Bounty Hunter

“Yo, wench!” Whackamolé screamed. “Wench, I hest thy attention!”

Whack’s friend filming the whole thing could be heard laughing from the other side of the camera-phone as it jiggled amateurishly.

The unsuspecting lady in the video gasped as Whack and his buddy descended on her and her baby. Gasps transitioned to screams as Whack form-tackled her to the ground—until that moment she had been taking a leisurely stroll with her young child through a verdant, serene park, a setting starkly contrasted by the violent scene unfolding.

With mama thoroughly neutralized, most likely unconscious, Whack reached into the stroller, grasped the mushy white leg of her 6-month-old infant; and as the camera-phone zoomed in, Whack bared his pointy golden teeth and bit into the child’s flesh. You could just see the blood begin to run and hear the child wailing. As likes and hearts effervesced across the screen, Whack and his accomplice fled the scene to much “yo, nigga, you crazy” and animalistic laughing like coyotes. However, Whack was not black…as in African American, not charcoal.

The comments section was blowing up, but Steven had seen enough. He closed the laptop, disgusted by what he had just witnessed in real-time. He downed the last of his beer.

“What’s wrong, honey,” asked his wife as he hugged her from behind while she stood at the stove, stirring something tomato-y and herbaceously fragrant. She held the wooden spoon up to his face. “Taste,” she commanded.

“Mmm…perfect,” he said.

“Enough salt?”

“Absolutely delicious.”

“So what’s wrong? I can always tell when something’s wrong, you know that.”

She did indeed always know when something was off with him. She turned to the sink and began filling a large pot with water, then turned back, folded her arms and looked him dead in the eyes.

“Ugh. Hun…this world,” he began, sounding deflated, but then stopping himself, thinking it better to stay quiet about the sociopath going around attacking babies for likes on social media. “It’s nothing. Just another weird video I saw…”

“Oh, Steve. You told me you were going to stay off of those stupid sites,” she said, as she salted the water and cranked up the burner to SUPER BOIL. “You know they’re programmed to make you upset, to piss you off.” They had had this discussion many times in the past, and she hated it when her husband went down his social media rabbit holes; he usually came out them feeling morose and…apocalyptic.

Steven kissed his wife on the cheek. “I know, Hun. They’re awful. I’ll stop.”

Eight months earlier, Steve’s wife had birthed their first child—a daughter—who currently slept peacefully in her bassinet. In her darkened, chilled room, the only one in the house with air conditioning, Steven looked down at his daughter’s beatific face, her chubby cheeks, her button nose, her resting, peaceful eyes, and he became overwhelmed with emotion. He couldn’t stop thinking about that thug-child biting the baby, about how terrified that young mother must’ve been. It made his blood boil. It made his teeth clench to the point of cramping his jaw muscles. He realized he was squeezing the side of the bassinet so hard that his hands hurt.

But it wasn’t just the video. It was also the fact that he had been laid off two months earlier…and that his wife had no idea… and that he needed a new roof to the tune of about $30,000…and that their property tax payment was overdue…and their car had four bald tires…and interest rates were sky-rocketing and they had an adjustable-rate mortgage…and…and…and. There was always another and.

“Calm down, Steve,” he told himself. “Calm down.”

“Yo nigga, these bitches is like…they like…they be notorious liars with serpent tongues. They place odious lies upon my soul! Wicked, wicked lies!”

Whackamolé went on to describe, in his signature chimera of inarticulate urbanism and Elizabethan English, the various infractions on decency and ghetto-capitalism his two female co-stars had committed in stark refutation of his commands.

Steven gathered that the two girls in the viral clip were prostitutes, that they had not paid Whack, their pimp, his just dues, and that Whack was there to “rap upon a wench until thy undergarments become the cucking-stool.” Steven started, almost throwing his computer off his lap, when Whack suddenly shot the two girls in the back of the head. A flock of hearts and emojis spiraled across the screen like a bat colony just come to life at dusk to feed. And then there was the disembodied voice of the co-conspirator: yo, nigga, you crazy!

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Steven whispered to himself. He looked up from the laptop screen half-expecting to see masked assailants holding patrons of the coffeeshop at gunpoint. But there were no robbers. Just the same ole scene as always since he started using the coffeeshop as his “office” after losing his job. But something from the video was lodged in Steven’s mind. He replayed the video and paused it 6 seconds in—he knew this place where the murders were perpetrated.

It was nighttime, but for just a second or two, he could catch a glimpse of a poorly lighted sign in the background—The All Souls Parish Episcopal Church…Sunday Service at 10am…Worship His Holy Name. Steven had driven past this church probably 3,000 times on his way home from work, back when he worked. Holy fuck—the internet gangster Whackamolé was doing this shit not even 5 miles from his house, his family, his dog…his baby.

