13. It’s Called A DeepFake

I'm idling on the street in my brother's Porsche outside the funeral home with my phone in hand. If I squeeze it any harder, the screen is going to break, which would suck because there's no way I'm standing in line for an hour in the Apple store to get it fixed. I'm waiting for a response. I sent a text message to Finn, who is excellent at obtaining information on individuals. He was one of the first people I connected with when I was taken under Archibald's wing. The longer I'm around him, the more intense my existing habit grows. It began with the secrets my family held to the patients I worked on before I lost my license. Secrets give you power, and I love power. Everyone has a skeleton or two in their closet.

Everyone has a skeleton or two in their closet. I don't suppress the cackle that surprises me at that old adage, remembering my brother dearest hanging in that closet. I wonder how long he was able to hold onto his cock?

My friendship with Archibald and his crew enables me to leave no stone unturned. All I have to do is tell Finn where this guy is. He will use the CCTV system to gain information, whether from the numbers recorded off his license plate or a facial identification. The amount of information little things like this can give is almost limitless.

The engine purrs quietly as I sit impatiently, my skin tinted crimson from the reddish hue of the interior lights. That guy hasn't returned for another attempt at courting my woman. Yet, I remain staring at the front door, hoping to catch another glimpse of her. My chest constricts with anxiety, and my shoulders tense. This waiting game is building on anticipation one brick at a time. It's only a matter of time before I'm crushed under the weight of it.

My cell lights up, and I mumble under my breath, "Quick as fucking lighting that cleaver fuck." One of the perks of being a lawless individual is underground connections.

It didn't take Finn long to figure out who the aspiring Romeo is, but come to find out, he works with her. Heat sizzles in my veins. Is this jealousy? Sliding my thumb over the notification, a driver's license pops up in Finn's message thread. I need merely a quick glance to identify him. Finn hasn't let me down in the years I've asked him to find information.

I shift in my seat. This feeling that's slowly slithering its way into my consciousness is all-consuming. And completely unwelcome. I'm not sure what I have planned for her or how I'm going to use her body. All I know is I don't want anyone near her.

Which leads me to this jackass. Brandon Smith. Even his name is generic. Little shit has no idea what giving those strawberries to Monica means for him. I'll start by being an adult and giving him a strongly worded message with my fist. If he doesn't get the hint after that, well, I'll have to shove that message up his ass and fuck him with it.

Ignoring the speed limits, it doesn't take any time to arrive in Mr. Smith's neighborhood. The engine purrs softly as I maneuver my little German baby through the streets that are as dead as a graveyard. Even the houses look like tombstones with their repetitive, symmetrical appearance, lining either side of the road with equal distance. I cut the lights and roll to the curb when I reach his neighbor's house. The street lamps are farther apart than they should be, making it easier for me to slink through the shadows. I'm wearing the ski mask again, so my face is completely covered. This time, the reason for the mask is more than the thrill of the chase, as it was with Monica. No. This time, I must protect my identity as I stroll up the short driveway toward the cookie-cutter house containing the peasant I'm seeking. He's not going to know what hit him. I'm going to scrape him off like shit stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

Aside from the one glowing yellow light from the second-story window, his house is silent and lifeless. The home is large enough for a whole family. From the info Finn provided, I know he lives with his daddy, and Daddy must take care of the mortgage. Brandon is a police officer's son. I know what that's like, considering I was a child of an enforcer myself. The child of an authoritarian. That was until I killed him.

The public doesn't see the secrets these civil servants keep, only the masks they are willing to show, much like this house in all its generic, American glory. It's a facade. The single vehicle in the driveway is as bland and boring as this guy's whole life. He's so mundane that he probably only fucks in the missionary position.

"This is probably a dumb Idea breaking into a police officer's house." Fuck it. If caught, I'll take out the witnesses and speed up the plan.

Finn took it upon himself to investigate Brandon on all his socials. His gruff tone still echoes in my ear from when he relayed, ‘he's a golden boy.' As American as apple pie. Mmmmm, apple pie… Monica's cunt. Fuck.

