by Fox J Wilde
“…and, right through here,” he said, as he opened up a sliding partition. “Miss Mad Bunny, I’d like for you to meet my manager, Mr. Marcus Collins.”
Sitting at a small table and sipping on a cup of coffee was a very comfortable-looking man. He looked to be between his late forties and early fifties, as evidenced by a noble smattering of wrinkles, and a well-manicured, gray beard. He was dressed in a plain white shirt with a plain black tie, plain gray sweater with a large, plain black overcoat. Yet, despite how very plain it all looked, it fit incredibly well. It was expensive, in a purposeful sort of light. And he emanated a purposeful aura as well. It was trustworthy, friendly, yet driven in an elderly sort of way. His eyes were both gentle and intense as they focused on her, yet they were constantly scanning as his face widened into a warm smile.
“Ah, Madeline Dangerbunny, is it?” the man said in near-perfect German, standing to offer her a hand.
“That’s what they call me, yes.” she replied awkwardly, as she reciprocated the gesture.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you! We’re all big fans here…Matt most of all, of course. He talks about you constantly.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” she blushed.
“Where are my manners though?” he said, as he rubbed his hands together. “Would you prefer coffee, beer or something harder?”
“Coffee, please,” she replied.
“Coming right up, ma’am. Oh, do make yourself comfortable!”
As he moved over into the corner where an empty coffeepot awaited, he set to the task of making it.
“Oh, you don’t…” Lena reacted, but she was cut off by Mr. Collins.
“Oh, it’s no problem at all. You are our honored guest—it’s only proper we welcome you to our humble home here. Do you take sugar or cream?”
“Black…just black,” she replied, awkwardly sitting down in one of the corner seats.
Matt joined her, sitting across from her. Strangely, he seemed to be sitting as far away from her as the position of the chairs would allow. He hunched forward, with his arms crossed across his chest, and placed his forehead against the table. Suddenly, all the energy seemed to leave him. Like a butterfly molting in reverse, Matt’s decomposition culminated into an expression much like Lena’s. Actually, it was freakishly similar.
“Oh…my god...” he moaned, as if finally absolving himself of the day’s events.
“Are you alright?” Lena asked.
“Fine. Just not really a people person, that’s all.”
“You? You aren’t a people person?”
“Does that really surprise you?”
“I suppose it does, yes.”
“I figured people would say the same about you…you’re an amazing performer, Lena. You really know how to throw yourself around a crowd. But you’re a person who likes to be by yourself. Same as me…same as most of us. It’s a part of us, sure, but that’s only a part of us.”
Just then, Lena felt somewhat stupid. She had never even conceived that Matt York was an introvert like her. Perhaps even more so like her. To be able to put on the airs of a performer, and then to just switch it off once the need was no longer there…
“I’m sorry, I would have never guessed.”
“There’s a lot about people like us that others will never know.”
“People like us” she thought…“Like Matt and I…It is true, they will never know.”
A few more minutes passed as Lena and Matt made conversation. It was still awkward, but now it was an even nicer type of awkward—an ‘us-against-them’ variety. Soon, Mr. Collins finished making her some coffee after taking great care in doing so. Placing the steaming mug in front of her, he sat down on Matt’s side of the table, taking care to allow Lena an escape out of the bus if she needed a breather. She felt grateful for the gesture.
“Well, as I said before,” Mr. Collins smiled, “it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Do you prefer Madeline, or…?”
“Most people just call me The Mad Bunny,” Lena sighed.
“Is that what you would prefer?”
“It works, but my name is Lena.”
Mr. Collins smiled at this, before adding, “You and Matt are so very much alike, it’s almost scary.”
“Pick a name, dumbass,” Matt laughed, “or he’ll call you Mad Bunny.’”
“Fine, fine. You can call me Lena.” she laughed awkwardly.
“Alright,” Mr. Collins smiled. “How was your show? I’m sorry that I missed most of it, but I’d love to hear how it went.”
For nearly two hours…two hours!!!... the three of them talked. Lena was nervous at first, but she was surprised how quickly she warmed up to the both of them. Somehow, she managed to bring up topics that they were all well-versed in. They laughed at all of her jokes, and added to her stories. They seemed really interested in everything she had to say, and seemed to know precisely when to tell stories themselves, to give her a breather. Soon, she began to feel like these people were two of her best friends. She didn’t feel awkward in the least anymore.
They had laughed, cried, and bonded profusely over Mr. Collin’s never-ending supply of caffeine and band stories. My god, the man had enjoyed some wacky adventures all over the world. And Lena was not only able to keep up with all of the stories, they left her wanting more. She wanted the life that he had—crawling all over the world to play shows for fantastic cultures, getting to know folks of every hue, and even finding herself in dangerous situations every now and again. She was jealous of them, of course. Yet Mr. Collins had a gift for making it all seem like a possibility for her.
“You never know what the future holds,” he had said. “A bright young lady like you? Meet the right people, shake the right hands, and say the right words…soon enough, you’ll be playing shows with Journey.”
“Where would I even meet those people?” she had exclaimed.
“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job now, by my reckoning.”
