Alterlife III

by Matt Moss

  “Yes.”

  The snarky woman who sits next to me returned just in time to hear my story and snorts, stifling laughter.

  I throw my gaze to her, curious.

  She holds her hand up. “I’m sorry, man. It’s just that you probably are the most fucked up person here.”

  Can’t argue with that.

  Tarin interjects. “Hey, V, you can’t say things like that.”

  “Why not?” she asks. “Last I checked, they hadn’t taken away our freedom of speech yet.”

  “Your name is V?” I ask her.

  She fake-smiles at me, then looks back to Tarin as he continues to chide her.

  “This man just opened himself up to us. That takes courage. And for someone to say something like you just did, well, that’s plain rude and won’t be tolerated here.”

  “O...kay,” she replies.

  “Apologize.”

  “There’s no need,” I tell him.

  “I’m just concerned about him, is all,” she says to the group. “And us. A man who suffers from an addiction so much that it’s causing dementia needs to get some help. See a psych and get some meds or something.”

  A few others nod their heads and mutter agreements under their breath.

  Tarin shakes his head and waves her off. “That’s enough,” he tells her. “I won’t tolerate any form of slander or judgement that targets anyone else in the group. This is a safe place, and one that welcomes anyone.”

  “What if I told you that I killed someone?” I say to the woman, then look to the group. From one to the next, my gaze meets them all, and their reactions turn to stone. The room becomes deathly quiet. “Does that still make this a safe place?”

  Tarin stammers, but doesn’t speak; he doesn’t know what to say. The woman next to me named V shifts in her seat, intrigued now.

  “Actually, it was four people that I personally killed—three men and a woman—but who’s keeping count, right?” I can’t tell if they’re about to leave their seats or are discreetly dialing 911 for help. I hold my hand up to ease their minds. “Don’t worry, I’m not a murderer. Those people came into my home and tried to kill me, my wife, and my children. I did what anyone would have done and acted in self-defense.”

  “No shit?” V says, then scoffs in surprise. “Steve the killer. I would have never thought.”

  Tarin finds his words. “Was this in virtual reality, Steve? It’s very common to mistake your real life for the virtual one, as they can both seem very real to the mind.”

  I furrow my brow. “Are you saying that everything that happened was in virtual reality? That I didn’t actually kill those people who invaded my home and tried to murder my family?”

  Tarin gives a rueful smile and nods. “Yes, Steve. And it’s alright that you thought it was real. That’s why we’re here—to disassemble the lies that the virtual world has made us believe. And we can all do this, together. That is why we’re here.”

  I look up and breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. For the longest time, I thought it was real, and have been struggling with the fact that I actually killed those people, even though it was out of self defense.”

  “Well, worry no more,” Tarin tells me with a loving grin.

  I put my hands together and incline a bow to him.

  The rest of the group claps in tense relief and praises me for sharing.

  “Thank you all. Wow, I feel so much better now!”

  Beside me, V taps her chin and narrows her eyes at me, sizing me up.

  When the class is over, I wait for everyone to leave as usual. Tarin says goodbye to the last man out, then walks over to me.

  “Thank you for opening up today. That’s a big step you just took, and you should be proud.” He goes to put a hand on my shoulder, then checks himself and pulls it back. Reaches into his wallet and pulls out a card. “If you ever want to talk to someone about anything you’re going through, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  I take the card. “I appreciate that.”

  He smiles. “Take care. See you in a few days.”

  I leave the room, allowing him to lock up. Walking down the hall towards the front door, I crumple the card in my hand and throw it into the trash can near the front desk.

  Outside and into the sunlight, I’m forced to shield my eyes. As I cross the parking lot, I hear a woman call my name.

  “Steve, wait up,” she says, running up behind me.

  I turn. “Hello, V.”

  “For Victoria,” she tells me.

  “Cool.” I keep walking to my car, hoping she leaves me alone.

  She follows. “I didn’t buy that last part in there.”

  “What part is that?” I ask, not stopping.

  “About it all being made up in VR. I believe you really did kill those people who broke into your house.”

  I take the keys out of my pocket, stop and turn to her.

  “There,” she says, searching. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re not a good person.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I say and continue walking. “But you are right. Everything I said in there really did happen.”

  “I knew it,” she says, walking backwards in front of me and brushing her black hair to the side like she’s proud of herself for figuring it out.

  “You shouldn’t talk to me,” I tell her. ”It’s not safe.”

  “Why’s it not safe? Are you going to kill me too, Steve?” she asks, bemused, and lights up a cigarette.

  “My name’s not Steve,” I tell her, my eyes flashing dangerously. “Think about that. A normal, young woman like yourself should take that as a big red flag to stay the hell away from me.”

  She takes a drag. “I’m the furthest from normal. And I’m not scared to live dangerously.”

  “What’s your deal, anyway? You come to these meetings to find someone more fucked up than you? Do you get off on that or something?” I glare at her. “I don’t like you. Stay the hell away from me.”

  She grins behind the smoke. “Tell me your real name.”

  “Haywood Jablowmi.”

  She thinks for a moment. “Maybe.”

