Chapter 18: Chapter 18 – Rebirth

Ryan is eating dinner with his family at Giorgio’s. It’s an Italian restaurant on a sleepy, depressing drag of small businesses, restaurants, quaint shops, ballet studios, and tutoring centers in his home town of Palos Verdes. There might be twenty tables in the restaurant, 3 of them filled. The ambient music is turned too low, so all of the patrons talk quietly so as not to interrupt the others' conversation. The result is a quiet, oppressed babble punctuated by frequent awkward silences, individual words that you can pick out too well, and revolving conversations that become sparked as one table picks up the thread of a conversation from another. 

For example, one table is talking about the game they saw last night, and then there will be a lull in the conversation, and during that lull, they might hear someone at another table ask one of their fellow table members about what upcoming trips they have planned, and then overhearing that, someone at the sports conversation table will turn to the person sitting next to them and ask “So what trips do you have planned?” As though the thought came to mind serendipitously. 

The bored waiters hover around and try to stay busy, but there are only so many water glasses they can fill up, so they stand there in their pressed white shirts and red bow ties, which match the burgundy painted walls of the restaurant. Ryan sits across from his parents and next to his brother. He looks at the scenic painting of an Italian harbor hung on the far wall while his family members talk in politely hushed voices, “Ryan, how was school this week? Has it gotten any better, honey?” Ryan is counting the white brush strokes that make up the chop of the waves bursting against the breakwater bordering the Sicilian harbor inside the painting. 

“What? Oh, same as usual. It sucked.” 

“Aw, I’m sorry honey.” 

“Poor you. It can’t be that bad,” his dad offers. 

“It is.” 

“Want to trade places with me? You could go to work all day and I could go hang out on campus.” 

Ryan rips a piece of bread off the precut loaf on the center of the table and dips it in the olive oil and vinegar dish. “Let’s do it. Any day.” His dad rolls his eyes. His brother nudges him. 

“Don’t get too down. If you think this is hard, the real world is much harder.” Ryan glares at his brother. 

“How would you know? Mom and dad still pay for all your shit.” 

“No they don’t!” his brother rolls his eyes. “You’ve got a lot to learn, man.” 

Their small disagreement gives way into another lull in the conversation and Ryan’s mom looks around the restaurant, her ears perked up for any discussion topics she could pick up from another table. Unfortunately, the other two tables have also fallen into lulls, presumably listening to the argument at this one in case they could hear some interesting family drama. But the drama never unfolds, the participating family members are just a bit too buttoned up and closed off from one another to express their emotions in a way that would lead to an entertaining argument. And like that, the sheer silence hangs in the air, interrupted only by the noise of someone washing dishes in the kitchen and the faint whitewashed Italian music piped through the restaurant’s speaker system, which plays classic hits like Mambo Italiano and Pepino, the Italian Mouse. 

The girl at the door looks like she might fall asleep on her hostess stand. The waiters stare into space. Suddenly: Ryan’s phone vibrates. He checks it under the table. It’s a Discord push notification, so he puts it back in his pocket, assuming it’s some stranger rehashing some random argument he’d made while he was in the throes of a bad mood. It could wait until later. His phone buzzes two more times though, so he opens it up and looks. His Dad scolds him, “No phones at the table.” 

The message is from the shooter. It reads “I’m alive. I need your help bro. You’re the only one I can trust.” 

Jolted out of his stupor, the college student types out a response. “What is it??” “How?” “Anything I can do. Tell me. Where are you??” Ryan stares hungrily at his phone while he awaits a response. 

His brother sarcastically asks “is that your girlfriend?”

His dad reiterates, “I said, no phones at the table.” 

Ryan looks up and says, “Wait, just one sec. It’s important.” 

“It can wait until after dinner. It’s rude to have your phone out.” 

Ryan pleads. “Dad, come on, just give me one minute.” 

“No. You hard of hearing? No phones.” 

Ryan gets up. “Fine.” 

His mom asks, “Honey, where are you going?” 

“I have to make a phone call.” 

Ryan power walks out of the restaurant, sheepishly smiling at the cute hostess, who has now fully fallen asleep on the hostess stand. He steps outside and calls the person who messaged him on Discord. The Discord ringtone plays. Ryan looks around the boulevard, at the empty street and the stucco covered office spaces for rent. He paces up toward the shoe repair store up the street. He examines the screen desperately to make sure he has service and to see if his phone has enough battery. He does and it does. He presses the earpiece to his ear and presses the volume button repeatedly to make sure he can hear. He looks up at the dark night sky, a flat dark blue, like a desktop background, in the foreground of the moon. 

