The vibrations of the banging at the door rumbled deep in his chest bones, playing into the chain of explosions going off in his nightmare. Nightmares of the day he lost his family in a terrorist attack still plague him to this day. Pedro Rodrigo woke up on his bed in a cold sweat, kicking the sheets off from him as if it were on fire. Someone all too familiar was banging on his apartment door.

“Damn it, Rodrigo! I know you're in there! Open up!” Marty growled. “You're two months behind! I ain't playin' witchu nomore! Imma catch your sneaky ass!” he howled before giving up and going away.

Pedro let out a heavy sigh, got out of bed and looked out the window to check the weather. Clouds loomed above the city, causing the backdrop to look like a dull, jagged saw, left out on a rainy day. His body wobbled as it went toward the bathroom where his tired gaze met a small post-it note on the mirror that read 'SSDD.' Yep, same shit, different day. He rolled his eyes at it before heading back down the tiny hallway of his small apartment and into his bedroom to get dressed.

The clock read, -7:44 A.M.-. He rushed to the kitchen where he poured the coffee from a small, fancy, pre-set coffee maker into his silver thermos and reached for a post-it labeled, peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his fridge. Pedro hurried over to the door with the thermos in one hand and the saran wrapped sandwich pressed between his lips. Determination scrunching his brows closer together and he used his free hand to grab his jacket and keys off the hooks by the door and rushed off to work.

He hurried down the worn marble stair case, being careful not to brush up against the countless splotches of chipped paint on the walls, which were like spikes, preventing prisoners from leaving and perusing a real life beyond its neglected walls.

Outside was humid but cool enough for the hooded Kulumbia jacket he wore. Pedro speed-walked to the train two blocks from his home, and snatched one of the free newspapers being handed out as he made his descent into the murky subway tunnel system.

He placed his palm on the stainless steel hand scanner. It was about the only updated equipment the subways have seen in too long. He looked up at all the small black domes about the width of a CD on the corroded ceiling. Pedro wondered who could be watching him and all the people all the time. One for every turnstile, one for every pathway, one for every corner of every wall; the infestation of CCTV surveillance cameras made him feel paranoid.

Soon after the infamous terrorist attack on the Chrysler building that happened just after the year 2000, they were mass-installed. No one could hide from the black domes even if the lights were out. They had all been fitted with night vision, thermal sensors, chemical detectors, facial recognition - everything and anything you could think of, they thought of. They have an official name but everyone just says SR-BDU or SunRay Black Dome Units.

Pedro stood at the edge of the platform waiting for his train to arrive and wished he could be above-ground. The crowding of middle class folk never could cover the damp smell of rat fur and rusted-metal of the grimy floors that filled the musty air in the subway. A few minutes passed and his train arrived in a long, screeching halt. He hesitated before boarding the train, but then stepped in with a sigh. Pedro knew what would happen in the next few minutes and the next few hours and the rest of his day for that matter - he was like a robot following a routine. A constant set of tedious, similar actions he had followed for years now. It had taken its toll on him and showed in his speech, his attitude, and even his posture. His shoulders and back were slouched, his eyes always half-open as if he were sleep-walking.

Pedro scanned the crowded car as he entered, and quickly made his way over to an empty seat. Next to him sat an old man dressed in a flight jacket and camouflage pants who smelled of booze and sour piss. He appeared to be a war veteran. The smell of alcohol on the man's breath was unwelcome to Pedro's empty stomach as was the sour piss stench that filled the air around him. The old man looked over and noticed Pedro trying to breath different air by tilting his head, trying different angles with each breath. The veteran reached over and tapped Pedro's chest with the back of his hand.

“You know, I was like you once, but that doesn't matter - the whole world is coming to an end soon enough, but you’ll be ready,” he said with an exhausted and drunken tone, waving his head while he spoke.

With a squint in his eyes, Pedro looked down at the old man's hand that still lingered and noticed that there was a small pocket vodka bottle in his hand.

