Chapter 16: Chapter 16 – Marketing and Guilt

Karen stifles a yawn as she watches the young marketing specialist talk through the slides of the shadow corporation’s pitch deck for the Shooter™ 's merch. They’re planning to start with hoodies, stickers, t-shirts, and beanies, and they’re very excited because a mockup for one of the t-shirts had very high engagement in key demographics. At the other end of the table, Peter texts through the presentation, not even bothering to feign interest. He’s planning a meetup with Daisy for later in the day. The thought of her lithe body, spread on the bedsheets for him takes up too much room in his mind for him to pay any attention to anything else. 

The pitch deck finally ends, and the executives in the room thank the presenter. They’ll be stocking the shelves with this march just in time for Q3. Karen nudges Peter as they walk out of the conference room. “Damn, can you believe they’re that shameless?” 

Peter shakes his head in fake disgust. “Hey, at least we won’t have to go hungry this year. You’ve got, what, .5 points on merch for this project? You’ll finally be able to buy that Tesla.” 

Karen nods. “I’ve already been in talks with the dealership. You want to go to the commissary for lunch?” 

Pete is already walking towards his office. “I’m actually taking a half day, but let’s do tomorrow.” 

Karen groans. “You’re gonna make me eat with the marketing shit-heads?” 

“Go off campus, Karen. Take your expense card. Believe me, these perks don’t last forever.” Pete is halfway down the 405 before the lunch rush. 

#

It only takes him a little while longer to pull off in Marina Del Rey and pick up the intern from her college campus’s parking lot. Her thighs flash as she crosses her legs in the passenger seat. She’s wearing a shredded light denim jean skirt and a black sweater. “Where to?” Pete asks. 

“Let’s get crab.” 

“Perfect. Another restaurant outside of my wife’s two zip code bubble, where we’ll never be spotted by one of her friends or people who’d recognize me.” They drive out to Redondo Beach’s King Harbor, to eat at the Korean crab restaurant. 

An ocean breeze fills the air with salt. They order a few pounds of King Crab legs and a pitcher of cold beer to wash it down. After a few glasses, the intern, sitting across from Peter, reaches her foot under the table to massage Peter’s crotch. Peter stares at her as she sucks the meat out of a crab leg. “How do you take something so gross and make it sexy like that?” 

She shrugs playfully and laughs. “You try it.” He tries it. Garlicky crab juice drips down the corners of his mouth to his chin. He makes a loud slurping noise. 

The intern laughs harder. “You look like you’re sucking a penis.” Peter, in fake shock, slams the table. 

“Are you serious? I do?” They finish their beers and crab and leave to the relief of the restaurant staff. 

They walk along the pier and wander into Fun Land. A massive old school video arcade complete with a tilt-a-whirl and video games dating back to the Michael Jackson dungeon crawler. They play around in their drunken haze until their buzzes wear off. They make out in the covered booth of a truck driving simulator. Finally, the intern asks, “Shall we get out of here?” 

The sun dips into the horizon and reflects golden red light onto the ocean beyond the pier and they take Peter’s Tesla into Torrance, where they check into the Dynasty Inn. A two level motel marked by a bright green neon sign and orange stucco. The intern puts down her credit card for the deposit to prevent the unlikely scenario of Pete’s wife noticing the charge (their accountant took care of everything these days. It was a waste of time for either of them to look at bills.) Better to be safe than sorry. The cashier smiles at them knowingly and Peter tries not to feel too creepy. 

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They enter the orange colored room and immediately start ripping off each other's clothes. Peter yanks down the intern’s skirt and kneels in front of her, he buries his face into the thin fabric of her thong that covers her vulva and sniffs deeply. “God, I could inject you into my fucking veins… your pussy smells like Heaven.” He squeezes her perky ass as he does this, taking a cheek in each hand. She strokes his hair while he yanks off her thong and starts tonguing her clit. He pushes her towards the bed so she falls onto her back, her knees spreading outward, inviting him to continue. He licks between her labia and tongues her clit in circles, gently at first, and applying more pressure as she gyrates her hips in pleasurable agreement. She claws into the back of his head as he inserts a finger into her vagina, and caresses the inside. He feels the heat of her soft inner thighs as they wrap around his neck. After drinking her pussy juice for a few minutes he grabs her by the hips and turns her onto her belly. He grabs her ankles and pulls them toward him, so her feet are planted on the ground and she’s bent over the bed, gripping the shiny synthetic comforter in both hands. He licks up and down her pussy from behind, and slobbers his tongue around her asshole. She moans loudly as he licks every inch of her ass and pussy. He bites her ass cheek, leaving a half moon of red teeth marks. Then, he holds down her head as he fingers her in earnest, pressing her face into the pillow as she writhes with ecstasy. He bends down and speaks into her ear. “Are you ready for me to fuck you yet?” 

She cries out in pleasure “Yes… please. Fuck me. Fuck me.” 