Tonight, on The Nation, we interview the viral video star, gang member, author, and social media influencer, who goes by the name Whackamolé. If you’ve never heard of him, you’re not alone—he’s virtually unknown outside of Twitter, 4chan and Reddit; but within the deepest rungs of the internet, he’s famous…no, infamous…for the most heinous crimes this side of a prison wall. Murder. Rape. Violence against the very young and the very old. He’s done it all. And he’s here to tell his story, exclusively for Ted Stossle. Stay tuned…and prepare to be SHOCKED.

After 15 seconds of dramatic music, punctuated with imperialistic staccato snare drum sound effects, the camera focused on the surreal scene of a middle-aged television reporter seated across from a preternaturally large 12-year-old gangster.

“Welcome to The Nation, Mr. Whackamolé,” said Stossle, sounding formal and avuncular. “Thank you for agreeing to this interview.”

“I only did agree cuz thee flea-bitten dogs did payeth me. But aight, you welcome,” said Whack in his mash-up style of speech.

“Indeed,” replied Stossle. He shuffled some papers in his hands. “So. I’m sure the first question on everyone’s mind is…why are you not in jail?”

Whack smirked and sucked on his teeth, curling the left side of his lip. “I knoweth not, old-head—wherefore do not thee telleth me? Hail the muhfucken Chief Constable or some other such poppycock…lodge a formal complaint whiff da city.”

Stossle looked down at his papers. “Seven murders. Numerous rapes. Hundreds of other violent crimes that have all been captured on video. By you. Shown to the entire world now for years.”

“Yo, bruh. Ish like dis. The po-lice doth not give two fucks, main. They juss want a job juss like you. They merely wanteth to return to they own cozy hearth errynight, gazeth upon the television, ingesteth a sandwich then falleth into sweet slumber, you feel me. Like, why don’t you arrest me? Like, citizen arrest me now. Soundeth like doth hath seen all the shit I hath done. Detaineth me if thou will.”

“Well…it’s not really my job,” replied the stately reporter.

“Yong would beest correct, it ain’t yo job. Well guesseth what? They don’t think it’s they job, either. Besides, I would withdraw my steel, and if my actions offendeth a noble heart, I put fo’ uh fi’ slugs in yo dome, homie. Feel me? I take yo crown and ensconce it within a fat hog’s turd, thou toad-spotted rascal. It ain’t worf it. It ain’t worf it to you. It ain’t worf it to them.”

“So help me understand…you feel as if the police don’t think it is within their job description to stop you from committing crimes?” Stossle leaned forward. “You must know that to everyone watching at home that sounds patently ridiculous.”

“I knoweth not if such is Payton-ly…but ish true. I doth proclaim, shit hit different in Cali, dawg. We got the restorative justice like a muhfuckuh. Niggas proclaimeth, yo, Ima git mines. Periodt.”

“So that’s the way you feel? That you are just, as you say, getting yours in lieu of reparations?”

“Aye. Fo sho, main, fo sho.”

“But you’re white, Whack, you must know that? You are not part of a minority group or a so-called protected class,” the interviewer cried, exasperated.

“Dost thou proclaimeth me a coystrill? That truth mocketh my tongue as the child the beggar, the leper?” Whack palpated something at his belt-line. The producers outside the view of the cameras shifted nervously in their seats.

“But you have blonde hair and blue eyes. White skin.”

“Mine cloak mayeth be fair; but my soul is black as the raven. In the old age, black was not counted fair; but now is black beauty’s successive heir.”

An advertisement, a commercial for the newest Glock model, made it through 5 seconds before Steven skipped past it.

“Whackamolé, I would like to broach a very sensitive subject, please forgive me.” Stossle’s face contorted into a painful grimace.

“My tongue would tell the anger of my heart, not my steel.” Smugness oozed from the 12-year-old.

Stossle withdrew his mobile phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. “I’m looking here at the BOUNTYHUNTER app…have you heard of it?”

“Aye, rumor doth double like the voice and echo, my nigga.” Whack chuckled under his breath, knowing what was coming next, looked at his bejeweled Patek Philippe watch with faux boredom.

“You are one of the most wanted bounties in the entire world. Put out by the Kingdom of Oman, your head is worth over a million British pounds.”

“One million? Yond is all? Hath the Kingdom rare visions of Arabian Jews?”

“According to the app, there are over 1000 people worldwide looking to satisfy the bounty, which is dead or alive, I might add. What do you say to those who would hunt you for money?”

