Sometime in the middle of the night Victor’s eyes popped open. The basement was dark, the only illumination coming from the various LEDs on power strips and other electronics. The house was completely silent. The experiences of the evening came back to Victor and he lay there processing them. He felt the heaviness of the knife blade laying across his chest but did not recall laying down with it. He felt around for his phone and found it tangled in the sheets beside him. At his touch, the screen lit up with an assortment of notifications.
The first thing he did was log into the social media account through which he had been communicating with CamaroChick19, or Amanda Castle as he now knew her. He saw he had a new message.
"Dude, I’ve been thinking about this. You definitely need to scrap any plans for doing a #knockoutgame. That’s some fucked up shit that will get you put in jail. Besides, I'm working on a plan to help both of us. It will get me out of my jam and will land you some cool video footage. Remember, you can’t be a viral video superstar if you’re in jail, right?”
The message continued.
“Listen, I know what you're thinking. You’re thinking, I don't know this chick. Why would she give a shit? But I do. I watched your videos and felt an instant connection. I knew you were someone who thought like me. Who might understand me. I don’t want to lose you. My life sucks sometimes and watching your videos helps. Messaging you helps. Don’t take that away from me.”
Victor stared at the message and read it several times. He couldn't imagine anyone had ever cared that much for his videos, yet maybe he was wrong. Apparently they were important to her. Apparently he was important to her.
He left that social media account and went to the other where CamaroChick19 was using her real name, Amanda. He stared at the girl’s picture, blowing it up until he could look at her face and try to read what might be going on in her head. Who was she?
Did she love him?
Could he love her?
Certainly she was the only person who’d offered him a kind word in as long as he could remember, but he had to do what he had to do. Some things were inevitable. He was not going to let a few messages from a girl he didn't even know keep him from doing something he wanted to do. Something like the knockout game.
With all his being he needed to strike against his former boss. His boss certainly wasn’t the first person in the world to wrong him, but he hoped he might be the last. His life entered a different chapter from this point forward. DeathMerchant6o6o6 simply did not tolerate the same kind of bullshit that Victor did. DeathMerchant6o6o6 got even.
His boss made him feel small and worthless. He was tired of being made to feel that way. The only way to stop it was to strike back so violently people would leave him alone. People would never wrong him again without thinking twice about the potential consequences. He would make sure of it.
He also decided that when and if he struck against his boss, he would not tell CamaroChick19. He was tired of being manipulated and pressured by people. What he did was none of her business. He would keep his mouth shut and see if they could still have a relationship. Surely what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, right?
With those decisions behind him, Victor checked his other social media accounts. He'd received no new comments on his video requesting ideas nor on any of his other videos. He closed the apps on his phone and only then saw he had a notification that he’d received a text message. That was unusual. The only people who ever contacted him outside of social media were his mother and his coworkers. Opening the text message, he found the unfamiliar number was his old boss at the gaming store.
Konkoly: Hey, dickhead, you can forget coming by the store and picking up your last check. I just got finished reviewing video footage from a lot of your recent shifts. You never did a fucking thing most days. You also carried out several games and I can’t find any record of you paying for them. I’m not paying you another cent. Don’t ever come in one of my stores again.
A knot formed in Victor’s stomach. While everything his boss said was true, he hadn’t been paid enough to work very hard. That wasn’t the worst of it. He’d been certain his last check would cover him for another month’s rent. He didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t have it. Someone who looked like Victor couldn’t just walk into the grocery store and fill out an application. Most places wouldn’t hire someone as colorful and dramatic as him. He didn’t know what he was going to do.
Victor thought about the last twenty-four hours of his life, about his mother, Stanley, and his former boss talking to him like he was nothing. Yesterday he wanted to do a knockout game just so he could ruin his boss’s day. He hadn’t even thought he was going to participate.
Now he was.
Victor was going to launch a knockout game. He was going to draw in the roughest punks and borderline criminals he could find. He was going to wade through them and punch his boss in the face. The only person in his life who seemed to care at all, CamaroChick19, would have to take a back seat for now.
Before he could change his mind, Victor moved over to his computer and logged into an anonymous web browser that would conceal his tracks. From there, he created a half-dozen new social media accounts and began sending out announcements and invitations.
“#Flashmob #knockoutgame #KonkolyGames #CharlotteNC #7PM #freegames #wreckshit.”
