The Moreland Estate
I jumped from the car with purpose; the app was running and I was unstoppable. The gate to the Moreland estate was just visible through the trees, but the app made sure John’s death wass right before my eyes.
As I crept up the driveway to my demise, the images and the sounds played over and over: the busy street; the sky scraper; the desperation; the jump. Wet grass bent silently beneath my feet and finally I reached the wall. Made of brick, imposing its will, it did nothing. The Mission App did all the work. Plug in a few facts, plug in a few faces, and the tech did the rest.
Over the wall, avoiding security, I thought back to that day. My brother, a Lowell employee, hung out to dry. The app played Moreland’s words over and over: “you’ll be fine, John. We’ve got the best people on the case.” An innocent man, framed for embezzling millions. An innocent man, knowing the framers wouldn’t do shit to help.
My app-automated movements led silently to the window of his bedroom. Just like it predicted, Moreland was distracted by his Monday Night Meth. “See?” I thought, “this is perfect. I’ve never killed anything But now? Get me in the CIA, I fuck ’em up.” The blood flow feature kept my heart rate up; the focus feature kept my target in view; the lock-out feature blinded me to anything else. Thanks to the performance enhancing tech, I sat and I sat and I sat.
Finally Moreland had smoked it all and partied the night away. Without the automated drill sergeant screaming in my head, I might have noticed the beautiful songs of the early-morning birds. Instead, all I heard was the crush of John’s bones as he hit the pavement. All I heard was the screams of passers-by. All I heard was Bob Moreland: “well that’s one less problem.”
Instead of loving the early morning sounds in this country estate, I dove forward along the wall toward the back door. I knew, at least my side-kick knew, that Moreland would come out for his Tuesday Morning Swim. The glass door slid; the light went on; the gremlin appeared. A puzzle board of precision-cut granite beneath his fat feet surrounded the Olympic-sized swimming pool in the back yard of the man whose hands were covered in my brother’s blood. Just like the app predicted.
This goblin, this ghost of a man, stood staring at his obscene wealth: the pool; the vineyard; the forest beyond. And me? I crouched staring at that horrible day, over and over. He had to be held responsible. If the law wouldn’t do it, I would.
I jumped from the bush with purpose; the app was running and I was unstoppable.