Get your head back in the game, dumbass.

The full moon lights my way as I stride up the driveway. I shove my hand in my pocket and grip the handle of my switchblade. The dark blue Prius could use a little makeover. Fuck, that car is so tiny my dick wouldn't be able to fit inside. Flicking my wrist, I open the small knife and approach the driver's side door. Starting at the break light, I run the sharp end along the side of the vehicle all the way to the headlight. A slight scrape echoes in the silent night, but it's not loud enough to garner attention from the neighbors. It's enough to satisfy that evil dark cloud of toxic fog, turning everything to ash inside me. That ominous anger is bound to cause extensive damage in its wake.

The home stands in stoic silence as I stride around the side of the house to the back. Scanning around, I debate which point of entry is in the least conspicuous area. I doubt a wheelbarrow will be back there to help me this time.

The backyard is relatively barren, with a postage stamp-sized yard and only one tree. Two white plastic chairs are next to a small, sad charcoal grill. I step onto the minuscule cement patio and peer through the sliding glass doors. It reveals a tiny, nondescript kitchen table with two chairs. Looks like he doesn't have any misshapen animals trotting around. If this guy had a pet, it would probably be one of those pocket dogs that shake half the time and yip the other half.

The glass door doesn't budge when I yank it. I tug harder, and yet, it doesn't budge. Frustration sizzles beneath my knit mask, and I slam my hands on my hips, giving myself a dirty look in the reflection of the glass. I almost stomp my feet like a toddler because I know what I have to do to gain entrance.

Swinging my gaze to the object of my disgruntlement, I groan, "Shiiiit."

There's a large tree in the backyard that butts up to the house. Large, gnarled limbs stretch precariously toward the window with the bright yellow light seeping out. It should've been cut down summers ago, by the looks of it. Guess I get to play lumberjack. Standing at its base, I examine the oak for its best footholds. The tree looks to be a ladder descended from heaven for Lucifer to crawl up in his quest to apologize for all the sins in the world. That thought makes me chuckle. Lucifer would never apologize. No, he would go back to fuck shit up. And probably get his dick sucked by some big-titted angels.

Gripping a thick lower branch, I give it a slight tug that sends down a cascade of acorns, raining down on my perverse parade. This vengeance crap is beginning to feel too much like work. It will be more of a challenge than anticipated, but I'll try it. Remembering that cuckold's face full of hope, clutching his meager offering, reinforces my resolve. I mean, only a beta douche would bring strawberries to the girl he likes.

Besides, what's the worst that could happen? I could fall on my ass, but then that would just piss me off enough to not give a shit. All logic, all civility would be thrown out the window into the deep gash I'll carve into Brandon. It doesn't matter where I slice it. A gash is a gash, and I'll shove my dick in his warm, new slit and fuck it, covering my cock in his blood. Win, win in my book.

I climb the old oak like a goddamn tree-hugging protestor, one limb at a time. My foot slips, and the rough bark snags on my sweatshirt, almost yanking the hoodie off my head on my ascent. I'm not even sure why I thought this would be a great decision to climb this son of a bitch. I should've broken a window for entry on the first floor and called it a night, regardless of the stupidity of knowing a cop lives here. Instead, I'm here climbing a fucking tree in the hopes of catching this boy off guard. Einstein said once an object is set in motion, it will remain in motion. That's the definition of a King. Once I've set my mind on something, I can't change it. Regardless of how idiotic that way is, I'll find a way to make it happen.

Making it to the thick limb that reaches the small roof beneath the window, I inch forward on my abdomen. To keep the branch from shaking, I center my weight and keep my movements measured. I try not to look down, but the twenty-foot drop keeps gnawing on my conscience, causing my life to flash before my eyes several times. This isn't totally a bad thing, as those flashes were more like a porno with all the pussy my dick has stabbed.

The headlights of a passing car break through the sliver of space between houses, causing my muscles to tense. There's no way anyone could possibly see me playing peeping tom in this tree driving by, but human nature and self-preservation make me pause. I'm sure if anyone saw me, they'd think I'm some random creep. That's probably better than what I really am—a crazy stalker ready to threaten the guy who's putting moves on his girl. That would never cross anyone's mind. Well, a sane person's mind.