Steven’s mouth had gone slack watching old-head Stossle interview the world’s most notorious internet gangster; but at the mention of money, his ears pricked, he shut his mouth, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Quickly opening an additional tab, he googled British pound to dollar conversion. “Holy…that’s almost two million dollars.”

Another quick search on his phone pulled up the BNTYHNTR app, whose logo was a blue bunny-rabbit with an eyepatch. Sure enough, Whack was still in the top-10…and since the interview had aired, the bounty had increased to £1.2 million.

Steven drove around the block for the third time. Was he really going to do this?

He wasn’t quite sure that he actually would go through with it until he had pulled over and rolled down his window.

“Hey, baby,” said the blonde girl, as she sauntered over. She was in a micro-mini and clear platforms at least a couple stories high. She leaned into the open window, smiled. Steven smelled an exuberant amount of cheap perfume.

“Hello,” Steven burbled nervously. He eeked out a cardboard smile. Two black prosties watched jealously from across the street.

“So you wanna have some fun?” she asked.

“Yeah…no…yeah, I think so. Sort of.”

The girl seemed put-off by his awkwardness and took a step back from the window. “I don’t know what your trip is, bro, but I can’t hang with weirdos, you know.”

“No, no,” he yelped to garner her attention as she began to walk away. “Look, I’m just nervous. I’ve never done this. I’ve never…you know…”

Steven examined all of his mirrors making sure one of his neighbors wasn’t driving by, not that any of them would have any business hanging out in that part of town. He leaned over and popped the door open. The prostie opened the car door the rest of the way and got in. As soon as they began to move, the girl opened her purse, dipped her pinky into an unseen container and sniffed up a bump of white powder.

“You got a spot,” she asked dryly, between sniffles. “We can go to the Continental if not.”

“We don’t need to do all that. I’m not really wanting to…you know…”

“Fuck? Well that’s too bad, Mister, cuz that’s the business I’m in. Pull over, clown, and stop wasting my time.” Her face, which had a hard edge to it but was mostly just sad, contorted into something hateful and frightening.

“Please…I’m going to pay you whatever you need for your time…and I don’t need much of it.”

“Are you a fucking cop?”

“No, I’m not a…”

“A hundred dollars motherfucker. Don’t waste my time,” she yelled, slapping the palm of an outstretched hand.

“Okay, okay, hay-SOOS…” Steven pulled the car over not three blocks from where he had picked her up. He leaned over like he was about to flatulate wildly, pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. The prostitute’s eyes fixated on the lumpen leather mass, burdened with old receipts and expired credit cards, like a hungry dog watching its owner plate up grilled porkchops. Steven handed her four 20s and two 10s. She snatched the bills of this hand and, pulling down an already low-cut nylon blouse, stuffed them into her bra. Several blown out, illegible tattoos like contusions adorned the flesh of her upper breast.

Appeased by legal tender, she placed her hand on his thigh lasciviously. “So what do you need, baby? Name’s Harley, by the way. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Yeah, yeah. You, too. Name’s…John.” He had sweated through his deodorant and could feel liquid dripping down his flanks. “I’m not a cop, but I am looking for someone. I need some info…if you got it.”

“I see a lot of things out here on the street. Who you lookin’ for?”

“Have you heard of this kid that’s all over the internet…calls himself Whackamolé?”

The prost went quiet and stopped her coke-fidgeting for just a moment. She smirked and held out her hand again. Her jaw worked back and forth.

“Fuck…” Steven exclaimed as he hit her with another 20, thinking about his decrepit roof.

“Yeah, I heard of him. Goes by Whack…”

“And you know some of his girls?”

“I know a couple of 'em. None personally. But I seen ‘em around.”

“Well, he killed two of them recently. Executed them not far from here spitting distance from a church.”

“Seems like you know more about him than I do. So what do you need with him, anyway? If you ain’t a cop, I suggest you stay away from pimps like him. They dangerous.”

“Do you know where he lives? Where he hangs out? Anything about his whereabouts?”

The prostie smiled and folded her arms.

“Goddammit,” spat Steven as he dug through his wallet. “Look, I don’t have any more cash…all I have is a $50 Apple gift card.” He withdrew the card from one of those secret compartments in men’s wallets and offered it to her. “This was a Christmas gift from my brother-in-law…I hope you’re happy.”

“Is this fucken thing expired?” Harley barked as she snatched the card. She turned it over and over, examining each side.

“Gift cards can’t have an expiration date in California…it’s illegal.”

“Well, I guess I do need a new pair of ear-pods,” she said. She looked up from the card. “I’ve seen him at the crack house before.”

“The crack house?”

“Yeah, you never been there?”