A click. On the other line, a weak, hoarse voice, almost a whisper, says “Hey.” 

Ryan is on the phone with the shooter no longer than 3 minutes, but those 3 minutes are filled with such electricity and purpose that they feel to him more valuable than the entire year of experiences he’d had up to this point. Despite the shooter's strained voice, and clearly fatigued state, the college student finds himself smiling and laughing more than he had in recent memory (as far back as he can remember, in fact.) The shooter relays his coordinates to the college student, as well as his health condition, and reiterates that he needs any help he can get.

When Ryan hangs up, he tells his family he has to go, and walks the three miles to his family’s home, from whence he drives as fast as he can back to his college. While walking, he posts a board-wide announcement to the Discord:

“He lives. He needs our help. Who can get to the East Texas Basin area in the next 8 hours? He’s injured so he needs rescuing ASAP. Do not get the police involved. If you can get there, DM me and I will get you his exact location. He will also need somewhere to shelter. I’m setting up a cryptocurrency wallet so we can reimburse whoever takes care of him and to pay for him to get back on his feet. Additionally, we need someone who can treat bullet wounds and hypothermia. Do we have any field medics or RN’s who can keep their mouths shut?” 

#

Ryan receives hundreds of replies in minutes. People calling him a troll, a famewhore, a liar, among worse things. Asking for proof. The shooter sends a direct message to Ryan. A photo. He’s smiling. Blood in his teeth and a scabbing head wound smearing blood all over his forehead and face. His signature gun up to his head like he’s going to shoot himself. His eyes are blurred with some phone app. Ryan reposts it to the Discord along with the caption “See… proof. Help or fuck off.” 

Pretty soon, Ryan gets some legitimate replies from members of the Discord living in the surrounding area. Someone that lives on a few hundred acres of land in Arkansas, far away from major highways. Another nurse who feels it's her medical duty to help an injured person, and a few others willing to assist on the rescue mission. The crypto wallet quickly starts to reach its goal of $20,000 and then rapidly surpasses it. And like so, the network of the shooter’s diehard fans, guided by Ryan, through the direction of the shooter from his place on the overgrown forest floor he’d chosen as his death bed, gets him to a safe house on an Arkansas farm, where he receives medical treatment, food, and hot showers. 

As the Discord celebrates their victory with another blurred selfie from the shooter, now with a pine headboard in a farmhouse for the background, Ryan arranges for the shooter to be transported as soon as possible to another safe house, better not to keep him in one place for too long. The days turn into weeks and the Discord creates a network of safe houses for the shooter to travel to once he’s fully recovered. After the shooter’s caretakers are reimbursed, the excess from the crypto wallet goes to re-outfitting the shooter and equipping him with plenty of ammo, new bullet proofed welding mask (with a higher ballistics rating this time), cameras, and 5G capable wireless hotspot so when he’s ready to start streaming again, he’ll be able to do so in full HD, without any connectivity issues. 

This process gives Ryan a great sense of accomplishment. His classes seem to fly by and he no longer needs to count the minutes left in each miserable day. He has purpose and he’s happy. As the shooter’s health condition becomes less and less dire, and the search for his body takes a backseat in the news cycle, the Discord has time to talk about other things. Such as: Who was paying the shooter, and where were they when the shooter got in trouble? Or should I say, the shooter, afraid to be active to the general server lest his IP address get tracked, would feed these questions and topics of discussion to Ryan, who would then pass them along to the Discord server. 

The server gradually works itself up into a frenzy, as they demand to know the answers to these questions. How could the cowards who were making money off the shooter sit back and let him die? How could they hide themselves and go radio silent at the first sign of trouble? How could they abandon him to die? Eventually, the shooter feeds the information to Ryan that a small LLC named “Shadow Corp” were the ones who’d reached out to him originally, and were the ones who’d arranged for the deposits to his Bitcoin wallet. Of course, there was almost zero paper trail. All he had was the name, and assumed it was some part of a larger corporation. But a talented hacker or investigator could do a lot with a name. And companies aren’t singular entities. They are made of people. And those people have addresses. 