The premise of the conversation had eventually changed from simply trading stories to nearly talking business. Of course, she would never think to impose herself on them…far from. These were her new friends. She would never assume or use them, but nothing said that she couldn’t choose relevant topics. Maybe if she said the right things, smiled at the right moments, and kept up with their end of the conversation, they would get the idea that she was more than available for any adventure they could provide. Of course, the premise of spending more time with Matt didn’t hurt either.
After two hours, they had nearly exhausted every conversation topic that she could think of. Yet even after the night she’d had, she didn’t feel the least bit tired. She still wanted more. She retained some small hope that if she said the right things, she might make it back on this side of the Wall to meet with them again. As serendipity would have it, though, the conversation took an exceptionally fortuitous direction. It seemed she had finally said the right things.
“Well, the truth is, Lena,” Mr. Collins said, “you’re a pretty special woman. We’re big fans of your music, and we’re big fans of your stage performance. But more importantly, we’re big fans of your mind. You have an exceptional intelligence, and a gift for conversation.”
“Really?” she blushed, not believing the last part.
“Oh, believe it! You’re an artist, and you come across like an artist. Sure, you don’t like small talk, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“What’s that?” she asked leaning in closer.
“No one likes small talk…it only serves one purpose—convincing strangers that you aren’t an axe-murderer. After that, people could only hope to have the thoughts you have, and the ability to discuss them openly.”
Lena smiled at that; she had never considered things that way.
“Actually,” he continued, “that’s the reason why
we want to work with you. You have the mind of an artist—free-thinking—and the ability to think on your feet, and in different directions. That’s something we would very much like to utilize in the future.”
“How would you want to do that?” she asked. At this, Matt, without really looking at her, lifted up his wrist and tapped on it with the other hand, as if testing to make sure his nonexistent watch worked. “Wait...” she thought, “What the hell...”
“Well, let me ask you this...” Mr. Collins started, leaning in, “what do the words ‘counter-intelligence’ mean to you?”
Vortecx found it hard to breathe through the bag tied tightly around his head and neck. He didn’t remember how he had gotten here. There was an entire blank space of time leading up to this moment that he couldn’t account for. It wasn’t like it was all a blur; it literally wasn’t there. All he knew for sure was that he was unable to move or see. His wrists and ankles hurt like he was bound tightly. The light pressure around his neck, and the near suffocating lack of air informed him about the bag. This was all that he knew for certain. As he started to come to, however, he intuitively understood that he was in some type of vehicle. The rumble of the motor; the speeding and stopping; the sound of other cars whizzing by in the opposite direction; all of this—combined with the fact that his head hurt very badly—and the signs very clearly pointed to the fact that he was now being kidnapped.
“Hello?” he said, woozily, “Is anyone there?”
It was a dumb question to ask. He was in a moving vehicle. Of course, he knew someone was there. Yet he asked it anyway. It seemed like a good place to start, after all.
“Just relax. We’ll be there shortly.”
“Wh-where are w-we going, Mister?”
“You have a bag over your head, right?”
“Y-yeah...”
“So why the hell would I tell you where we are going?”
Vortecx couldn’t argue with that logic, honestly. But when you find yourself in a situation like this, well, you don’t really have much logic to rely on.
“Let me give you some advice,” the voice said. “I’m a person willing to tie you up, blindfold you and chuck you in the back of a van. If I’m a person willing to do that, nothing you could say or do is going to deter me from whatever it is I’m planning on doing. It’s just going to piss me off. You’re still alive, which means I’m not planning on killing you. So just be quiet and…I don’t know, think happy thoughts or something.”
Vortecx pondered on this for a while. The voice made some very good points after all. After what seemed like a half-hour more of driving, the van pulled to a stop and shut off. Vortecx considered screaming for help, but the voice had given the impression that Vortecx wasn’t about to die. Best to not test his luck.
“You smoke?” the unknown man said.
“S-sometimes...”
“You want one?”
“Y-yes…p-please, S-sir...”
“I’ll make you a deal. I’m gonna lift up your hood, and put a cigarette in your mouth. In return, you are gonna sit there, shut up and listen carefully to everything I’m about to say. Alright?”
“I p-promise, Sir!” Vortecx responded as plainly as possible.
He heard the sound of a small cardboard box peeling open, and light paper sliding out. This was followed by a match scratching roughly against an abrasive surface and the smell of smoke being coaxed out. Seconds later, the hood was lifted up just enough to free his mouth. He felt the business end slide between his lips, which he accepted gratefully.
“Remember your promise?” the voice asked.
“Y-yes sir.”
“I was supposed to kill you…same as Jakob. We had plans for the Mad Bunny that didn’t include any of the rest of you. He’s dead now…I shot him. Right through the head.”
Vortecx shuddered visibly as the hair on the back of his neck stood up, “Oh god.” he thought, “Oh my god, he’s going to kill me.”
