You Will Let Me Be

by John Brady

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The glossy investor prospectus, a few copies of which could still be found in the back office, boasted that the Sparkly Promised Future Clinic LLC provided ‘best-on-the-planet’ life-downtime care to super-high-net-worth individuals determined to discontinue the cycle of life’s turning. And when it looked like the technology to reanimate cryogenically frozen bodies and/or download previously digitized consciousnesses into new bespoke cultured physiques was really, truly right around the corner, the clinic did big business, the desire of some certain people to establish their mastery over death providing customers by the bucketful.

Yet when the nearness of that corner turned out to be a mirage that sat stubbornly shimmering on the horizon, no matter how many hopeful steps were taken toward it, the clinic along with many of its sister establishments – low-end to high-end – were mothballed. The reanimation professionals were disappointed. The investors wrote down their losses and licked their wounds. The patients, luckily oblivious, could not by either contract or law be abandoned. Thus, they were maintained in suspended animation. Frozen. Siliconized. Waiting. Probably forever. But maybe not. Hopefully not?

Though not everyone was disappointed. As with many situations in the affairs of humankind, there were some sharp and clever people who, lacking scruples or, more generously, having differently calibrated scruples, managed to mine the silver lining these clouds.

.–…–.-.-

“Hurry up!” Slim said.

Lying under the cryo-bed on the cold concrete floor, Bennie thought briefly of stabbing Slim in the leg with his screwdriver. What the fuck did he think Bennie was doing? Taking a nap? Admiring the bed’s sleek, gently curved underside obviously chosen by the clinic’s designers to convey a thinned, hygienic futurism? Bennie didn’t stab Slim. He did also briefly think of asking him why he called himself or allowed himself to be called Slim. He wasn’t obviously skinny. He also wasn’t grossly overweight. So there was no physical reason – non-ironic or ironic – for why he should be called Slim. Did it have to do with where he grew up? Out west maybe among cowboy folk with similar nicknames like Tex or Doc or Old Fast Hands. But then you would think he would wear cowboy boots instead of the boots he did wear: army surplus ones from the Third War of the Desert. Worth finding out about? No, not at the moment. So Bennie didn’t do that either. Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand, quickly grunting an I’m going as fast as I can.

He was too. It wasn’t his fault that the neural link portal had corroded and he couldn’t patch in. He chipped at the portal with his screwdriver, crystals of what looked like rusty salts glittering and flaking off. “The portal’s messed up,” he reported between picks. “I have to clean it. Long time since anybody did any maintenance in here.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Slim replied. “Doesn’t mean someone won’t show up to catch us. So hurry up like I said.”

Yeah that fucker’s getting stabbed, Bennie thought. Not now. But at some point.

.–…–.-.-

No one thinks, I’m gonna grow up and be a picker. Just like probably no one used to think, I’m gonna grow up and be a garbage man. Bennie thought the comparison particularly apt. Although not because the jobs were the same. Garbage men had picked up garbage. Pickers picked over the lives of others. The garbage guys collected stuff nobody wanted and that often smelled or was rotting. Pickers collected something different. If there was a body, it almost never smelled. Those things were really well preserved. Digitally preserved minds didn’t smell of course. Bytes have no odor. People would be justified in making that comparison and drawing that conclusion because the jobs were both low status. Which isn’t to say that they sucked objectively. Only that people thought they sucked. Subjectively. And that had power to influence behavior including what people thought or didn’t think about another person’s line of work. That’s why it would make sense to draw that parallel. You could try and divert attention from the reality of your career’s perceived undesirability by saying you were a sanitation worker or, as Bennie did, a biographical archivist and data retriever. In either case, it wasn’t a very effective tactic. People saw through the bullshit. Then they still thought less of you. Maybe even thought less of you because of your chickenshit move to try and disguise the reality of your situation. Didn’t respect the garbage man because of the trash and the smelling part. Didn’t respect a picker because it was illegal and kinda creepy. Didn’t respect you more because you tried to lie about it.