“No, I’ve never been to a crack house. There can’t be just one. Can you be more specific?” At this point, Steven’s nose had acclimated to the hooker’s perfume, and something else was coming through. It was body odor. After being forced to give away his Christmas present, Steven judged the stench harshly.

“No, dummy. Not a crack house. The Krakhäus,” she condescended, rolling her eyes. “The coffeeshop. Down at the southern end of MacArthur.”

“Wow. Whack drinks coffee.”

“Of course he does…everybody drinks coffee. What are you? Some kinda green tea drinking faggot or something? Yeah, you kinda look like the type.” She looked Steven up and down…from his Cole Hans to his grey temples. “I bet you drink chamomile or some shit.”

“Actually, no…I’m a coffee guy. I take it black, I’ll have you know,” he said in defense of his masculinity.

“I’ll have you know,” she mocked, pretending to tighten up an invisible tie.

Das Krakhäus—the letters were scrawled in red on a white spray-painted sheet of plywood that hung above the entrance. Steve sat in his car, parked at a meter across the street. He had forgotten a disguise and thought about aborting the whole mission; but then there was the roof and the property tax…and his wife’s student loan payments were about to resume to the tune of about $900 per month. Fuck it—he decided sunglasses would be enough.

The noise level inside the coffeehouse was at a din. Kids were jumping on the sofas and taking selfies, standing on the tables and taking selfies, doing gymnastics in a hall that led to the lavatory…and taking selfies. Every patron had their phone out recording something; or had a tablet in their lap editing what they had just recorded. The ambiance of Das Krakhäus was dystopian chic…kind of like industrial chic if it had been dumped on the corner to be vandalized and spray painted...all exposed brick, broken glass and rusted metal.

Steven walked up to the counter to get a coffee, intending to hang out for a while to observe the scene, not even really sure what he would be looking for if not for Whack himself; but as he strode across the shop, dodging rambunctious teens and broken glass, the place went almost totally silent, save for the outlandishly horrible music playing over strained speakers.

“Yeah, Oldhead, they lookin’ at you,” said the barista behind the counter. Steven looked over his left shoulder, then his right. “Why?” he asked, innocently.

The barista sighed and rolled his….er…their eyes. “This lodging is not meanteth for thy kind, Oldhead. Youth is bold, and age is tame. Now what the fukk you gonna drank, foo?”

“Git dat nigga some tea, nigga!” yelled someone from a bank of couches against the far wall.

“Old-head doth drank oolong or some shit!” screamed a girl standing in line for the restroom.

“I’ll just have a small black coffee, thank you,” said Steven nervously.

“We ain’t do small, nigga,” replied the barista, pointing to the sign, which read No small-Only hella big.

“Oh,” he said, befuddled at the meaning of the word “hella”. He peered at the sign over the top of his glasses.

“This nigga cain’t see,” said a kid in line behind Steven, who whirled around to

find a group of youngsters almost encircling him. “Stevie Wonduh ass…”

“Sure…whatever…I’ll have the hella big,” Steven told the barista, turning back to the bar to pay.

“Nigga, what is this?” bawled one of the brash teenagers, motioning to Steven’s shoes.

“Come again?” Steve responded.

“Nigga, I come in yo momma’s mouf. I said, what da fuq up wit dem kicks?”

“What? My kicks?”

“Yeah, nigga, dem shoes?” The boy’s lips were peeled back to expose two dazzling rows of golden teeth, shark-like in their imitation of his favorite web-banger.

“What? What’s wrong with my shoes?”

“What ain’t no kinda shoe I ever heard of? They wear Nike’s in what?” spat the child, aggressively, his sneer growing with each uncomfortable interaction.

“What? I’m sorry, I don’t understand where this is going.” Steven’s hella-big coffee had been delivered to the counter, steaming and topless in a 44-ounce Styrofoam cup.

“Say ‘what’ one more muthafucken time. I dare you. I double dare you, muthafuckuh,” said the angry pre-teen.

Steven picked up his hella-large coffee cup with both hands. The Styrofoam felt as if it were melting just a little, the cup distorting precariously from its own weight, causing Steven to hold it tighter, which made it distort even more. “These are New Balance. And I am not participating in this,” he said, with a few heavy blinks and pursing of the lips.

The kid held out his hand to stop Steven as he began to slowly walk away. Even as he carefully minded the fullness of the Styrofoam coffee bucket, some of the hot liquid sloshed over the brim onto Steven’s hand. “Ssssssss…motherfucker,” he cursed softly, trying hard not to drop the piping-hot beverage.

“Do you read the Bible, mister?” asked the kid in a faux innocent tone.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Steven turned back to the counter and placed the coffee on it, shook out his burned hand.

