Day 0

“The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.”

— Plato

I check my supplies as the bus screeches to a halt before me. A sturdy bag is pulling my arm down, loaded with a live PMN-1 landmine. I’m wearing nondescript clothes, shades, and a Dovid face mask. It’s dark, and if I wore a suit, I’d look like I walked straight out of the Glues Brothers, Pandemic edition.

Unfortunately, while cool, suits are less comfortable and way more conspicuous than hoodies. Thanks to my gray sweatshirt, people can’t even tell my age.

I sigh at the pointless, distracting train of thought and consider what I’m doing for one last time. My life is falling apart, and I’m the chief perpetrator.

In my mental imbalance, I filed for divorce last year and gave everything to Mary, my wife, including the full custody of our three children. I don’t even see them on weekends, hoping it will be easier on them later on, when the police inevitably catch me.

I’ve spent fifteen years blessedly married and raising three kids before finally snapping. Most people would guess the marriage had done me in, but that’s not the case. I enjoyed my boring life, gaming when possible, getting laid every chance I got, and I even loved getting trampled by the kids in every sense of the word. Very therapeutic before they hit forty pounds.

Why did I snap then? It all started with us trying to build our dream house after saving for two decades and living in a cheap, shitty flat we once rented.

Buying or building an ideal home for your family sounds like a basic thing; part of the American Dream. You purchase some land in a decent neighborhood, get a blueprint, hire a contractor, file for a permit, and, bam, nine to twelve months later, you’re a proud homeowner.

We live in the most corrupt city in the states, by the way; we’ve won first place, then defended it from other losers for a decade straight. That, combined with Dovid, meant the administration did nothing for two years. While various clerks tormented me, tore at my fraying nerves, and demanded bribes, the ballooning prices sent our savings down the toilet, and flushed thrice for good measure. Our carefully planned budget collapsed. So, I followed the general downward trend and snapped.

Insane, yet eerily rational, I filed for a divorce. It was a strange affair, the strangest the judge had seen, but she let it slide. Who files for divorce and gives it all away while the other party is crying and saying they don’t want to do it?

Once I severed the connection with my family, I was where I wanted to be. I own nothing, save for the pay I earn every month, which I have invested into my only obsession - murdering the psychopaths who ruined my life, who are ruling and ruining all our lives every single day. And we are ruled by psychopaths, at least according to Merriam-Webster.

Great. I’m narrating my story to myself. Again, I think, grateful I’m doing it silently, then I continue where I left off, reassuring myself I’m right.

Someone has to remove the filth from our society, for all our sakes, and, since nobody seemed interested, I decided to vent and become Someone.

I started fantasizing about the ways to murder them, then realized it wasn’t all that difficult.

The priority was not getting caught. That way you can eliminate more of them. I did my homework; poisons, stabbing them in dark alleys, setting them on fire, dissolving them with acid… I was full of creative solutions, but they all seemed risky, and, eventually, PMN remakes seemed like just the thing.

Retro. Classic Cold War. You set one up, and hours later it goes boom while you’re in another block or state, pretending you have no idea consequences for your actions exist. Plus, if you’ve ever owned a TV, you know that bombing problems is the highest form of patriotism.

Fun fact, landmines aren’t as expensive as one might think. In fact, they are dirt cheap! I easily fit one into my monthly budget, even after paying for privacy and an additional proxy to shoulder the blame for me. During these twenty months, I’ve bought seventeen. My rented rat-box is a literal minefield.

And today, I’m doing a trial run. A disgusting hag, two years from retirement and in charge of plumbing in the housing department, tormented me for months. She had one document to review and sign, and she took four months to do it because we refused to give her a portion of our carefully prepared budget.

My heart pounds. Blood rushes through my jugular and hisses in my ear from rage. Calm down. Walk into the bus, pay for the fare, and we’re off to do the world a favor. I repeat the mantra thrice to gather my wits and follow the simple list of actions to avoid arousing suspicion.

Forty-five minutes later, the police still haven’t tackled me, the DIA isn’t tailing me, and nobody walking the dark streets points at my nondescript self shouting, “Mad bomber!”

An electric fuzz tingles my spine, and my stomach is doing something funky. I’m in the suburbs, in front of her porch. What I’m about to do is irrevocable.

Once I become a killer, there’s no going back. Books and movies describe murderers as twisted people, and as I weigh the moral burden, my arms have already placed the mine under her rug.

The bitch owns a fucking house she denied me and my family!

Driven by insane inertia, I prime the PMN and leave the tiny mound behind. As I hustle down the street, I enjoy the liberating sensation. Ridding myself of explosives feels good, the prospect of getting rid of that corrupt trash feels even better.

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Two streets away, I hail a cab, then switch to another, I catch the L, and finally I go into a strip joint, watching tits and ass for two hours to calm my nerves. I hardly notice the uni girls trying to earn a few bucks and survive in this dire economic climate before I head out and walk half a block back home.

I honestly expected I’d have trouble falling asleep, but I giggled like a schoolgirl and passed out on the couch, slightly tipsy, hugging Betty, my favorite landmine.

I wake up with a slight headache and a heavy feeling in my gut. I glance at the clock, and it’s late. Too late to make it to work. I call Sal, my manager, and take a day off, just in case the cops find me right away. Given half a choice, I’d rather blow up a couple hateful pigs protecting corrupt bureaucracy than get caught commuting and harm my fellow victims. I check the news, and there it is, I made the headlines, the most meaningful contribution I’ve made to the betterment of humanity in my thirty-nine years of living.

