Chapter 25: Chapter 24 – Fritz Goes to Disneyland

Ryan and the shooter prepare at a fan’s safe house near Disneyland. The backyard backs up into the parking lot of a Medieval Times. The shooter helps Ryan strap on the velcro of his bullet proof vest. “You ready, boy?” 

“I think so.” 

“Hell yeah.” The shooter pats him on the shoulder. 

The shooter pulls a large pistol out of his duffle bag. “Ever use one of these before?” The shooter hands Ryan a pistol. “Just like Call of Duty. Point and squeeze.”

“I’m a pretty shitty shot, honestly” Ryan laughs to try to make it seem like he’s being cool about it, while trying to convince himself that he is somehow saying “no,” or could do anything to make the shooter not hand him the pistol.

“Don’t worry, even if you don’t hit anyone, which you will— once the panic sets in, these people will be packing themselves so tightly together, there will be more bodies taking up space than empty air in front of you— but even if you don’t hit a single thing, seeing two guys with guns will have a certain effect. It will really kill the chances of any heroes showing up, really dial up the fear, and just create an overall mood of hopelessness. It’ll be great.”

 The shooter shakes the pistol at Ryan and Ryan takes it. It’s heavier than it looks. Ryan is nervous but determined not to let his worry get the best of him this time.

 “So basically we’re gonna sneak in through a maintenance gate in the back. One of our friends from the Discord is paying the guy who usually watches the gate to take his smoke break for a five minute window. We’ll bring our shit to the gate, put the masks on inside, and once we come out, we’ll be right in the middle of California Adventures. Then we start it up.” 

#

The Tourorist trains their rifle on the bald spot of a chubby 30-something year old man with a prodigious beard and the bottom of his gut hanging out from underneath a retro Disney Star Wars t-shirt. The 30 something year old man dutifully pushes a stroller containing a little girl with light brown hair drinking a 40oz. soda. The Tourorist glances at their wristwatch. Not even 10am. Disgusting. As the Tourorist follows the bald spot, they allow the peripheral vision of their focused eye to observe the immediate surroundings of the 30 something. Crowds of early birds, a barrel shaped trash can, thick brown plastic signs, molded and shaved down to look like wood, a heavy set 30 something year old woman with the light brown haired daughter’s nose and polyester cotton blend athletic socks, cutting off the circulation of blood in her purplish pink cankles, which are dotted with dark little hairs sprouting out of pores. The white, bulging socks are stuffed into pink and purple running shoes, as though this woman was dressed to run a marathon, rather than spending a day waddling between lines to rides and snack carts. The Tourorist sees ahead of the woman’s eye line, a couple of young women, shorts bunched up to their crotches. Yes… that’s why her husband is pushing that stroller so determinedly… 

With the rifle prepped in its place on the window sill, the Tourorist gets up to do a few warm up stretches. Disney had put them up in the Redwood Hotel at California Adventures. The room provided a nice, restful sleep, and offered a great vantage point of where the shooter was supposed to make his grand entrance: in the secret entryway that connected Downtown Disney to California Adventure by way of Sequoia Junction. He was scheduled to arrive in about an hour, and the Tourorist was tasked with covering him and picking off any would-be heroes who might take it upon themselves to cut short the shooter’s rampage. Not only that, but there was talk of a large government presence at Disneyland that day. The Tourorist wasn’t too worried about that. Especially after the pathetic display from the U.S. troops in Montana. If these troops were anything like the ones in Montana, they’d be averse to civilian casualties and any sort of property damage. Bad P.R. So, the Tourorist wasn’t expecting this conflict to get too out of hand. Nevertheless, one of the worst things you could do was underestimate your opponent, and that dreadful sloppy Fritz could always return from the grave. So, the Tourorist prepares. 

After some dynamic stretching, the Tourorist puts on their gear. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, against the gold and bronze flecked bathroom wallpaper, which depicts vague scenes of manifest destiny: gold, mountains, and covered wagons. The Tourorist examines their naked body. Every burn mark and scar is a reminder of a conflict survived, a reminder of how easily this Earthly body could be taken away from them. The Tourorist stares at their torso in the mirror so long they begin to have a sense like it belongs to someone else, or was as much a part of them as the wallpaper, or the hotel soaps in the bear shaped soap dish next to the sink. The Tourorist sits with this feeling for a moment, then takes a deep breath to center themselves. It is good to be depersonalized for War, for it allows one to do what is necessary to survive. 

Next, the Tourorist puts on their gear. First, a kevlar jockstrap. Then, a pair of skin tight speedo shorts, breathable but thick enough to withstand even a strong bowel movement (not that there was anything in the Tourorist’s bowels. They had taken 150 mg of Adderall and 100g of powdered caffeine as soon as they’d woken up. Consequently, their bowels are perfectly empty.) Additionally, they would have their amphetamine vape pen for extra pep if they needed it on the go. Next, their Under Armor compression shorts. It was always good to have another layer of skin, in case of falls, explosions, or other such sources of lacerations. Then, their Under Armor compression shirt, for the same reason. They pull on nylon running socks, which they tuck the compression pants into. Next, woven kevlar, customized tactical pants which allow freedom of movement, but were reinforced in the seat and knees for extra protection. These pants had plenty of pockets for back up ammo, first aid gear, flashlight, and other utilities.. Then, their military grade running boots. Reinforced steel toes with ankle support. Perfect for kicking someone in the head on the go. Above the ankle, of course, is tucked a black Ka-bar. They don a bulletproof vest over their standard issue military coat. Because, although they were just planning to snipe from a window, trouble could find you when you least expected it. 

