The Tweeter's Tale

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Prologue: The Uber’s Tale

Prologue

“I understand that you’re angry.  But you’re the one I love.”  

That was the first text since he left.  There have been more.

It was a Saturday night in April and The Uber was leaning against his work car, fresh off a steady stream of clientele.  Three years ago, they had torn down fifty blocks of land for some kind of supermall in south Los Angeles that had its grand opening two weeks ago, and people were coming in from all corners of California to bear witness. Valley girls, potheads, posers, hipsters, and more than a few vacant-eyed sex offenders had familiarized themselves, almost intimately in some cases, with the interior of his tan 2009 Hyundai Accent.  He felt like Travis Bickle, eyeing the trash and vermin walking the street while trying to get his mind off of the blood and semen slowly sinking into the lining of the backseat.  This car was his graduation present - a thoughtful gift from his loving parents.  Now look at it:  Covered in love-spit and shame and soon to be designated unsuitable for Uber.  The least he could do was avoid giving it the smell of a smoker’s car, if, for any reason, to avoid losing potential fares in the meantime.

This particular fare, however, he wouldn’t mind losing.  They had messaged “Five more minutes!” Precisely eight minutes ago.  The Uber was nearly finished with his second cigarette and had reread the neon sign above the bar entrance at least a dozen times.

“Tabard Bar.”

He wondered what a “Tabard” was.

Bitterness growing, cigarette shrinking, The Uber resolved to give the client until the end of his smoke before he responds, “I have other fares tonight, sir!” and subsequently leaves gentrification central.  Not even the nice neighborhoods are lasting, he thought.  He was sick of it.  He felt like a castaway searching for islands only to find each one populated with maneaters.  The question raced through his mind a thousand times over, What the hell is wrong with people anymore?

His lungs burned, his foot tapped and his patience waned; and just as he flicked the butt away, the doors to the bar shot open violently.

 

The Uber’s Tale: Part 1

A head of blonde hair led the charge against the latched doors.  Behind him, two burly men dressed coordinatingly in black muscle t-shirts held him horizontally by his charcoal suit.  This poor man busted a door down with his face, only to be let go of with the full force of the original swing.  Swung and summarily discarded like a battering ram.  They positively threw him, and violently did he tumble down the staircase outside the entrance.  He hit the bottom stair with a bounce and a screech, then fell prostrate on the ground below.

“Pinche pendejo malcriado! You come to my bar again, I will call the police!” Screamed a third man with a thick Mexican accent, following closely behind the scuffle.  He was stubby, bald, sporting a pencil mustache and a powder blue suit.  The Uber would have sooner pegged the man for “Mean Gene” Okerlund before a Hispanic proprietor of some fruity bar in L.A.  He certainly didn’t look like a Mr. Tabard.

The blonde man rolled onto his back with a pained groan and a wince,  “Fuck you, fucker!  I wasn’t even talking about you!”

The Proprietor was unphased.  He spotted The Uber and marched over, making a conscious effort to step on the man on his way, which did deliver a humorous squeal.

“You his ride?” The Proprietor, barely succeeding at reassembling his patience for this new face.

“I sure hope so.”

The blonde man, with his ass still stuck to the ground, pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and they crumbled in his hand.  “And you guys broke my fucking Oakleys!”

“Quiet!”  The Proprietor pulled out a wallet and a stack of twenty-dollar bills.  “$40.00 for you.  Take this idiot home safe.  People will want his head before the night’s up.”  The Proprietor waved his hands dismissively, “He is not dangerous for you.  He’s just stupid.”

“$200 dollar sunglasses.  Who’s gonna pay for these?”

The Proprietor raised his voice to its highest decibel “SHUT!  UP!”

The Uber laughed “The hell do you mean people want him dead?”

The Proprietor, face steady with his eyes wide and jaw clenched, stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out an iPhone with a Twitter page immediately at the ready.  “I don’t think you’re quite ready for this,” he said.  The Uber recognized the picture of The Tweeter - it was the blonde doofus sitting on the ground.  Next to his picture was a tweet:

“Now, as all of my awesome fans know, I respect all people equally and love all of you, but -”

The Uber read on and finally reached the point where he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  It wasn’t just bigoted.  It was shocking.  Transcendent.  The Uber obtained bittersweet enlightenment.  As if he had stared into the very face of evil and successfully turned away from it.

The Uber hesitated and wiped his brow, “I’m not sure if I want to drive someone like that around.”

“Sixty dollars plus your fare!  Just get him far away from here!  Man’s like a nuclear bomb.”

The Uber looked at the man on the ground.  He was either giving him a ride home, or a cop would give him a ride to the drunk tank.  The Uber sighed.  “Can your guys get him in the car for me?” 

“Of course, of course,” The Proprietor motioned to the muscle-bound men that threw The Tweeter on the street to begin with.  They were about as gentle as they were during their first interaction. 

“Are you kicking him out for the Tweet?”

“He’s harassing my clientele.  It’s open-mic night and he keeps interrupting.  And let’s just say that Tweet was part of his contribution to the event.”

“Ouch.”

“Right in front of a priest too.”

The Uber looked up at the entrance to the bar, people had flocked to the commotion like a car wreck.  All of them wearing faces of anger and astonishment.  Among the rabble, he spotted a man in a chef’s coat, and a woman in hospital scrubs.  Ah.  There’s the priest, he thought upon seeing him.  Along with some nuns.  What a strange open-mic night, thought The Uber.   

He saw each of them staring hatefully at the man in the backseat and The Uber followed their gaze.  There he was.  Sitting in the sweat of the last guy.  Swaying back and forth ever so slightly; pallid, sickly in the face.  The Uber could already foresee the projectile vomit joining all the other humours sprayed into the backseat.  The car was in need of a rigorous cleaning anyway.  He held the small wad of twenties back up in The Proprietor’s face.  “If he throws up in there, this does not account for those expenses,” he said.

The Proprietor, now beginning to look as annoyed as he was when he first met The Uber, plucked another twenty from the monstrous black and green clump he calls a wallet and threw it atop the pile in The Uber’s hands. 

 “I’ll remove him posthaste.”

 

* * *

 

“Baby if I made you mad 

for something I might have said

Please let’s forget my past  

The future looks bright ahead.”

Elvis sang on the radio as The Tweeter swayed - not to the rhythm, but to the beat of his churning stomach.  In fact, he seemed to have a look of even greater illness than before.  A pale sickliness accompanied what was now a consciously grafted grimace.  The Uber couldn’t help but stare at him in the rearview mirror.  His face contorted into a histrionic expression of illness and disgust.

“Don’t be cruuuuuuuuel.”

The traffic was absolutely congested.  The sirens in the distance and the helicopter that flew past earlier indicated an accident.  Or several.  Stalled and stationary, The Uber looked at his phone.  “I’m so sorry,” it said in the last text.  He didn’t really care.  Certainly not enough to respond.  Not yet.

