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Bert knew the Lincoln, it was continuing to be obvious, for reasons he couldn't understand. He was wired via compensatory mechanism: not from his coffee habit, but from the constant presence of this entity. Test or not, he was too exhausted to keep playing. He usually welcomed a manic haze, as long as it was a fleeting, drug-like dose..
He clocked the the flow of opposing traffic, plotting a change of pace. He didn't have the horsepower to duck them, but they were too big to play cat and mouse in stop and go traffic. But he had already passed Griffith park, and knew traffic would only lighten. He was almost home. Exit signs alerted him to his only opportunity. In a no-blinker maneuver, Bert go-carted his Honda an aggressive three lanes and joined the 2, southbound.
The conspicuous Lincoln in trail penguin wobbled it's way to the exit, clearing the fork with an applause of angry honks.
It was the first data set Bert could collect on the tail. Whoever was driving, they were not professionally trained. It all sat well with Bert's plan, as he was no professional driver either, his decorated Honda told as much, and just as conspicuously warned the drivers around him that he had been in a few scuffles, and didn't care to hide the marks. The Lincoln, however, was spotless. They would want to keep it that way.
The 2, as expected, was clear. He allowed the tail to relax. They were trickling closer and closer to Bert's stomping grounds. As troubled as white folk can grow up in L.A., Bert did. He didn't spend his evenings at home and though he couldn't much claim athleticism, he was obsessed with Baseball, skateboards, and mean little goth girls. Of the three you'd think skateboarding, or justifiably baseball, would demand the most athletic moves. For Bert, defending himself from dreamy satanic hell-spawn was it's own martial art. He wasn't much of a sweet talker, still wasn't, and couldn't restrain his blunt quips. Quite possibly, his filter was degrading with age, and soon he'd say the right thing to the wrong person and find himself in more danger than his junior high conflict with Alice and Chains (the gang, not the cover band).
Deep into reminiscence, Bert's heart had settled into a low drum beat. His eyes fluttered heavily. Before he was too lulled, the jostling of a sharp turn and familiar bridge crossing brought him back to his plan. He sauntered onto the next exit, merging onto a parking lot called the 5 freeway.
In a nearby, but not so quickly accessible Malibu danger bungalow, the celebrity inoculated "Therapeutic Reduction Of Perilous Excessiveness" center hummed with Ohhhmmms and gongs and other sensory pleasantries. Incense was lit for effect following a ceremonial cleansing of the energies ritual, which consisted of more burning of sacred woodland things, but more importantly chanting and item swinging and pseudo-dancing with closed relaxing eyelids.
There sat, uncomfortably, seven itchy, restless, sweaty, and all other forms irritated participants. Two of which weren't sweaty, but were equally or even more-so agitated by having to sit on the floor. The decorative pillows did wonders for ambiance, but zilch for comfort.
"Yassss, find your center" Jasmine's subdued resonance reverberated with her gongs. The emaciated brunette sported blonde tipped corn-rows, obvious lip injections, and a undersized sports bra. The center allowed the attire, despite difficulties with patient attention spans. After all, it was a business, and all the participants liked Jasmine. It was a prerequisite sort of likeability, else there would be riots for what she was putting them through.
"Eyes closed... yaaasss. If you find your mind drifting, allow it, like a cloud in the sky. You are the blade of grass, waving in the breeze, saying goodbye to expectation. Wave goodbye the cloud-thoughts into eternal rest." Jasmine breathed long with a tucked chin, expanding her chest. The sports bra stretched to it's limit, her stomach disappearing into jagged rib-bones.
Rubbernecking from the back, a feral late teen was unable to collapse his eyelids. The clouds he saw were bulging and welcoming him in. He wanted to sleep between those clouds. His thoughts drifted to worse.
Jasmine let out a pursed lips exhale. Blowing a steady wind into the room. "Stay here, wherever you may have drifted, and be with your being, be with your self, you are safe with yourself."
Jack, the awestruck teen, was slack-jaw and twitching, even less able to still himself as the others. He rustled in his seat, tugging at his restrictive pant leg.