.–…–.-.-

“You in yet?”

Bennie’s boss, Earl, was asking. That wasn’t a nickname. It was his real, if somewhat old-fashioned, name. Although if anyone in the firm deserved a nickname, it was him. Bennie thought this because Earl had a pronounced personality trait. The sort of readily identifiable trait that could deservedly attract a nickname like a magnet pulling in iron filings. Earl had the shortest of short fuses. He could and did fly off the handle at disruptions both large and small to what he perceived to be the current plan. He would get crazy mad. Very fast. Very strongly. Psychotically irrationally angry. Creamy white spittle collecting at the corners of his lips mad. Psycho would have been an obvious choice. Or if you wanted to be like the mob guys in the classic movies Bennie watched to try falling asleep, something like Earl Eight Fits would have worked too.

Then, yeah, it was a bit of a risk for Bennie to answer Earl’s question with a casual, “Not yet, what’s the rush?”

Although not that much of a risk because the answer was so obvious that Earl would know Bennie was kidding. Had to be kidding because the guy they were picking was an absolute whale. If – no, when – they cracked him, they could live off the payday for a year. At least.

But just in case he didn’t know, Bennie quickly added, “Almost, boss. Almost in.”

Earl clapped him on the shoulder. Hard. Though not about to explode with rage hard. More just being a leader trying to motivate the troops hard. “Good. Tell me as soon as you’re in.”

Ah, the mellowing effect of fantasies of future riches Bennie thought to himself. As he turned back to the screen, he smiled and continued with his work.

Although it wasn’t the work of getting in. That was already done. Had been soon after Bennie had loaded the guy into the scanner and started cruising around his consciousness. Which was strange. Rich dudes who had themselves frozen or their minds written into silicone with the expectation of future revival or injection planned ahead. Hoping to continue their rich dude habits of amassing even more riches once they were woken up, they squirreled away sizable nuts to kickstart their ascent back to the level of luxury to which they had accustomed themselves before death’s first visit. They didn’t want pickers like Bennie messing around in their minds trying to find their treasure, and they protected themselves. This guy? Not so much seemingly. There was nothing. No passwords. No firewalls. No false, digitally constructed memories to throw him off the scent as far as he could tell. Just a vast field of thoughts as far as one could see. Rows and rows of days. One after the other. Ready to pick.

Bennie adjusted the scanner’s resolution. He pulled back on the stick to a comfortable cruising altitude. First get a lay of the land. The peaks and valleys of this guy’s life. Highs and lows. Degrees. Marriages. Births of children. Affairs. First million. First billion. First trillion. Stuff like that. Nothing particular. The particular was messy with details, and details could be dangerous. Because they aroused emotions. Start grubbing around in the day-to-day life of a guy you’re planning to pick and suddenly you find yourself engrossed by an up-from-tragedy story, one that starts with the guy being abused as a kid at the hand of an alcoholic father particularly adept at making his son feel worthless but that ultimately turns as the guy overcomes the wounds both physical and psychological to become a titan of industry. And not just any titan. An enlightened one. A boss who treated his workers more or less well and was also a steward of the community, giving plenty to charity and advocating for the more or less right causes. A guy who this present could use.. And who were you against this guy? You were a picker. A picker who was going to rob this guy blind and fuck up his resurrection even as you hid your tears and sniffles of sympathy. What a piece of shit you were. Nope. Nothing particular at first. That way? Only feelings and the pain of self-recrimination. Dive too deep too fast and that’s what you found. That’s what was there.

So Bennie stayed up top in the metaphorical clouds. Making slow, lazy loops up and down the timeline. He scanned for the usual landmarks of privilege – private school educations for the stiff and his kids, social and professional networks rich with other rich folks, beautiful wife, and more beautiful, younger lovers. Only after he had spotted enough to stoke his resentment and feed a sense that this guy had had his chance at the trough and didn’t deserve to grub for more, a sense strong enough to inoculate Bennie against the subsequent discovery of any heart-string pulling biographical details, did he descend closer. He scanned for an appropriate era. One with meaningful moments. The ones that became the ingredients blended into passwords and secret questions and other building blocks of security protocols. The kind of moments that a person would remember and more importantly would consider his own. Uniquely his own. That he understood and knew in a way that no one else could know. No one else unless that no one was like Bennie, a rascally on-looker hovering there with access to everything.

