Mindefusement

The following is a short story. Caution: language

“What we’re talking about is a cheap and easy way to kill your enemies.”

It certainly didn’t seem cheap, and it certainly didn’t seem easy.

You see, I have what some would call a societal stigma. I’m fucked in the head, as some would put it. A bit of a loner, a bit of a sociopath, and perhaps a closet serial killer. I’m one of those guys that if their neighbors were hacked to death, and someone were to drag me out in cuffs, the other neighbors would be like, “Yeah, that fucker was nuts, man.” I wouldn’t be some innocent-looking dude where someone says, “Man, I didn’t think he was capable of doing that.” No, I’m the Kubrick-looking dude that induces the rape-reflex if a lady sees me walking in her direction at night.

It wasn’t always this way. Yeah, I may have had one of those fucked childhoods that supposedly drives people mad, but I can’t pin anything on one particular moment.

“And not to bring up your illness, sir, but we’ve had CEOs of major corporations utilize our services.”

Yeah, like a CEO is incapable of being nuts. They’re the most degenerate, unethical bastards I can think of. Let’s work people until they break, pay them shit, and destroy an ecosystem or two. Awesome, here’s your reward.

“But if a CEO is on your hit-list, we won’t tell.”

Ah, a joke. What if I told them they were on my hit list? That they’d be starring in their own fucking movie. I’d pay a premium for that.

It was my psychiatrist’s idea. We were exploring coping mechanisms. The alcohol and drugs had to go. Alcohol is too depressing, and for crazy people, drugs fuck with your head. Or, at least, that’s the quick answer.

The problem with alcohol and drugs is that the issue is masked. The mind can’t cope without them. Go off the shit, it’s like re-learning the damn alphabet. You have a shit day at work? Yeah, smoke some weed and forget about your day. Now you have a shit day, you have to come home and face that shit. Watch TV. Listen to music. Read a book. All while trying to block out that you’ll be facing the same torment tomorrow.

Coping mechanism. After a while, with shit bothering you so much all the time, you learn the best coping mechanism is to just not care. Which leads to this wonderful thing called sociopathy.

You could see a dead girl stuffed in a trash can and not bat an eyelash. Sure, you’d call the authorities, but you’d be so calm about it, they’d think you did it. “Sir, why are you so calm right now?” “I don’t know, because I see the same shit on SVU every other week?”

“We will turn your fantasy into reality. This is just one subset of the services we offer.”

I can see why my psychiatrist recommended these guys. This barely legal business wants to take your money to make your sick and twisted fantasy into reality. He tells me I’m already thinking it. Perhaps wishing it. All I need to do is experience it to get some closure.

What he doesn’t know is this is just one of my sick and twisted fantasies. I have a room in my head dedicated to carnage that no violent first-person-shooter can undo. It’s just floating around.

Some barista mispronounces my name, and I already see his death. I’d carve my name into his forehead and make him repeat my name in front of a mirror until he lost his voice. Then I’d dangle him by his feet from the tallest tower, watch him squirm a bit, then cut him loose and watch his corpse explode on the sidewalk below.

The next day, the news would be all over it, looking for a motive. “Yeah, he said my name wrong. That’s why I killed him” They would understand and a plaque would be set up in my honor. Baristas would suddenly become experts on pronouncing names.

Or, at least, that’s how the fantasy works. In reality, I hear the butchering of my name, ignore it, and drink my damn latte. But death is coming to you, fucking barista.

“So are you ready to turn your fantasy into reality?”

Their small Skype screen on my computer wasn’t enough to mask their enthusiasm. Go to an obscure website, enter your social, pay a deposit, and boom, you have an asshole pitching you a service over the Internet.

Your deposit will be fully refunded if you choose not to pursue our services.

Great to know, and I imagine they use the deposit to weed out those who are just amateur fantasists.

“So,” I asked, “Walk me through your process and what I have to do.”

The dude’s enthusiasm went into overdrive. An obvious salesman.

“Well, let’s talk about the hard part. Money. It’s thirty-thousand up front. That’ll walk you through the story-boarding and scripting process. You will have full creative control, obviously.”

My psychiatrist is probably getting a cut.

“The thirty-thousand is basically writing a movie script?”

“Well, that’s essentially what we’re doing for you. We’re turning that fantasy you have into an ultra-realistic movie that you can enjoy over and over. And it’s made exclusively for you.”

I’ll need dozens of these.

“Assuming we go through this movie script process, then what?”

“We’ll review the story-boards and script, and then give you an estimate on production costs.”

They weren’t kidding when they said they were making a movie. Is this what Michael Bay does when he’s tired of making shit movies?

“And what are we looking at for production costs?”

“Well, this is the complicated part. We have a base crew and director, so that cost is generally fixed. But we may need to find actors, build sets, set the graphics guys loose.”

“Yeah?”

“And if your fantasy involves a real person, we’ll need to do some scouting, and create an extensive personal profile for our actors.”

I imagine this would be problematic if my fantasy included heads of state. Luckily for me, it’s just some idiot scumbag who Instagrams his perfect life every five minutes.

“You can’t give me a figure?”

“I can’t guarantee a figure, sir, no. Some fantasies are five minutes long. Some have gone up to an hour.”

An hour of torture sounds pretty epic to me.

“No ballpark?”

“The best I can give you is approximately $10,000 a minute.”

I think I’ll leave off half of the torture scene.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

I felt my bank account immediately suffer, but my trip to the moon can wait.

“Fantastic. Anna from billing will give you a call tomorrow to set everything up, and you’ll get access to the VIP section of our website where you’ll be walked through our entire process.”

VIP section? Here’s your special club for thinking like a psycho. Maybe I should create a Tinder for crazy people.

“That sounds great.”

I hung up. I hate the pillow-talk at the end of sales calls.

I should make a fantasy about salespeople and force him to watch it.