INTRO
Everyone knows addiction,
violence, and video games are what life is all about. People are addicted to
food, drugs, TV, spending, and everything else. Our brains normalize the
violence around us so much that we do not fear the possibility of being a
victim. Many of our social lives are led through our game consoles and tablets.
I wanted to write a short story that was in the vein of an episode of The
Twilight Zone. The above were my inspirations, below is my story.
 | |||||||||||||
| Rod Serling, badass American storyteller. |
“Shootman”
By
James Hogan
Head Shot, Head Shot, and Head Shot! Yes, I had finally defeated Tequila Dorito
and his cartel henchmen.Time to go after Vito Bologna and his mafia
lackeys. I just have to wait for a recharge so that the game will remain
free to play.
I play the game Shootman
on my tablet. The game gives me a list of criminals and then I have to build up
an arsenal of sniper rifles to kill them with. I pride myself for not giving
into the temptations of buying weapons upgrades or time recharges. Electronic
content is outrageously priced and the ads never cease. I really want that SKR
2309 sniper rifle but it costs twenty dollars. That is money I do not have to
give away. So I just keep plugging away at Shootman whenever
I can. The game has become quite addicting.
I have played the game for months. Sometimes the game distracts me from the
real world. Family functions are few and far. My home is the only place that Shootman gets its
deserved attention. Friends and family interfere with my scope focused mind. So
now I try to leave the house as little as possible. I do get lonely, oh well
I’m alive despite being a slave to the game. Head Shot!
Pixelated heads explode as
computer programmed bullets cut through nonexistent air inside a nonexistent
world, inside my tablet. Head Shot! The game cheers me on; I am filled with
instant gratification. Half stoned and sunk into the couch, I wholeheartedly
accept all praise extolled onto me by the game. I am not such a bad ass in the
real world. I have no job, unmet goals, and do not get a lot of things done
because I need to be near the game when the time to kill comes.
My days are spent running,
reading, watching movies, trying to keep up on house work and Shootman. Running
down pixelated gangsters with ease, my thumbs are quick and my bullets fierce
and I am alone with this game of death, I am alone in general. Toss in my
addictive personality with loneliness and you have yourself a stone cold video
game killer. The game is all I am really good at, I am tethered to its will.
I had started to schedule my days around the
game. Shoot, gym, kill, clean, shoot, eat, and Head Shot! Most of my feelings
are gone and have I no idea how full my sanity gauge reads. Close to empty I
would guess, that gadget busted a while back. I remain sedate and comply to the
games mission orders. Head Shot!
Every human head I saw
became a target. It was hard for me to go out in public, disturbed by the lack
of holes in heads. I would rather not navigate through humanity to see ahead of
me. How could I ever see past all those heads? I had gotten used to seeing the
world through a hole in the head. I decided to limit my outdoor excursions to
the gym. The gym was hard to figure though. I had to always try and get there during
slow hours. When the gym was busy I would end up staring at the back of six or
more heads bobbing up and down, dripping blood everywhere from their makeshift
bullet hole windows... I spend much of my time at home.
One day I wasted three hours
playing Shootman.
I had only planned on an hour. Feeling guilty, I did chores. It would take at
least an hour for my missions to recharge and it should give my brain time to
start up, and activate, only to become paralyzed by a mantra of “Headshots!”,
until it powered down completely again for bedtime.
I thought about all the game
grinding ahead until I would level up while I cleaned the kitchen. I dwelled on
upcoming targets while vacuuming. I went into an automatic mode of mundane
house work until the game recharged. Shaken from auto mode, I heard three
knocks at my front door.
The knocks came with such authority I thought the
police would be waiting outside. Who was this man projected through my
peephole? I assumed that he wanted to talk to me about God.
He was a trim Latino man wearing
khaki pants, and white short- sleeve dress top. Usually these guys had the
black tie and backpack. He sported a slicked back short-worn pompadour and a
pencil thin mustache that gave him look of Errol Flynn. Anyone else would have
looked like John Waters but this guy's style worked.
I opened the door and greeted the
gentleman with curt “Hello”.
“Excuse me sir. Are you Christopher Downs?”
He was definitely an outsider without a clue of who I am. Why is this dude at
my door? He does not carry himself like a salesman or Jehovah. Cop maybe?
I have not had a speeding ticket
in two years and only break one law consistently. I really like pot. Could he
be a bill collector? I cannot think of any outstanding debt. Hell, I don’t even
have a credit card. Whatever his reason for showing up, I hoped he would be
quick with his pitch. There were missions to be won.
“Yeah, I'm Chris. What do
you want?”
He looked me up and down,
chuckled, and said quietly “What do I want?” Raising his voice he said
confidently “Sir, my name is Jeff, Jeff Dorito and we need to have a talk.”
“Like the chips?” I say.
Hilarious, he had the same moniker
as the corporate abomination of the corn chip. Blue ranch extreme heat pizza
flavored snack chip anyone? While berating this man’s name in my head and
before he could respond to my first question, I had an epiphany. I stood in
front of this Jeff, tearing up from withholding my laughter.
“Are you related to Tequila
Dorito?” I asked.
“Mother fucker!” said Jeff Dorito.
I then saw a glint of steel pass
my nose before a big ass “real” gun popped me in the forehead.I was propelled
through my door, barrel digging into my thin head skin, and thrown into the
wall. Boom! My head thumped off of the wall. For an average looking guy, Jeff
was fucking strong.
Slam!
I thought I had been shot. Most
likely it was the front door slamming. Either way, I understood that Jeff
Dorito was closing us off from reality and the outside world. Another blur of
steel, several fists to the face, and I was out cold.