“So drink up sonny. Because whatever you're doing this morning, and wherever you're going, isn't going to matter soon enough.” The veteran belched and bobbed as he spoke.

Pedro didn't say anything back. He pushed the old man's hand away by raising his arm and buried his head in the newspaper. He skimmed across the front page of his newspaper. The headlines spoke of a growing terrorist organization called Qatil Infidel, or the 'Q.I.', and how their attacks grew more frequent and violent with every strike.

Before he could read on, the doors opened, and the train was flooded with angry New Yorkers - people who didn't like their personal spaces being invaded, yet they were packed into the car like sardines. The temperature and humidity rose as everyone was now shoulder to shoulder.

Everybody struggled to use their inhalers – these devices people now had to use in order to survive 'prolonged exposure' to the polluted air of the city. The SRC introduced them to the US market after being proven effective in severely populated areas like China. The inhalers aren't expensive, but they aren't free, especially when you consider they are to be used at least twice a day for the rest of your life once you're old enough to leave home. Pedro didn't trust the SRC or any of their products, save for the RayStation. He decided instead that he would go the natural way of detoxifying the body through alternative products such as herbs, tea and the like. He hadn't shown any symptoms of lung illness so far, so whatever he was doing must be working.
There was no longer room for even a newspaper. He tried to finish what he was reading about the terrorists, but to no avail. At the next stop, the door opened, and half of the car got off. The old war veteran stood and gave him a quizzical look before leaving with them. Pedro got off at the next stop. He practically had to fight his way through the dense crowd of morning commuters. As Pedro went through the turnstile, he noticed his mouth tasted of copper and rusted metal - yet again. He exited up the stairs toward daylight and onto the street.


Finally some fresh air, er ... fresher air.

Just as that thought ended, Pedro heard a loud screech followed by sirens in the distance. It was another car chase through the busy streets of midtown Manhattan. He speed-walked to the end of the block, skillfully dodging foot traffic as he made his way to the front of the crowd. While waiting to cross the street, a young businessman on his cellphone brushed hard past Pedro at the crosswalk.

“Shit, what the hell?” He protested. Just as Pedro uttered those words, the car that was being chased skidded around the corner. It came roaring down the street as the driver slammed on the gas. "Hey! watch ou--" Pedro was too late.

The car swerved past an incoming cop car, and smashed into the young business man. It hit him with such great force that his arm was severed and flew past Pedro, right into the people behind him.

Before the moment could sink in, he realized that it was a few drops of blood he was wiping off his face and not sweat. The driver continued without pause from the collision and turned the corner with a wide drift around a large delivery truck, which slowed his pursuers. A single all-black, next generation SRC helicopter, called 'StingRay' for its sharp speed and appearance, flew after him.

As the chase continued, one of the cop cars stopped, and an officer of about the same age as the business man emerged, calling in for backup and requesting an ambulance on the scene. The car wasn't the standard white and blue of the New York Police Department. The officer wore a black bullet proof vest, imprinted with the letters 'SRC', outside a black Polo shirt that matched the black shades and the black and silver car he was driving.

A woman in the crowd kept screaming long after the dead body had hit the ground in a garbled blood strewn heap; the excited shoving of the crowd caused the terrified Asian women to fall to the ground. Pedro took notice and shook his head, disappointed at the people's carelessness for each other. No one cares about those who suffer behind the curtains – they only care about the show. Now a spectacle, the young businessman's head looked like a deflated basketball, in the worst way. Brain matter and blood poured from it, like minced meat in a bowl of thick, chunky tomato sauce.

More police cars joined in behind the chase. Pedro helped the poor woman to her feet and pulled her out of the crowd. He noticed a few officers approaching him and the crowd on foot, so he utilized the chaos and the density of the crowd to avoid them, and slipped away. This ain't got a Goddamn thing to do with me.... He thought, having long desensitized himself from death by being an avid visitor of gore and death websites. This was his way of reminding himself just how dark the world was behind all the car commercials and conformity of TV programming.