Jack Badgett was descendant of Pacific Palisade royalty. Though his name was unknown to virtually everyone, at home he was known by anyone who you needed to know you. His affluenza induced rebellion was not yet scandal, so he had landed himself at the center by order of his step-mother to keep his exploits under wraps.
Jack didn't mind rehab. He found the other participants to be more exciting than any of his friends. In his town, having a real story was grounds for exile.
Jack liked stories.
‘Tha 5’, a freeway that would take you nowhere in 5 minutes, or sometimes bring you to the next exit in 50, was no place to be at 5 o'clock. But it was past 6 by now, and there were moments when every taillight in front of you wasn't red. Bert needed those moments.
An overly tall, obviously underutilized short bed pickup took up it's whole lane with stanced tires and the FORD logo stretched embarassingly across the tailgate. Bert had no gripe with this sort of vehicle, though he did struggle to relate with those who drove them. A sticker living at the corner of the back window identified the driver. It read: ‘LIFT IT, fat girls can't jump’ Inevitably, this man's girlfriend was fat, and proud of it.
this is player #1. player 1 is excitable.
Two cars ahead, a sleek black mini-van overused his blinkers to ensure his ‘baby on board’ wasn't dented in the daring maneuvers. A stick figure sticker alerted Bert to the contents of the vehicle. A wife—wow that's a novelty nowadays—two girls and a baby boy. Whether this was a pride sticker or an invitation for serial killers to note potential witnesses, nobody knew.
not even player #2 knows why he had bought it.
As was customary in rush hour, a big rig inched along as the only death machine leaving adequate space ahead for a surprise stoppage. Every Japanese low rider or Eurotrash sedan exploited the gap, wigglewobbling into the space with no blinker.
If Bert could count on those types to do anything but erratic, they would be players too. Instead, he would try to fit their style, and took mental notes of their movements.
sorry big-rig, you are player #3.
Bert matched his rice-rocket competitor energy, weaving in a seemingly expert way to the fast lane. The far left lane was not moving fast. The Lincoln casually merged to a middle lane, using it's blinker the whole way. The difference in strategy left the chase vehicle two cars back.
Bert used the next few go's to demonstrate to any defensive driver around him that he didn't care if there was an unexpected collision today, he would be making his destination a whole 20 seconds before everyone else, no matter what it took. At the next stop he planned his escape.
A ‘Through traffic merge left’ sign alerted Bert of his opportunity. The semi-truck was in the far right lane.
A demonstration was at hand, Bert's little Honda bobbed and weaved, nestling in behind the mini-van. He was now close enough to read the ‘If you can read this you're too close’ sticker. He kissed the sticker lovingly with his bumper, flashing a maniacal wide grin to the rear-view in front of him.
player 2 is now active.
The mini-van now communicated in the only way he was comfortable, with ill timed brake checks.
perfect.
Bert surged and stopped abruptly, coming close to tagging the mini-van. Before he took his chance, the pickup was approaching from an adjacent lane. It surged even more sporadically than Bert. Without warning, the tiny Honda snuck, nearly out of lifted-truck eyesight between the closing gap.
player 1 is now active.
Bert caught a glance of Player 2, who nervously looked over in a split state of anxiety and frustration, attempting to better grasp why he was being so tortured.
he had warned the world with his stickers that he was a pushover
why on earth would anyone take advantage?
Meanwhile Player 1 had taken on Bert's previous antics, nearly monster-trucking over top of the little Honda. The big-rig casually slid left to into the next lane, paying no attention to Bert's antagonism. Bert could see the illegible chalkboard green sign spanning the freeway ahead. He was all too familiar with the poorly placed notification, just past the exit, almost too late for an inexperienced Angelino to take notice before being trapped on the Southbound exit.
The lumbering Lincoln had woken up to Bert's tactics, and began closing the gap aggressively. They were now sharing lanes, three cars between them.
With Player 1 properly boiling, Bert mirrored Player 2's brake check regime, further torturing the energy drink fueled moron. Player 2 grew more nervous with each screech. As the exit neared, Bert left a sizeable gap, then sped dangerously in front of the mini-van. The plasticized bumper creased and squealed against Bert's antique steel exposed tail frame. Immediately hazard lights illuminated as the mini-van slowed, followed by a friendly bleep-honk, signaling Bert of his mistake.
