Mono managed to turn around, fumbled.
Methyl, stepping from the Merc, held his gun sidewise, shot Mono in the face (button A to draw, B to cock to tricksy side, C to pull the trigger).
Screen nasty black with game blood.
You dead, Methyl said.
Me?
You fired too.
I am? I thought you’d come with work.
Methyl sat up, turned to him and said, Any other business you survive this. But the cops today, they online all the time.
People don’t know I’m him.
They will.
I’m fucking broke, bro.
The internet says you just that guy who whips it out. But I say you an onus.
Instead of unplugging the gaming console Methyl unplugged the TV, put the controllers atop the console on top, boosted the entire package.
Then he stood on the bed while Mono, getting the silence, got up to get the door.
With the TV’s powercord pocketed, Methyl stepped to the floor and walked out to the hall, saying without turning around, I was you I’d start thinking about how to change your name. Bro.
Without the television Mono’s apartment seemed both bigger and smaller, and worse.
He should’ve handled this himself, Mono decided Sunday night when he was down to his last thousand dollars and applying for credit cards online: should’ve found Em’s address or phone through pleading at keggers and honor society socials, then handwritten a letter or called personally, throwing his future on her mercy or just paying her off, throw her a couple hundred or even a thousand — that would’ve cost the same if not less and less worry.
He shuddered whenever the phone rang.
Majorie? He didn’t think Ms. Airline Miles Mogulette ever intended to return his call.
She sputtered, I hope you’re not recording this.
I last asked that of you.
Never mind. I’ve been talking to Tech.
Who?
My support guy.
Who guy?
My computer person.
OK.
But this is mondo illegal, shaky shaky ice. I never said that. I’ve never done this before.
Done what?
He lit a smoke.
I’m liaisoning with my liaison, my hacker. He’s going to hack into this Em woman’s blog and erase the original entry then he’s going to do the same to all the other sites, I think.
You think? trying to stabilize the ashtray on a knee.
Or else he’s going to send them all a virus that destroys everything but leaves no trace, I don’t know, I’m no gearhead, just a paraparalegal.
We’re talking additional costs?
The tray teetered, heaping.
It’s a sliding scale.
A slide beginning where?
We’re not prepared to quote just now. We’ll send you an email with the figure.
We?
Myself for project management but mostly my tools goon for the tool stuff.
And who is he or she exactly?
Richard, when it’s against the law I’m against naming names.
What are the risks?
We assume more risk than do you — that’s also why it’s expensive, if it’s traceable it’s to us.
But then you’re traceable to me.
Plus it’s time intensive — there are worms to code, firewalls to crack.
You sure you know what you’re talking about?
It’s not a minor undertaking, having to stealthify kludge all that daemon javascript and such — Tech was explaining it all just this morning.
Mono’s cigarette was finished except for the filter, the foam pellet he thought of popping into his mouth as if a pacifier, chewy.
I’ll call you back when the process is in process, Majorie said. Do you have any payphones in your neighborhood?
I have payphones in my neighborhood.
Find the number of one, making sure it’s not the most convenient but pick one a ways far out then email that number to me spaced over ten emails, one digit per email, you with me?
With you.
Then intersperse each digited email with other emails containing links to, I don’t care, hardcore penetration, but none of the emails can be sent from your address — be sure to open other accounts with multiple providers.
Didn’t I tell you I’m through watching porn?
Then send me more better news, Rich — I have no idea what’s happening.
There are wars on.
Mono sent her links.
On Wednesday it felt like winter was finally breaking. The ice could crack for the grass to sprout and a warm breeze could balm the parkinglots and roundabouts and it was fine — winter would be back next year. Mono would be shattered forever.
He put on his coat and walked to the only payphone he was sure of, located just outside the university’s main library — every student body could use that phone every day though they never did, they all had phones of their own that didn’t require booths. He’d recently forwarded Majorie a link to an article — a web exclusive, never printed in hardcopy — about the phonebook’s disappearance. They were going to stop universal distribution — this, the one book everyone could be in.
Students were coming out of the library but none clutched books, they held each other.
And a new beverage for a new generation, not bottles of water but bottled water, plastic, perspirant.
They didn’t need books because of the bags on their shoulders, which contained computers — tablets and pads on which they could read all that’d been written by anyone ever and also Em on Richard Monomian.
The phone rang but his rush to pick up was unnecessary.
Students, children essentially, pedestrated past as blithe as projected light.
He said, My mailman has no address.
Pigeons alighted on the pathway slabs, pecking at butts and clots of gum.
Was that the password?
You tell me.
We’re on track but also delayed.
Which is it?
Both. Plus I need that second thousand.
Behind her speech Mono made out the riddling whir of her computer’s cooling fan, the high screech of either passing sirens or neglected pets.
It wasn’t that it wasn’t spring enough yet or that it was sunset already — he was chilled from being scared, feeling himself recognized by all who passed. He remembered there had been another phone by the gym. Nothing remained besides a stanchion tumescent from a speck of foundation.
Can I call you back from my mobile?
And subvert our subversion — what kind of subterfuge is that?
I’m paying you — so you find a payphone, email me the number, set a time, and I’ll also call ten minutes late.
That’s precisely what I wanted to talk about. You have my invoice. I have material expenses.
Must be a reason I didn’t respond to your email about the next installment.
Richard, it might be better if we talked about this once you’re comfortably at home.
Mono had begun to suspect that this hacker of hers, this gensym guru he was never allowed to talk to, was not a person, not a man or woman and so not her lover as Majorie let on, claiming access to him at all hours: when Mono called from home bonged stuporous slack drunk at 3 AM on Thursday asking to be reminded whether they were trying to infiltrate the sites to remove the posts or just crash them with a Trojan she said, Let me ask him. He’s sleeping just right next to me. Then there’d be a murmur that had to be her respiration — Mono got the idea she never even took the phone from her mouth to imaginarily rouse this imaginary partner — until she’d say, Tech’s grouchy, not getting up. He had a rough day yesterday. I’ll ask him over breakfast and check in with you tomorrow.