He took a one block detour and made his way to the front of BestDeal, the electronics store where he worked full-time. He finished the sandwich he was carrying although his stomach was in no mood. After glancing at his cellphone, which read -8:30 A.M., he realized he was late. The manager was at the front door waiting for him with a disappointed look on his face. Pedro entered the store still a bit shocked and the manager stuck right to him like a magnet, completely ignoring the small blood smears on Pedro's face.

“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Rodrigo. I want you dressed and in my office in five minutes! No telling how much money we lost for every second that you were late!” He stomped away. Bob was a big, tubby old man, white and with a red nose - kind of like Santa, except bald. He was a real weasel and would do anything to keep his job and look good for the company.

Pedro swiped his employee card into the back office terminal by the changing room. He moved fast and got dressed. A dry paste tickled parts of his face as he got ready. Pedro already knew what it was and wiped the rest of the blood off with a napkin using the bathroom mirror that was by the changing room before heading to Bob's office. He was in shock and it was as though he were in a dream or a nightmare; he couldn't decide which. Despite the facts, his darker nature granted him a bit of numbness to the situation.

Bob was just finishing a phone call with the district manager. “Yes of course Mr. Levy ... SRC cellphone sales will be up by next week ... Thank you, bye bye.”

“Bob, you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Come in and close the door,” Bob ordered.

Pedro closed the door and tried for a preemptive strike. “Sorry, Bob. I know I'm late, and I know my cellphone sales are down. I'm late because there was an accident and some guy got hit by a car, I still can’t get the image of his crushed head out my mind, so can I just get to work?”

Bob's face turned from its usual constipated look, with his constantly scrunched brows and raised lower lip - to pissed off, his lips squeezed and tightened to the point that they've lost all color. “Yeah? You think I'm going to believe that? It doesn't matter - I was just on the phone with the district manager. Now he wants sales doubled on cell phones, so that means triple for you if you know any math!” He exclaimed from behind the crumpled balls of sandwich wrappers that littered his desk; one of them rolled off and fell onto the floor when he slammed his fist on the table.

“Then I should get to work on that right away, Bob. Those numbers aren't gonna go up on their own or just because you want them to,” Pedro answered as he eyed the trash on the desk.

He left before his boss could have the last word. He walked to his cash register knowing that he was being watched through the surveillance cameras in the store. Bob was always watching.

Typing in his code and unlocking the prehistoric computer and cash register, he began to count out his cash float. He let out a long sigh as he reached for the twenties in the drawer. Pedro thought about the note on his bathroom mirror. Same Shit Different Day. With today being an exception. At least I got some front row action for a change. Cellphones kill. Shouldn't have pushed me, asshole. But then it might have been me. I gotta break this daily routine or I'll be just as dead as that Joe they're scraping off the ground right now.

Bob's obnoxious voice squelched through the grimy loudspeaker, “What’s the hold up, Mr. Rodrigo? Move faster, you got customers inbound,” Bob commanded.

Damn, give me a break! Moments later, an old woman near senile and almost completely deaf walked up to his register holding an MP7 media player.

“Excuse me young man, how much is this?” she uttered.

The smell of burnt oatmeal and moth balls filled the air around the counter. Trying to hold in his anger, Pedro mustered up a gentle smile as he grabbed the small white box.

“Welcome to BESTDEAL. Just a moment miss, I’ll scan for the price.” The machine made a small: 'Beep, boop.'

“What? I can not hear so well.”

Pedro let out a long sigh as his patience began to wear thin. “It's eighty-nine ninety-nine.”

“Come again dear?”

“Its eighty-nine ninety-nine!”

“Oh that's far too expensive,” she quacked in a surprised and disgusted manner, cocking her head back a bit as she spoke.

Pedro’s eye twitched and a corner of his lip curled as he noticed the obscene amount of jewelry she is wearing, not to mention the makeup and cheap lipstick for a woman her age.

“Ma'am, this is the cheapest model of the SunRayPlayer we sell. It boasts a 1 Terabyte 'Eden Crystal Drive' capable of storing 300,000 songs, over 1 million High Definition photos, and it can capture and store 500 hours of HD video and three times as much in Standard Definition all in the size of a credit card and only one inch thick,” he said proudly as he explained it all in a single breath.