“To a heart that’s true!”

“How can you listen to this shit?” The Tweeter pinched the bridge of his nose, miming the gestures of someone with a hangover, despite clearly still being firmly within the grasp of intoxication.  

“Excuse me?”

“He was a thief, you know,” spit flew out with the fricative.  

“What?”

“He stole black people’s music,”  he leaned in close, “that’s cultural appropriation.”  His eyes locked with the Uber’s in the mirror.  “You’re listening to a thief.  AND a racist.”

You’re telling me, thought The Uber.  “I can turn it off if you want.”

“Yeah.”

“You want it off?”

“Yeah.”

“Let us walk up to the preacher and let us say -” Click.  Just the sound of the engine.  And the Tweeter’s growling, churning dyspepsia.  Then a hiccup.  A few honks from the traffic.  Then the slurring query, “Why is it so sticky back here?”

“I spilled a soda.”

“From the front fucking seat?”

“Do you mind not swearing at me?”

The Tweeter threw up his hands in ready submission, and slapped them against his lap, “Sorry,” he said.  There was a beat, his tone changed before he even opened his mouth, “I was…  Really fucking stupid tonight.”

“That’s what I keep hearing.”

“Isn’t everybody though?  Not stupid all the time.  Just stupid… Some nights.”  The Tweeter extended his forefinger and dotted the air in front of him as though situated behind a lectern, tapping as his points are made.  The Uber looked at his phone.  A pang of forgiveness rang out, and he stuffed it back down.  Not tonight, he thought, I am allowed to be furious.

“I can’t speak for everyone else, but I generally try to avoid doing dumb things.”  The Uber caught The Tweeter’s stare once again in the mirror.

“Well, you say and do stupid things too.  You listen to Elvis.”

The Uber’s eyes rolled away and back onto the traffic in front of him.

“I’ve had to cultivate a noble morality.  Do you know how much I do?  How much I give?  I have been given power and privilege and I use it for the best.  My fans have told me how much I impact their lives.  I’m a good person.”

“Oh, you have fans?”

The Tweeter’s face drunkenly contorted yet again.  The face he apparently makes whenever he listens to Elvis or when he has his popularity questioned.

“You don’t know who I am?”  He asked through his eyebrows, indignance sprouting from his already narcissistic tone.

“Never seen you before.”

“But you’ve heard of RascallousRebel, right?”

“Nope.”

“YouTube star?  11.5 million subs?  Model?  Actor?  Prankster?”  He just kept on going, “Comedian?  Entrepreneur?  Philanthropist?  Rapper?..”

Here it comes.

“Influencer?”

The Uber muted himself with a sigh.  A long and loud one, but it was better than facepalming.  He shrugged, shook his head, and gave the strongest non-apology he could muster, smirk and all.

“Figures.”

“Why does that ‘figure’?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I think we have all night.” The Uber pointed toward yet another ambulance coming in from the distance.  “From what I hear, you had a story you wanted to tell anyway.”

“The fuck do you care?”

“I don’t,” said The Uber.  “That why I’m the best person to hear you’re story.  I need something to not care about right now.  And I won’t judge you too harshly.”  The Uber was lying.

“I don’t know what that means, but okay.”  The Tweeter looked around, outside the windows, into the mirror, and down at his feet.  As if he kept trying to find inspiration for his story in his surroundings.

“What was the video that got you famous?”

“I posted it 10 years ago now.  Went viral.  It’s about me drugging my Dad.”

The Uber immediately regretted asking.

 

Story 1: The Prosecutor’s Tale

Prologue

 

“RascalousRebel  @RoryTVanDerBild - Jan 13, 2012, 10:22 AM

Replying to @ElijahFielder

Just about everything I do, he hates.  If being myself makes him miserable, that’s not a good reason to stop being myself.  Right?  He can’t enjoy life, so he wants me to stop enjoying mine.  Well, I won’t!

#groundedagain #ihatemyfamily”

 

The Uber listened if anything for morbid curiosity.  Though The Tweeter didn’t strike him as the best of storytellers, one could only imagine how long this story would take to get to the damn point, but The Uber had grown somewhat accustomed to misery.  To annoyance.  He had gotten good at finding and indulging the most pathetic people available to him for the sole purpose of comparison.  At least I’m better than them.  He would think.  He applied that thought to most of his fares.

The Tweeter started with his father.  Calling him “soulless.”  A “stick-in-the-mud.”  A “buzzkill.”  A “flop.”  An “asshole.”  And ironically, “an absolute mother…FUCK-ER.”  What he didn’t elaborate on with scathing commentary was his position: A prosecuting attorney for The District Attorney of Los Angeles.  Raking in $250K on a bad fiscal year wasn’t on The Tweeter’s list of complaints.  

“Hold on,” said The Uber.  “Your father works for The District Attorney?” 

“He worked for one of them.  Got fired in 2012.  You’ll see why.”

“Was it because you drugged him?”

“Yeah, it’s because I drugged him…”

 

The Prosecutor’s Tale

DISCLAIMER: This short story is a work of fiction. All characters, names, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The portrayal of any real-life person in this work is fictional and is in no way intended to be a factual representation of their actual behavior, personality, or beliefs.  

 

The Prosecutor was at work all the time.  A life consumed by paperwork, administration, ass-kissing, and legal jargon.  It was his life.  It was his world.  Aside from the steady stream of cigars that he almost chain-smoked, he always failed to see any potential solace to be had in drugs and drink.  A teetotaler by his credentials, his opiate was in another field.  Not the opiate of the masses: Marijuana.  Nor did he value religion.  He scarcely valued his own life.  His life was his work.  His life was the lives of others, scrawled on sheet upon sheet upon sheet of time-stamped court transcripts, presentence reports, subpoenas, indictments, and piles of writs of habeas corpus.  

He liked his wealth, he liked his Rolls-Royce, he liked his small mansion.  And he especially liked the defendants he went up against.  The lowlives and the tweakers.  The rapists and wife-beaters.  The arsonists, the takers, the hustlers, and the fakers.  The dealers and stealers.  Thugs and mugs. Loan sharks and bookies, and blabbermouth rookies.  The extortionists and the cheats, and the forgers and -

“Is this going anywhere?” Asked the Uber.

“Just playing my rhyme game.  Thought you’d indulge me.”

“I’ll turn Elvis back on if you start up again.”

He was an intimidating man, tall, square-jawed, and broad-shouldered.  Salt and pepper hair shaved into a crew cut.  Voice pitched down to a frightening baritone that shook foundations when elevated to a scream.  And the man was no Atticus Finch.  Screaming was kind of his thing.  Intimidation, bullying, pointing his big meaty fingers in your face and screaming about the ways in which you faltered and failed - these were his wont.  And boy did they make him happy.

