you’re out on your ass.”
Gruber hadn’t argued. He was sick of the job, anyway. They’d walked past children’s wear on the way to the exit, passed a screaming child and a harried mother and a puddle of puke on the dirty floor. Any other day, Gruber knew he’d be mopping it up. Today, he was free.
He rode the bus away from Osing and that shitty store, zoned out, thought about Dylan and Madison. Climbed off the bus and walked up the front steps of his tiny house, unlocked the door, and surveyed the place, dark and dingy, a kitchen and a cramped living room and a bedroom, light filtering in through greasy windows, sodden take-out containers and candy bar wrappers everywhere. It was a shithole. Even so, it was more than he could afford.
He would need money, fast. The snuff films he sold, Adrian Miller and the rest of the victims, they made a decent profit, sure, a tidy monthly stipend. Combined with his earnings from the store, Gruber could afford to pay rent and buy groceries each month, as long as he was careful. But now he’d been fired, and Osing hadn’t even paid him severance.
Gruber kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his coat. Crossed to the dark living room, the walls plastered with pictures of Sarah, of Madison, of the rest of the victims. With Earl’s picture, too, a couple of news articles. From when Earl went in, and when Earl came out.
Gruber turned on his computer and brought up his email account, began to compose a message.
I need an advance,
he wrote.
Two solid prospects. Good-looking kids, great video potential. Just need a little $$$ to keep me going until they’re ready to do it.
He sent the message. Wondered what his contact would think.Gruber had never asked for an advance before; he’d never needed one. But his product was top-of-the-line. He’d made them both plenty of money. Surely, the guy would see the value in keeping his best producer solvent.
Gruber’s contact didn’t write back right away. Gruber found a half-eaten bag of Cheetos, rummaged inside. Scanned the rest of his emails.
A reply from XXBlackDaysXX on the Death Wish forum:
I’m dead serious about this. Just need a little help. Maybe a partner, if the timing is right.
Gruber rolled his eyes. Licked orange from his fingers and wiped them clean.
What do you need a partner for?
he wrote.
This isn’t a team sport. Find a tall bridge and take a flying leap.
He pressed send. Sat back to wait. Checked his watch, his email inbox again. Nothing yet from his contact. But an answer from XXBlackDaysXX came back almost immediately.
I’m scared. I want to do it. I just don’t want to screw it up, you know?
Gruber leaned forward.
You don’t want it,
he wrote.
If you wanted it, you’d be dead. Good-bye.
>>>
“Shit,” Windermere said. “You’re losing her, Derek. You can’t just throw yourself at her like a sacrificial lamb.”
“So, what?” Mathers said. “What do you want me to say?”
Windermere thought for a minute. “Give me the keyboard,” she said.
<<<
Gruber’s computer chimed. Another email. He opened his account, expecting a reply from his contact. A money transfer, best-case scenario.
But it wasn’t his contact. It was XXBlackDaysXX again.
You’re scared, too,
the message read.
It’s obvious. You act like you’re some kind of big shot, but you’re still here, aren’t you? The only real measure of success on this site is a headstone and a six-foot hole in the ground. And you’re still breathing. So what’s up?
Gruber opened a reply.
I’m working on something,
he typed fast, punching the keys.
I wouldn’t expect a poser like you to get it. Soon as I get my shit in order, I’m out of here.
Bull,
XXBlackDaysXX replied.
What kind of shit do you have to get in order? This isn’t complicated. Find a tall bridge and take a flying leap, remember?
<<<
“Bam.” Windermere sat back from the keyboard. “Let’s see how the little freak likes them apples.”
She watched the computer screen as
Gruber hadn’t argued. He was sick of the job, anyway. They’d walked past children’s wear on the way to the exit, passed a screaming child and a harried mother and a puddle of puke on the dirty floor. Any other day, Gruber knew he’d be mopping it up. Today, he was free.
He rode the bus away from Osing and that shitty store, zoned out, thought about Dylan and Madison. Climbed off the bus and walked up the front steps of his tiny house, unlocked the door, and surveyed the place, dark and dingy, a kitchen and a cramped living room and a bedroom, light filtering in through greasy windows, sodden take-out containers and candy bar wrappers everywhere. It was a shithole. Even so, it was more than he could afford.
He would need money, fast. The snuff films he sold, Adrian Miller and the rest of the victims, they made a decent profit, sure, a tidy monthly stipend. Combined with his earnings from the store, Gruber could afford to pay rent and buy groceries each month, as long as he was careful. But now he’d been fired, and Osing hadn’t even paid him severance.
Gruber kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his coat. Crossed to the dark living room, the walls plastered with pictures of Sarah, of Madison, of the rest of the victims. With Earl’s picture, too, a couple of news articles. From when Earl went in, and when Earl came out.
Gruber turned on his computer and brought up his email account, began to compose a message.
I need an advance,
he wrote.
Two solid prospects. Good-looking kids, great video potential. Just need a little $$$ to keep me going until they’re ready to do it.
He sent the message. Wondered what his contact would think.Gruber had never asked for an advance before; he’d never needed one. But his product was top-of-the-line. He’d made them both plenty of money. Surely, the guy would see the value in keeping his best producer solvent.
Gruber’s contact didn’t write back right away. Gruber found a half-eaten bag of Cheetos, rummaged inside. Scanned the rest of his emails.
A reply from XXBlackDaysXX on the Death Wish forum:
I’m dead serious about this. Just need a little help. Maybe a partner, if the timing is right.
Gruber rolled his eyes. Licked orange from his fingers and wiped them clean.
What do you need a partner for?
he wrote.
This isn’t a team sport. Find a tall bridge and take a flying leap.
He pressed send. Sat back to wait. Checked his watch, his email inbox again. Nothing yet from his contact. But an answer from XXBlackDaysXX came back almost immediately.
I’m scared. I want to do it. I just don’t want to screw it up, you know?
Gruber leaned forward.
You don’t want it,
he wrote.
If you wanted it, you’d be dead. Good-bye.
>>>
“Shit,” Windermere said. “You’re losing her, Derek. You can’t just throw yourself at her like a sacrificial lamb.”
“So, what?” Mathers said. “What do you want me to say?”
Windermere thought for a minute. “Give me the keyboard,” she said.
<<<
Gruber’s computer chimed. Another email. He opened his account, expecting a reply from his contact. A money transfer, best-case scenario.
But it wasn’t his contact. It was XXBlackDaysXX again.
You’re scared, too,
the message read.
It’s obvious. You act like you’re some kind of big shot, but you’re still here, aren’t you? The only real measure of success on this site is a headstone and a six-foot hole in the ground. And you’re still breathing. So what’s up?
Gruber opened a reply.
I’m working on something,
he typed fast, punching the keys.
I wouldn’t expect a poser like you to get it. Soon as I get my shit in order, I’m out of here.
Bull,
XXBlackDaysXX replied.
What kind of shit do you have to get in order? This isn’t complicated. Find a tall bridge and take a flying leap, remember?
<<<
“Bam.” Windermere sat back from the keyboard. “Let’s see how the little freak likes them apples.”
She watched the computer screen as
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