“You see I got this little passage memorized for situations like this. Ezek…”

Steven stooped to bring his face close to the child’s. “I. Am. Not. Participating. In. This.” he reiterated.

The child’s mouth bent into a frown. He wiped blond dreadlocks out of his eyes.

Raising his knee up to his chest, he brough down his heel as hard as he could onto Steven’s toes.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Steven groaned as he steadied himself with one hand on the counter.

The child then took a step back and kicked Steven in the shin. The little fucker was wearing steel-toe boots. Steven sank to the floor, grimacing and holding his leg.

Phones came out. Someone screamed, “Fiiiiiight!” Another screamed, “Keeeel heeeeeem!” Tables were overturned. Coffee went flying all over the place. Blows rained down from everywhere onto Steven’s head and torso as he turtled to protect himself. The lights started flickering on and off. Someone set one of the old couches on fire; and as flames licked up the wall, ensconcing bad art on their way to the ceiling, the space began to fill with smoke. The melee abruptly ended as the mob, choking on noxious fumes, escaped through the front door.

Steven opened his eyes to find an older man with white hair standing above him with his hand out. “Come viss me if you vant to liff,” said the man. Steven pushed himself up to one knee to find the coffeeshop filled with black smoke. He took the man’s hand, whose strength was surprising as he easily pulled Steven to his feet. Steven held onto the man’s shoulder as they rushed into the smoke. He held his breath and shut his eyes tightly, trusting that the man was somehow leading them out of chaos.

And just as he opened his mouth to take a gulp of noxious fumes, the man kicked open the back door to let sunshine flood into the smoke-filled darkness. They spilled into the back alleyway, choking and coughing. Across the alley, Steven collapsed against a brick wall and rubbed his eyes with his shirt. Nausea sprang up from his belly and he began to wretch and vomit—his body’s attempt to rid itself of the copious toxins he had inhaled.

“Lean yuh head back,” said the man with a thick German accent. He poured bottled water into Steven’s eyes.

“Who are you,” asked Steven once the violent coughing subsided. The man squatted beside him, wary of the puke.

“I’m Fritz…zee owner of ziss former establishment. Nice to meet you.” His face was crisscrossed with wrinkles, and his cheeks had gone to jowls; but his blue eyes were bright and full of life and intellect, and Steven could see from the wiriness of the man’s forearms that he was still lean in his old age.

“I’m Steven. Thanks for…for saving me.”

Fritz and Steven stumbled half a block away to avoid the growing conflagration. Sirens could be heard.

“Vut brought you to my humble establishment, if I may ask? You know, my customer-base is…wie sagt man…unruly.”

“Unruly? How can you run a place like that? Those kids are goddamn murderers,” retorted Steven, still coughing.

“Yah, yah. Zey are murderers, rapists, arsonists, obviously. Zey are robbers, extortionists, little fraudsters. Zey steal cars like you or I would have stolen a piece of candy ven vee vere schildren, and zey have no remorse whatsoever. Zey are zee perfect little nihilists. Beautiful little sociopaths. Zey have burned my Krakhaus to ashes four times now…but you know vut, zey keep coming back. And zey buy a lot of coffee…A LOT of coffee. Zey are very loyal.”

“How can you keep your place insured? Surely the insurance companies have jacked your premiums through the roof.”

Fritz sat on the curb beside Steven. He fished around in his shirt pocket and withdrew a crumpled soft pack of Camel cigarettes. “You know vut zee only sing I miss about Europe is?”

“What’s that?”

“Zee cigarettes. Tobacco here is shit. But anyvay…” From the same pocket he withdrew a small box of matches, lit one and held it to the cigarette. “Zere is no insurance here, mein Freund. Zis building is abandoned. We come in, we clean a bit. Zee children come. We do Krakhaus. Is simple. No permits. No lawyers. No talking to building inspector with penis ziss small, hand out, and eyes of a toad. Is pure capitalism. Unencumbered by bureaucracy. I love ziss country…despite zee shit tobacco.”

“Well…I didn’t come for the incredible coffee, mine freund, permits or no permits.”

“I know. Only zee schildren come to Krakhaus.”

“I came to find someone…another one of these kids. A famous one.”

“Ohhh. Oh. Zeeee famous one. Zee bossman, ja?”

“You know him?”

“Oh ja, ferry vell. He burn us down zee last time. Vack zey call him.”

“I need to know where he is,” said Steven.

“I vish I could help; but honestly, I do not know vere he goes ven he is not at Krakhaus. You want zee money, ja?”

“Yes. I want the money.”

“Vell, good luck to you, mein Freund. Ziss boy is quite dangerous. And despite his behavior, I do know zat he comes from a quite vealthy family. He talks like von of zees little bastard, but he is not like zem. Ferry rich. Ferrrrry rich. Zey say old money or somezing. Oil maybe.”