Every day he left, he did so without a goodbye.  Dressed in either a navy or charcoal single-breasted suit with buttons that became more and more strained by his ever-widening belly.  Suitcase in hand and cell phone pressed up to his enormous, flat ear, he would bolt through the door, sometimes with bits of scrambled egg hanging off the corner of his mouth.  Some nights, he didn’t come home at all.  He would sleep in the office, and The Prosecutor’s Wife always seemed somewhat happier on those nights. The Tweeter figured The Prosecutor was happier on those nights as well.

The Tweeter was correct.

The Prosecutor was able to send The Tweeter to the finest schools available.  The places where education is an illusion and all chase the doppelganger of elucidation: Self-Righteousness.  And when The Prosecutor graduated valedictorian of his class, he expected The Tweeter to do the same.

The Tweeter did not.

The Tweeter, nose in his phone, eyes averted from homework - mind overstimulated by YouTube, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and every single pay-to-play video game in between, found little competition between education and the allure of social media.  The little shit.

“It was our recommendation,” said The Principal in preparation.  She was a black woman, deep into her sixties.  Dark fingers curled around her cusped hands that she pressed against her lips almost in an attempt to stifle the bad news from escaping.  She sat across from The Prosecutor in her office.  Nothing but a wooden desk in between them.  The Prosecutor, this man who not only looked constantly angry but actually was constantly angry, was certainly capable of charging through wood like toilet paper.  Her heart thumped in her chest and her heel jittered to the rhythm.  She could foresee him bolting out of the chair flipping over the desk and treating her like he treats his opponents.  Finger-pointing, excuses, anger, and outrage. This man could shake the halls with his fury.

“It was our recommendation,” she repeated, “That Rory repeat the 11th grade.”  It took everything she could muster to not wince in preparation.

“I figured,” he said with a shrug.

The Principal’s eyebrows raised. “You figured?”

“Boy doesn’t do a damn thing.  You just told me he’s failing every class and I know he’s failing every class.  The fuck else are you going to be planning on doing with him?”

“Sir.  I understand this might be a stressful time, but there are children just outside that door -”

“High schoolers with bigger sailor mouths than me.  Now, look:” The Prosecutor leaned in and tapped on her desk with his big meaty finger, “The boy does what he wants when he wants. God knows I didn’t raise him that way but he inherited his mother’s stubbornness.  I’ve tried with him - I’ve tried everything. EVERY. THING. - and he won’t change.  I tell ya, He’s just getting worse.  He dedicates every moment to fucking video games and - and - and Youtube, and Instagram, and Facebook.  And Twit - All the time with God damn Twitter!  Every single day, every single morning, I tell ya.  I’m sitting there trying to eat fucking breakfast, and he’s on Twitter sharing excerpts from some sex book going around.  He’s convinced this is what he needs to do.  This is his ‘calling.’  Recording himself playing video games, screaming at the top of his lungs, making jokes about some character in a book getting a fist shoved up her ass -”

“Oh my goodness!  Sir!”

“- and posting it on YouTube.  I tell ya.  Kids today.  These damned Millennials. I tell ya, there’s nothing to be done.”

“Well, there is something we can do, Mr. van der Bild.  And that’s what we’re here for.  When Rory came in last week, he smelled of marijuana -”

“WHAT?!”

“Lower your voice, Mr. van der Bild, PLEASE!”  The Principal exhaled through her nose and closed her eyes.  “When Rory came in last week, he smelled of marijuana.  We found none on him and he exhibited no signs of intoxication.  We called your wife and informed her of this, we assumed she shared this with you.”

The Prosecutor was stone-faced, yet his gray eyes burned.  “I was not aware of this.”

“Well, regardless, Mr. van der Bild; we’ve been finding marijuana among the other students.  But,” she reached behind the desk and the sound of a drawer unsheathing filled the intensely silent room, “We found this on one of our students today:”  She pulled out a baggie, it was filled to the brim with the largest capsules of Mary Jane he had ever seen.  It looked like a passion project filled to the brim with care and steady cultivation."

“Did you find it on Rory?”

“No, but -”

“Then why am I hearing about this?”

The Principal stared at The Prosecutor, grabbed the baggie, and flipped it around.  There it was: The Smoking Gun (pun intended). Written in big black Sharpie and clear as day:

“Van Der Bud”

“Son of a BITCH!”

 

* * *

 

The Tweeter, The Prosecutor, and The Prosecutor’s Wife all occupied The Tweeter’s bedroom.  The Prosecutor stood over The Tweeter who was sitting in his bed.  His wife was at his side, small, gentle, and pale.  A direct contrast to the enormous, volatile, and bright red Prosecutor.  The Tweeter began, “Dad, I -”

“And another thing, you!” The Prosecutor shoved his finger in The Tweeter’s face.  “If you think I’m going to bother with another private school, I tell ya, you are WRONG!”  The Prosecutor stood over The Tweeter who was sitting in his bed.  His wife was at his side, small, gentle, and pale.  A direct contrast to the enormous, volatile, and bright red Prosecutor.

“Jacob-” started The Prosecutor’s Wife.

“Stop!” The Prosecutor’s finger rotated like a clock’s right in her face.  “You have facilitated this!  You knew about this and you kept it from me?!”

“Look at how you’re reacting and ask yourself why I wouldn’t want to have this discussion.”

“OH, fucking PLEASE!”

The Tweeter furrowed his brow.  When angry, he almost looked like his father only half as big and not nearly as intimidating. 

“I am acting like this because I want agency in this family!  When I’m forbidden agency I am allowed to be angry!  And you better wipe that look off your face, boy.  I’ll even give you a minute.”  The Prosecutor looked back toward his wife.  She didn’t need an expression or a motion.  She left the room first and he followed right behind her like a distorted shadow.  She stared forward and walked to the bedroom.  Shoulders high, gaze low, morale… Gone.  It had been for a while.

The Prosecutor entered behind her and closed the door.  She was expecting a slam, but he managed some self-control.  “I hope you have an idea of what to do now because I don’t,” he said.

“No.”

“Then… Fuck it?  We’re just pulling the plug?”

“Jesus Jacob!  Pull the plug?  On your oldest child?”

“Jacob Jr. is 11 years old and he has some semblance of responsibility.  I tell ya, he is miles ahead of where Rory is now and he’s 17.”

“Do you have to make it so obvious all the time?  Must you constantly be pinning medals on J.J. right in front of Rory?”

“J.J. earns those ‘medals,’ as you call them.” He arched his fingers in quotes.  “If Rory can’t keep up with his younger brother, then it’s his problem.  All I try to do is motivate him.  I tell ya, he needs to feel the competition.  That’s what life is.  And he’s losing it.”