He tears her shirt off and kisses her back, down her spine, and finally kicks off his own gray trousers, and rips off his shirt so he’s naked like her. He pulls her up by her hips and puts his cock into her welcoming wet cunt. Her wetness lubricates his cock, but she’s very tight. He pushes in gently and steadily, and she moans each step of the way. Finally, he’s all the way in, and he begins fucking her. A slow tempo at first as she gets used to him being inside of her. It takes all of his willpower to pull himself back from the brink of climax after moments of being in her. He thinks back to every painful memory he’s ever had and every negative image he can conjure to hold the rush of the orgasm at bay. His grandmother’s rotting corpse in its grave. Making uncomfortable small talk with the gardeners. That dream where he forgot to study for his calculus test. 

He grips into the flesh around Daisy’s hips, then takes a fistful of her hair with his other, holding it near the base of her skull, and gradually increases his tempo. He stares at the long line of her neck as she tilts her head back with his grasp. 

Her moans increase in volume as he releases her hair to play with her clit. He rubs it in circular motions in the same tempo of his thrusting. Her moans crescendo until they’re approaching screams. “Don’t stop. I’m almost there.” The magic words that could send even the most dead dick over the edge. Peter continues thrusting, determined to see her through, until she screams out and collapses onto the bed, her legs trembling. He falls with her, laying on her back, still inside her as she comes. His orgasm brought on by hers, her pussy massaging her cock as she comes, he comes deep inside her and holds onto her body to prevent himself from leaving Earth. They breathe heavily. 

“You're not on birth control, are you?” 

“No.” 

“We’re gonna need to buy some plan B.” 

They both piss and get dressed again, to walk to the Walgreens a few blocks down the street. It's night time now. She wears his blazer. As they walk into the Walgreens, Peter looks at the security camera monitor by the front entrance and thinks about how incongruous he looks next to the pretty young intern. He hands her a wad of cash and tells her to get the Plan B while he grabs beer. 20 pack of Red Hook. Next, they stop by Taco Sinaloa #3, a neon filled 24 hour Mexican restaurant with murals of Aztec mythology and sunny coastal landscapes. They get a large order of carne asada fries to bring back to their room with the beers. 

They sit across from one another at the circular plastic covered table in the corner of the room on canvas cushioned hotel room chairs. Peter forgot to buy a bottle opener, so he wedges the bottle tops against the rim of the table and strikes them with the heel of his hand. It’s warm and safe in the motel room, and as they drink, Peter feels like it’s the only place in the world. It’s just him and her. And like so, they eat carne asada fries, loaded with asada, three types of melted cheeses, pico de gallo, sour cream, guacamole, and special sauce, and drink the box of Red Hooks to wash it all down. Peter stares at her in the yellow glow of the motel room’s overhead lamp, and tells her, “In all my wet dreams I couldn’t have conjured up a person as beautiful as you.” 

#

Karen drinks an IPA in front of her computer. She’s kept the same place she was living before all the money came, but has upgraded everything in it, including a $3,000 gaming-and-video-editing PC complete with a pristine custom-design mechanical keyboard. 

She’d found that with her new money, she’d begun to spend way more time researching products before she bought them, to ensure she was getting the best value on every dollar. More of her downtime was spent comparing various goods and reading about them than actually using them. The mechanical keyboard purchase was the result of a long rabbit hole she’d gone down while looking for a PC that would suit all of her needs. It made a satisfying clink when she tapped its brass space bar. She’d planned to start making some videos of her own while she wasn’t at work, and also planned to play a lot of high end computer games with full settings enabled by her PC’s new capabilities, but she pretty much used it to do what she’d done on her old computer and phone: browse a growing rotation of social media sites until her eyes grew too tired for her to keep them open, at which point she’d head to bed. 

Right now, Karen is on Facebook. She’d gone from looking at her distant step-uncle’s profile, to some neighborhood Facebook group he was in, to Bob Greenhouse from Arizona, who was liking and commenting on other people’s posts in a Facebook group for Victims of and Loved Ones of the Victims of the Shooter’s Stream. Karen pores through the comments, reading riveting accounts of people by their loved one’s side as they fought death induced comas, pictures of gruesome bullet wounds inflicted by the shooter. 

The pinned thread in the Facebook group’s page is dedicated to information regarding a class action lawsuit that they were planning to file against the brands that had advertised on the stream. They bemoaned the streaming service’s inability to block the shooter from streaming, and discussed the language in a legal notice sent to them from the service that did its best in plain language to describe how the shooter’s use of VPN’s, proxy servers, firewalls, and IP addresses made it impossible for them to preemptively block him from streaming and also almost impossible for them to shut down his stream before it was too late. 

The group had over 1 million members. Karen goes back to the Smart fridge under her desk for another IPA. She’s tipsy now but is enjoying the delicious pain brought on by reading through all of the human suffering she was profiting from. She feels deep shame and cries as she reads the comments. Her teardrops plink on her custom keyboard’s brass space bar.

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