In my upstairs loft, I seat myself behind my metal desk and shake out the loose waves of my freshly highlighted hair before I pull open my MacBook. Maybe it’s just the newness, the mind aware that a drastic change has been made, but my head feels lighter. I actually feel more buoyant.
Lyric must either fear Rochelle or worship her—most likely both—because she canceled her morning appointment to squeeze me in, and according to a quick search of Lyric, she’s one of the most sought-after stylists in New York.
I rolled into Lucy’s office job two hours late, but my boss never gives me too much grief because I make him a ludicrous amount of money. Besides, thanks to my new look, I doubt he even recognized me for the better part of the day.
When Lyric’s task to transform me into another person was complete, I admit, I barely recognized myself in the mirror. The platinum highlights mixed with caramel lowlights brought out the green in my eyes and the dark slash of my eyebrows, making my eyes a striking feature.
With the right clothes, revealing in strategic places, Ericson should become an easy mark. And to help solidify that endeavor, I log in to my ghost email account and spam him with the most salacious and sexually explicit content.
I hacked all three of his email accounts during the vetting period. He has one email for work, one for VIP clients, and one personal.
I fill his personal account with ads from The Naughty Playroom. Then for good measure, I retarget his social media account with the same ads featuring scantily-clad escorts.
Now, on to Rochelle’s latest victim.
I unkink my neck with a stretch, then dig into research on Katy Dee. She’s just a baby. Twenty-two years of age living right here in NYC. She’s an artist whose focus is on saving endangered animals. Her most popular art prints—zebras, pandas, and other various black-and-white mammals—were picked up by a known clothing brand, and the line proudly touts its use of all natural material.
I roll my eyes. All material is natural. But honestly, the mesh of sateen and voile boasts to be both posh and comfortable. I buy a few shirts before I tank Katy. What Rochelle doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Okay—so what Rochelle is asking for technically can’t be done. Well, it can be, but the nerds will have Katy’s account back up not long after I take it down. She might not even register a blip in inactivity.
But there are other ways to nix a social media account. One just has to be creative.
I set the password cracker—that I proudly coded myself—and then go downstairs to make a cocktail. As I return to the loft, I’m surprised to see that my program has already cracked Katy’s Instagram password.
Pandas1234.
“Christ,” I mutter. Someone this naïve is just asking for it. But her password gives me a terrible idea—and I love those.
I set to Googling endangered species hunters, and within a few minutes I find what I’m looking for. Brooke Cannon, a young socialite herself, likes to brag to the world about her number of kills. She’s quite the little serial killer of the world’s most endangered animals. And lucky me, she has a photo of her standing next to a dead panda—pink riffle held high in the air—that she shot herself.
How much sport is there in shooting a panda? Even I’m a little mortified.
More research proves that pandas bring in a lot of money for their fur.
Perfect.
With a little help from Photoshop, I have a believable pic of Katy Dee and Brooke sitting together and laughing over chardonnay as they toast the good life. The image goes up on Katy’s account. The post reads:
Throw back to that time me and my gal pal Brooke partied together! She was the inspiration for my panda prints!
I make sure to tag Brooke (so all Katy’s followers can hop over and take a gander at the mortifying images she posts to her account), and hashtag the shit out of the post, so every activist in the world will see.
I admit, I’m getting a small thrill out of this. It’s not my best work, but when something goes viral, there’s this surge of adrenaline. And Katy Dee’s post goes viral in a nanosecond.
My work here isn’t quite done, though.
Any journalist worth their salt will uncover the lie here, rushing to come to the aid of Katy and her reputation. But an even hungrier, greedy journalist will salivate over the opportunity to prove it true.
Hey, I’m not the bad guy here. The world loves a scandal. Give them a hero to shred, and the claws come out.
I create a metadata trail that can be traced, proving the two girls have been in communication over the past year. Deleted and backdated email logs. Internet HTML receipts of likes and social media shares from each other’s accounts that were deleted.
Then I bundle the proof into a zip file and shoot it across the Internet to one lucky journalist from my anonymous email account.
I sip my whiskey sour as I refresh Katy’s Instagram account, watching her followers abandon ship by the thousands.
My phone rings. A glance at the display shows it’s Ericson.
That didn’t take long.
One last sip of cocktail and I answer: “Naughty Playroom Escorts.”
His voice isn’t even bashful. No hint of shame. “I need a date for this Friday evening.”
“Yes, sir”—he is dominant, therefore I am subservient in my response—“any special requests that we can accommodate?”
He lists his preferences. Blonde (of course; check). Meek (submissive; I’ll work on that). As he will be attending a company outing, the escort is to be dressed accordingly. Over the past few weeks, I’ve observed his “company outings”, so I know just what to give him.
The date is booked, and I end the call by taking his credit card number. Hell, no reason I can’t have Ericson pay twice for his own revenge.
I recline back in my chair and lace my fingers together, my mind diving deep into the plot. I like to watch it play out mentally, like on a TV screen, so I can visualize the outcome. It helps me uncover any obstacles and required contingencies.
The art of revenge is all about knowing your target. Know what will hurt them. The design of the retaliation has to be appropriately measured in direct and equal comparison to the slight against their victim…my client.
You can’t just spread a rumor about someone on social media. Or slap some graffiti on a billboard. That’s artless, and frankly, lazy.
No, as a bully, Ericson Daverns needs his face pushed into an ant bed.
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ALEX
The sound of the ticking secondhand is the soundtrack to my life.
I flip out the pewter pocket watch from my jean pocket. Click the spring cover open. It’s too dark to see the exact time, too loud in the night club to actually hear the tick, but checking the timepiece is a compulsion. It reminds me of why I’m here—that time is limited.
The tension in my shoulders eased, I tuck the watch into my pocket. Then I sip the club soda on the tiny industrial table before me. The club erupts with a pulse of flashing lights and a foghorn, sending a splintering shard through my skull. The clustered bodies on the dance floor gyrate even closer, hands lifted in the air, as if praising the god of debauchery.
The scene is ironic. In ancient Egypt, dance was used to tell the story of the gods—how the mother of creation established order through her song and dance. The ancients often danced in near-nude attire. They didn’t view nudity the way we do now; lust wasn’t a mortal sin.