The Prosecutor’s Wife scoffed to herself, stood up, and engaged in a long sigh on her way to the personal bathroom.  Her stomach was in knots and she needed her Pepcid.  

She was a mousy woman, once given to joyous disposition teetering on naivete, now she sported crow’s feet on the borders of her face, bags, and a mouth that curved into a grimace when at rest.  She felt as ugly as The Prosecutor let her feel.  The last time he commented on her looks it was to say that the tea she drinks is turning her teeth yellow.  Gray strands of hair kept escaping the blonde dye she had put less and less effort into applying.  She just plucks them now.  Unlike her eyebrows and her upper lip.  Nothing but slow, steady, and uncomfortable primping and now it’s stifled by the lack of confirmation.  She was once beautiful.  That trophy wife of the high-flying lawyer, Jacob van der Bild.  One big dusty trophy sitting on the mantle.  Not seen, not heard, and aged past its value like a First Place ribbon from an elementary school spelling bee.  At some point, you can’t coast on it.  And The Prosecutor could no longer do that with his wife.  They were both just too damn tired.

She locked the bathroom door behind her and dug through the medicine cabinet.  Prozac, Lorazepam, Ambien, stool softeners, teeth whiteners, diuretics, Preparation H...  A treasure trove of band-aids for dysfunction.  Yes, there was also Viagra, and just behind that: Pepcid.  She popped three doses worth in her mouth and chewed them slowly.  She could hear The Prosecutor muttering to himself.  

Guess the divorce papers will have to wait a little while longer, she thought.  She pulled out her phone and scrolled to Rory in her contact list.  

 

* * *

 

The Tweeter was in his room, supine on his king-sized bed rolling one of the last buds of marijuana in his possession.  They had found the plants in the attic, sure; but they were never going to find the baggies stashed in the mattress.  The mere act of “disrespecting property” in the form of carving a hole in the underside of the bed would never have crossed The Prosecutor’s mind.  The Tweeter, on the other hand, couldn’t give a shit.  He held it up to his nose and smelled it.  If anything to cover up the smell of cigar smoke that somehow crept into every fabric and fiber in the house years prior:  The only reason he could even manage to keep pot in the house of a bloodhound like The Prosecutor.

But for the first time in six months, the Tweeter had a finite stash again.  It didn’t matter how many eight-ounce baggies he had, the plants were gone: Ripped to pieces, thrown into a garbage bag, driven six miles out, and thrown off a bridge.  Treated like the corpse of a murder victim.

A pungent air of cigar smoke wafted back into The Tweeter’s room and he immediately felt nauseous.  Bastard.  Only his vices are allowed.  Can’t stop chomping down on those cancer sticks, but he’ll be damned if his child smokes pot, or if his spouse gains weight.  Once upon a time, The Prosecutor’s Wife would have begged him to stop smoking those things, now she’s the one who buys them.  She wants him to keep on huffing and puffing through all that stress and all of that anger.  She wants one of the lawyers down at the civic center to trip over his cold body on the way to work.  

The Tweeter wanted something not dissimilar.  The Tweeter wanted to see a squirm or two.  The Tweeter took to the topic of taking.  Nobody takes from Big Jake, Big Jake only takes.  He couldn’t take anything from The Prosecutor.  But what he could do was give.  Give him exactly what he’s been spending the night trying to take for himself…  The Tweeter took another smell of his bud and smiled.  Things were gonna change.

 

“RascalousRebel95  @RoryTVanDerBild - Nov 13, 2012, 5:03 PM

Hey, Rebels.  Things are changing in my life, and I don’t know if it’s for the better or worst.  I have one more video idea left in me is all.  Someone needs to learn a lesson and your all gonna get to watch!

#Revenge”

 

“RascalousRebel  @RoryTVanDerBild - Nov 13, 2012, 5:05 PM

I am NOT talking about making a snuff film.  I realized how that sounded…

#JustAPrank”

 

BOOP! A text came in.

“From Mom:  Do not even think we’re done.  Your father and I need to calm down, and you need to as well.  If you can’t find the value in schooling, it is now time for a job.  And that starts TOMORROW!  Not the day after, not next week.  TOMORROW! MORNING!”

 

“To Mom: I was cultivating a business.  I WAS making money.  It’s pretty much legal now…”

BADOOP!

BOOP!

“From Mom: Your father works for The District Attorney of Los Angeles!  Steve Cooley is cracking down on illicit Marijuana and you are practically growing it under his nose!  You have to realize that your choices have consequences.  District Attorney Cooley doesn’t care how almost legal your hobby is.  Your father doesn’t care.  And I don’t care.  And the consequences for this are dire.  And they might get worse.  You should be preparing for that instead of worrying about those plants!”

“To Mom: I’m getting tons of subscribers!  I’m up to like 10k!  I’m racking in money from this too!”

BADOOP!

BOOP!

“From Mom: You can’t do that forever.  People move on, son.  You may be making a little bit of money, but it’s not enough to live on and your father and I can’t always be there to help you.”

“To Mom: My Father doesn’t help me with any thing.”

BADOOP!

BOOP!

“From Mom: You know your father loves you.  He’s an asshole, yes.  But he means well.”

“To Mom: He named my younger brother after himself for gods sakes.  It’s like he skipped me.  No matter what, I’ll never make him happy.  Why try?”

BADOOP!

BOOP!

“From Mom: Because you make me happy.  You can make me proud too.”

“To Mom: I’ll try.”  After tomorrow, he thought.

BADOOP!

BOOP!

“From Mom: You’ll be okay.”  Those words were always nice to read.  Shame he couldn’t hear them much.

 

* * *

 

The Prosecutor sat in his recliner and sucked on a cigar, blowing the hot gas out through his giant nostrils which scraped against the five o’clock shadow already forming on his face.  His curled lips puckered and his eyes gazed forward at the closed door to his lounge.  Little Bastard.  Ungrateful.  Little.  Bastard.  He drew on his cigar, HUFF.

Things are gonna start changing around here, he thought.  PUFF.

If that towheaded little prick learns one thing in his life it will be Actions.  Have.  Consequences.  He’s gonna learn that long, hard, and bloody if need be.  He’s gonna learn it kicking and screaming every single second, and that’ll make the learning all the better.  There’s not gonna be a single thing he ever does for the rest of his life that he doesn’t think about.  Someone asks him what fucking time it is and he’ll have to take a minute to think before he responds.  HUFF

Not a single moment of competence, not one iota of demonstrated potential.  Squeezed out prematurely, weighing 4 pounds, blue in the face and not moving a muscle.  Even his birth was something he half-assed.  PUFF

He just couldn’t wait to get a slice of life, a slice of adulthood.  No working for it, carried along the way because that’s all he knows.  That’s all he’ll ever know.  The helping hand of the higher-ups.  The handicap sign awarded to him just for being stupid.  The pity parties held for him by his mother.  The girls that fawn over him and those goddamn blue eyes and that obnoxious square jaw.  Doesn’t matter that he’s half man, half toddler: They just can’t get enough of him.  Even his mother.  How else can he function with an endless stream of women awarding him?  Well, Oedipus, that stops now.  HUFF

If I have to resort to busting up that pretty face of yours, I’ll do that.  PUFF

He put the cigar out and retrieved his phone from his pocket.