Which I'm not, considering I decided to stalk this girl after meeting her once.

I do a little mental fist bump once my boots connect with the dark shingles that sparkle under the artificial light. The illumination from the window causes the tiny shards of fiberglass to glisten like someone tossed a handful of diamond dust on the roof. I'm done waxing poetic when the stench of AXE bodyspray assaults my senses. He probably uses it to cover the stench of desperation and zit medication.

It takes a moment before I can see inside the room as my eyes adjust to the brightness. I'm focusing on the bland queen bed, holding back a laugh. His taste is the complete opposite of my girl's. Whereas Monica is all black and bold, Brandon is beige and boring. His light brown comforter lies neat and wrinkle-free across his mattress. Does the solo nightstand have a small lamp and… lotion? Come on, guy… can your life get any more sad?

Yes. Yes, it can.

I turn my scrutiny to the opposite wall, and immediately, my vision is clouded by a scarlet haze. Rage and fury have me grinding my teeth. I'm not used to feeling this amount of carnal dominance or protective nature when it comes to a woman. Still, I let the emotion wash over me, embracing it as a virgin cunt would around my rock-hard cock. There are a million different poses of Monica on this wall.

I'm ready to do what I do best: inflict my wonderful self on whoever crosses my path. I'm going to scare the shit out of this fucker. If that's not enough, then I'll just kill him. It's as easy as that. No skin off my back, that's for certain, but I don't want to come out swinging from the get-go.

I glide my hands around the base of the window until I find a protruding ledge, allowing me to slide up the pane. The seal gives way easily with a soft pop, and I silently crawl in. It doesn't take much effort to slink into this guy's space unbeknownst to him because even though the light is on in his adjoined bathroom, he's nowhere to be found.

It's a good thing, too, as I realize my feet are recklessly in control of my body as I inch closer to the weird, obsessive display. An odd hissing sound hits my ears a few moments before I realize it's me making that noise. I'm like an aggravated snake, getting ready to strike as my temperature rises from discovering the patchwork of repugnance in front of me. I rhythmically clench my fists to the rhythmic beating of a war drum no one can hear. The pictures of my girl morph into images of that jackass. And instead of seductive poses, he's in different positions of torture. Positions I put him in. His severed fingers shoved up his nose. He's bent over and me fucking him up the ass with a hot curling iron. Rats eating peanut butter off his little dick. Finally, a red smile slashes across his neck.

My gaze darts back and forth, not spending a prolonged moment on one specific picture, needing to take it all in. But when I take a deep breath and try to control my reaction, it slowly slithers into my brain that all these aren't pictures of Monica. Son of a bitch, he can't even get being a pervert right. There are multiple bodies of different women with the same picture of Monica's face pasted over their faces. When I'm done with him, the only image he'll be left with is what's burned into his brain. He'll never get to see her lose control as she comes undone on a cock.

The swoosh of the bedroom door opening doesn't give me the sense of fear or anxiety that would be typical of a man who just did a B and E. No. I'm hit with a wave of anticipation and excitement. I give the man a tilt of my head and meet his eyes. This is my only sign of acknowledgment, my body remaining still.

This asshole looks like a driver's license picture come to life. If "lackluster" was a human, this would be its form. He's too bland and normal-looking, but knowing he has a sick obsession with my girl makes him downright ugly. I'm sure no one has ever mused up his tidy array of monotone brown, slick-backed hair while in the throes of passion.

His body tenses. It takes him a moment to register that an intruder with a ski mask is standing in the middle of his bedroom. When he does, the deep creases in his face morph from confusion to horror. It's beautiful. A masterpiece. It's an expression I've been waiting to create since he left those strawberries.

"Who the fuck are you? What are you doing in my house?" he yells, but his feet seem glued to the floor in fear. He hasn't moved from his position in front of the doorway.