  I clench my jaw. “Leave me alone if you know what’s good for you.” I unlock the car and open the door.

  “You drive a Tesla?” she asks, impressed.

  Shit. Of all the days to drive this car. Jenny advised against purchasing another one, but I had to have it. It reminds me of the one I bought for Ben.

  I glare at her, slam the door shut, and squeal the tires, leaving her standing alone in the parking lot.

  Should have left the Tesla in the garage today.

  5

  Like New Cleaners

  Just go talk to him.

  Count. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty, as I do push-ups on the bedroom floor while Jenny sleeps. The alarm clock says it’s 4:30 a.m.

  You can make up your mind after you hear him out.

  Breathe. Roll over and do crunches. Twenty, thirty, forty. Take a moment to feel the lactic acid build in my muscles. Roll over and do another set of push-ups.

  Talk to me, John. Say something.

  It feels good to work out, especially in the morning. Jump straight out of bed and get the blood flowing. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve exercised, but I used to be an avid gym rat back in my early twenties. Could even get three plates on the bench press, which I was especially proud of considering my tall, lanky frame.

  Just say that you’ll meet him.

  Roll back over and begin another set of crunches. I’m starting to work up a sweat now, which means I’m actually doing some cardio for the first time in forever. Maybe I’ll make this a routine. Wake up everyday and...

  Answer me, you son of a bitch!

  I go to the bathroom and close the door. “What the hell do you want, Deakins?” I whisper-shout. “Can’t you see that I’m ignoring you? Take a damn hint.”

  Say you’ll at least meet him. Hear him out and think about
it. Please…

  What’s his name again?

  Giovisi Espanza.

  He owns a chain of dry cleaning businesses called Like New Cleaners.

  You can find him at the Magnolia Drive location.

  Go in and ask for Giology, and tell them that Deakins sent you.

  What’s this all about, Deakins? Why is it so important to you that I get back in Alterlife? I don’t believe the virus is coming back. Are you baiting me? Were you the one behind the attempt to take my family’s lives? Did you send those people to kill me?

  I thought you knew me better than that, Ace.

  No matter what you believe, know this: I am on your side. I always have been.

  His words strike me to the core. But I still don’t fully trust him.

  Alright. I’ll go talk to this man, but I’m not promising anything. Don’t get your hopes up.

  Thank you. It is beneficial, then, that I am not one who gives credence to hope.

  What do you give credence to, then?

  Faith.

  Hey, Deakins.

  Yes?

  I’m only doing this because I feel like I owe it to you. After I meet with this Gio fellow, I’m through with Alterlife. I don’t ever want to hear from you again. Got that?

  Got it.

  The east side of Seattle is run-down; overly saturated with pothole-filled streets, abandoned strip malls, and tired, greedy eyes. Needless to say that if I were driving my Tesla, it would be really out of place rolling down this straight, four-laned road that is Magnolia Drive. But I’m in an older model, single-cab pickup truck so I shouldn’t stick out too bad.

  The GPS says that the cleaner is two miles ahead on the right.

  Deakins sure is adamant about me meeting this Gio fellow. Maybe there is something to this guy. Maybe the virus actually is going to get worse again and meeting with this guy can help eradicate it. Whatever the case, I’m not going back into the game. If they really want my help, I’ll be happy to advise them with what knowledge I still have about the gods, the Gamemasters, and the game, but that’s about it. If they don’t accept that, then they can kiss my ass.

  Sorry I can’t be what you want me to be, Deakins, but I won’t go back. Its cost on my life, on my family’s lives, is already too much to bear.

  I turn my signal on and pull into the mostly-vacant parking lot. Cut the engine and jump from the truck, carefully avoiding eye contact with the gang of thugs that’s standing beside their cars on the far side of the lot. They all watch me closely as I walk into the dry cleaner.

  Shit. What the hell are you doing here, John? This ain’t a place you should be. Should have taken the pistol from underneath the seat before leaving the truck. Too late to turn back now; it’ll look suspicious.

  The bell—the old-school kind that you only find in candy stores and ice cream shops—rings as the door opens. The space inside is small. There’s only a front counter, one trolley that the clothes ride on, and a couple of chairs in the corner near the front window to accommodate customers while they wait. I remember when most places would have a small table next to the chairs and magazines set out for people to pass the time; that was a long time ago. Last time I saw any was at a barber shop in Asheville.

  An Asian woman appears from behind a wall and greets me from the counter. “Hello. Can I help you?” she says in a thick accent, but fluent enough in English to understand.

  I walk to her. “I’m here to see Giology.”

  She frowns, looking confused. “I’m sorry. There isn’t anyone here who goes by that name.”

  “Deakins sent me.”

  Her eyes narrow. She picks up her phone, dials, and waits for someone to answer. She speaks. “Someone is here to see you.”

  Hangs up the phone. “Mr. Giovisi will be here shortly. Please, take a seat,” she offers, motioning to one of the chairs.

  “I’ll stand, thank you,” I tell her and idly make my way along the trolley, browsing the fresh clothes that hang from the conveyor. Tuxedos and other fine clothing are ready for pick-up. I wonder who they belong to and what purpose they served. Most of the time, people only wore clothes like this for a special occasion like a wedding or a funeral.