“To Tiffany: Come to my study.”

BADOOP!

 

* * *

BOOP!

From “Bastard”:  Come to my study.

The Prosecutor’s Wife studied the phone for a split second before her hands atrophied and the phone clattered to the floor.  He really wanted service, didn’t he?  Who the hell-?  She snapped.  She just felt it.  She felt something in her mind pop.  She practically heard the crack.  The text knocked something into its place like a chiropractor.  “All it takes sometimes,” says her massage therapist, Sunflower, “is just a little tiny nudge to get things where they should be.”

He’ll get his service.  He’ll get some for sure.

She stood off the bathroom floor and went back into the master bedroom and threw the mattress off the boxspring and it whipped across the room, knocking over the lamp with a smash.  The papers were right there all along.  Under his fat, stinking carcass every time he decided to sleep at home.

The Prosecutor’s booming voice echoed through the house, “What the fuck was that?!”

What are those stories about mothers getting bursts of adrenaline and lifting up wrecked cars to save their children?  Maybe this is something similar: A wife getting a burst of strength to retrieve divorce papers.

She stomped around the frame with the papers wadded in her clenched fist.  She swung the door open and the doorknob punched a hole through the drywall. “YOU come HERE!” She screamed.  

 

* * *

 

CRASH!

“What the fuck was that?!”  

“YOU come HERE!”

The Tweeter’s eyes shot open and he sat up on his bed.  At it again, huh? He thought.  He stuffed the bud in his shirt pocket, opened his door, and peeked through the crack.  He saw The Prosecutor stomp past from the lounge to his bedroom.  Right to left and around the corner.  From the study to the master bedroom.  Across the hallway from The Tweeter’s room, J.J. had managed to get his head out of his homework for just long enough to see the commotion.  The Tweeter and he locked eyes and The Tweeter motioned him back into his room.  J.J. rolled his eyes and closed his door once again.  A lock latched from within.

“Who the fuck are you beckoning me?!  Am I your maid?!  Is that what I am?!  Answer me!”

“What the fuck is the matter with you?!”

“No!  NO!  I asked YOU a question!  Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

The Tweeter tiptoed down the hallway and peeked around the corner.  There they were in the doorway to the master bedroom, and The Prosecutor’s Wife had officially (finally) had her fill.  The Tweeter didn’t know what it was that finally did it, but as long as he wasn’t the one getting screamed at, he relished the opportunity.

He rushed into the study and closed the door behind him.  The cigars were right where they always were: In some ritzy Davidoff humidor, with the bands facing upward.  Each of a typical Cuban make, and each one costing more than a joint would.  Speaking of:

The Tweeter withdrew the bud from his pocket and rolled it to dust in between his fingers and it gathered in the palm of his hand.  He had gotten good at that, he looked like a fairy throwing around magic dust, which in a way, he was.  He imagined his Dad’s reaction to smoking on this.

Hm.  This tastes kinda good actually.  HUFF

He grabbed freshly snuffed out, but mostly intact stogie from the ashtray, pinched it between his fingers, and steadily eased the tobacco out of the wrapper as he had done many times before.  Those fancy Habano cigar wrappers tasted great when packed with Van Der Bud.  Had a really interesting effect too.

Getting lightheaded.  Am I smoking this too fast?  PUFF.

The shredded tobacco and the crumbled pot sat in a pile on the side table.  The arguing persisted without relenting.  Ever-escalating and reaching bigger and bigger climaxes.  The Tweeter overheard “divorce” several times and all he could think was, ‘Bout time.  But he also knew that it was now or never.  The Prosecutor wasn’t gonna be living with The Tweeter much longer, and that was the real treat of the night.  The Tweeter thought that this little prank would be the cherry on top, but it was only just beginning.  Maybe The Prosecutor’s first high would be like The Tweeter’s:

Wow.  I am a really bad person.  Why DO I treat people the way I do?  HUFF.

The Tweeter grabbed the mixture and slowly poured it back into the shell, packing it as neatly and keeping the pot as deep as possible within the shell.  It was a slow and steady process, one pinch at a time.  Nothing can get into the carpet, no residue on the table.  No grams of pot peeking through the tobacco in that cigar shell.  If done right the stink wouldn’t get through.  Not through those wrappers.  If done wrong, The Prosecutor would know.  He would probably figure it out eventually, but by then it’d be too late.

Is it to make up for my own insecurities?  Has an overt materialist lifestyle detracted from the possibility of any specific personal introspection because the luxuries of my life afford me the momentary distractions necessary for prolonging a detached view of myself and how I impact the world around me?  PUFF.

The Tweeter grabbed another pinch off the table and drained it into the monstrous hand-rolled and (p)re-packed holster.  His faraway grin turned to a faraway scowl - still lost in the daydream.

Why do I hate my son so much?  If I ask myself, “What has he actually done to me?” I don’t think I would have an answer.  Maybe it’s because he doesn’t “DO” anything.  HUFF.

The Tweeter’s fingers got sweaty and bits of dust clung to the perspiration, it was all starting to clump together.  He dried his hands off on his shirt and listened again.  The voice of The Prosecutor came in loud and clear, but still no louder or clearer than when he had originally started.  The Prosecutor’s Wife hates going in the study anyway.  Not because it smells like cigars - the whole house smells like that - it’s because it smells like him.  And now there’s a waft of marijuana that can be added to the mix.  There’s no way this would work.

And maybe what little he DOES do is malicious and obnoxious.  When he’s not benign, he is actively malignant and selfish.  He does nothing for others because that hole is filled in with appeasing faceless fans on the internet.  He’s convinced he’s doing something when he’s not actually doing anything.  He’s just getting glorification.  PUFF.

Footsteps.  Loud ones.  The footsteps of a man who is 6’6” and 303 lbs and is VERY angry.  “Stomp” doesn’t even begin to describe it.  He shook their small mansion with every footfall.  The Tweeter froze in fear and resigned in his mind to the idea of being caught.  He figured he could at least call the police if The Prosecutor starts whooping him.  The steps stopped.  Not close, but not far, and they retreated back.  

“And another thing!  If you think you are even entitled to YOUR clothes that I buy, I tell ya, you’ve never been more wrong in your sorry life!”  Screamed The Prosecutor.

The Tweeter sighed and grabbed another pinch from the pile.  With every addition, it had to be packed again, with The Prosecutor’s fountain pen at first, then a slow transition to the cigar punch, for authenticity.  