Bennie decided and turned toward the guy’s early mid-life and the founding of the company that made him his coin. As likely a time as any other, Bennie thought as he deployed the probe scripts. He watched them float down, steering with their spidery feelers open and hungry to explore.

And then they disappeared with a dazzling flash. Like meteorites burning up as they hit the atmosphere.

A voice asked, “Why are you doing this?”

Earl’s hand clapped down on his shoulder. Harder this time. It also stayed there. “You in yet?”

The voice he’d heard on the scan – masculine but not hard and sharp like Earl’s, softer and gentler – remained echoing in his ears and he was slow to answer Earl.

No second clap on the shoulder. Earl just squeezed hard and asked the question again. Hissed it really. “Are you in yet?”

“Yes. Yes,” Bennie replied as the squeeze’s pain followed gravity and nerves down his chest and back.

“And?” So much aggression packed into one three-letter word. If the pain wasn’t focusing his attention elsewhere, Bennie would have taken more time to admire such densely packed hostility. Earl really was talented in that regard.

“And,” Bennie continued, fighting to keep his voice steady, “I’ve completed the biographical scan and identified the periods most likely to yield the relevant exploitable data. I’ve released the first wave of probe scripts. They’ll take some time to vacuum up the facts we’ll need.”

“Good.” Earl said and the hostility disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. God such a short fuse, Bennie thought. The hand, however, stayed clamped down and the pain continued its slip further down Bennie’s torso. Then just like that, Earl released his grip. Maybe it was the delirium of the pain, but Bennie could have sworn that Earl even gave his shoulder a tender, almost fatherly pat before continuing, “Anything strange in there? When I walked up, it looked like you had seen a ghost.”

Bennie risked reigniting Earl’s anger and turned to face him. “Strange? No, nothing strange at all. I was just concentrating, probably.”

“Yeah, concentrating on trying not to fuck this up,” Slim piped up from his workstation.

This time, Earl really did pat his shoulder. Then he turned and barked, “Shut the fuck up, Slim.”

“Will do, boss.” Slim replied without a pause, all the bravado leaking right out of his voice.

Bennie found himself pleased both at the rebuke and the thought of stabbing Slim at some point in the future. Because he was going to do it. Oh yes, he was.

.–…–.-.-

Much later that night, Bennie sat on the edge of his bed in his underwear. The blue glow from his phone mixed with his sallow skin. In that blend, Bennie looked pale green. He had been sitting there a long time, so long that he felt the first pricks of numbness where his butt sat compressed against his bed’s fiberboard frame. Finally, he made up his mind and texted, You up?

That really wasn’t the question. He knew she was up. This time – middle of the night – was when she liked to work.

No, the real question was whether she would answer. He pictured her at her desk in front of the screen bathed in the same sort of digital glow lighting him. He saw her with her phone, looking at his message. If she snorted and laughed, there wouldn’t be an answer. She’d put her phone screen-side down or maybe toss it on the bed behind her and get back to work. Laughing and shaking her head one more time as the device hit the sheets. But if instead, her usual work expression – determined and slightly exasperated – softened a little and she paused to read the message one more time. Well, then maybe, yes, she’d answer.

After a while, Bennie turned his device off. He stretched out and tried to sleep. It took a while because the sound of her laugh kept echoing in his ears.

.–…–.-.-

Bennie opened the warehouse door, pushing its grooved wheel along the worn metal track. It screeched as he pushed and in the early morning quiet it sounded like a murderous scream as it bounced off the other warehouses and echoed down the street. Bennie winced. He winced again when he pulled the door shut and it screeched again. Then he waved his discomfort away. He had something he wanted to test out and he wanted to get to it.