“Wake up Mr. Downs. We still
need to talk.” Jeff said while slapping the side of my head and face. “It has
been a long time since I have personally dealt the pain Mr. Downs. It feels
good, familiar, like returning home. Who do you work for Mr. Downs?”
I tasted blood. Hell, I could
barely see because my eyes were swollen half-shut, everything in front of me is
blurred. All seemed to be melting except for blotches of shadow that obstructed
my right eye, then my left. Jeff must have been pacing.
“Mr. Downs who do you work for?”
Jeff repeated.
“I don’t work.” I sputtered.
“Shut up! What agency are you
with? How long did you have eyes on my father?” he asked.
“Honestly Jeff, I have no idea
what you are talking about. I barley leave the house, man. I don't know your
dad. I have never been in an agency or have had “eyes on” people, ever.” I
said.
“Tequila Dorito?” he asked.
“You mentioned him when I arrived.”
“What the Fuck?” I yelled.
Screaming at someone that has your life in their hands isn’t always a great
idea. “He is from the game Shootman, it’s a sniper game. Tequila Dorito was the
Level Two mob boss.”
“Don’t play dumb with me!” he
threatened.
“No Jeff, it’s a game.” I said.
“Grab my tablet off of the kitchen table. I’ll show you, it’s just a game. The
developers must have used your dad’s name or something”.
“Don’t move.” Jeff said,
shaking his pistol in my direction.
I could see my tablet
without it even being visible. It was to the right of the National Geographic,
under the cable bill. I sat on my couch watching a stranger shuffle through the
accumulated junk mail and magazines.I hoped he would trip and shoot himself.
Jeff charged back, pointing the
gun in my direction. He opened the tablet and stared at it moving his head back
and forth, like a cat watching a laser beam. His posture slackened as he
lowered the gun to his side. He slowly shook his head some more.
He walked over and sat next to me
on the couch, all the while keeping his gun pointed my direction. Still shaking
his head, he stared into my eyes and said “Mother Fucker!?!”, I don’t think he
was calling me a mother fucker. This angry little home invader looked just as in
shock and confused as me over the whole situation. Good, eat it Jeff Dorito.
BLAM! He shot the tablet.
Tiny shards of plastic flew up, some stuck into my right cheek. The cushion was
burned to hell and my ears felt like a large needle was piercing through from
one to the other. I wasn’t deaf; I heard ringing and muffled chatter. The
chatter slowly amplified into screaming.
“You ready to talk?” Jeff
yelled. “Do you hear me? We still need to have a talk about this Shootman
shit”.
“I can hear you” I answered. “What
do you think? Do you believe me now? I just play a game that happened to use
your dad’s name. I’m just a lazy dude that enjoys playing games and staying
home. I did not kill your dad!”
With a calm and soft tone Jeff
said, “Yeah you did.”
“What?” I asked.
“Here’s the deal Mr. Downs,
thirteen months ago my father and twenty-eight of his men were shot and killed
by a sniper. Our men, the ones left alive after the massacre, searched the highest,
lowest, and most secluded points around our compound. They found nothing, no
evidence of outsiders coming to our island and no trace of any sniper nests. We
tortured some known local criminals and their families, no one talked. I had
men investigating for months to no avail. Then three months ago my father’s
partner, Don Bologna, gets taken out”
My first thought at hearing the
Don’s name is “Head Shot!” I interrupt Jeff, asking “Vito Bologna? He’s real?”
“Yeah” Jeff replied “I saw his
name in your game, a few other people I know too.”
“Jeff man, I don’t know any of
these people. Please let me go, I won’t say nothing dude. Look I don’t know
what brought you to me but I have nothing to do with this.”
“Listen to me Mr. Downs”
Jeff said. “Don Bologna’s men shot down a drone. They bought to me said drone.
I put my best tech men and hackers on dismantling and getting to its brains.
Get into the brains, get to the shooter Mr. Downs.” He paused for a moment
staring through my eyes to the back of my skull. My soul burned. Then he
continued “My men worked hard and long, one man died trying to retrieve the
drone’s hard drive. It was a tough job but they retrieved its information. Do
you know what we found?”
“No. What Jeff Dorito?” I
interrupted.
“Shut up Mr. Downs, we found
almost nothing. All we found were GPS coordinates to the domiciles of many a
prominent gangster, an extended list of names including all those on your so
called game, and an IP Address. That IP Address is yours Mr. Downs.”
“No way” I said.
“Yes Mr. Downs.” Jeff Dorito
said before slamming his fist into my jaw.
BLAM! Not a fist, I couldn't hear
anything, oh fuck, I coudn't see anything….
**
I woke up in a hospital bed,
feeling weak, hungry, and had blurred vision. I was informed that I have been
in a coma for over a year. My face, they said, was disfigured and that I would
probably remain hospitalized for about another year if all goes well with
rehabilitation. I was bed ridden for what was going to feel like an eternity, I
should just be thankful to be alive. They told me many drugs will be available
for the duration of my stay, the two white blurs pull away, becoming doctors as
they exited and my vision cleared.
After some time and hard work, I
regained the use of my arms. I’m not walking yet but the thought of adjusting
my own bed and changing channels is exhilarating.
One day after physical therapy, I
noticed a package on the night stand. Once settled back into my bed I gave it a
look. Holy Shit! Someone left me a brand new, current gen tablet. I turned it
on, let it load and a message popped up.
Mr. Downs,
Shootman 2 Pre-loaded
Thank You for your
service.
The message held for about two
minutes, then disappeared.
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