The pickup was still hot, possibly even exalted into knighthood from witnessing such atrocities. Bert sped away, executing a no-collision version of maneuver again on an unsuspecting sedan. He pinged and ponged up near the semi-truck, lifted pickup now aggressively in tow.
The white chalk lettering on green now came into view, prompting a blinker from the big-rig.
player 3 is now active.
Trailing just annoyingly in the way of the big-rig, Bert held his position. Before Player 3 could make his move, Player 1 ignorantly cut-off Bert, aggressively jockeying for the lane. The semi's air brakes hissed at the drama. An urgent merge was looming. In trepidation, Player 2 followed one car back. Behind him was the Lincoln.
With the lane beside him a now truck sized empty, Bert swung left around the pickup, returning the favor. Player 3 backed off, sensing an explosion from Player 1. With the hesitation, Bert made his move, darting in front of the anticipated free space left from the big-rig. The pickup played along, rushing as fast as he could ahead to play bumper-car with Bert. With all the commotion, the mini-van lagged, and the Lincoln made a move past him, tensely inching forward.
As the white lined Y grew larger, Bert casually slowed, allowing the pickup to block the view of his tail. Player 1's passenger window lowered, preparing for a witty battle of words. The exit grew further away. The black Lincoln frustratingly surged, trying similar moves with too much hesitation. They no longer had sight of Bert's Honda.
was Chubbie the owner of Chubbies or are they calling me fat?
The converted double-wide wasn't hiding its roots. A flickering street light lived permanently outside. It didn't seem to bother Chubbie, or whoever now owned the tacky standalone diner. Rowland was too hungry to wait, and had arrived considerably early to enjoy the anti-posh ambiance that he so dearly loved. There were many things Rowland did not care for in L.A., malaimed affluence was at the top of his list.
if we all could just re-aim our boredom, particularly the wealthy, there would be far less unnecessary suffering in the world.
Rowland's shoulders settled as he yanked open the chronically stuck left door. The right seemed to have never worked, but the restaurant managed regardless, apparently not needing double doors. It was especially interesting on slow nights, the staff wagering judgmentally which patron would pick the wrong door first, or more comically, who would bump awkwardly on their way out. There was a running tally for those who under-tipped and how often they would be swiftly dealt sweet karmic retribution. Rowland enjoyed knowing these things as an observer, and would likely have fun being part of the grand joke, but something about the distance, the perceptive seclusion, being the only person that knew, he knew. It was a sacred sort of thing, not that they were much hiding it, or could. He was sure that most regulars had picked up on the raucous sneering and "got em!"s. It was the cozy narcissism of the group that made them lovable, like they were their own sitcom: everyone was welcome to watch, but hey weren't going to let you make the jokes.
"What'll it be tonight, hun." Sherice was too young to be talkin’ like a southern mama, and too attractive to be working at a diner. There were too many places in L.A. that would pay to exploit her charm.
"Grand Slam, extra butter" Rowland savored his order as if he was already having his meal. "Sunny-side, links. No toast." The waitress stayed glued to her pad. "And a coffee, extra mug too, I'll be meeting someone shortly."
"You want me to leave that mug empty for fillin when they come?"
"Exactly, ya, thanks."
The coffee came quick and light, diner style, expectant of unflavored creamer and sugar if you preferred. It was the type of place that brought you oatmeal if you asked for oat milk. A dying breed, but one Rowland would die for. The coffee was hot and fresh, that's all that mattered to... well, anyone that mattered.
Rowland propped elbows on the table, cupping both hands on the thick-walled disaster-proof mug and keeping the joy close to his lips, sipping patiently.
Atop a roadside perch, Bert dragged on an ember, relishing his flawless execution. He had in some ways expected it all to go wrong, and be dragging ass to a lonely evening instead, or a haughty bout with police.
