiastically to each other, until soon, the whole building is lit up with the news of the Director’s big speech. One of the lower level employees, who had gotten a leg up at the interview because she was family friends with the FBI Director’s daughter, messages her friend— the daughter— to let her know about the big speech her dad just gave. 

#

Later on that night, on FaceTime, she lets her friend know that she can’t share many details, but the shooter is most definitely going down. Without leaking too much, she lets her know that some serious resources are being redirected into hunting down the shooter. The person she’s on the phone with, FBI Director Harris’s daughter, is in the beginning of her second semester of an internship in Disney’s fledgling digital streaming department. 

#

Peter and his wife are moving into their new home. It’s a brutalist contemporary style, 2 story place with a nice big driveway, garage, and front yard. It’s not far from their old apartment, but it’s North of Montana Avenue, where the housing prices are quintupled. It has a stainless steel garage door, and inset frosted glass windows in the front of the house that face the street and makes it look like a fortress. The back of the home is almost all giant open floor to ceiling glass windows, so you can see out into the large backyard from basically anywhere in the house. It has a huge patio and terrace that’s half way inside and half way out— perfect for entertaining, the realtor had told them. 

Peter and his wife stand in the master bedroom, with its connected master bath that has a carved stone tub and a shower that takes up half of the wall, but is four times larger than any shower Peter’s ever been in. The bed looks small. It’s the one from their old two bedroom apartment. “We’ll get a new bed soon.” 

“Why? I don’t mind our bed. We have so many good memories in it.”

“I know, but once we get a new bed we can make so many more new memories. Don’t you want that?” 

Peter grabs his wife and kisses her. Their kissing turns into making out and they fall on the bed together, twisting and mauling each other to get all of their clothes off as fast as possible. One of the movers walks in, carrying a dark maple dresser all by himself. “Oh sorry— excuse me.” He hurries out of the room, still carrying the dresser. Peter and his wife stand up. 

“It’s okay. Sorry about that. I thought you guys were done for the day.” 

“Yeah. Just, this was labeled ‘master bedroom’ with the post-it note so I was just bringing it up here. Last thing on the truck.” 

“Thanks, brother. You can just leave it there in the hallway.” The hallway stretches around the second floor so you can look down at the granite living space below and yell down to whoever is sitting there. 

“Sure thing, man.” 

The mover sets the dresser down gently and scurries away. The dresser looks small and incongruous in the large, brutalist mansion. Peter’s phone pings a reminder. He checks it. “Oh God damn it. My work dinner got moved up.”

“Oh no…”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, honey. It’s all the way in fucking Torrance so I gotta leave now. God dammit. I hate this fucking job.”

Peter’s wife rubs his back. “That’s okay. Just don’t get too drunk and we can continue this later.” She smooths his shirt collar and kisses his neck. 

#

They meet at Ryozanpaku Izakaya, in the heart of Torrance. They take a secluded booth enclosed by tatami mat wallpaper. Retro beer advertisements written in Japanese plaster the table and walls of the restaurant. The place looks like it was plucked out of Tokyo and dropped right here, just for them. Peter clinks glasses with Daisy. They’re on their fourth or fifth bottle of sake. Who was counting? Certainly not him, especially since he’d be putting this on his corporate expense card. 

It wasn’t often he’d fucked interns, especially not while they were in the middle of their internship. The #MeToo movement had made it a lot scarier, and not in a sexy way, and it was already frowned upon for a man in his position to get too friendly with an intern, or even be seen alone with one (thanks, Bill Clinton). But this one was special. Worth the risk. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about her eyes made her seem like a real adult. A quiet, cool confidence — not the kind some rich girl bought with her daddy’s money, or those of a “wild” girl who thought she was Joni Mitchell because she’d taken LSD once and gotten railed by her high school’s football team. No, this girl was something special. He couldn’t stop peering into her eyes. Deep black pools… like portholes looking out onto the middle of the ocean at night. On a lone ship with no lights. The waves break and crash onto one another, over the infinite deep, their crests lit by pinhole stars in the endless black sky. 