“What? I don't know what you just said. I just need a music player,” she gobbled.

Pedro scratched his head and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Yes, ma'am. That's what this is. I thought you knew that from the information that's clearly printed on the box. See here in huge bold? And so you wanted to know the price which is what brought you to me and so here we are. Can I ring that up for you?” He said, but his patience was slipping away.

“No! I just wanted a music player and now you're trying to sell me all this stuff because I have money!” She scowled in anger.

“Okay. This ain't the 90's, miss. Nothing just plays music anymore.”

“In my days, LP records were simple and held a whopping 10 songs. Per record,” she cheered with enthusiasm while raising her finger in the air.

“Wow. Yes, I admit since then we have come a long way. A long, long way,” he said sarcastically to ease some of his anger.

Pedro managed to get under her skin with that as her vibe changed from enthusiastic to pissed. Any loose skin that wasn’t cut away from surgery seemed to sag along with her pressed brows. What is her deal?

“How rude. I come here for help and this is how I'm treated.”

“You came here for a price check, remember? The sales rep on the floor would have made sure you had the product you needed before making it here to me, and so here we are. Can I ring that up for you?” He said, as he felt his patience dwindling further.

“He did. I wanted a music player and this is what he gave me, and now you're trying to take my money and sell me all this extra stuff,” she said raising her voice as she finished.

A few customers nearby began to take notice and had now become an audience.

Geez it's like she has it out for me. What did I ever do to her … I'm trying to help. I'm trying to remain calm.

“Ma'am, I was simply informing you of the features this device boasts in order for you to get a better understanding of its price tag, which is quite modest considering all those features,” he calmly replied.

“But I don't need all that! I just want a music player,” she hissed.

Pedro lost himself in anger. “What's your deal, lady? We just had a half hour discussion where I explained all that! I just said nothing only plays music anymore! You are not forced in any way to use those other features; they are there merely for your convenience.” Pedro tried to remain calm, but his demeanor was slipping.

“I don't like your tone, young man. Let me speak with your manager,” she said condescendingly.

Before Pedro could pick up the phone behind him, he heard the office door slam and the sound of Bob's stomping footsteps coming toward him. Of course he was watching … what was this? A set up? Pedro turned back around as Bob reached the counter.

Before the old lady could say a word, Bob spoke reassuringly. “It's okay, ma'am. I overheard the entire conversation through the register's surveillance camera.” He pointed to the tiny SR-BDU that was about the size of a baseball, mounted on top of the monitor.

“Pedro, go stand over there. I apologize for his rude behavior, miss. How can I help you?” Bob drooled, licking his lips nervously and incessantly, as though the jewelry she was wearing was charming him out of his mind.

“Well, you can start by firing that obnoxious little brat, or you will be dealt with. My husband owns a great part of this company.”

“To tell you the truth, ma'am, I was going to but in private. If it will satisfy you, I will do it here and now,” he grinned his greedy, fat smile.

“Pedro, come over here now!” He yelled.

Pedro stood but ten feet away, a furious squint in his eye, knowing his terrible morning was about to get much worst. “Bob?”

“You're fired. Get out of here! I don't ever want to see you in my store again.”

Pedro's jaw tightened and his fingers stiffened and curled. “It's not your store. The only thing you own, is a greasy blow-up doll. 'Fat, old Bob,' manager at shitty BestDeal.' You’re gonna die here, Bob, and the sad part is....” Pedro shook his head in disgust, “That was your plan from the start.”

Then he turned his head to the old lady. Bob stood there frozen with his big red nose getting brighter by the second, until it was a shining beacon of shame. The sweat made his greasy forehead glisten under the florescent lights, probably from all the heat his nose was generating.

“You. Old hag. Even with all your money, jewelry and plastic surgery, you can't buy time, and you can't bribe the grim reaper; you can only pay the piper. From the looks of it, you'll be seeing them both sooner ... rather than later,” Pedro snarled as he ripped the ID tag from his shirt and threw it at Bob, who managed to dodge it.