Dodgers stadium backed by a Downtown skyline imbued a picturesque nostalgia to his escapades. A playback of clueless pigeon heads bobbing the Lincoln replayed above Bert's open smile. The moment could only have been sweeter if they saw him pulling casually away from the whole incident, all involved trapped in joint frustration as they inch-wormed forward, their enemy sliding off scot-free.
A tinge of guilt crossed his mind, quickly chuckled away at the insignificance of the damaged caused. Only egos were harmed during the stunt, and a flimsy mini-van bumper. He'd take the karmic retribution for that, if there was one.
"Cya in 20." Bert zipped off a text to his liaison. He'd give everyone ample time to double-back, or continue on their way before he hopped on the freeway. It was a straight shot to the meetup.
The two successful entrepreneurs licked remnants of their exploits from sticky palms. They sat in that contentment, not considering what may come of the leftover ice cream, or how their guardians would most definitely be informed of their disobedience. Neither cared in that moment, least of all Syd, who knew that a trip to the city wasn't just a trip to the city. It never was. The way that Papa packed for short trips was not the way he was packing for this one.
The contentment of a successful heist was shortened by the realization that Syd didn't care, that pranks and money were fun, but not something she really cared for. The toxicity of NYC was already trickling into her bones. Money, power, prestige; counterfeit, empty, banal.
A fragmented memory played as evidence for Syd's hypotheses. On a similar night, but differently a night that was wrought with failure for the two hooligans, Syd and Joey watched unmarked, but obviously official vehicles kick up dust clouds as they hustled down roads that weren't meant for hustling. Syd knew where those vehicles were going, and wished in that moment she was as fast as them. That night she would also watch them speed the opposite direction as she rushed home. Papa was not himself that night. The disturbance shook him for weeks, not in the way that made him useless, but in the way that seeps sneakily into every moment, infecting every joy or sorrow with unease.
That same tinge of unrest lingered as the sun descended. Syd peeked around for cars approaching, but none came. Joey slurped in ignorance.
Rowland didn't stand or smile or shake a hand, he simply nodded, and Bert did too. They both liked that, not needing to guess and flirt with different gestures, or broadcast to the little world that watched a signal of the level of their bond. They were symbiotic patrons of each other's skill-sets, like a frog and a tarantula. But both knew that either could end each other's little game. They didn't know which was the tarantula, that's what made it fun.
"So, what's this about a data set?" Bert lifted his empty mug for a server to take notice.
Rowland's plates had already been cleared. There was no menu on the table.
"You hungry? I already ate."
"Coffee is fine." He raised his mug again, turning this time.
"New York, one of these impoverished wealthy sections. Brooklyn, I think. Trendy Brooklyn."
"A house? Empty, I suspect."
"Whole apartment, in between other apartments."
"Bold."
"No casualties."
"Someone must be noticing. A building doesn't just disappear."
"It's New York."
"Exactly, 9/11 is still raw."
"Nobody died this time."
"It doesn't matter. There are more people like me and you."
"But we can't talk to each other, not safely."
"Just the coffee, hun?" Sherice materialized from the ether.
"Pie?"
"Apple, punkn', maybe a peach. Could be cherry."
"The surprise one, with a scoop of vanilla."
The waitress curtsied in a light almost unnoticeable way, finishing the coffee top off.
"It's a fun noodler, like a harmless game."
"Maybe it is to them too?"
"Is this one worth following up?"
"I have my hands full." Bert took a long swig of the mediocre coffee.
"Not much for you to review anyways. You know anyone in New York?"
"Ya... old co-worker, curious type. No skills though, but he'd know the area."
Rowland stared off. Bert didn't sound interested. A lonely crusader is always labeled a zealot. It wasn't much fun without a compatriot. "Yea, I don’t know. I just got goosebumps about this one."
"It sounds fun. Like I said, just busy. I'm making good on an old favor, short timeline. Doubt the players are on the same court."
"What kind of game?"
"Dunno yet, can't even tell if they are serious or just desperate." Bert performed as more experienced, he had the demeanor to blend into shadier circles. He knew how to talk more cryptically. Despite his callous demeanor, he was more personable, more capable of sliding into the right social circles.
Rowland operated better unnoticed.