He loaded the guy’s mind in and started to cruise around. Avoiding yesterday’s territory, he picked a time and let a set of probes fall. He watched them float down, silently counting down to when they would burn up and the spooky voice would announce itself. None of that happened. Instead, they landed without incident and he watched as they got their bearings, deployed their feelers and started looking for relevant biographical details, copying and storing the promising looking ones.

Bennie let them work, pulled back and cruised to another slice of the guy’s life. The same thing happened. The probes deployed without being turned into ashes. He picked one more time and the same thing – nothing – happened again. After admiring the probes’ methodical dissections for a few moments, Bennie banked away to test the second part of his idea.      

Even though he expected it, hearing the question again disturbed him. The Why are you doing this? sounded downright plaintive this morning. Or was he imagining that, thinking that it was the guy himself who was asking him. Pleading with him really to explain why he was poking around his disembodied consciousness. That was impossible though. That didn’t happen, right? That’s what he was going to ask Sal about last night. She was the mind scientist after all. A real one. She would know. Probably did. For sure, probably.

So he was free to roam around and pick this guy’s brain. Vacuum up all sorts of details. Stuff the servers full. All for nothing though. What he wanted couldn’t be found there. Because what he wanted was at only one time. Directly below him behind a shield his probes couldn’t pierce and embodied by a whiny little voice that wanted to know what the hell he was doing.

“Fuck,” Bennie said.

“Fuck what?” Slim asked.

Bennie flinched as if electrocuted. Whirling in his chair, he grabbed a pen and held it in front of him like it was a knife.

Slim, stepped back, laughed, and held up his hands in mock fear. “Whoa. Steady there, killer. Is that what you always do when someone surprises you? Try and stab them? With …,” and Slim looked to confirm what was in Bennie’s hand and then laughed harder, “… a pen?”

“What are you doing here?” Bennie managed to say.

Slim exchanged his laugh for a deep smirk. “Working. Same as you.”

Bennie’s heart had slowed down a bit. “Bullshit. You never come in this early,” and he gestured to the still empty office.

Surprisingly, Slim agreed. “Yeah. You’re right. It is bullshit. I’m not here to work. I’m here to watch you.”

Bennie expected Slim to laugh. But he didn’t. He had become suddenly serious. “What?”

“That’s right. Earl asked me to keep an eye on you after yesterday’s fuck-up.”

Bennie’s pulse was very steady now. It was his turn to smirk. “Sure, sure. Earl’s not mad at me. He knows I’m working hard and making progress.”

“Your sore shoulder says different, sport.”

He couldn’t help himself. Bennie’s hand drifted to his shoulder. It was tender. And bruised too. He’d inspected the four fingertip sized blossoms of purple last night. “Well, why don’t you watch me from over there. I’m not going to be productive with you standing there breathing your shitty coffee breath on me.”

“Oh such a glorious burn, Bennie. I didn’t have any coffee this morning,” Slim said. Still he moved over to his own console.

.–…–.-.-

“I’m not buzzing you up.”

“I’m not asking you too,” and when Sal didn’t say anything, Bennie tried some more, “I called, you know.”

“I saw.”

“Why didn’t you pick up?” He couldn’t help it.

On the grainy intercom screen, Bennie saw Sal look away into her apartment. Shit. He was losing her. He had to do something to keep her. “Don’t go. Don’t go. I didn’t come to see you.”

She looked back into the camera. Stared really. “That’s such a comfort to hear.”

Sarcasm. That was actually a good sign. Better than just a flat dismissal. It meant she cared. Was invested. At least a little bit. Bennie risked a grin. Only a slight one. “I just have a question.”

“Is it about work?”

“Kinda,” and when he saw her hand move to switch off, “No, not really. Not for me directly. Look, I think you’ll be interested. It’s weird. When I heard about it, I didn’t know what to think. Couldn’t figure it. But I’m sure you can. You always were smarter than me.”

She nodded, paused and then said, “And I’m not a crook. Another point in my favor.”