Pedro walked away, leaving them both speechless. He made his way to the changing room, and after quickly changing and gathering his coffee mug from the fridge, he made his way to the front door evading fellow employees who would no doubt try to ask what happened in order to have something to gossip about over their lunch break. He took one last look behind him as he was leaving and saw the old lady buying the same media player that just got him fired, and stormed out of the building. Taking the same route home, he came to the street just outside the subway and watched as the cleaning crew washed the blood from the pavement.

He began to feel a sense of victory as if the young businessman's death and getting fired allowed his own rebirth. Pedro smiled, watching the blood being slowly washed away as he crossed the street. His smile, along with the moment, quickly faded when the smell of the corroded subway invaded his nostrils with the scent of rat fur and burnt newspapers as he made his descent.

When he got home, Mr. Jingles was curled up just outside his apartment door, like usual. It was Marty's all-white cat. It had the biggest, cutest green eyes. Pedro always saw this pairing in a metaphorical way - like some unspoken truth of the universe. Marty was a two hundred and fifty pound mad man, and then there's tiny Mr. Jingles weighing about two and a half pounds. Yin and Yang, but much like Marty and his cat, there seemed to be more darkness in the world than light. Why is it always so much easier to destroy or hate than it is to love or create?

When Pedro unlocked and opened the door, the lazy cat shot into the dark apartment. Mr. Jingles had an impeccable timing ability to show up on Pedro's worst days. After the usual ten minute chase, Pedro finally caught the cat and gently nudged him back outside using his foot. The cat must have felt sad being pushed outside like that, as it let out a soft and slow meow when Pedro closed the door. A minute later, he opened the door with a warm bowl of milk. It seemed excited, gently waving his tail, as if his good friend had returned. They had a sort of unspoken friendship agreement.

“There you go, little guy. Mean ol' Marty forgot to feed ya, huh?"

The cat kindly waited for the bowl to be placed down and for the door to close before moving a muscle. Pedro could hear Marty's gigantic flip-flops, coming up the stairs to his floor and quickly but quietly locked the door.

“Mr. Jingles?” Marty sang. “You up here again?” Marty opened the stairwell door and saw his cat once again, down the hall at Pedro's door. “Mr. Jingles, we don't have time for this; 'Judge Jackson' is about to start. What are you doing, huh?” Marty turned to Pedro's door. “Milk? Don't you play games with me, Mr. Jingles. Is Rodrigo in there?” Marty banged on the door a few times. “Where's my rent, Rodrigo?” Marty looked at his ten dollar watch. “Shit. Don't you be feeding my cat! This ain't '8mile' motha fucka!”

8Mile? “You mean 'Green Mile'!” Pedro instinctively hollered back.

“Ahah! You little bastard. Where's my--” Marty stopped with a growl after another look at his watch, and Pedro froze in place at the sound of his voice. “I'm comin' back for you later, Rodrigo!” Marty yelled from down the hall with Mr. Jingles in hand.

That was stupid and lucky at the same time. He breathed a sigh of relief and went on about his business. A bright light filled the room as the forty-two inch 'Mediated Reality' High Definition Television, or just MR1-HDTV, came on at his voice command.

“TV on,” he commanded.

Most technologies had been fitted with voice recognition and touch sensitivity as well as biometric scanners after the year two-thousand. The SRC had mined for crystals on the moon - called Edin Crystals, like Eden but with an -i-. These 'Moon Crystals' were capable of storing massive amounts of data or energy. Shortly after, Ample was bought out by the SunRay Corporation. This ushered in a new age of technologies and advancement that was just now becoming commercially felt and available. It was seen in cell phones, hand held PC's, and media players, like the new SunRay MP7 player he encountered earlier.