I smirk at his blatant distress and his lack of ability to remedy the situation, "Because I can." I raise an eyebrow. "And you aren't going to stop me."

That seems to rile him up. His lips purse, and his face turns beet red. He's about to blow up like a hot air balloon. Then he marches his way to me, pointing at my chest. The little shit thinks he has balls of steel. I'm about to show him how quickly they can be squashed. Maybe this is another opportunity for me to practice my balloon animals via Smith's Scrotum. The image of Brandon's small sack in my hand, as I squeeze them until they rupture, floods my mind until hot, minty, fresh breath fans my throat.

"You're breaking and entering. Get the fuck out of my house." He moves that finger to the doorway he came from. There's no way I'm leaving. Not after I, Christopher Columbus'd this weird shrine of my girl's face.

"Is it really breaking if you don't break anything?" I lift my hands above my head, spreading my digits as if the concept of breaking is preposterous.

He doesn't find the humor in it, though, and lunges. My fist flies out instinctually, connecting with his nose, resulting in a resounding crunch, and Brandon is down. On his knee before me like the little bitch he is with his face in his hands. Drops of crimson dot the cream-colored carpet as rivulets stream down his forearms.

"Well, I got the breaking part down pat. Shall we try for the entering part?" I chuckle before adding, "Oh wait, I did that part already."

Brandon peers up at me with watery eyes and blood coating the lower half of his face. A puddle has gathered in his cupped palms. It looks like he's offering me communion on Sunday, proffering me a sip of Jesus's blood, like his shit is wine.

"Why are you doing this?" Brando cries, and a long, thin strand of bloody drool hangs from his lip.

I point toward the obviously creepy as fuck collage on his wall. "You seem to have a sick obsession with my girl."

He's shuffling to me on his knees, and I take two steps back out of grabbing range. "That's not what it looks like," he whines and sobs. Damn, this douche is a pussy.

"Then, praytell, what it is I'm looking at because I'd say this looks to be an altar of porn dedicated to my girl." I crouch low to get on his level. The back of my heel lands on something hard, and the TV next to us whirs to life. There's a pop of static before moans fill the room.

I hadn't noticed the small television before. A flash from the screen draws my focus. On it is a home video of sorts, shot in first person. The camera view jerks with each thrust, showing a belly button, then a nice rack just before it panes down to a dick, driving into a glistening pussy. I don't give it much attention. Everyone has their kinks. However, when the camera angle shifts, I realize the girl getting dicked down has white-blond hair, then it steals all my attention. The girl's face is Monica's, but I know it's not her. The proportions are off, but that doesn't negate the fact that this fuck is imagining my girl while he's beating his meat.

I grit my teeth to the point my back molars scrape like nails on a chalkboard, and I snarl, "What the fuck is that?"

"Well, I. I. Ah," he stutters, trying to find an excuse.

His shoulders tremble as I lean over him. When I'm within reach, I grab his esophagus and squeeze, feeling his Adam's apple bob beneath my palm. Brandon's eyes bulge in shock, and he claws at my forearms, hoping to dislodge my grasp.

"It's… a…," he squeaks before I slam the side of his head against the wall. The insurmountable pressure in my chest ebbs slightly. I'm being possessive. I've never cared enough to experience this feeling.

There's a hollow thud, and I think I might hear a few screws rattle if I listen close enough. I press his head against the wall and lift him, dragging him up it until the tips of his toes barely brush the carpet. My move releases some of the pressure on his throat, allocating it to the underside of his jaw. I'm surprised by how light he is in this position. No matter the slight reprieve I give him, he grunts in pain like a baby back bitch.

Putting my masked nose against his, I growl, "It's. A. What?"

"Deep… Fake…," he rasps before I release him to crumble to the floor at my feet. He clutches his windpipe, desperately wheezing for air to fill his lungs. He is overly dramatic, considering I could've applied more pressure than I did. I desperately want to kick the man while he's down, but I need to hear what he has to say.

I don't wait for him to recover as I demand, "What's a deep fake?"

He takes his sweet time evening his breathing before responding. "It's manipulated. Face masking. Where they photoshop a face onto a body so it looks real."