“Oil money?”

“Or somezing.”

“Oil money or something,” Steven repeated, solidifying it in his mind.

“Ja, or somezing. But anyvay…”

“Hey, you think I could have a cigarette?” Steven hadn’t smoked since college; but right then and there, covered in dried coffee, with blood trickling out of his nose, watching Fritz puff lazily on shitty American tobacco, the habit he had dropped some 15 years ago once again seemed chic.

“Ja sure,” said Fritz, who went fishing around in his pocket again. “You know vee have ziss saying in Chermany: everyvon dies from somezing…might as vell be from toxic gas. But anyvay…”

Steven looked at the navigation on his phone again to make sure he was at the right place—4817 Green Alpine Road in the Piedmont hills. The grounds of the estate were immaculate and expansive. The mansion was stately and definitely looked the part of old oil money. The mailbox announced DOHENY—practically an invitation. And the gate was open. At one point in time, according to Steven’s Googling, the Dohenys had been worth more than the Rockefellers.

He walked down the sloped driveway, noting the polished stones and the perfectly manicured hedges that lined it. He looked across a front lawn that must’ve been over two acres of lush grass and figured their water bill was more than his mortgage. He counted 8 chimneys of spiraling red brick. Wondered why the hounds had not been released upon him.

“Hello,” said a middle-aged woman who opened the door to greet him after he wrapped with the heavy iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. She smiled warmly. Her eyes sparkled like the diamond studs in her ears. It was the weekend and she wore cashmere sweats.

“Um, hello,” said Steven. “I’m, uh…I’m, uh…John McEnroe, the school counselor.”

“Oh,” she said, as her face grew concerned. “Is something the matter? Is this about Jack?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh gosh, again? My goodness, were we supposed to have a conference today that we weren’t told about?”

“Yes,” said Steven.

“Oh my. Jack had not said anything to us. Well come in, please.” she said as she opened the door wider and stepped to the side.

Steven was led to the parlor, a cavernous space with soaring 25-foot ceilings and an entire acre of mahogany lining the walls.

“Would you like a beverage? Could I offer you some tea, coffee?”

“Oh, coffee would be great,” he said, not really thinking about it. His hands were already shaking and he didn’t need more caffeine.

The lady sauntered to the wall and pressed a button on an intercom system.

“Maria, coffee service to the front parlor, please. Thank you.” A muffled voice responded from the speaker in the wall. Steven wondered why they didn’t just text each other from mobile phones.

“Please, sit,” she said. “I’ll ask Jack’s father to come down.” She again pressed a button on the intercom and requested the presence of the father in the front parlor. Steven sat himself on a silk upholstered chaise. He kept his back straight and his hands clasped in his lap as if he were about to meet British royalty. He couldn’t remember if he had chambered hollow points or jacketed.

The coffee arrived concurrently with Jack’s father. Steven took the coffee black, of course, and beheld the stately older gentleman who was, apparently, Jack’s father, the man of the house, and heir to a massive oil fortune. Steven had never met anyone who actually wore a smoking jacket; but he had to admit to himself that Mr. Doheny cut a rather striking silhouette in one.

“Jefferson Doheny,” said Jack’s father, extending his hand. His brow was furrowed, and he looked none too pleased about being disturbed on the weekend.

“Ste…I mean, John McEnroe, “ said Steven, as he grasped Doheny’s rather large and unexpectedly calloused palm. Doheny had a strong grip, and Steven felt small bones crunch in his hand.

“So Jack is in trouble again, huh? Not the least bit surprised.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Steven.

“But, uh, is it common for you to make house calls on the parents of misbehaving students. Couldn’t we have just, you know, spoken on the phone perhaps?”

“Oh, Jeff,” said Mrs. Doheny, reaching over and touching her husband’s knee.

“On the weekend, too. It’s all a bit strange, Mister, uh…McEnroe, isn’t it?”

“As you know, we do things a little differently,” replied Steven. “You know our motto…Think Different.”

Mr. Doheny pursed his lips and pushed up on his bifocals. “Hmmm. No, I think that is the motto of Apple Computers.”

“Well it’s ours, too. It’s why our school performs so well. We model ourselves after the management philosophies of Steve Jobs. By the way, is Jack here?”

“Jack’s here, yes. We’ll call him down in a bit. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I’ve got a golf game in a short while. So what is it that Jack has gotten himself into now?”

Steven put the coffee cup back on the coaster with his hand shaking so badly the china rattled. Mr. Doheny cocked his head. “Well,” he sputtered, adjusting his pants like his nuts were being pinched. “Well…it would probably be easier to ask what has Jack NOT done to get himself into trouble. Let me see, he beats people. He murders people.