Really, every time he looked at her face and she looked back at him, his underwear would tighten against his penis as it engorged with blood. His heart would pound, but it felt good. She brushes her black silk hair behind her ear and the candlelight from their table glows warm against her neck. He wants to bite into it and let the salty flesh fill his mouth. “Let’s get some wine at Trader Joe’s.” 

“Why? We can get wine here, right?” 

“I want to drop you off before it gets too late.” 

“My roommate doesn’t care, I told her I’d be back late. And what does that have to do with wine?” 

“I just thought it might be fun to have some for next time, and it’d be nice to leave you with something as a reminder of me. It’d be just sitting in the mini fridge in your dorm and no one else besides you would know what it meant.” 

“And what’ll I leave you as a reminder of me?”

“You’ve already left your mark. You’re burned into my brain and tattooed on my heart. I breathe now only to be with you.”

“You’re stupid. How many girls have you said that to?”

“I don’t keep track. Let’s go.” Peter slaps his expense card on the table and asks for the check. The busy waitress looks at him polite-pleadingly, and off her look Peter says, “We’ll be right back. My card’s on the table. I’ll be back to sign it. We’re just smoking.” He mimes the universal sign language for smoking a cigarette. He grabs Daisy’s hand and they walk outside. 

They head over to the Trader Joe’s across the shopping center’s parking lot. Somehow, she looks even prettier in the harsh antiseptic grocery store lighting. Peter likes coming to Torrance because it’s almost an impossibility that he’d run into anyone who knew him. And if he did, it’s most likely that they’d also be doing something they wouldn’t want anyone knowing about. The intern grabs a couple bottles of Two Buck Chuck. “Don’t you want anything nice?” 

“I’m in college. It doesn’t matter.” 

Peter examines her lovingly as they wait in the checkout aisle. A graying bald chubby cashier rings them up. “It’s funny, this wine tastes just as good as any more expensive wine. Good choice.” 

“I know, right? Why spend more to get the same drunk?” 

The cashier smiles sagely. “Rich people just like to find things they can spend their money on. They have a lot of it, but not much else.” 

Peter and Daisy walk back to his car. They can see their breath in the cold air but the sake makes Peter’s face feel warm. Daisy slips her arm around his waist as they walk and he drapes his arm around hers. He can feel the outline of her hip bone under her jeans and flesh. The vanilla shampoo scent wafting off her hair makes Peter feel like he’s floating. 

Peter’s Tesla is parked adjacent to the Ryozanpaku Izakaya parking lot and its windows are covered in condensation. He opens the door for his date and kisses her passionately. They make out for a few minutes against the side of his car, exploring each other's mouths with their tongues, pawing at the body parts hidden beneath clothing. During a pause, she whispers to him, “Let’s get inside.” 

She sits in the passenger seat and Peter goes around to the driver’s side. They warm their hands on each other's necks and faces as they continue kissing across the enormous center console. Peter turns the engine on and puts the heater on full blast. He grabs the steering wheel and is about to put the car in gear. Then he hesitates. “You know what— I think I need to sober up a bit before I can drive.” He chuckles to himself. “I’m so sorry about this” 

“That’s alright. Don’t be sorry. I’m kinda drunk too.” 

Daisy laughs and rests her head against his shoulder. 

“I don’t want this night to end, but I don’t think my Tesla’s autopilot can drive us all the way back. Do you want me to call you an Uber so you can get home? It feels like it could be a little while before I’m straight.” 

“Oh you’re pretty straight, I think.”

Daisy caresses the burgeoning fabric around Peter’s crotch. “Oh don’t do that. Don’t torture me.” 

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“Okay. Okay.” 

She takes her hand off his crotch. “Why don’t we just drink some of the wine now, and then we can both just Uber back later. You can come back and get your car tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, why not? Let’s crack it open.” 