And maybe I’m just the opposite.  I do too much.  I can’t sit back and enjoy anything.  My hobby, my life, is the prosecution of others.  Guilty, innocent.  Civilian, convict.  Stranger, family.  Yet.  Even through all of that, we are not much different.  Maybe he really is a chip off the old block.  HUFF.

The Tweeter grabbed bigger specimens and scooped them into the shell.  He was almost done now, but now the outside had to be perfect.  Ash and all.  He grabbed the blackened shreds of tobacco leaf and pressed them in lightly with the cigar punch, then he tilted the cigar sideways and scooped up the ash from the ashtray.  He swirled it around the charred lip of the cigar like a wine glass and pressed one more time, as gently as possible and he set it back down.  And with a smirk, The Tweeter stood up, hiked his leg, and farted on the pot-laced cigar that was about to go right into The Prosecutor’s mouth.

Whatever.  I’m too high to think about that anyway, thought The Tweeter.

Whatever.  I’m too high to think about that anyway.  PUFF.

 

The Tweeter turned around and made the first steps towards his exit when the footsteps came back.  This time, there was no stopping them.  The argument was done, and the final words were said.  Other than the ones The Prosecutor was audibly mumbling to himself on the way back.  The Tweeter was caught, but not quite red-handed.  He turned around quickly faced away from the door and stood perfectly still, gazing up at the bookshelves in front of him.  

The interval between the sound of the door swinging open and the sound of The Prosecutor’s voice was nonexistent, “And what the hell do you think you’re doing in here?!”

The Tweeter turned around and smiled, “I’m just imagining what this is gonna look like as my game room.”

“And fuck you too, twerp!  Your room is gonna become J.J.’s second bedroom.  Your Mom hasn’t worked a day in her damn life!”

The Tweeter sustained his smile as he strode past The Prosecutor and towards the doorway.

The Prosecutor went on, “I’m not sure how you idiots know how it all works, but you’ll be out on the streets before you’re capable of keeping this house!”  

The Tweeter strolled down the hall, into his room, and shut the door.  A lock latched from within.

The Prosecutor continued just screaming down an empty hallway, “Know how to remit a transient occupancy tax?  Well, I sure as hell won’t talk you through the process when your Goddamn loser friends start using this place as an Airbnb, you cretin!”

Nothing now.  An empty study and nobody to scream at.  He plopped back down in his chair.  Huffing and puffing sans the cigar.  He grabbed it from the ashtray, lit it, and held it up to his tensed lips.

Unbelievable.  HUFF.

The Prosecutor leaned forward on his knees and kept the cigar close to his face.

Do they actually think they can get a scrap of what I own?  What one of the most powerful attorneys in the state of California owns?!  What the chief deputy district attorney of Los Angeles owns?!  What the prime beneficiary of the Van der Bild fortune OWNS!?  PUFF.

He stood up and marched to his bookcase, grabbed it, and pulled it to the ground where it smashed into pieces, sending pages fluttering above the pile of destruction.  Then another bookcase.  Then another.  Cigar still closed in his fingers, and intermittently clenched in between the crowns on his teeth as his hands focused on destroying as many objects as possible.  Everything except the lounge chair, the side table near it, and the Davidoff humidor it held aloft.

I’ve done nothing but care and provide, and this is what they want, huh?  Well, when that bitch loses, she’ll be at such a loss for personal possessions, we’re gonna come after the fucking head on her shoulders!  And why does this cigar taste like shit?  HUFF.

The Prosecutor fell back into the lounge chair with an exhausted plop.  His breathing and the sound of torn book pages flipping in the wind and settling back down on the catastrophe that lined the floor was all that could be heard.

I’m getting really lightheaded.  Am I smoking this too fast?  PUFF.

 

* * *

 

The Tweeter sat at the dining room table with J.J. and The Prosecutor’s Ex-Wife.  She was different.  Her shoulders were less slouched, her brow was more furrowed, and she actually made eye contact now.  All within the span of an argument and 20 minutes this 103 lb woman grew a pendulous, swaying set of lady-balls that she plopped right firm on that dining room table.  Though The Tweeter’s mind was somewhere else, and not on his mother’s testicles.

“Now, I’ve already spoken to several lawyers, and each of you has the right to -”

J.J. interrupted, “I wanna live with you.”

“Okay. Rory?”

The Tweeter wondered what was going on with his father, and when he could be finished with his mother.  He poked at the phone in the pocket of his pajama pants - tapping in impatience.  He was being just so quiet up there.  The Tweeter figured The Prosecutor HAD to know that he was high at the point.  He wondered if The Prosecutor was too high to move or if he killed himself.  Either way would make for a funny video though, frankly.  Even though The Tweeter was hoping that The Prosecutor was just glued to the chair.  If that was the case, highs don’t last forever and mothers have no off-switch.

“Rory!”

“Yeah.”

“You want to live with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.  In that case, nothing is really going to change.  If you think about it…”

The Tweeter wondered what she would do if he just got up and walked away as if she were a television set and a commercial break interrupted the interesting bit.  The results might be horrifying, but they might also be good enough for views too.  

God DAMMIT!  Why is he so quiet?  Why is she so talkative?  What’s with the role reversal here?

“I’m sorry, Mom.  May I please be excused?”

“Me too,” said J.J.

Her face stern and set in stone, she held her stare on the siblings.  “And may I ask why?”

The Tweeter spoke first, “I just need to think about a lot of things tonight.  Getting expelled, this divorce thing, getting grounded.  I’m tired and stressed at the same time and I need to think.  Before hearing this, I need to figure out how to wrap my mind around everything.”

“And I don’t really care,” said J.J.

The Prosecutor’s Ex-Wife threw up her hands and dismissed them both.  She too was much too tired for this anyway.

The Tweeter pulled his phone out and swiped through the texts and Twitter updates, scrolled through his album of selfies, and accessed the camera.  He lined it up to the doorway and pressed record.  He smiled in preparation - The Prosecutor always hated The Tweeter’s “cocky smirk,” and it has always been useful in getting The Prosecutor as angry as possible. 

Slowly, did The Tweeter approach the door, he was anxious but unafraid.  Van Der Bud

had notorious tranquilizing effects.  One of the reasons he even got caught was because the students were too sedated to bother with lying.  And The Prosecutor, as a pot virgin was likely to be floored for the rest of the night.

“So,” began The Tweeter, talking to his future audience, “my Dad just tried pot for the first time tonight and I’m just now checking in.” The Tweeter twisted the nob and slowly opened the door, “He’s been quiet for a while now, but he was flipping out earlier, now he’s…  Huh.  He’s just… Waving at me.”  The Tweeter waved back, “Um, hey Dad.”

“Close the door on your way in, son,” said The Prosecutor.  “I don’t think your Mom wants to see me right now.”