He rapes people. He spews hateful epithets like faggot, nigger, kike, chink, cunt, bitch, honky…” Mrs. Doheny put her hand over her mouth. “He urinates in people’s food. He’s a pimp and a drug dealer. I know this all must be really surprising for you, but the list of transgressions is very long.”

“Dear God,” bawled Mr. Doheny. “A pimp? Said the word kike?” He stood up and start pacing around with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his smoking jacket. “Nigger? My God, we taught him better than this,” said Mr. Doheny before wheeling back around to face Steven. “Whiskey Mr. McEnroe? Do you drink whiskey?”

“I…I mean, yeah, I love whiskey, but it’s ten in the morning?”

“I’m a whiskey man. Come on…have one with me. You just dropped a bomb right on me and Jack’s mother, and I really need something to take the edge off.”

“Can’t you just call Jack down?”

“Have one drink with me, will ya?”

“Ok, fine. I’ll have a whiskey.”

“Neat?”

“A bit of ice, please.”

Mr. Doheny glided over to the wet bar and began clinking things together.

“Oh my goodness, I cannot believe this,” whispered Mrs. Doheny. “Jack, he’s really a good boy. A very good boy. He’s just…well, you know…he’s a rich kid, what can I say?”

“Indeed,” said Steven.

“We’ve talked to him many times about all this. The pranks. Those funny videos he likes to make.”

“Funny videos? That’s what you guys call them?” Steven spied a cache of high-end camera equipment, lights and stands in the corner of the parlor.

“Mr. McEnroe, he doesn’t listen to us. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He’s really a good boy. A lovely boy with a good heart.”

“There you go, partner,” said Mr. Doheny as he handed over a low ball with a finger of amber liquid in it, winking as they clinked glasses. “Ahhhh, that’s good stuff,” said Doheny, hissing as the liquid burned his throat pleasantly. “1942 vintage. Straight from the Highlands to our gullets with a few years in between. Ain’t life grand.”

Steven waggled his eyebrows after taking a draft, held the glass in front of his eyes like examining something mysterious and beautiful. “Damn…that is really good whisky,” he exclaimed.

Doheny flopped into his seat next to the missus, leaned forward, made his own attempt at dis-lodging his testicles from bunched up fabric. “Mr. McEnroe, I gotta tell ya…the kids these days are difficult. They’re strong minded. They don’t listen. Their work ethic…my God, let’s not get into that. And you’ll have to excuse me for saying, although I’m certain that you, of all people, being a teacher and all, probably know this better than most…you’ll have to excuse me for saying that all of them, regardless of class, regardless of race, all of them are heavily influenced by that goddamn rap music.”

“It’s disgusting, that rap music,” hissed Mrs. Doheny as she screwed up her face.

“Excuse my French, Mr. McEnroe, but it’s always nigger this and nigger that. I’m sorry…niggaaaaa. Bitch and hoe this and that. I’m gonna kill you and your punk-ass set. You and yo momma can suck my dick…”

“Jeff…don’t say that in front of Mr. McEnroe,” scolded Mrs. Doheny. “Say penis.”

“I’m sorry for the coarse language, but it’s true, honey! Poor Jack has been bathing in this crap ever since he was in elementary school. I mean, any kid would be negatively influenced by this stuff, right Mr. McEnroe?” Doheny knocked back the remainder of his whiskey.

“I mean…I mean…rap was the same when I…when I. I’m sorry, this liquor is really going to my head,” slurred Steven.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” replied Doheny, looking over the tops of his bifocals.

“This uh…this whiskey,” he stammered. “It’s a little early for whiskey, I think.”

“Maybe you should stand up, walk it off. Get a little blood flowing,” advised Doheny with a concerned frown.

Steven attempted to set his glass on the table, but instead wound up dropping it on the floor. And as if on cue, with the explosion of crystal that made the missus flinch and scowl and bemoan the fact that the crystal belonged to her great grandmother,

Whackamolé came striding into the room. Only he wasn’t wearing baggy jeans and gold chains and Air Jordans and his black durag. He was in full Dia de los Muertos face-paint and a toreador’s suit; but even in the get-up Steven knew it was Whack—he could tell by the walk, the swagger. Steven fumbled at his beltline but for some reason couldn’t find his sidearm. Doheny slowly reached over and withdrew the .357 from the front of

Steven’s pants. Mrs. Doheny gasped and recoiled in her chair, put her hands over her mouth.

“Looking for this,” teased Doheny, holding the weapon with thumb and forefinger like it was a dead mouse.