“Yes,” he said sincerely, “you’re not a crook.”

Sal didn’t say anything. Bennie took her silence as an invitation.

“Have you ever heard of a part of a mind staying conscious?

Even on the low-res screen, he could see the puzzlement.

“The rest of the mind is inert. Just inert data stored for future reanimation. But there’s a piece that’s aware. Can interact. Ask questions even.”

He saw her take a strand of her long black hair and concentrate on it while she twirled it with her fingers. She was really thinking now. After a while, she let the strand fall back in place, and shook her head. Then she also shrugged. “No? Maybe?” She shook her head again. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. You said it can interact?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it do anything else?”

Bennie saw his probes disintegrating in bright flashes. He shook his head.

“Answer it then.”

“Answer it?”

“You said it asks questions. Then answer it. Hell, ask it questions in return. Ask it who or what it is. You hadn’t thought of that. Had you? You just thought you’d get in there and pick that mind clean as quickly as you could.”

“I said this wasn’t for me.”

“Yeah, I heard that and you’re a liar.” She didn’t seem angry when she said it. Or not just angry. There was the resignation that he was familiar with and that had gradually rung more and more in what she said when they were together. But was some of the original affection there too? Ears can be hopeful organs, Bennie thought.

“Anyway, thanks. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s a good idea.”

“You should always listen to me,” Sal said and she smiled.

“I could always come up and do some more listening in person.”

The smile turned into a smirk, “Nice try, slick.” The screen went dark.

.–…–.-.-

What would his answer be? Bennie wondered about that. What would he tell the guy why he was there? He was convinced it was the guy who was somehow asking that question. Some silicon projection of his mind. Even if Sal had never heard of something like that. As smart as she was, she didn’t know everything. Didn’t know how smart Bennie was on his own for example. Even if he was only a picker. It took smarts to be a picker. Even Slim, as much of an asshole as he was, wasn’t stupid. Earl was smart for sure. Had to be to run the firm and keep everyone in line and not trying anything funny. Maybe Sal did know he was smart but just didn’t want him to know it because that would have looked like she was approving what he did. Which she definitely did not as she had always been reminding him every chance she got.

Bennie would tell the guy he was doing it because if he didn’t Earl would kill him or at the very least do him so real bodily harm. He was doing it because he liked to have coin and wanted to get paid. Or Bennie would tell him he was doing it because who the fuck did this guy think he was reanimating himself. Imposing his past self on the present because why? He thought he was so special that he deserved more trips around the sun. Took a pretty inflated sense of self to think that especially when no one now had asked for this guy or any of the others to be back. He could also tell the guy that he liked solving puzzles. He liked finding the clues – the ones that were meaningful – amidst all the junk of life. Lives were filled with so many absolutely meaningless moments. Moments better forgotten or not even remembered in the first place. Or maybe Bennie wouldn’t answer the question at all and just ask the guy questions of his own. Like why he couldn’t get Sal out of his own mind when all she ever did was look down on him.

.–…–.-.-

“What’s the story?” As Earl asked, he laid his hand on Bennie’s shoulder. Bennie could feel each finger individually. Earl’s touch was light, although also heavy with potential pain. He tapped his indexed finger on Bennie’s collar bone, a bone that suddenly felt much thinner and more fragile than Bennie had ever imagined, and repeated himself.

“The probes are done and the mind’s been cataloged and mapped. Potential moments when he determined his security settings have been identified. I’m ready to pick.”

Earl lifted his hand off Bennie’s shoulder like a conductor lifting his baton. Lightly, effortlessly. But with control. “Good. I want you to work with Slim for the rest of the way. Give him half.”

Bennie turned in his chair to face Earl. He saw Slim standing a few paces behind Earl, arms crossed and his lips twitching and fighting off a wide smile. “Sure. If you feel he’s up for it. I’d be happy for the help. We want to get this done and get that cash, right?” He had to fight to keep his own expression neutral as he saw Slim’s face fall at Bennie’s calm.