“Oh-Kay?”  The Tweeter shut the door behind him and reflexively felt for a lock and remembered that The Prosecutor’s study never had one.

“I’d tell you to have a seat, but I destroyed the other chair,”  The Prosecutor motioned toward a segment of the indecipherable bits of wooden rubble scattered about the once nice room.

“That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.  Oh, I’ve been such an ass, Rory.”

“You have.”

“I just said that.  Look…  Are you filming me?”  The Prosecutor looked right into the lens with his bright red and grey eyes, that classic stoner look: confusion spiced with contentedness.  

“No.”

“What’s with the phone then?”

“I always have my phone.”

“And that’s your problem, Rory.  You never just… I dunno.  You’re just constantly immersed in that thing.  I don’t know if it’s escapism or ADHD that you do it, but I do know that I’m the one who drove you to it.”

“Is that so, Dad?”  The Tweeter giggled.  

“Of course it is.  Now, I’m not just saying that because the Ativan is making me think a bit more clearer - clearly.  I always know this, Rory.  And every time I see it, it makes me angry at myself, and then at you.  And angry at your Mother as well for letting it happen.”  The Prosecutor looked away and blinked like a fish, the left eye following ever so slightly after the right one. “I know what you think of me, but I think that…  What I think is that your opinion of my opinion of you is wrong.  I don’t hate you like you hate me.  You piss me off, but I love you regardless, Rory.  You don’t believe that - I get it.”  The Prosecutor spoke with candor and honesty.  Looking down at the catastrophe strewn about the floor in short intervals, regularly breaking eye contact with The Tweeter.  He seemed to even be speaking with a small semblance of shame as well.

“Holy shit, bro.” The Tweeter was actually beginning to feel, perhaps for the first time in his life, a sense of guilt.

“You think I want you to be like me?  God, Rory, no.  I’m an asshole.  And it’s not even a childhood thing, I’m thrice the asshole MY Dad was.”  There was a beat and The Prosecutor fluttered away tears.  “I just want you to be fucking SOMEBODY.  Not anybody.  Somebody.  I need you to be YOU.  You think those people online give a damn?  That they’re remotely capable of defining you?”

This really isn’t as funny as I thought it would be, thought The Tweeter.”

“I tell ya, you’re like a… like a popsicle.”

Never mind it’s getting funny.

“They’re freezing you as you are.  Keeping you complacent.  Stuffing you in the back of the freezer as a treat for the kids.  What happens when the kids grow up, Rory?”  The Prosecutor locked his bright red eyes into the camera and pointed directly at The Tweeter with authority - ferocity.  “You’ll just be an old box of popsicles in the back of the freezer!”

“You are like Francis Kafka, Dad,” said The Tweeter with another giggle bursting from those effeminate pouty lips and pearlescent white teeth.  

“It’s Franz Kafka, dammit.  Now, you should know this crap, son!”  He slowly chopped at the air with his hand in assertion, “This is exactly what I’m talking about.  Now you’re expelled from school, sitting on a book of knowledge that is utterly blank and you’re sitting there giggling; and somehow; you’re actually going to walk away from this infinitely better with no effort or care yet again!  But lemme tell you this, Rory,”  The Prosecutor pointed directly into the camera again and The Tweeter hoped another popsicle analogy was coming. “If the kids don’t eat ya, then the adults will. And that is the last thing you want.  Trust me.  As an adult…”

The Tweeter zoomed the camera out to the devastated cabinets, bookshelves, and a rather sturdy oak desk that, while still standing, was riddled with holes the size of fists, black scuff marks on the bottom, and a small-scale pile of devastated OfficeMax supplies.

“As a fucking adult…”  The Prosecutor stared off into the distance and bit his lower lip.  He nodded a bit and, though The Tweeter couldn’t see it, the camera certainly caught it:  The Prosecutor was starting to see it all fall into place.

“I’m only 17.”

“Not you, son.”

“What?”

“My Dad told me the number one part of being an adult is doing things that you hate doing.  And I took that so close to heart that as I sank further into adulthood, the less I appreciated doing the things I love.”

“Haha!  Are you saying you want to do me, Dad?  Kinda grooooooss,” said The Tweeter with a warble in his voice on the last syllable.

“And fucking Cooley.”  The Prosecutor shifted from reflection to rage.  His shoulders tensed and his lower lip protruded.  He shook his head in denial of the mere thought of his boss.

The Tweeter zoomed in on The Prosecutor’s flushed and confused face.  Now he was getting to the good stuff.

“You know he’s a mix of both of us?”  Continued the prosecutor.  “So concerned with image that he’s nothing but a shell now, yet that shell is dolled up nice in the image of a professional.  God!  All of them are like that.  I’m like that.  At least you don’t have pretense.  I have to pretend to like a man that has consumed me like a python and has me writhing in his milky white gut as I struggle to breathe.  But I lost my breath a long time ago, Rory.  I tell ya.  A long time ago.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It means I work to please a man I hate.  And I’m pretty sure he hates me right back.  It means that I bust ass to correct myself.  Every single thought I have before I act is, ‘Would Cooley approve?’  This is so… ingrained.  I can’t think of much else.  I can’t think in any other way.  And I got so immersed into being something I’m not, that my true self didn’t get a chance to shine through.  It bursts through like a dam and I have to seal it back up.  And by then it’s too late.  The damage is done and Cooley cleans up my mistakes.”

“Um… What mistakes, Dad?”

“Oh, I make my fair share.  Things that’ll shock you.”

The Tweeter’s heart convulsed in his chest, it took everything he had to not piss his pants in excitement.  He was slightly afraid the old man might confess to being a serial killer, but he figured he could probably outrun him if need be. 

“It’s the secretaries.”  He assumed the face of a puppy.  A mean-looking puppy with the forehead of Frankenstein’s monster, but his eyes communicated authenticity.  “Something about women in glasses, Rory…”

“No shit?  We all kind of figured.”

“Well, yeah.  And Cooley knows about it.  Several complaints came in.  This and that.  And ousting a story like that:  There are no winners.  That’s why we’re sitting on Weinstein still.”

“Who’s Weinstein?”

“You’ll find out.”  The Prosecutor shook his head and rubbed his dry eyes with the heel of his hands and licked his drying lips.  “I realized tonight, that I made the mistakes that everyone else has.  The mistakes that made me unhappy.  That made my coworkers unhappy.  That made you and your mother unhappy in the hopes that happiness will just… Arrive.”

“Don’t forget J.J.”

The Prosecutor waved the statement away,  “J.J. and I have a great relationship.  But you hate me in the same way I hate Cooley, and I always blamed you for that until now.”

“Do you wanna share some more thoughts on your hatred for Steve Cooley?”