Despite the indignity of being locked in the basement it didn’t take Victor long to actually get out. He could have broken down the basement door at any point but he didn’t want to invite the wrath. There was an unfinished half of the basement that was used for storage and contained a lot of his dad’s stuff. Wandering around there with a flashlight, Victor found the old coal chute in the wall. The house had long ago used a coal furnace for heat and this chute was where the coal delivery man shoved it into the bin.
The door was wired shut with a twisted coat hanger. It was a pathetic attempt at holding the door closed and could have been pulled loose by any determined thief. From the inside, it presented little challenge at all and Victor soon had the door open. The door was cast iron and heavy but flapped easily when the wire was removed.
He found a rickety wooden stepladder and propped it against the wall beneath the chute. He eased cautiously up the ladder, concerned at the groaning and cracking coming from the antique ladder. It occurred to him too late there was probably a reason the ladder hadn’t been used in a long time.
The top of the ladder hit right below the heavy chute door. After climbing a few steps up, Victor leaned over and began pushing his arm and head through the door. The door swung easily but it was a tight fit. By the time he had his head and chest out, his body was angled in such a way his feet no longer found the steps of the ladder. He tried to kick and wiggle to work his bulk through the door. The sharp cast iron grated against his flesh on all sides as he tried to gain ground.
He straightened his legs out inside the basement and got one foot braced against the sewer pipe. By pushing with his foot and clawing his fingers into the earth, Victor pulled himself free inch by painful inch. When he finally pulled his legs out, the heavy door banged shut and Victor lay immobile in the flower bed at the side of the house. He was coated in sweat from his exertions and it mixed with potting soil to form a crusty coating on Victor’s skin, making him resemble a battered cut of chicken.
When he regained control of his breathing, Victor pushed himself to his knees. He’d crushed most of his mother’s petunias. He wondered if he might have been better off destroying the basement door. It might have brought less wrath down upon him than destroying a flower bed.
He got to his feet and sagged heavily against the house. Sweat rolled down his face and he brushed it away with a dirt-covered hand. It was only then he noticed his condition. He would have to take a shower before he went anywhere. Despite his aversion to regular bathing, there was no way he could blend in looking like this.
He retrieved the spare key from beneath the potted plant on the back steps and unlocked the back door. Entering the kitchen, he could see the locked basement door. He stopped in his tracks, imagining the perverse glee that must have gripped Stanley as he left this house with the knowledge that he’d locked Victor in the basement. Stanley was a sick bastard. One day he would pay too.
Victor stripped off his dirt-covered clothes there in the kitchen. He unlocked the barrel bolt on the basement door and pitched his nasty clothes down there. He ambled naked through the house to the bathroom in the hallway. This was the bathroom he used most of the time, while his mother used the master. He didn’t like her bathroom with its fuzzy pink covers on the toilet and its fuzzy pink rugs on the floor.
The hall bathroom was original to the house and still had 1950s fixtures. Everything was thick white porcelain and heavy chrome. Victor flipped the light on and shut the door behind him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and got sucked into his own reflection. There was a lot to see. He looked at the bulk of his body as if he’d never seen it before. He didn’t understand how he’d gotten so overweight. No wonder his clothes barely fit. It wasn’t that he had a goal of running around shirtless at the beach but it was too encumbering to carry all of that bulk around. He needed to do something about it.
Then there was the dirt. From waist to face he was streaked and encrusted with potting soil from fighting his way out of the basement. As a person who didn’t do a lot of manual labor, and who had never engaged in yardwork, he was unaccustomed to seeing himself in such a condition.
His eyes ended up at the reflection of his face. Besides the bulk of his body, his physical presence was half made up of hair. His hair was thick and coarse, but when it was wet it hung halfway down his back. Most of the time he put a thick gel on it to make it spike out in all directions. He wore it not so much in a style as in an un-style, intentionally shaping it into chaotic and frenzied constructions.
Beyond the shape and sheer quantity of hair, there was also the coloration. He was forever dabbing at his hair and beard with bleaches, red and blue dyes, and other colorants. Like his weight, the hair suddenly felt like a burden, an unpleasant and unnecessary encumbrance. Maybe he would cut it. Maybe he no longer needed it as a mask. The again, maybe the bare face under it was the real mask, the unrevealing and disassociated shield.
Victor started the shower and stepped in, watching the water spiral around the drain. He wondered who he would be when he came back home tonight. Would he be different? If he was, would anyone even notice?