Earl turned to Slim, “You up for it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Slim said, waving his hand as if he were waving away a fly.

Earl’s response was fast like a punch, “None of your ‘yeah, yeah’ casual bullshit. If you want in on this, I need you to be serious.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s better.”

Bennie spun fast in his chair to face his screen and started swiping. He hoped Earl wouldn’t notice him talking through a big grin and that Slim would as he said, “Data coming your way, Slim.”

.–…–.-.-

“Answer it,” Sal had said. So Bennie did, and Sal had been right. It worked. A couple of days after being partnered with Slim, Bennie stayed late, pretending to pick. Gradually the firm emptied out. Except Slim. He stayed because Bennie supposed he didn’t want it to look like Bennie was outworking him. Sucking up is more taxing than it appears and Slim wouldn’t have it in him to maintain the charade once Earl split for the evening, which he did with a gruff, “Get done soon, boys” right around his usual time at eight. Bennie had made a bet with himself. He didn’t think Slim could hold out longer than 15 minutes after Earl’s departure. But if his (admittedly cynical) appraisal of Slim’s nature was wrong and Slim found a source of – what exactly? . . . dedication to the mission . . . stubborn commitment to do better than Bennie. . . simple inertia – that allowed him to stay longer, then Bennie would have to do a small penance for underestimating Slim. The penance was the price of losing the bet. He would have to do something nice for him. Like compliment his picking. Or bring him coffee. Or refrain from making fun of the boots he always wore but never shined. He wouldn’t tell Slim why he was doing it. He’d just do it.

He didn’t lose. About five minutes after Earl left, Slim began to fidget at his console. “You done yet, slowpoke?” he called out to Bennie.

“No, it’s going slow for me,” Bennie admitted. “You’re probably way ahead of me already.”

“Figures,” Slim said before going silent and seeming to turn back to work. His dedication didn’t last more than a few minutes. He sighed loudly before announcing, “I’m outta here. You should stay, though, since you’re so far behind me. Otherwise, Earl will be super pissed.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Bennie replied.

Slim left with two minutes to spare.

Bennie loaded the mind and drifted to the familiar spot. He released a probe – the quickest way he knew to get a response – and waited as it drifted down.

After it burned up in a flurry of sparks and bright light, the voice with its familiar question drifted up, “Why are you doing this?”

“Why do you care?” Bennie whispered at first and then realizing no one, at least no one in the office, was there, said more loudly.

“It’s my function to care.”

“Is it your function to destroy probes.”

“Yes, if it seems that they have been released with malicious intent. Are you malicious?”

After a few moments thought, Bennie answered, “No, I just need some information.”

“Your pause suggests there’s more to it than that and that your intent is not quite so innocent.”

Bennie closed his fist tightly. “Let’s get back to my question. Why do you care if I want some information?”

“I care about what you will do with that information and whether you will use it to hurt this mind. Are you going to hurt us?”

“You’re not alive. This mind died. You can’t hurt something that’s dead.”

“That’s not quite true, and I believe you know that. When the technology is sufficiently developed, this mind will live again.”

“That’s what they said. What they’ve been saying for a long time. It hasn’t happened yet and who knows if it will. And who said we wanted you back anyway? The past is done and you belong to the past.”

It was the voice’s turn to pause a few moments. Then it continued, “That’s not quite true is it?”

“It should be. Seriously. This guy had his chance. And by the looks of it, he did fine. Now stay away. We don’t need him here. We got plenty of guys exploiting their way to riches. What made him think he would have anything to add to that. How vain did he have to be? Get out of my way. Let me do my job and get something for this life, my life.”

“You done?”

“For now,” Bennie exhaled.

“Given what I can gather from your vocation, I don’t think you’re doing what you’re doing because you’re motivated by the desire to stop what you perceive to be intergenerational injustice. So, I’ll ask again, “Why are you doing this?”

Bennie considered for a moment telling this voice — or partial mind — or whatever it was that it didn’t know fuckall about what Bennie did or did not want and what he did or did not consider fair or unfair. And then Bennie thought about it some more. More specifically he thought about who exactly he was kidding. “I’m doing it for the money,” he answered.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the voice said.