Crystal Technology, or CrysTech for short, can be found on or in the majority of technologies like the one in the new RayStation that Pedro was just powering up; of course, the power and memory from the CrysTech in the console allowed it to 'outshine any other system,' which was its slogan at the time. It forced a merger between all the major gaming companies, including Suny and Nentendo, to develop and build for the SunRay Corporation, or SRC for short. With such awesome advancements in weapons and technology, the SRC was a global superpower, gaining control over key businesses like communications and energy plants powered by CrysTech. They get contracted by the D.O.D to build new tech, gear, and weapons, all of which were controlled and monitored by the SRC through their CrysTech.

Pedro reached into a small black cabinet that sat right next to the couch and pulled out a glass water bong, a black lighter, and a black tin can with a nice plastic lid on it. The can read ‘KARMA,’ which was embossed at the center of a white octagon. Looking through his short friends list, he found only one person was online. He scrolled down to it and activated voice chat. Pedro always felt like he only 'existed' in the world, but the virtual world was where he was always known and liked. The virtual world was where he 'lived,’ his 'home' - where he was truly happy.

“Hey WarFairy, what's up?”

“Mr. Massacre! What are you doing on so early?” She asked with excitement and then confusion.

“I got fired,” he answered, leaning back with a sigh.

“Oh.... Are you serious?” she pressed.

“Yeah.... I just about had it with the SSDD routine. Which reminds me; I saw something crazy today,” he reported.

“Yeah, I could tell you weren't happy with your job. What did you see, Massacre?”

“On my way to work, some asshole pushed past me and ended up getting hit by a car that was being chased by the cops! He exploded, and his arm went flying past me and almost hit this lady in the face! She wouldn't stop screaming!” He broke out in laughter for a while - the only thing left to do when your day gets that bad.

“Jesus Christ. Did they catch the guy that hit him?” she pondered aloud with concern in her voice.

“I don't know, WarFairy – but more importantly, I spent a few months paycheck on this new RayStation and a fancy pre-set coffee maker. Now I don't have any money for the rent, which is due in a few days, and I'm already two months behind.... Any ideas?” he said as he got comfortable in his black, memory foam couch.

“Well, you could sell your RayStation,” she replied.

“Bwa ha haa! Not a chance in hell. Besides, it still wouldn't cover the total amount, which is just over $2,000,” he said, wiping a tear off his cheek from all the laughter.

“How about the whole living room then?” she snapped.

“What! There is no living without a living room. My computer, my TV, my RayStation ... I'd literally have nothing. Isn't that what homelessness is? No home to come home to? You're like a super genius. How about some options that don't involve me losing everything, either way?”

“You could just get another job,” she she went on.

“No good; that would take weeks. Weeks I don't have. And no one pays in advance. I need a quick fix. Something that doesn't involve me doing something strange for a little bit of change,” he exclaimed.

“Ha ha haa, wow Mr. Massacre, this is no time for jokes.”

“No. I'm serious. No stripping in gay bars!” he joked.

“Oh my God, Massacre. I wasn't going to suggest that. Besides, I know you. You're more likely to shoot the place up,” she affirmed.

“Damn right. I'd be curing a disease and doing the world a favor. But that won't get me paid,” he pondered out loud in consideration.

“Sell an organ and save a life then,” she reasoned.

“Okay, my name is Mr. Massacre! What part of that says 'I save lives'? Besides, if there was a God, I don't think he built us with spare parts. I'm pretty sure I need everything I have. In any case, no spare parts means I ain't got any to give.”

“Well, move back in with your parents.”

“No can do,” he said quickly.

“Well, why not? I live with mine.”

“Let’s just say they're probably attending a tea party with Jesus right now. So they're not available,” he explicated in sarcasm, with a tinge of sadness in his voice.

“Oh. Oh my God. Massacre, I'm so sorry,” she responded with great sympathy.

“It's okay. It's not your fault; it's his,” he sighed.

“Who. Whose fault is it?” she pried.

