Geek Mafia by Rick Dakan (beach read txt) 📖

“It had crossed my mind.”

“I was feeling bad about yelling at you this morning and I got worried that you might do something stupid.”

“Stupid like what?”

“Stupid like leave.”

“You were afraid I was going to just run off without saying goodbye?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. People I meet through this…this lifestyle have a habit of vanishing into the wind. Myself included.”

“So maybe I’m the one who should be following you.”

She chuckled. “You could try.”

“Well, I met a nice private eye earlier today. Maybe he could help me out.”

“You should ask him next time you two run into each other.”

“Assuming he doesn’t have his hand around my throat, I’ll do just that.”

They were both silent for an awkward moment before Chloe said, “I am really sorry about that. I jumped all over Raff for making such a blunder.”

“As a wise woman once suggested, let’s move on to damage control.”

She smiled. “Ok, well, Raff’s taking care of the car and I’ve got some of the guys trying to track down just who the hell this fucker is. I got his license plate number before I zapped him.”

“You’re pretty handy with that thing by the way. He never saw it coming.”

“They never do.”

“But that’s not the kind of damage control I’m talking about. I think we need to revisit our conversation from this morning.”

“Do we have to? Every time we have this talk you run off and get beat up by some complete stranger.”

“I’m serious, Chloe. If anything, this proves that I’m in this now. Right, square in the middle of this. He knows who I am. I need you guys to help hide me.”

“We’ll do that, Paul. I’ll take good care of you, I promise, but…”

“No Chloe. I don’t want to be your protectee, if that’s even a word. I want to participate in my own defense. I want to pay my own way.”

“Do you know what you’re saying, Paul? It’s going to take something big to win the Crew over.”

“I think you’re the only one I’m having trouble winning over, Chloe. The rest of them seem pretty willing to accept me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that Paul. And please, don’t do anything you’ll regret later…” 

“I’ve got it all figured out Chloe,” Paul said. In fact he only had the basic outline of an idea, but he’d figure it out by the time of the meeting. After all, he was a game designer and an artist. Big, cool ideas were his stock and trade. “I’d like to tell everyone at once. Can you call everybody together tonight?”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

“I don’t like surprises, Paul. It’s bad for business.”

“You’ll like this one. Trust me.”

He’d thought he would be nervous, but he wasn’t. The idea had gelled in his head and the more he thought about it, the more he loved it. Paul had no problem addressing crowds and he’d given dozens of presentations more complicated than this when they were looking for a publisher or more funding for the game. Unlike corporate money-men, these people theoretically already liked him. Nothing to worry about. Just lay it out there for them and they would go for it.

Earlier, as he’d been working out the details of his grand scheme, he made a list of everything he didn’t like about the plans he’d seen the crew execute. First of all, they lacked panache. There was no drama to them, no theater. And while that probably made for better crime, it didn’t work for the kind of lasting impression Paul wanted to make. Like with his comics and his games, he wanted to create something new and exciting and that people would be talking about for years to come. 

Second, he didn’t want to do anything that hurt people – especially innocent people, like the CFO in Raff’s con. There wasn’t anything fun about scaring an old man and threatening his daughter, even if the threat wasn’t ever real. He needed to pick choice targets, the kind of people he imagined Winston might choose if he were coming up with the plan. Annoying, hypocritical, greedy, and, most importantly, gullible people who could use a little comeuppance. The bumper sticker had given him the spark of inspiration and he’d fanned the creative flames from there. His plan was a little more baroque and involved than anything he’d seen the Crew do before, but he thought they’d appreciate it once he laid it out for them.

The room wasn’t quite as full as it had been the night before. Chloe had warned him that not everyone would show up just to hear him talk. Raff had finally returned from doing whatever it was he’d done with Paul’s old car. He’d given Paul a thumb’s up as he walked through the door and then took his customary place leaning against the wall at the back of the room. 

“It looks like we’ve got as big a crowd as we’re going to get, so let’s get started,” said Paul. There were ten of them there, including everyone who’d worked with him on the comic con. At least he’d earned a few fans with his first crazy scheme.

“I don’t know who knows what about my situation here, but it’s probably been pretty hard to miss me loitering around for the past few weeks. I’ve had a blast working with and hanging out with you all and, well, I’d like try to and make this a more permanent relationship.” No one seemed surprised at this announcement, so he pressed on.

“I realize that this is usually an invitation only club and, well, no one’s officially invited me or anything like that. I imagine that probably has a lot to do with the fact that I don’t have any actual skills or background that could be, you know, helpful.” He got several polite snickers of agreement at that. “I’m certainly no hacker or anything like that.”