“It was easy to do,” he continued. “No one liked that perverted little prick. Him and his stupidity…I don’t normally enjoy killing people, and I didn’t enjoy killing him, but I did enjoy finally having a moment’s peace without listening to his idiotic drivel. It’s different with you, though. You never caused me any trouble whatsoever…neither you nor Vivika. You two were always easy to deal with. You just sat around, playing your instruments like good little children, not asking any obvious questions. For that, I want to thank you.”
Vortecx began to cry. He didn’t say anything…not a damn word. But he wanted to scream his bloody guts out in the hopes that anyone might come to his rescue. Yet something else began to pull at him…some familiarity of some sort, “I know that voice...”
“So, here is what I’m going to do. If you promise me that you will sing my little song, I will let you go. You will have a fancy new life on the west side of the Wall. You can go anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do. You can take those bright, liberal ideas of yours and use your musical gifts to spread them all over the world. I’ll even sweeten the deal and leave you with a few-hundred marks so you can get an apartment…one of those fancy artist squats right next to the Wall, so you can stare at it like everyone else. Maybe write some stupid song about it. Maybe build a career of idolizing the damn thing after hating it for most of your life.
“The only thing you have to do for me is tell everyone that you escaped. Tell everyone that you made it over the wall. Tell everyone that the second the show was over, you made a run for it…and then conveniently forget about me, this van, or anything associated with it. That’s all you have to do, and you have your freedom. Can you agree to that?”
“Y-yes S-sir…I p-promise!” Vortecx swore.
“Hold on a second,” the voice said. Then, he heard a strange sound, like a small length of metal sliding against another before slamming back into place. He assumed it was a knife, or part of the vehicle or something, but when a cold steel rod was pressed against his temple, and he felt the hollowness…
“Oh God it’s a gun.” he screamed at himself, “Oh god…oh god, he’s got a gun.”
“I really want to get my point across here,” the voice said plainly. “Because here’s the thing: if I don’t kill you, I have to spend the rest of my life worrying about you opening your mouth. That could jeopardize my safety.”
“I promise! I’ll keep your secret!! I promise!”
“You don’t think I care even the slightest bit about you, do you?”
“S-sir?”
“Jakob was the first person I’ve killed, believe it or not. Honestly, I didn’t think I would care all that much. Especially since I didn’t like him.” With this, his voice raised up humorously, “But what do you know? Surprise, surprise…I actually don’t like killing! Do you think that’s bad?”
“I...I...”
“Don’t worry about answering that.” he laughed, “So, here’s where the rubber meets the road. I don’t like killing…but I do like being alive. And I care far less about you than I do about how much I dislike killing. So…”
V-ortecx heard a heavy click towards the back of the gun, and he shuddered…“Oh god, here it is. I’m dead.” Yet nothing happened. Nothing at all.
“So, I have your word, then?” the voice menaced. “You will sing my song and disappear and never again be my problem?”
“Yes! Y-yes sir! You have my word! I swear to you!” He swore with every ounce of his being that he would do that and anything else he asked of him. No matter what it was, if it meant one more day of freedom, dammit, he would follow through.
“Good!” the voice said. “I’m going to cut your binds now. Don’t squirm, okay?”
Vortecx felt a rough sawing against his feet. Second by second, millimeter by millimeter until finally his feet moved free. He tested his mobility at first, then remembered to lay still.
&nbs
p; “Once I cut your hands free, I want you to count to two-hundred. Then, you are free to leave. Your money will be in the passenger’s seat.”
“Th-thank you s-sir! Th-thank you s-so much!”
“Don’t mention it.”
Vortecx waited for the sawing-feeling to appear on the binds that wrapped around his wrists, “Freedom! Sweet freedom!” he thought to himself with barely stifled excitement. But when he heard what sounded like a loud, quick burst of air blowing through a nozzle right next to his ear, and felt a heavy, head-achy pressure on the back of his head that began to spread like a warm, sticky sensation between his ears…
“Ugh.” Patrick thought to himself as he rubbed his face roughly. The stink of gunpower and scent of newly exposed human flesh crept into his nostrils with a wet, sickening sweetness that clung to the back of his throat. “Why do I have to do all of the work around here?”
As he looked down at the lifeless body of this strange little man, with all of his strange little ideas now leaking out all over the interior of the vehicle, it all seemed less surreal than he figured it would be. Jakob really had been the first person he had ever killed—directly, at least. Patrick had figured that he would lose something—a part of his soul, or something of some religiously-similar quality. He figured that somehow he would feel a little lighter. A little darker perhaps. Strangely enough, though, none of it was true. He felt absolutely nothing. No disgust, no fear, no sense of impending doom, no feeling that his name was being scratched off of some deity’s list…nothing. At least, nothing meaningful. And now that he had killed a second person, he felt even less.
“I wonder how many first-time killers become second-time killers so quickly?” he thought to himself. Yet he quickly dismissed the thoughts.
For a few minutes, he tried to soak in the moment. He listened intently to the sounds around him: cars driving by, crickets chirping, the sound of night-time music blaring from blocks away. It was as if his little part of the world didn’t even matter—like the world had continued to spin, none the wiser. The few moments that had simply passed into oblivion had no more gravity than this one, and the man lying in front of him had no less meaning dead than he did alive. It seemed vaguely unfair.