Soon enough, the server’s law school dropouts and business minded people are working with the back end coders and hackers, and using the shadow corp name, begin to untangle the thick web of shell corporations and LLCs cocooning the source of the shooter’s employment and unceremonious abandonment. Like a Russian doll being un-stacked, they see this account deposited money here, and this tax write off went to this bank in the Virgin Islands, which paid for this expense account here, which was taxed under this subsidiary, and so on, and so forth, until the end of the thread lands on a recently closed bank account for a man that was either dead or who never was born, whose chcks had been written by Disney Corporation. 

The Discord goes insane. Mickey Mouse gifs and pngs flood the server. Crude drawings of Mickey Mouse fucking a variety of characters. Disney songs added to violent highlights from the shooter’s stream. They change the title of the Discord to “Childhood Ruined.” When the excitement of this detail being uncovered wanes down, the hackers keep following the thread, at the encouragement of the shooter through Ryan. How much were the ads selling for? How much were they paying the shooter compared to how much they were profiting from his work and labor? And did they ever talk of rescuing him? The hackers get back to work, and as they pull on the various threads that extend from the “Disney” name, they find something astounding. Disney was making over $1bn a year from the profits of the shooter’s stream. It was like releasing 2 Star Wars movies a year, but without having to spend anything on the production budget at the front end. They were paying the shooter $50,000 per stream, adjusted for fluctuations in the volatile cryptocurrency market. Basically, it worked out to the shooter receiving less than .00005% of the profits. It would be like paying Brad Pitt the same rate as the production assistant driving his golf cart, someone in the server observed. “No. It would be like Brad Pitt paying to be in a movie, and then the movie studio shot him in the face.” 

After finding out this information, the shooter becomes unavailable to Ryan for a full 48 hours. He doesn’t respond to any of his calls or messages. This concerns Ryan, but he assumes the shooter has his reasons, and was just taking some time to clear his head before planning his next move.

#

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At 9:10 AM, Ryan student gets a text message from the shooter. It’s a link to another streaming site “Tune in ;) Spread the word.” Ryan clicks the link and copy/pastes it to the Discord server to get the message out. Members of the Discord flood the thread with excitement. 

On the stream, the shooter’s P.O.V. is back again. It looks even clearer than before. The new 5G wireless hotspot has clearly paid off. The shooter is in front of a black door, and the only light source comes through the cracks around the edges where it meets the door jamb. The shooter speaks in his usual peppy tone, but his voice seems a little shakier. Like he’s angry. “Hey guys, it’s been a while. I’ve missed you.” He holds his hands up in front of his face to show the camera. He puts them together and makes a heart shape with his fingers, his new tactical gloves flexing as they bend. “I really mean that. I’ve always considered myself an artist, and I just hope I never sold out. I hope it didn’t appear that way to you guys. If it did, I’m sorry. But I’m really gonna try to make it up to you. So kick back, eat your favorite snack, and enjoy.” 

The shooter pulls his distinctive pistol up in front of the camera, its serial number filed off and replaced by a hello kitty band-aid. He cocks it and then kicks open the door. Light floods in and he steps out into a bank. He pivots to his left, shoots the mustachioed security guard in the head, pivots to his right, and shoots the guard in the other corner. The morning rush at the bank has just started and there is a line behind each teller. The shooter empties his clip into the lines, aiming at heads, legs, and torsos. He shouts out, “Don’t worry, this is not a robbery. Nothing you do will stop me from shooting you. Put your hands up or down. I don’t give a fuck.” 

He runs through the sun filled building, blasting people as he goes by. He holsters his pistol and grabs his M-1, set to automatic. He sprays the crowd and tellers like he’s putting out a grease fire and his gun is a fire extinguisher. “Who needs money? Fuckers.” He turns to the bodies on the ground, from which emit screams and prayers. He shoots the bodies indiscriminately, whether they’re injured, dead, dying, or just trying to stay under the haze of bullets. Another security guard runs from out of the back office and the shooter shoots him too. The guard screams as the bullets pop red cherries around his belly and crotch. The shooter quips “That was easy” and then runs to the revolving glass door to the sidewalk outside. 

