I unkink my neck with a stretch, then dig into research on Katy Dee. She’s just a baby. Twenty-two years of age living right here in NYC. She’s an artist whose focus is on saving endangered animals. Her most popular art prints—zebras, pandas, and other various black-and-white mammals—were picked up by a known clothing brand, and the line proudly touts its use of all natural material.
I roll my eyes. All material is natural. But honestly, the mesh of sateen and voile boasts to be both posh and comfortable. I buy a few shirts before I tank Katy. What Rochelle doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Okay—so what Rochelle is asking for technically can’t be done. Well, it can be, but the nerds will have Katy’s account back up not long after I take it down. She might not even register a blip in inactivity.
But there are other ways to nix a social media account. One just has to be creative.
I set the password cracker—that I proudly coded myself—and then go downstairs to make a cocktail. As I return to the loft, I’m surprised to see that my program has already cracked Katy’s Instagram password.
Pandas1234.
“Christ,” I mutter. Someone this naive is just asking for it. But her password gives me a terrible idea—and I love those.
I set to Googling endangered species hunters, and within a few minutes I find what I’m looking for. Brooke Cannon, a young socialite herself, likes to brag to the world about her number of kills. She’s quite the little serial killer of the world’s most endangered animals. And lucky me, she has a photo of her standing next to a dead panda—pink riffle held high in the air—that she shot herself.
How much sport is there in shooting a panda? Even I’m a little mortified.
More research proves that pandas bring in a lot of money for their fur.
Perfect.
With a little help from Photoshop, I have a believable pic of Katy Dee and Brooke sitting together and laughing over chardonnay as they toast the good life. The image goes up on Katy’s account. The post reads:
Throw back to that time me and my gal pal Brooke partied together! She was the inspiration for my panda prints!
/> I make sure to tag Brooke (so all Katy’s followers can hop over and take a gander at the mortifying images she posts to her account), and hashtag the shit out of the post, so every activist in the world will see.
I admit, I’m getting a small thrill out of this. It’s not my best work, but when something goes viral, there’s this surge of adrenaline. And Katy Dee’s post goes viral in a nanosecond.
My work here isn’t quite done, though.
Any journalist worth their salt will uncover the lie here, rushing to come to the aid of Katy and her reputation. But an even hungrier, greedy journalist will salivate over the opportunity to prove it true.
Hey, I’m not the bad guy here. The world loves a scandal. Give them a hero to shred, and the claws come out.
I create a metadata trail that can be traced, proving the two girls have been in communication over the past year. Deleted and backdated email logs. Internet HTML receipts of likes and social media shares from each other’s accounts that were deleted.
Then I bundle the proof into a zip file and shoot it across the Internet to one lucky journalist from my anonymous email account.
I sip my whiskey sour as I refresh Katy’s Instagram account, watching her followers abandon ship by the thousands.
My phone rings. A glance at the display shows it’s Ericson.
That didn’t take long.
One last sip of cocktail and I answer: “Naughty Playroom Escorts.”
His voice isn’t even bashful. No hint of shame. “I need an escort for this Friday evening.”
“Yes, sir”—he is dominant, therefore I am subservient in my response—“any special requests that we can accommodate?”
He lists his preferences. Blonde (of course; check). Meek (submissive; I’ll work on that). As he will be attending a company outing, the escort is to be dressed accordingly. Over the past few weeks, I’ve observed his “company outings”, so I know just what to give him.
The date is booked, and I end the call by taking his credit card number. Hell, no reason I can’t have Ericson pay twice for his own revenge.
I recline back in my chair and lace my fingers together, my mind diving deep into the plot. I like to watch it play out mentally, like on a TV screen, so I can visualize the outcome. It helps me uncover any obstacles and required contingencies.
The art of revenge is all about knowing your target. Know what will hurt them. The design of the retaliation has to be appropriately measured in direct and equal comparison to the slight against their victim…my client.