They open up one of the two buck chucks. It has a metal twist off lid and a strong fruity odor. The intern takes a swig and exhales loudly after she swallows. “So good.” Peter takes a swig next. He turns the engine of his car off. “Don’t want to get another DUI” he says with a wink. He takes a sip first, then chugs for a few moments. “Hey, this is pretty good.” And like that, they drink and talk, and drink and talk some more.

 Once the windows of the car have fogged up significantly, Daisy turns to Peter. “Let’s get in the back seat. It’ll be more comfy.” 

“Okay.” 

They crawl into the backseat, the intern leading the way. Her black jeans are tight against her perky ass and around her thighs. She lands in the back and Peter climbs in next to her. They start kissing again. She’s very gentle first, begging him to fall in love with her. The supple tissue of her lips just lingering on his. Then, she starts using her tongue to re-investigate his mouth, pressing her tongue down on his, saliva lubricating its movements. She grabs his hair and pulls him into her. She climbs onto his lap and straddles him, letting him squeeze her breasts and bite her neck. He grips at the flesh of her torso under her shirt. 

Daisy gets off his lap, to sit on the floorboards between his legs. She fumbles with his belt buckle and he helps her. She unzips his pants and he helps her pull them down, along with his underwear. She pulls the bunched up fabric down to his ankles and examines his throbbing erection. She smiles at it and then taps it once with her index finger. A bead of precum leaks out and slides down his shaft. She licks it off, moving from the base to the head. She lets her tongue pause there for a moment while she makes eye contact with Peter, who stares down at her like she’s an angel come down from Heaven. His chest heaves with anticipation, his ears burning red. She takes her tongue off and acts like she’s getting back up. “Okay, all done.” Peter’s mouth gapes, horrified. Off his look, she giggles. “Just kidding.” She then envelopes the head of his cock with her mouth.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” 

Peter tilts his head back and laughs with satisfaction. She swirls her tongue around the head of his cock and then presses it into the glans while she sucks. She grips his hips with her hands for stability as she moves her head up and down his cock. After a couple minutes of the intern’s immaculate technique, Peter can’t hold out any longer. He grabs Daisy’s shoulders for stability as he explodes into her mouth. She opens the Tesla door and spits it out onto the black parking lot pavement outside. 

She closes the door and washes the taste out of her mouth with a swig of two buck chuck. “That was amazing.” Peter exhales. “I love you.” 

“You’re so drunk.” 

“I really do….” 

She helps him pull his pants back up and he sits there with his cock out. It’s wet, clean, and slowly regressing to its normal state. She gives him the wine bottle and he takes another swig. They sit together, her head leaning on his shoulder. They keep drinking the wine and talking. In a sleepy, pleasantly buzzing haze. 

“Let’s tell each other secrets. I want to know you more.” 

“Secrets? Uh… You… You’re a secret from my wife, and coworkers, and friends, and family members.” 

“I know that already.” 

“Okay, you tell me one, then.” 

“Well, it’s not really about me, but it’s kind of important.” 

“Nothing that’s not about you is important.” 

“Well… you know my dad works for the FBI?” 

“He does?” 

“Yeah, I told you about it during my interview.” 

“Ah… yeah I don't pay any attention during those things.” 

“Well, you know how there’s that streaming show… with the guy who shoots people.” 

Peter perks up a little bit. “Yeah, I mean we’re not involved with that, really.” 

“You don’t have to lie. I’m technically an employee. I know it's a secret but people around the office talk… I won’t say anything defamatory, but…um, The FBI… they’re really trying to hunt this shooter down.” 

Peter snorts slightly. “Good luck to them. The guy’s a ghost. He slips through cops like a crackhead in a chain link fence factory.” 

“No, the FBI… these aren’t cops. They have pull, and they’re really going to be hunting him. So just a head’s up. I know you’re not involved.” 

Peter scratches his head. He rubs his face to try to clear his mind. “FBI, huh? Well, Jesus—“ He holds his hands up like a referee, and says loudly, “Not that it matters to whomever is listening—” and then softly, “It must've been hard for you to tell me this. You’re fucking special.” 