I roll my eyes and suppress a snort. What a pathetic shit.

"Go get it," I command, but he stays crouched at my feet. "Unless you move now, I'm going to deep fake your face onto a pig fucker in the act and make sure everyone you know gets a copy. Your mom. Your dad. Your mailman. Your third-grade teacher. Now, move!" I yell.

His shoulders jerk, and he quickly scrambles to his feet. Hastily, he limps to his gaming system. Wait… why is he limping? I punched him in the face. I didn't kick him in the shin. He fiddles with several buttons before a motor whirl ejects a shiny disc. With shoulders slumped, he drags his feet to me. He looks forlornly at the disc, and I snap my fingers, holding out my outstretched hand. The sound brings him back to the six-foot-five threat in front of him. He gingerly places it in my palm like a mother would pass her newborn to a father.

Immediately break it into two, and he flinches. I could've sworn I heard his soul cracking along with the DVD.

"You work with her. That's it. Coworkers are all you'll ever be. No more pictures. No more of these videos, and no more late-night strawberry deliveries." His eyebrows arch in surprise. He had no clue I was watching him earlier. "Stay away from her because if you don't or if I find out you've made more of these," I lift the DVD pieces up for his perusal, "then I'll have to resort to more than breaking and entering. Next time I'll be entering your ass with my foot. And that's not hyperbole. I'm a pretty, sick fuck with weird kinks."

"I can't stay away from her. I work there," he whines, with his mouth drooping in sorrow.

My chest is blazing with anger, and all I want to do is kill this motherfucker, but for some reason, I restrain myself. If I do kill him, Monica won't have any help. I can't have her work getting in the way of fucking the dead body of my twin. I point my finger, stabbing it into his chest. "I don't care if you are her long-lost cousin and are related to her somehow. You will make more of an effort to stay away from her at work. Got it?"

"And. And… and what happens if I don't listen to you?" he stutters.

I clench my fists at my side. He's really testing my goodwill right now however, I'm good at covering it up with my dark humor. "Do you really want to know?" I ask, taking a step toward him. He steps back, and I detect a slight tremble in his form. Shifting on the balls of my feet, I hold up the fingers of my gloves for dramatic effect and polish their backs on the leather of my coat. "It's pretty horrifying if I do say so myself." He nods slowly as if he really doesn't want to know, but the morbid curiosity of the situation is getting the better of him.

I chuckle. "Well, I'll start by letting my girl fuck you. While she's having her way with you," I say, catching the blood that's dripping from his chin, "I'll slit your throat and watch as you choke on your blood. And when the last wet breath bubbles from your pitiful mouth, I'll fuck my new favorite hole." I run my bloody finger over this neck, making my point very fucking clear. The light dies in his eyes, and he pales. The contrast between his face and the crimson staining his chin is immense. "Sound good enough for you?" He nods more enthusiastically this time. I pat his cheek a bit too hard, letting him know I'm proud he understands our agreement. "Good boy."

I stride to his wall of pornography and pull out my vintage lighter.

"What are you doing?" His voice cracks with terror.

"Destroying your altar," I say and light a picture of a woman on her back, holding her ankles in the air, spreading herself for all to see. It wouldn't be a bad image if my girl's face wasn't on it. Especially in this fuckers house.

The flame licks, spreading up the wall of fuel-leaden paper. The fire is hungry for destruction. I step back as the inferno grows to a nice three-foot trail. The kid, unable to restrain himself, runs toward it. He probably means to put it out, but I yank him back by his collar and make him watch as the fire consumes every picture. I release him when the smoke alarm screams. Finally free, he races from the room and quickly returns with a cup of water. Like that's going to do anything.

"I think you get the message. Don't mess with my girl."

He's not listening anymore. His attention is focused on putting out the fire. The stench of his desperation has me quickly exiting and loudly stomping down the stairs. I don't care how much noise I make, not that anything can be heard above the wailing of the smoke alarms. Without waiting another moment, I stroll out the front door as if I own the motherfucking place.