I sit motionless in the car. At work now. This is my job. The game I like the most. The game I have to play. I watch as the moonlight filters through the trees, casting an opaque haze over the neighbourhood which sleeps as silently as the residents. The steep roof lines of the Victorian style homes lining Love Lane are reflected as dark shadows etched at striking angles, and bathe in the full light of an old moon. The images are rich, full, cast in visions only within the limits of the most highly trained and imaginative observer.
Throughout my youth I loved video games. Fast games. The faster, the better. At first it was a distraction; a way of composing leisure time. Then as a skill building tool for the development of hand eye coordination. But soon the object became more important than the outcome. Conquest, the need for control, replaced the desire to play. When defeating the game’s adversary became easy, I sought out its creator. I discovered the secrets of the game’s mercurial software, becoming obsessed by the excitement of opening the electronic portal to the computer’s intelligence, and the thrill of trespassing upon its silicon pathways. Altering the game’s objective and increasing the complexity without being caught by the programmer’s traps and proprietary safeguards was the new reward but, that too, soon became meaningless without risk.
I watch as the neighborhood around Love Lane moves. One mistake and and my dark secret will be exposed. The moon slips one degree at a time towards an unseen horizon. The houses move as the stark shadows shift, moment by moment, redefining their gaunt features. The earth below cooling, heaving up the breeze from its subterranean bowels and cascading as an invisible wave along Love Lane, then cresting above the tall oaks, their leaves sink to the ground, unseen and heard only by me. And, then there are the shapeless things that sleep by day then squeak, squeal and squirm from the crevasses of the emerging eventide.
I see all the cats, particularly the cats, elusive, predatory and cleverly instinctive. Though they are not yet settled in the darkness, I know they will respect my presence. Love Lane is moving, so I will continue to wait until I can slide into the night without disturbing its distinctive pace. Until I can become an undetectable and unified part of its nocturnal cadence.
Where was the challenge, I thought, if the game couldn’t win. If it could only defeat the living opponent, then it served merely as an obstacle without the capacity to enjoy victory. An opponent without purpose was not a meaningful adversary. I needed a reason to continue. A more realistic incentive. I would give the game an opponent it could defeat, and the outcome would be measured by my body’s will to survive.
I began with a six volt dry cell battery, a simple copper coil to amplify its charge with a switch to control output. I spent weeks probing for the main auditory and visual cortex of my brain. The carefully calibrated move of each electrode brought me closer to matching the computer’s error instructions with the programs instructions to send the charge through the neurotransmitter network of my body.
I played the game, now, with missionary passion. With each mistake my body would shrill with pain, my mind would fill with grotesque imagery. The game had a real opponent. It had a stake in the outcome. Now it could win. Every error was accompanied by ever increasing pain; the game could now have its retribution. I had given it meaning, heretofore, denied by its creator. The game was now alive, and my body became the sentient adversary.
My pain threshold became euphoric amidst a ghostly aberration created by the surging current; the delicate balance of risk and reward became incalculable. Error responses were approaching life threatening levels. The end game was now measured by smaller and smaller increases in voltage. I was edging closer to the precipice upon which I might only stand once. A state of infinite perfection in which the pain was inseparable from the ultimate price to be inflicted for failure; the finite point between reality, madness or something beyond. My needs for an increasing adrenaline rush now extended beyond the limits of the program. So, I went in search of a new game.
I’m ready to step into the street, now, where I will be the darkest shadow. Black rayon body suit, black knit cap, black sneakers, gloves, contact lenses; my face in black. There are no lights from the car. The door closes secured by magnetic contact, measured to 20 foot/pounds of resistance. At the back of the car, raising the trunk lid secured in the same manner as the door, I slide my hand along an obscure area of the car’s left rear wheel well.
The motion brakes the infrared beam as the floor of the dark trunk cavity opens slightly, then retracts. Taking what need I secure the trunk following the same procedure which opened it, then adjust the visor over my eyes. Testing it to insure that it’s working, I step to the center of the street.
Remaining in the street, I pass the first house on his left, it was the second from the car. He passed the second and stopped in front of the third. He know the house. It was as though he had been there been many times before. He slid up the walk leading to the front door, skipping past the child’s roller skates, unable to see them, but I know where they are.