Terrorist attack, the flashy title drew a derisive smirk, but others repeated it over and over, killing the smile and dampening my satisfaction. I feel none of those bad things the media tells you about murderers. I’m only suffering from slight confusion and a baby hangover.

Am I a terrorist? I wonder and shake my head, heading for the fridge to drink some water. I’m an anarchist, handling problems the law ignores.

***

Months passed. My wife and kids kept calling me, asking me to return home, and in a fit of confused rage, I screamed I’m dying from cancer, and that I wish to die alone.

Stupid thing to say, really. They started calling more and more, begging me to seek medical treatment, as if we could afford anything decent. Finally, I threw my cell on the tracks and watched the L consume it. I got some odd looks, but surprisingly few. I didn’t care. I din’t want my wife and children to see the monster I’ve become by purging society of its filth.

My solace were the bombastic headlines. ‘Dovid and the mad terrorist plague Chillago.’ ‘Tenth victim!’ ‘People too terrified to leave their homes,’ trash like that. Nobody made the connection between the victims. Not yet. Not publicly.

I expected it would come, so I deliberately rented my flat two buildings away from my least likely victim, some twenty-nine months ago. She’s of Asian descent, looks like she’s thirty, but could be younger, I guess. Unfortunately, she lives in a flat, and PMNs aren’t really suited for apartment building hits. I’m not a monster, and I’ve hurt no innocents yet, despite blowing up two cars. Dumb luck and thorough target profiling, I guess.

I walk past that chick’s place every day, and recently I spotted the cops staking out her building. I didn’t approach the other locations, in case they paid attention to unfamiliar faces.

I’ve mostly vented my anger, and now I’m sailing the calm sea of seething fury. I could stop and get away with it scot free. But I won’t. I’ve come to understand these little bureaucrats aren’t the problem, we all are. Our society is strangling us, and we’re letting it.

I read a quote on Fakebook, Plato said something about us being guilty for not committing ourselves, and deep down, I know he’s right. I could have turned to politics and tried to make a difference. I still can. But I won’t. I’m afraid. Afraid I would become a monster, just like them. Afraid I would sell children’s health for a suitcase full of cash. Just like them.

I am weak. I lack discipline and self control. If I get the chance, I will sell out my fellow man, despite knowing it’s stupid. Despite knowing I don’t really need the millions I would get from selling the future generations’ health. Despite knowing I would hate myself later.

So, instead of putting in effort and setting myself up for disappointment and decadence, I decided to head to DC. There, I will kill the asshole representing us, our rotting democracy, and my rotting self.

Ironically, I even voted for the barely alive mummy. I mean, the alternative was giving the carrot four more years. I may be insane, I may hate our species, but I have children. They got to grow someplace, and the vice seems decent. Plus, if I pull this off, I’ll be the man who ushered in the first female president, a genuine women’s rights promoter, and a role model for future generations.

So, that’s my plan. I made it seem natural, subtle. I did not take a vacation, but got fired instead. My former boss is a great guy. I played porn, loudly, during our daily online meeting on a remote work Friday, and he still didn’t fire me right away. To my shock, he said it happened in several senates around the world since Dovid had started, then gave me a stern warning to keep the volume down next time.

Volume? Next time? Crazy place we’re living in, right? People watch porn during official government meetings, and apparently it’s becoming mainstream. I searched Porntub for loud clips the next week, and after playing five of them simultaneously, I got fired.

Poor Sal, he hated losing me, but he would have hated having an employee who killed the president even more. So, unemployed, feeling like Snow White with seven little landmines in my car, I check all the basics, just like I do every time.

The tires are fine, brand new. All my lights are working properly, no problems with the seatbelt, the car isn’t smoking or doing anything else to draw the cops’ attention. A perfectly normal used automobile, with a perfectly insane driver, ready to make history.

I hit R, park out, check the mirrors, and my slow drive to meet destiny begins. I must admit, I’m afraid. There’s no way I’m going to survive what I’m about to do, and success is unlikely, but I tell myself I’m doing it for the betterment of mankind.

That lie gives me solace. And yet, I hesitate even before the first day ends. I stop to enjoy a sunset by the roadside. I pluck a puffy dandelion and blow it, watching the erratic movement of white parachuters invading the roadside grass.

They look like they are searching for oil, or spreading democracy. Sometimes, I have trouble distinguishing the two.

Looking at the mundane sight, my mouth moves, “God, our world is beautiful. Why are we turning it into shit? What did it do to us to deserve this kind of treatment?”

No matter how many times I considered those and other important questions, I failed to find a proper answer. God gave us heaven, why the hell are we pissing on his gift every single day? There are so many religions, why do they tolerate it? Why not preach against it? We are spitting on their god’s creation.

With a sigh, I walk back towards my car. Deep down, I know my humble self and my seven little metalhead friends won’t change a thing. At best, we’ll kill an old fart and initiate a state funeral. That’s the extent of our impact. A single bang. Well, seven.

For my mission to work, everyone needs to chip in. If every crazy killed a lazy or corrupt bastard, we would be heading somewhere. They would fear us. But, had I made my mission public, their watchdogs would have caught me after the first incident, long before the suicide bombers’ support group became mainstream.

Even with all the privacy options and with maximum care, I don’t dare think myself smarter than the guys who spent decades searching for threats and misguided freedom fighters.

I rub my eye with the heel of my palm and sigh again at my cowardice. I’m about to open the door, ignoring the incoming, angry sound of traffic, which is a bad idea when you’re parked not fully off the road. Really bad.

The dazzling headlights hit me first.

Huh? Truck-kun?

The truck hits second.