.–…–.-.-

Lying under the cryo-bed on the hard, cold floor, Bennie concentrated on chipping away any corrosion on the lip of the neural link. He didn’t want anything to possibly slow putting the mind back where it had been.

Bennie heard the voice, which scared him, and then saw the boots, which let him know it was Slim.

“Watcha doing, bud?” Slim asked.

Bennie had already decided and he had no need to hesitate. He swung his arm in a quick arc and stabbed Slim, feeling immense satisfaction as the screwdriver slid into Slim’s calf. As Slim screamed and reached for his leg, Bennie kicked Slim’s legs out from under him and felt another bolt of satisfaction as he hit the floor hard. Bennie rolled out from under the bed. Before Slim could recover, Bennie was on him with his knee to his chest and the screwdriver held to his neck.

“You should wear cowboy boots,” Bennie said. “They go up so high on the calf, it would have been harder to stab you. Not like those stupid desert boots. Why do you even wear those anyway?”

Slim shook his head trying to clear away some of the shock of hitting the floor. “Because they’re comfortable and cheap and why the fuck would I wear cowboy boots?”

“With a nickname like Slim, I thought you’d be into that home on the range style and all.”

Slim shook his head again and more vigorously. This time in disbelief though. “Nickname? Slim is my real name, you dipshit.”

“Who names their kid Slim?” Bennie asked.

“Who names their kid Bennie?” Slim asked in return, squirming under the pressure of Bennie’s knee.

“No one. It’s a nickname. My real name is Benjamin,” and in response to Slim’s wriggling, he pressed the screwdriver into his neck.

“Well, okay, Ben-ja-min,” Slim said, “I’ll ask you again. Besides fucking up my leg and making weird assumptions about my birthname, watcha doing here?”

“Putting the mind back and leaving it alone.”

“Earl’s not going to like that.”

“Earl’s going to have a lot of other things to worry about,” Bennie said matter-of-factly and enjoyed how Slim’s eyes widened as he asked, “What did you do?”

“I erased some files. A lot of files. And fucked up a bunch of other stuff. Not much of a firm left for Earl to care about.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why am I screwing Earl over or why am I putting the guy back?” Bennie asked back.

“Putting the guy back,” Slim said and didn’t try to hide his exasperation. “Screwing Earl makes sense. It’s stupid, and you’ll probably die, but it makes sense. He’s a mean, short-tempered asshole.”

Bennie was quiet for a moment as if he had considered what he said next, “This guy did a lot of good on his first go around. And he invested a lot to potentially have a second chance. I think we should respect that. I’m tired of ripping people like him off.”

“Bullshit,” Slim snorted with knowing derision.

In the moment, Bennie didn’t know if he wanted to finish him off right then and there or if he wanted to wait a bit and savor Slim’s insight into his character.

“You’re doing it for money,” Slim continued.

“Yeah,” Bennie admitted, “And a lot of it.”

.–…–.-.-

Bennie checked the door after it closed behind him to make sure it was locked. He didn’t want to make it easy on any future pickers that might poke around the complex. And he didn’t want anyone to find a dead Slim as unlikely as that might be. Not fat and not skinny, he had fit right well into one of the empty pods.

He took out his phone and unlike the last time, he didn’t hesitate. It was late. He knew she was up. He had to try.

Hey Sal, you want to go someplace for a while? Can be any place you want. I’ve come into a little cash.

He walked to his scooter, waiting for his phone to buzz.

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Based in Portland, John Brady is the author of Golden Palms, a noir about LA politics. It’s funny too. His fiction and non-fiction have appeared in various other outlets, including Allium, Exposition Review, pioneertown, Big Windows Review, Drunk Monkeys, the Los Angeles Review, Pomona Valley Review, the Chronicle of Higher Education, Punk Planet, and on National Public Radio. His writing is available at johnbradywriter.com

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