The moulded placard reads Professor and Mrs. Bernhard Shecter. The front door opens easily for me; the stairway just inside the entrance. Three feet, nine inches wide, 15 steps to the second floor landing. Up the first six steps, slowing only long enough to bridge the seventh, going directly to the eighth, then to the top. The seventh step squeaks, I know that. Down the hall closing the first door on the left, then the second on the right. Todd, who is 7, is in the first, Todd’s brother, Sam, in the second. Through the last door on the left, at the same time removing the .38 silenced snub nose from the holster attached to my right thigh.
I increase the voltage from the battery pack.
The door to the room is slightly open. There are two Italian 18th Century Louis XVI walnut armchairs on either side of the window opposite the foot of the bed. I can see them clearly in a room absent any perceptible light. Upholstered in an elegant stripe, the Dorset Cream wide version is 2 inches, the narrow is Pine; no Seaweed green, and is exactly 1 5/8 inches. Eight repeats of the large stripe. I sit down. I can see the well organised small walk-in closet on the opposing wall next to the bed where the man sleeps alone. A single door with room for just one person inside.
What I am looking for hangs next to the door’s dark mahogany case moulding. The small Rembrandt is perfectly placed.
The electrical current surges through my visor. My mind begins to rush with a torrent of uncontrolled imagery. More voltage. The man raises up.
“Who are you?”
“Are you Professor Schecter?”
“Yes. . . . Why are you here?”
“Where is Mrs. Schecter?”
“She died.” His lips tremble slightly.
“The woman’s clothing in the closet?”
“My wife’s. She hasn’t been gone long. . . . . Why are you here? . . The painting I suppose.”
“It’s not yours. Do any of the paintings in this house belong to you?”
“What’s your interest?”
“None.”
“Then, why are you here?”
“You know why.”
“Please . . . Take it and leave.”
“In time . . . Do you teach?”
“Shakespeare . . . ”
“Pray tell . . . Something appropriate s’il vous plaît?”
“Appropriate for what?”
“Someone with very little time?”
His lips continue to tremble. Spittle runs from the corner of his mouth into the crevas formed by the small cleft in his chin.
“Ah, let me see.”
He begins slowly.
“Though justice be thy plea, . . . consider this: That in the course of justice none of us should see salvation. (Ah), We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to. . . . ( to ah), render , to render. . . . I’ve forgotten the rest.”
Spittle drips now from his chin as I finish“
“And Portia said, We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render, The deeds of mercy. “ The Merchant of Venice.
But, “The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.”, I say.
“Is there time to play?”
“You first.”, I say
“Lest we commence, then.”
“You say when.“ , I prey.
“Then without further delay one should say . . . ”
Let not be the confusion of more subtle minds,
I follow –
Tis distaste for mine, not but for love,
He says –
May thee alter when such alliteration finds,
I have no choice –
Or, risk sway the order of Zeus above?
And, so it goes –
Venus gives rise a course of impertinent cheeks, he says
Bearing or bending the needle hath come, I say
Fate suffers not as it cravenly speaks,
Bare witness thyne pledge for there it is from. I reply
Tis ever fixèd on Jupiter’s mark?, he asks
A patient tempest is not to be shaken; my reply
Then liken my song to a grounded Lark, he says
Whose worth be known shall not be forsaken, I conslude
He has recognised his fate. A special bond that I have never shared with other men.
“Is it time to finish?”, he says.
“I surrender to thee.”
“So it shall be.”, he says.
And, you would be called could thus be tight, taught to narrow, he asks
My reply, Should it be writ would writ out une Sparo.
He never hears the sound. Subtle, but revealing. pfffft . . . Then, a second. pfffft . . .
The first bullet enters just below the his left eye, along the bridge of the nose. The second, three centimetres to the left of the breast bone, one centimetre above the second rib. The man’s body is relaxed, tilting gently against the bed’s headboard. The cranial fluid eases from the exit wound with a fluorescent radiance.
Leaving the house precisely as I had entered I return to the middle of the street, to the car, into the night. Below the old moon in search of a new game. Would my body and mind once again be at peace . . . ?
OH’ thief of beauty Spare that within an unseen melancholy Restore what’s whole of an eternal soul Requite an empty solitude