“Here is somethin’ you can’t understaaaaaand,” sang Whack. “I said, here is somethin’ you can’t understaaaaaand.” He pointed at his father with both hands.

“How I could just kill a man?” replied Doheny.

“Oh my, Jack, you are so talented,” said Mrs. Doheny. “Look at that amazing costume Jack put together, Mr. McEnroe. Mr. McEnroe?”

At this point, Steven’s muscles had gone to jelly as he slid out of his chair onto the floor. He stared at the ceiling, groaning. He couldn’t move. The last thing he saw and heard was the elder Doheny standing above him with another lowball in hand as he squealed “damn, nigga, you crazy” in a falsetto voice.

The light was shockingly, painfully bright. But Steven was still partially under the influence of powerful narcotics, and so his flinch was more like a shudder, and he couldn’t move quickly enough to bat away the doctor’s hand as he shined a light into his eyes, held his eyelid open with the other hand.

“He’s coming to,” said the doctor, as he clicked off his flashlight. “There’s no damage to his anus, no sign of penetration. That blood was some sort of animal blood...maybe chicken or pig. And now that he’s conscious I think it’s ok for you to take him home. Just keep an eye on him for a couple days...make sure he doesn’t bonk his head.”

“Thanks, doc,” said Steven’s wife, softly. The physician frowned and strode out of the room.

“Anita…” croaked Steven. “What the…where am I?” He slowly sat up in bed.

“Oh, thank God,” said Anita as she leaned in to hug her husband with one arm.

She carried their young child on her hip. The baby smiled, exposing four front teeth—two on top, two on bottom—made a farting sound with her mouth and simultaneously slapped Steven in the eye. “Da,” she cooed. “Flrrrrrp!”

“Anita…what the hell is going on?”

Steven’s wife wiped her wet eyes with the back of her free hand. “I wish I knew, honey…”

“How did I end up here? When did I end up here?” Steven was slowly coming out of narcotic fog.

“Last night…you hadn’t been home all day…I was really worried. I called and called but you didn’t answer. About 8 o’clock…oh God…” Anita did all she could to comport herself to make it through the horrific details. Her voice trembled emotionally.

“Geraldine from 2468 rang the doorbell…when I answered she was hysterical…pointing to a man lying face down in the front yard…it was you.” At this point she broke down crying.

“What the hell?”

“And your pants were around your knees…there was blood all over the place. Steven, I thought you were dead…”

“What? The neighbors saw me like that. Oh my God…”

“Steven, I thought you’d been raped and left for dead on our front lawn.”

“Flrrrrrrp,” mouth-farted the baby, spraying Steven’s face with spittle. She smiled and reached out to be held by Daddy.

The drive home was a quiet one. Steven could focus on little other than the pain he felt in his ego and almost wished that he actually had been violated. The Eagles were on the radio. Steven’s favorite song—Hotel California. He turned the volume up one notch, cognizant of the sleeping baby in the car seat behind him. He could see his daughter’s face in the little mirror mounted on the headrest of the backseat. Her head was cocked slightly to one side, her chubby cheeks scrunched up looking even bigger, her long lashes dangling over those beautiful closed eyes. And still those voices are callin’ from faaaaaar awayyyy…

Steven pulled out his phone, saw that he had notifications through his video app.

He had been tagged in something. He clicked on it, turned down the volume all the way.

His entire body went cold, and his hands started shaking when he saw the moving images of one of Whack’s prosties appearing to violate him with a quite large sex toy as he lay face down, passed-out on the floor of the Doheny Manor. He paused the video—couldn’t take any more of it. Saw that it had amassed over 100-million views in less than 24 hours. Finally saw that his account in the app had over $140,000 in it. Was marked as a “collaborator”—with royalty rights!— by the owner of the video…one Mr. Whackamolé.

“You okay,” asked Anita, sounding very concerned. She looked back and forth

from Steven to the road. Her brow was knit.

“Oh, uhhh…yeah, why?”

“You gasped at something…”

“Oh no, I’m fine, Hun,“ said Steven. He reached over to hold his wife’s hand.

$140,000 in less than 24-hours.

“Your hands are sweaty, babe…and ice cold.”

“I’m sorry. Still getting over everything, I guess.” $140,000 in less than 24-hours.

A Mac-truck passed them in the night as they hurtled down the freeway. The rumbling Doppler of the 18-wheeler made the baby squirm and emit a tiny complaint.

Observing his daughter in the mirror, Steven mouthed the last lyric to his favorite song in the whole world…You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.

He turned it up one more notch as Walsh and Felder did their thing.

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This story was submitted by Jeremiah Suit, you can find more of his work on his X account and in Man’s World Magazine.