"I do need your help." Bert offered, as if he was doing Rowland a favor.
"Hmmm?" Rowland's interest waned.
"Pseudo-gossip from Aleraco, my in with a publisher. Needs to be believable. But something only insiders know."
"They are building a new office." Rowland tossed out a juiceless detail.
"Sounds lame."
"Ya, not sure, I don't know much about it, not my sector." Rowland didn't have connections inside of Aleraco. He was basically an upgraded mail-room clerk at a contract logistics branch, but with less access to buildings and more access to meaningless data.
"What would it take?"
"I could sift, but it would probably cost my job. My boss is up my ass, and I'm behind. I can't slow down for that right now."
"Someone else? Just need the start of a good story."
"I know the right water cooler, but they don't know me. Sounds like you don't have time, might be better off with fiction."
Bert growled. His pie arrived, the liquefying sugar-cream soaked down the edges of the oversized slice. He poked into both hastily, attempting to win the race to keep the cream iced. Rowland sipped his coffee patiently.
"I'm going to try and pull some old, but now-newsworthy events in. I don't think we are seeing it because the events aren't compiled." Rowland continued about his project.
"There has to be more than one guy. Like a decentralized alliance. The events are too quick, in too many places, for no particular reason." Bert piled portions of the slice impatiently into his mouth. "That—" He mumbled through the peach filling. "That ‘ew know’ff."
"That I know..." It was an obvious response, but it sank in like ancient wisdom. "Okay. Why would you do it?"
Bert's mood had suddenly turned friendly and playful, as if now he didn't need anything from Rowland. His words lacked any transaction, no pro quos. Bert slugged coffee to force the remnant chunks down. He licked cream off his spoon. "Why would I start blowing up houses? And apartments, and probably some other stuff that people wouldn't notice??"
"Ya" Rowland led on.
"Uhhh, for practice?"
"How's that?"
"If you are gonna do something really big and really... evil, or whatever. You would need to know you could achieve all the sub-elements of your big evil plan." Bert continued inhaling his pie. Rowland let the pieces float about, looking for a home in his brain. "'nd I gue—'f—were to need a lawt of pewple," Bert swallowed, "I'd have to know what they were capable of, too. But I'd have to make sure we were unaffiliated during tryouts, just in case."
"Sure." 'just in case' reverberated in his skull.
"So..." Bert continued "So I'd set up some sort of—"
"Cult?"
"No, no, cults are too flashy, too sexy. People notice cults. Plus there is always an obvious leader, and he's the one who always gets caught. Always. This all suggests the guy in charge wants to stay hidden."
"So, what do you do? Can't pay them, then there's a trail."
"Don't know, an anonymous manifesto? In person visits? Maybe the candidates are groomed outside of traceable channels."
"It doesn't line up.. I just can't imagine ragtag, aimless morons collaborating in perfect execution."
"I dunno, those demolition crews aren't Harvard material. It only takes one experienced dissident to organize harmonic destruction."
"Professionals? That brings us back to money. Construction workers don't work for the joy of it."
Bert poked around his plate for little crust flakes, mopping up the creamified plate. "Extortion? Blackmail? Good ole death threats?"
"Successful. Influential. Nobodies." Rowland counted up by raising his fingers, identifying the correlation. "None of which collaborate to get a quality result."
"Huh." Bert returned to his coffee. "What if it was like... a trade, or a competition. You submit your adversary, and if someone wanted a favor, they'd take out the target, and you would return the favor somehow. I don't know, like dark web shit."
"A criminal's honor system, common man." Rowland wasn't chuckling at this point. He wasn't so concerned with solving it anymore. There wasn't enough data to solve it. But Bert was hilarious when you steered him down one of these rabbit holes, and he always found something stashed in them, even if it wasn't what you were looking for.
"In any case, it's not really about who is doing it. It's about the victims. The real victims." Bert paused for emphasis. "Nobody is losing anything over this. The buildings fall, nobody is hurt. Insurance probably pays out, but if they don't , these are like second houses for those assholes, so like, I don't know, write off the loss and buy an island instead. Or a mega-yacht." He shrugged, looking out the window. Rowland joined him.