“Well, after my family died in the terrorist bombing of the Chrysler Building back in 2016, a priest had the nerve to tell me that 'it was just their time' and that 'God needed them for something important.' I asked him how could the Almighty God need my mother, my father, and my little sister who was just nine years old, more than I needed my family? He said 'just have faith my son and pray to God, that he may one day answer your question. Because only God knows the answers.' After telling me that He was ultimately responsible, the priest tried to recruit me to God's cause. I vowed to never pray a day in my life,” he declared.

“So that's why you don't believe, Massacre?” She whispered.

“No. That's why I don't have a family to move back in with and why that option is not on the table,” he said plainly, trying to hide his pain.

There was a long pause. Pedro filled the bowl of his smoke-ware with herb from the can. He sat back and looked over at a family picture on the wall by the kitchen before lighting his pipe. The picture was of his mom, dad, and little sister at a barbeque on her eighth birthday. They were all glowing and so genuinely happy. He felt warm just by looking at it.

“Come on, Massacre. I know what will make you feel better,” she asserted.

“Yeah...? What?” Pedro huffed through his next exhale.

“Some 'hardcore team deathmatch on Call to Duty 4.' I got an hour before I gotta get ready for physics class.”

"Alright. Come on; let’s go hunt us down some Noobs .... What kind of physics anyway?” He said with a slight southern accent as he started the game up.

“Theoretical. Oops, hang on Massacre; I'm getting an e-mail.”

Didn't Einstein dabble in theoretical physics?



Pedro was already way ahead of her. Unfortunately, he was pinned down on the second floor of a dilapidated building, with bullets raining everywhere. He seemed to be the only one in the game who was low on ammo. Then he realized why; he had just mowed down two heavy gunman in the street with his AK-47 before going on to kill two snipers by lobbing a grenade into the second story window from across the street and into the room they were in. He killed the last two with a famous flash-and-clear tactic that he practiced often with his friend Mercer. By then, the rest of the enemy team began to respawn around him and he took cover upstairs.

“Fudge! Negative, I need need air support now! As your clan leader, I order you to ignore that e-mail and help me kill these bastards!” He yelled as if he was actually being shot at. Damn. When you need bullets, you really need bullets....

“Nice try, that only works with Mercer. Besides, I think I just found your quick fix,” WarFairy proudly announced.

“Shit-Sandwich! I'm dead.... Argh. Let’s hear it,” Pedro tossed the controller to his side and caught his breath, then grabbed a pinch from the tin can and loaded a bowl and took a hit as he sat back.

“Says here, there's a research study being conducted by the SunRayCorporation--”

“Isn't that more your cup of tea? Ya know, 'Einstein theories' and research and physics 'n shit?” he interjected, twirling his hand in the air.

“Yes and no. It says here that they just need people to answer one question and be eligible for a $1500 paycheck,” she said excitedly.

“Right! Because that doesn't sound too good to be true. It's a scam. The question would probably be like, 'What’s the meaning of life?' Something only people like you can answer,” he said innocently.

“People like me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Pedro jerked back a little. “Whoa! Jeez! It was a compliment. Take it easy. Don't get your tits tied in a bunch,” he said as he raised both his hands in the air.

“If I had the time, I'd chew your puny little head off for that. Do you want the information or not because I don't think with all the money the SRC has that they'd need to resort to petty scams and I gotta go soon,” she snarled.

“Fine. Please forward the email, so I can prove how wrong you and your precious SRC is,” he said sarcastically, trying to get under her skin.

“Ugh - I gotta go,” she said in an angry and exhausted tone.

“Aww, don't be mad,” he pleaded "You know there ain't somethin' right about them..."

A few moments passed.

“C'mon. Don't be a sourpuss,” he said with a slight French accent.

She growled in anger.

“I wove yew,” he said with the same cute undertone.

She signed off, and moments later a forwarded email alert popped up on screen. Pedro changed the channel on his TV to TVPC. Going through his email, he found the one from WarFairy titled 'You little shit.' Pedro laughed as he opened the email.

Ha yeah... she loves me. I wonder if she's hot in real life? Forget that. I can kiss my life goodbye. If I don't get the money, I'm really screwed this time. Damn, if only that accident hadn't made me late to work....