  Behind me, the doorbell rings.

  The six thugs from outside—three whites, two blacks, and a latino—walk into the place. Sporting tattered designer clothes and cheap jewelry, they stroll in like they own the place. Each of their eyes immediately go to me.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” the woman asks from behind the counter.

  They ignore her. Three stand by the door, guarding it and keeping a look-out, while the other three walk towards me.

  “Howdy partner,” one of the white punks says in jest.

  One of the blacks chimes in. “That’s a mighty-fine pickup truck you got out there, cowboy. Bet ya can git a bunch of hay in the back of that there bed, can’t ya?”

  Sons of bitches...

  “What do you guys want? I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money,” I tell them, showing them my empty wallet.

  The third white piece of shit takes my wallet from my hand and goes through it, throwing it on the floor after he sees that I’m telling the truth. He steps up to me. “A redneck motherfucker like you always carries cash. Where’s it at?”

  “I bet it’s in the truck,” one of the blacks says.

  “Hand over the keys,” the white punk in front of me demands.

  I remain unmoved.

  “Hand ‘em over,” he tells me again, more stern.

  I meet his gaze, fully aware that these men could kill me right now. Even with the knife that’s in my pocket, I wouldn’t stand a chance six-on-one. The only way I’m walking out of here is to bluff.

  I am Ace.

  “Go fuck yourself, you inbred, crack baby, cross-eyed motherfucker.”

  Two of his boys immediately burst out laughing at the insult, but the other two by the door aren’t amused and come to his defense.

  The punk gawks at me in disbelief. “You’re dead. You’re fucking dead. Do you even know who I am?”

  I step up to him face-to-face, and I speak through clenched teeth. “I don’t give a damn who you are, boy. Judging by your looks, I’d say the best part of you slid into your momma’s asshole and wound up with the shit in the toilet after your daddy was through with her.” My eyes flash dangerously, like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. “And if you had any idea who I was, you’d be high-stepping it out of here right now if you knew what was good for you. I’ll kill every one of you sons of bitches without a moment’s pause.”

  The punk doesn’t take to my threat. He calmly pulls a switchblade knife, and so do the others.

  Shit. Well, it was worth a shot.

  I slowly reach for the knife that’s clipped inside my pocket.

  Just as they’re about to jump me, the Asian woman cocks a shotgun from behind the counter. “All you motherfuckers get out of my shop, now! Before I kill each and every one of you,” she screams in her thick Asian accent.

  The damn shotgun is bigger than she is.

  The thugs hold their hands up.

  “Damn, okay,” the white punk says and puts his knife away. “Scary-ass lady,” he tells her with his hands up, making his way towards the door.

  The bell rings as the thugs leave.

  The shotgun swings towards me. “You too. Out of my shop.”

  “I’m waiting on Gio…”

  “Out!”

  I put my hands up. “Alright, I’m out.”

  The doorbell rings as I leave. The six thugs are all standing next to my truck, glaring deviously.

  “Hey, hillbilly,” the white punk elongates his words as he slings his switchblade around.

  I’m about to die...

  Seeing that they left the doors open on their cars, I take off running across the parking lot, thinking it’s my only option. They curse and give chase, shouting and threatening to kill me. My feet fly across the asphalt as I run as fast as I can, the feelin
g reminiscent of my high school days on the football field.

  Get inside and lock the doors. Pray that the keys are inside.

  Just before I reach their cars, a white van comes barreling into the parking lot from the road, nearly hitting me as it comes between me and the thugs, and skids to a stop. The driver jumps out of the van, pulls two pistols and aims them at the six guys who are pursuing me. The gang of thugs all put their hands up, and they split into two groups.

  He keeps both guns on the two separate groups as they move around him. “All of you, get off my property. Now!” the man with the guns threatens.

  “Aight, Mr. Giovisi. Chill. We’re leaving,” the white punk says, his arms up.

  “I don’t ever want to see you here again, understand me?” Giovisi threatens, calm, cool, and articulate with his words.

  “Okay,” the punk replies. “Just take it easy.”

  I move back towards the front of the building, keeping my distance from the six guys who are coming my way to get in their cars. The two in front of the van glare at me in passing, and the white punk puts a finger to his neck in a slicing motion, letting me know that he plans to kill me at some point or another.

  Still edging closer to the building, I make a gun with my hand, point it at his head, and fire.

  One of the black men speaks as he passes Giovisi. “You better watch your back, Mr. G,” he threatens while walking.

  Giovisi moves from behind the man, meets him in front of the van, puts the pistol to the back of his right shoulder and pulls the trigger. The bullet rips through flesh and the man cries out in pain, falling to the ground. The two groups jump at the sound of the shot, curse when they realize what happened, then act like they want to jump the shooter.

  Quick with his guns, Giovisi snaps the barrels to each of the men; the two standing in front of the van, and the three near the rear who are threatening to jump him from behind. “Anyone else want to make any threats?” He waits for a response that doesn’t come, cocks his head and presses them off his property. “Good. Now leave before you make me upset,” he says, mechanical and clear with his speech.