The intern looks at him with gravity. “I just want to do what’s best for the company’s interests. I’d have felt bad if I kept it from you.” Peter nods off. He’s snoring.

#

He wakes to the greenhouse-like atmosphere of his car, which has filled with the sunlight that’s rising on the parking lot. He looks around the backseat as he recollects the pleasant night before. His mouth is impossibly dry, and he licks around the inside of it to make it wet, to no avail. He gets out and stretches while he tries to guess what time it is based on the position of the sun in the sky. It looks like it’ll still be early enough for him to drive down to the Valley in time to be stylishly late— that lateness reserved for executives and other people who could be expected to have offsite morning meetings. He crumples up a parking ticket that was stuck to his windshield. He doubts it will be enforceable. He drops it on the ground, gets back in his Tesla, and fires it up. 

As he pulls out of the parking lot, onto Hawthorne Boulevard, he plugs his dead iPhone into the charger. When it turns on, it automatically pairs with the Tesla’s bluetooth and he sees a series of missed calls and messages coming in. Several from his wife, a few group chats, some non urgent ones from Karen. He uses the text to speech function to respond. “Hey Tesla, Text wife: ‘late meeting. client could really put ‘em down. Clinking beer mugs emoji. Stayed the night over here on client’s bill. Safer than driving. All good. I love you.’” The Tesla’s speaker system reads it back and there are a few errors, but it’s good enough, so Peter sends it over. Like so, he texts Karen he’s running late, and then texts Daisy a “longing” emoji. 

He makes the 30 mile drive in just over an hour, journeying with the sluggish squeeze of Northbound 405 morning traffic all the way into the Valley. He’s able to get to his office without being seen by too many people who would recognize his outfit from the previous day, and quickly changes into a vintage Björk t-shirt he had in his dresser for backup. He sprays some cologne on himself and heads to the bathroom to take a shit. As he’s walking, he passes by Daisy and they share a secret look.

While Peter takes his shit, pleasantly surprised by the effect the mixture of two buck chuck, sake, and pickled cabbage had on his bowels, he looks at spreadsheets on his encrypted Excel app and smiles at the incredible numbers the shooter was continuing to pull in with his correspondingly impressive ad revenue value. Then, the faded memory of last night enters his head, and he says aloud “Oh shit.” 

From the neighboring stall, someone calls out in a douchey voice “Peter, that you? You’re a beast dude.” 

#

Peter gets back to his desk and calls the 35th floor from his office phone. “Hey, Jenny, I need to get a meeting with Mr. Kaiser right now— like as soon as possible? Okay, can I catch him before lunch? It’s an emergency.” 

Peter gets to the 35th floor and walks across the green carpet to the mahogany office of Mr. Kaiser. He knocks and a deep voice calls out from within “It’s open.” Peter enters the office. The executive behind the desk looks up. His feet are up on his desk. Three other executives sit in the leather chairs around the office. The youngest one, with silver white hair, looks to be pushing 70, in a pinstripe suit. “Mr. Chang, welcome. We were just finishing up. This is Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Brilstein, Mr. Connell, and Mr. Muller. To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

Peter stands in front of the door. “Well, I—” He looks around the room. Mr. Kaiser speaks again. 

“Peter, please. You may speak freely here. Everyone in this room knows the goings-on of our entire company. Have a seat, why don’t you? I’m sure these gentlemen can make room.” 

Peter sits on the edge of a leather cushioned bench. He swallows. “The FBI is involved. They are going to be hunting down the shooter. They’re spending considerable resources. I think we should pull the plug before things get out of hand.” 

The old men laugh rich, old men laughs. Once they’ve stopped, Mr. Kaiser speaks again. “Peter, don’t concern yourself with these things. You’re going to give yourself indigestion. We’re well aware of the situation and we have counter measurements under way. Just relax. Take your time, and keep doing what you do best. We’ll handle everything else.” Mr. Kaiser’s smile looks like a skeleton’s. 

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