On the window sill, they place their retractable rope ladder, which they could deploy at a moment’s notice if needed. They check the rack of ammo for the third time, ensuring each round is safe and secure, ready to take a life. They inspect their dual pistols. Mac-11’s. Black. Serial numbers registered to a real person with a real identity, who would never be found but who would never be declared dead or missing. They tuck one into their thigh holster, the other into their ankle holster (the one not currently occupied with the Ka-bar.) Additionally, they have their trusty M-16 combat rifle, with automatic and semi automatic capabilities. Then, boxes of flash bangs, smoke grenades, and frag grenades. They have an extra set of every weapon of murder and tactics packed in an easily accessible “go-bag” — a black kevlar backpack with a steel reinforced plate to protect the wearer’s spine from rear-fire in the event of a forced retreat. This lays at the foot of the hotel bed in case they needed to make a hasty escape. Not that they were worried about being attacked from behind while at the window. Their door was rigged with explosives and shotgun pellets, which would vaporize whoever or whatever stupid enough to attempt to enter through the door from outside. God forbid a tenacious housekeeper ignored the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but the Tourorist was pretty sure their employer had covered their bases and ensured no hotel guest or employee would be entering their floor.

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The Tourorist sits back down on the bench and peers again into the scope of their sniper rifle. Funny how the people on the ground all seem to know where they’re going, yet they look so confused, lost, and depressed. The Tourorist takes a hit of their meth vape and checks their watch. Should be roughly fifteen minutes ’till shit starts popping off.

#

The government mandated drone operator checks the camera again on his drone. Everything seems to be in order. Fifteen monitors sending signals from fifteen different drones stretch out in front of him like an editing bay dedicated to cutting a feature film. The operator sits in a nondescript office building. Far enough from the site at which the battle would be taking place that he wouldn’t be compromised, but local enough to be familiar with the area and flight paths. He takes a bite of his In-N-Out burger while he awaits the signal. Each of the monitors display the same thing: the edge of the roof of an office building in Anaheim, just 15 air knots from Disneyland. 

The operator’s orders are clear: get each drone in the designated airspace, and then hit the buttons to drop the supply load for each one over their designated targets. The operator didn’t even know what was in the supply load. He assumed it was fireworks, confetti, or some other live-show related supply for a mid-day parade, show, or event that would be taking place at Disneyland or Disneyland’s California Adventure. He sips his Diet Coke, regretting not getting a couple more ketchup packets with his order.

#

Fritz takes a draw from his cigarette. It’s almost a butt. His feet hang out the driver’s side window. He stares at the cherry of the cigarette and lets it heat his thumb and forefinger. He grabs the pack of Marlboro Reds from his dashboard, shakes a cigarette out, and grabs it with his teeth. He takes the dying cherry and lights his new cigarette with it. He drops the butt into an empty coffee cup in his cup holder. He takes a big drag from the cigarette and stares at the white cinderblock wall in front of his truck. The white cinder blocks gleam as the Anaheim sun climbs to its zenith. He can feel the shooter in the area. Months of hard travel and interrogations have led to this moment. The previous night, one of the FBI hackers had sent him GPS coordinates to the shooter’s location and a link to a Discord server, and a comment thread on 8chan. 

Fritz spent all night hate-reading the comments and memes the shooter’s fans were sending to each other. Can’t stop the mad lad, There will be quite a parade at Disneyland, etc. The shooter was headed to Disneyland. The FBI team suggested cutting the shooter off between the University and Disneyland, before they got on the freeway. Fritz scoffed at the idea. The comments making fun of the government’s response made him even angrier. Memes of 9/11, remixes of Fritz fumbling with his gun, falling into the trap. No. Fritz would not be embarrassed. He would not be “cutting the shooter off” before he got on the freeway. 

Fritz mutters to himself while dragging on his cigarette. “If he wants a battle, I’ll give him a battle.” He turns off his radio, and pulls his legs back into the car. He turns the key in the ignition. The engine clicks, clicks, clicks. “If he wants a battle, I’ll give him a battle.” He presses his foot on the gas pedal again and turns the key harder. A mousy woman approaches his car, holding her child’s hand. 

She whimpers “Excuse me…” 

Fritz doesn’t look, growls louder, “If he wants a battle, I’ll give him a battle.” He pulls on the cigarette again, grabs the wheel, and slams his foot on the gas while he turns the key even harder. His lips purse around the cigarette and his eyes burn with fury. 

“Excuse me, sir…” the mousey woman’s voice grows louder. “Excuse me, sir! You can’t smoke here. This is a gas station.” She knocks weakly on the truck’s back window to try to get his attention. Fritz keeps slamming his foot down on the gas pedal. 

“If he wants a battle, I’ll give him a battle!” Fritz yells as he grabs his steering wheel and yanks to the side. It cracks off and comes off in his hand. The cigarette pops out of his mouth into his lap. He throws the disembodied wheel into the back seat of his truck. He picks up the cigarette and puts it out on his forearm while staring at the mousey woman outside his truck. “Is that okay with you?” 

He grabs his revolver from the passenger seat and points it at the woman’s face. Her face falls. “Where’s your fucking car? We’re going to Disneyland.”

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