He sprays people who run away from him, and shoots into the windshield and side windows of the cars that are driving by, sending them careening into the sidewalk, other cars, and oncoming traffic. “How you like me now, bitch?” The shooter yells. He runs down the sidewalk, shooting into storefront windows as he passes them, their windows exploding into storms of shattered glass. Once the smoke clears from the explosion of violence, he walks into an alleyway, talking while he walks. “In case you hadn’t figured it out by now, I’m back. And I’m coming for you. You know who you are.” The shooter starts running and ends the livestream, while the faint sounds of police sirens whine in the distance. 

Ryan beams, still in bed, watching the violent broadcast from his phone. 

#

Peter is lying in bed too, staring at the pampas grass waving outside the recessed bedroom window, the sun shining on the white stucco walls of the balcony garden. He feels like a disgraced pharaoh, banished to some summer desert palace where he’s watched over by a royal witch. Thoughts run through his head like “What is my purpose?” “Where did I go wrong?” “Should I join the Peace Corps?” 

His wife enters the room, bandages and gauze around her chest, underneath a pink silk kimono that ends just below her waist. She has a temporary nose brace from her recent nose job. “Why don’t you get up? It’s almost 2.” 

Peter rolls over and pulls the blanket over his head. “I had a long night. Just go on with your day.” 

“C’mon.” She pulls the blanket off him. “What do you think?” She shows off the bandages around her chest. 

Peter squints. “What happened to you?” 

“I got new boobs, remember?” 

“Oh… how much was it?” 

“Don’t worry. I think we’re fine.” She says as she rolls her eyes. She undoes the gauze and shows her red, swollen, and bruised breasts to Peter. 

“They look great.” He tries not to grimace. 

“By the way, did you see, that fucking shooter is back in the news again?” 

Peter perks up, cautiously. “Did they find the body?” 

“No, he’s fucking alive, and he just did another shooting. It was horrifying. At a bank.” 

“He’s alive?” Peter grabs his phone and checks his email and text messages. 

“You seem pretty happy about it.” 

“No, it’s horrible, but, shit, honey I might have to go into the office today.” 

“It’s Saturday.” 

“Unfortunately the bank that lent us the money for this house doesn’t care about that. And if I have to go in to make money, they won’t just let me sleep the day away.” 

“Ugh, fine. Wait, let me give you a blowie. My doctor said I can finally use my mouth like normal.”

 She sits on the blanket and tries to pull his underwear down. “No… no… just.. I’m really sorry honey. I gotta go. Work needs me.” Peter rushes to his walk-in closet to get dressed, touching his miffed wife on her knees as he gets up, her silk kimono open, loose, and mingling with their 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton down comforter. 

#

At the Monday meeting on the top floor, the old executives applaud one another, and discuss their new ad buying scheme now that the shooter has risen from the dead. “Now is the time to cash out on our property. We don’t know how many more times he can come back from the dead, and who knows when the next equally skilled gunman will come out of the woodwork?”

 “He’s a once in a generation artist, we capitalized on him, let’s sell the rest of our SOV, then clean our hands of it. We can’t keep buying so much risk.” 

“I disagree, he hasn’t even started, really. He could be doing hundreds more of these shootings, thousands, even. The Church Defender was a fluke. The guy owned a gun range and was probably waiting his entire life for such an opportunity. Men like him are few and far between, and now our boy knows not to be so cocky. He’s aware now that people like that exist, and he’ll be prepared for it next time.” 

“But what if the real, trained military finally catches up to him?” 

“They couldn’t catch a fly. It took them how many years of bombing cave systems until they found Bin Laden, if that was even him?” 

“Nevertheless, he was unstable. That wasn’t the same shooter we’ve been watching. He seemed unhinged.” 

“As opposed to the dignified young man shooting up a nursery school earlier this year?” 

“You know what I mean. He was being careless. And what was the talk of vengeance? It was all very off-putting. If he keeps that up he’s going to alienate all of our mainstream viewers, and then our ad space will be worthless. whether he continues shooting into his old age or not.” 

The head executive speaks. “That’s plenty, that’s plenty. We’ll continue to sell at just under premium, keep death clauses in the contract and maximize the ad space. Spare ourselves so much news coverage of the shootings by increasing ad times on those programs. And be ready to pull the plug and go to plan B if any contingencies happen.” 

Peter asks, “What’s Plan B?” 

“Above your pay grade. Be lucky you don’t know.” 

An executive pats Peter’s knee as the geriatric suited men slowly pack up their satchels and briefcases, smooth out their suits, and grab a last pastry from the breakfast spread, variously.

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