“I think enough about that Q-tip Rory, I want to talk with yo-”

The video paused.  The Prosecutor’s face frozen in an unsatisfying contortion.  Eyelids weighed heavy by marijuana, the mouth forming the shape for a back rounded vowel.  It kinda looked like he was singing.

“Q-Tip, Jake?  Really?”  Steve Cooley sat behind his massive desk, riddled with notably fewer holes than The Prosecutor’s, yet made out of a flimsier wood.  “I don’t think I even know what that means.  Yet that’s what you called me in front of,” Steve Cooley glanced at the screen again, “Four-hundred and fifty-four thousand people.  And now it’s catching on.  District Attorney Q-Tip…  You are a fool!”

“I’m not sure what it means either.”  The Prosecutor scooted forward in his chair and began tapping on Cooley’s desk like he did The Principal’s.  

“Don’t touch my desk, Jake.”

The Prosecutor retreated into the back of his chair, “Yes sir.  As I was saying -”

“You weren’t saying anything to my knowledge, you appear to be rambling.”

“Well, needless to say…”

“Then why say it, Jake?  Look: ‘Worst night of your life’ won’t cut it here.  I thought you knew me well enough to know that, but I was wrong about that too.  Let’s see what the comments have to say on this YouTube video.”

“Steve, that’s not -”

“Don’t call me Steve.  Ah!  Here’s one!  Charlotte Reeferman I remember her.”  Cooley squinted at the screen as though reading hieroglyphics,  “‘Yo, I worked for dem’ - them - ‘peoples for six months and met this guy three times was all I needed to know that,’ Jesus, how did this woman get a job here? ‘Was all I needed to know that dude was creep city, got my fine,’” Cooley muffled the word “ass” in his mouth, “‘Outta there first thing.  Mama raised no fools here girl.’”  Cooley glanced up from the screen, “I’ll find a more articulate one.”

“Mr. Cooley, that’s not necessary.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?  I am hearing vulgarity from people I never could have imagined possible all directed at me because someone,” Cooley pointed right in The Prosecutor’s face with enough force to generate a wind blast that blew through his crew cut.  “Went and ousted me as someone who will cover up the sex crimes of his own team!”  Cooley looked at the screen again, “Ah!  Here’s a good one!”  He raised his eyebrows in amazement as he scoffed.  “‘I was one of the secretaries for the D.A.’s team.  Van der Bild made a habit of referring to me as ‘brown sugar.’  I’m Vietnamese, so I’m not sure how this man’s mind operates.’”  Cooley shook his head in disappointment.  “Neither do I, Miss. Thanh Ngo.” Cooley continued, “That entire team is fucked.  Thank God Cooley can’t run again…”

“I nary know how my mind works either, Mr. Cooley.  But I have been a faithful servant to the California courts for three decades, and I’ve been at your side for one of them.  My son drugged me and I was talking nonsense.  If you can prove you had no knowledge of the behavior, you can do the same for me.”

There was a beat.  An awkward silence between lawyers is never awkward - it is tense.  Cooley spoke once again, “Frank Vrab: My sister served as a witness for this guy once.  Nothing happened - far as I know - but he apparently wouldn’t stop commenting on how “titillating” she smelled.  Guy’s a weirdo.”

“I remember her, she wore this very aromatic bergamot perfume -”

“Stop, Jake.  It’s done.  The report is out, you can watch the news.  There’s nothing I can do for you, and even if there was, I wouldn’t.”

The Prosecutor rose from his chair, his legs had managed to connect completely and his head was bowed.  He looked like a submissive dog with his tail between his legs as he waddled out of the room.

Cooley’s voice called from behind him, “Hey, Jake!”

Jake turned around like a child faced with the prospect of going to Disneyland if they behaved for a month.  Bright eyes, slacked jaw, innocent posture, you name it.  

“I’m a survivor of prostate cancer.  For four years now, I’ve needed exams from a doctor with the pointiest damn knuckles in the state of California.  I have to get these exams every four months yet it’s you!”  Cooley pointed at The Ex-Lawyer one more time, “YOU are the biggest pain in my ass I’ve ever had to deal with.  Now get the fuck out of my office.  I have a mess to clean up.”

 

* * *

 

The Tweeter was breaking in the new gaming room.  The acoustics were good and the lighting was phenomenal.  The window’s location was relative to the camera location and was perfect for lighting up his baby blues.  It was finally beginning to smell like something other than Jake.  The scent of cigars was usurped by the scent of success.  A viral video ousting a corrupt lawyer and sporting enough graphic sex scandals to make a sex tape  ALL within a prank video.  Not only is the video blowing up, but RascalousRebel is also blowing up.  And he’s not just a gamer, he’s a comedian.  A prankster.  A philanthropist.  An… Influencer…

Tiffany opened the door to The Tweeter’s new workspace, “Mom, you can’t come in when I’m recording now I have to edit you out!”

“Yeah, that sounds like hard work.  J.J. and I are going shopping, he needs a new laptop, want us to get you one?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.  The one I bought is working just fine.”

“That’s good.”

BOOP!  The Tweeter’s phone lit up.

Tiffany crossed her arms, “Is that him?”

“Yeah.  It’s him.”

“Just delete it.  Don’t even read it.”

“I’ll get rid of it Mom, now let me get back to this, please.”

Tiffany, this new woman, free of shackles and free of obligation had found new invigoration in upkeep on her terms.  She was glowing once again, yet she didn’t bother with looking young.  She just was and nothing made her happier.  She blew a kiss to The Tweeter that he promptly ignored as he turned his back to her.  Unphased, she closed the door and went to buy the most expensive laptop she could find.

The Tweeter checked his phone.

“From Jake: I hope you’re happy.  Here’s where I live: Underneath the apartment building of an obese man with Parkinson's.  I have nothing but a lightbulb dangling on the end of a string in my living room - which is also my kitchen.  AND my bedroom.  Don’t worry though, the bathroom is tucked away in the closet!  I know you don’t give a shit, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Rory.  You think you have it made now?  You haven’t the faintest idea of what life has in store for you.  You will be eaten alive.  Cannibalized.  Destroyed and forgotten.  Just like your old man.  But when I’m on my deathbed, I can say I tried.  Can you?”

“To Jake: I am happy.  I took your advice and I made myself someone.  And it’s not what you made me to be.  I’m Rascalous-fucking-Rebel95, and I have 303 thousand subscribers.  You don’t even have a family.  Oh, how the mighty fall!”

BADOOP!

 

End of Act 1

 

 

Interim

 

Story 2: The Fan’s Tale

 

Prologue

 

The Fan’s Tale

 

Interim

 

Story 3: The Tweeter’s Tale

 

Prologue

 

The Tweeter’s Tale

 

Interim

 

Epilogue: The Uber’s Tale: Part 2

 

Prologue:

 

The Uber’s Tale: Part 2