You can’t just spread a rumor about someone on social media. Or slap some graffiti on a billboard. That’s artless, and frankly, lazy.
No, as a bully, Ericson Daverns needs his face pushed into an ant bed.
Identify
Alex
The sound of the ticking secondhand is the soundtrack to my life.
I flip out the pewter pocket watch from my jean pocket. Click the spring cover open. It’s too dark to see the exact time, too loud in the night club to actually hear the tick, but checking the timepiece is a compulsion. It reminds me of why I’m here—that time is limited.
The tension in my shoulders eased, I tuck the watch into my pocket. Then I sip the club soda on the tiny industrial table before me. The club erupts with a pulse of flashing lights and a foghorn, sending a splintering shard through my skull. The clustered bodies on the dance floor gyrate even closer, hands lifted in the air, as if praising the god of debauchery.
The scene is ironic. In ancient Egypt, dance was used to tell the story of the gods—how the mother of creation established order through her song and dance. The ancients often danced in near-nude attire. They didn’t view nudity the way we do now; lust wasn’t a mortal sin.
As I look around at all the bare mid-drifts and revealing skin meant to lure in, a caustic thought comes to mind, how two thousand years of religious pruning has influenced civilization. Where once the body was worshiped and not viewed as a lecherous sexual device, being told no, do not look, touch, want has made the human anatomy the most sinful desire in the modern world.
Everybody wants a taste of the forbidden.
Unless you have a higher purpose—one that makes you immune to temptation.
As such, this isn’t my typical type of hangout. I don’t “hang out.” Maybe I should’ve brought someone with me, looked less suspicious, less like a creep. But again, time.
I don’t have enough of it to waste.
At thirty-seven, I’ve been alive for 13,608 days. I’m in good health, so if I die of natural causes, that leaves me approximately 15,592 days left…if my mind holds out to age eighty.
My father died of a heart attack at age sixty-four. The men on my mother’s side have battled testicular cancer. I get regular check-ups, and my blood pressure is decent. Foregoing any unanticipated diseases or accidents, I could gain an extra few years out of my life expectancy.
A minimum of thirty-five years left to develop a cure.
To the average person, thirty-some-odd years may seem like plenty—but when speaking scientific breakthrough, a lifetime is hardly enough.
As I mentally break down the math, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look at the woman in a black slinky dress to my right.
“You look deep in thought,” she says. Her eyes are heavily rimmed in black kohl, her smiling lips red and plump. The dress is tight and leaves nothing to the imagination.
Buying time, I take another swallow of soda. Then: “I’m not interested.” I turn my attention to the front door of the night club. I waited in line for two hours to get inside. I’m not missing a single person that passes through.
I can just make out her offended scoff over the blaring music, but the “asshole” is perfectly audible as she storms away.
I’m sure she’s on her way to her friends to complain about the asshole who blew her off, and that’s fair. She and her friends are not what I’m searching for. The first step in the scientific method is to identify.
I’ll know it when I see it.
After another few minutes, the bouncer unhooks the velvet rope and admits a group of suits. Four men in black tailored business attire. Expensive. Important. This piques my interest, and I watch as they lead six women to the VIP lounge on the second level.
I watch them as they order drinks. I watch them as they grope the women. This really isn’t their kind of scene either…but they’re not here to pick up women, like every other single man that ventures to a night club. And the women aren’t here to be picked up. They’ve already been paid for the night. They’re escorts.
To the keen observer, these men are celebrating. I grab my drink and weave a path through the undulating bodies toward the other end of the club. A rope separates the VIP section, and another bouncer-type guards that post.
I smile at the burly man. His facial muscles are carved in steel. I’m not getting past him. Noted. Instead, I take up the empty seat on the leather bench directly below the elevated VIP section. The only thing blocking the VIPs off is a black metal rail; it’s not soundproof.
I catch fragments of their conversation, but it’s not enough to form a conclusion. They had bet on a fight of sorts and their contender won. They plan to blow a lot of money tonight. Frustrated, I push back against the cushioned seat and wait.
Here’s the thing: I’m searching for particular traits. It would be easier and much wiser for me to search out these exacting qualities and behaviors in a less conspicuous location. Like a homeless shelter. Or back alley. Few notice when a vagrant goes missing.
But that pool is lacking in the characteristics I covet the most.