“However, I do have something going for me, something I owe all of you for and something I think I can share with you.” Several leaned forward expectantly at this. Paul wondered how many of them were hoping he was going to give them his money. “You’ve made me realize that I can use my imagination for more than just drawing comics and making video games. I think I’ve got creativity and, an affinity for the unexpected that I can harness for the benefit of us all. And so I’ve come up with a plan I’d like to pitch you. A plan that I think can make us a lot of money.”

“Here’s my proposal. I pitch this nefarious scheme of mine. If you guys are up for it, and if all goes well, you let me in as an official member of your merry band.” He looked out across the assembled faces and realized they expected something more from him. Without thinking he added, “And if it all goes balls up, well, I’ll make up the difference out of the money you guys helped me get from my old company.” 

He’d almost lost them until he threw out that last line. He hadn’t planned on making that offer, but he could tell that he wasn’t wowing them with his little speech. The words had just kind of slipped out of his mouth. Chloe was shaking her head sadly, but at least he had everyone’s undivided attention now.

“Let’s hear the plan,” said Raff from the back, giving Paul a conspiratorial wink of support. At least one person thought this was a good idea.

“Well, I was driving around earlier today looking for inspiration and then it literally hit me. Who are the most credulous, illogical people out there? Who’ll believe any damn fool thing, no matter how ridiculous, as long as it’s said with authority? Who deserves to have their money separated from their bank accounts on general principal, just for being so obnoxious?” He paused to milk the moment. “The answer’s obvious – right-wing talk radio listeners.” 

CHAPTER 22

Two weeks later, the Annual Los Gatos Street Fair sprawled across the length and breadth of the wealthy community’s largest downtown park. Located just a few miles south of San Jose, Los Gatos is just another in the sprawl of towns that carpets Silicon Valley. Unlike places like Cupertino, Milpitas, Santa Clara, and Campbell, which are entirely indistinguishable from San Jose proper, Los Gatos has just enough physical and socio-economic distance to make it distinctive. Paul had once heard the town described as “Yuppie Heaven” and he’d never found any reason to disagree.

On a normal Sunday afternoon the park would be full of people walking their pedigree dogs, sipping their designer frozen coffee drinks and ushering their spoiled toddlers about in high-tech strollers. Today was no different, except that they had the added distraction of knick-knack filled arts and crafts tents to navigate through. At one end of the park sat a good-sized stage where a band was set up and waiting for the mayor to say something official and nice about the afternoon. The backdrop prominently featured the logos for the fair’s two main corporate sponsors – Starbucks and BP. Paul wondered if the mayor would change her speech in light of what they were about to do.

The clock hit 1:45 and, as hoped, a sizable crowd of a hundred or so people had gathered in the general vicinity of the stage. A flunky tapped the microphone three times to make sure the sound system worked and nodded to the offstage mayor that everything was ready when she was. Standing in the crowd, Bee noticed all of this and sent the signal.

Inside the large white conversion van parked less than a block away, the signal reached Chloe. “All right troopers. On the bounce.” The van’s rear doors swung wide and out came five sad-faced clowns wearing bright yellow knee-high rubber boots and neon green jumpsuits with biohazard symbols sewn onto their backs. Chloe led the way, wearing a clown mask and an astonishingly large purple afro-style wig. She brandished a bullhorn in one hand and a sign proclaiming “FREE TRADE = BLOOD TRADE” in the other.

Behind her came Paul and Popper, who were wrestling with a six-foot tall papier-mâché Starbucks coffee cup that had a bent straw poking out of the top of it. The final two clowns, Filo and Kurt, unfurled a long canvas banner strung between two wooden dowels that they used as handles. As soon as they cleared the van they lofted the banner above their heads and revealed its entire ten foot long message: “BEANS BREWED IN BLOOD – OIL DRILLED FROM FLESH.” Paul had been very insistent that the slogans have a very visceral tone.

Chloe put the bullhorn to her mouth as she led her squad of protestors straight for the gap between the crowd and the front of the stage. Four blocks away, two other Crew members were staging a boisterous “domestic dispute” that had already drawn the full attention of the nearest police officers. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” shouted Chloe, “Boys and Girls, Children of All Ages! Welcome to the Bourgeois Festival of The Exploited!” Everyone from the mayor on down turned towards the bizarre troupe. Expressions ranged from startled puzzlement to startled anger, with little in the way of friendly smiles except from some of the kids.

“We are the Harlequins of Hegemony! The Clowns of Corporatocracy! The Jesters of Justice! We’re here to bring you all the news that’s fit to spew! Everything you were afraid to ask about the startling link between the black bile you pour