The God Equation and Other Stories (8 page)

I didn
’
t know what to say to that.

“Ho! Ho! I was just kidding, boy! Mr. Black doesn
’
t do legs! Fingers are his specialty…” He brandished his cigar cutter, menacingly, in the light.

My hands instinctively clench, out of anger and fear. Show no fear.

“Ho! Ho! Got you again, didn
’
t I?” He took the cigar from his mouth and brought it toward my face. I winced, expecting him to extinguish it on my broken nose. But wait. It wasn
’
t broken. My nose, that is. I felt the cigar butt against my lips. There was a kindly twinkle in his eye.

“Here, take it,” he said. “It
’
ll kill you but given the circumstances, does it matter?”

I sucked it in, blessed unfiltered sin flowing into my mouth. Then the smoke went too far, entered my lungs and I gagged and he pulled it out and laughed. I felt violated.

“You like girls, boy?”

I continue coughing.

“I said … DO YOU LIKE GIRLS?!” His fist struck the side of my nose, breaking it again.

The scene went white, and the thunder came clapping once more. “Fer chrissakes, whadya wan wit
’
meee!” I screamed at him.

Without blinking he said, “I asked you a simple question, boy. I
’
m waiting for your answer. You want me to repeat the question?”

I nod.

He stuck me again.

“Yes!” I yelled. “Yes! I like girls!”

“Oh. Sorry. I thought you nodded because we didn
’
t hear me properly the first time. You should show your elders some respect. Next time, say
‘
yes
’
if you mean yes.” He chewed his cigar. “Understand?”

“Yes.” I star
ted
to cry.

“Good. Let
’
s talk about girls. You said you like girls.”

“Yes.”

“You like sleeping with girls?”

“Yes.”

“Have you actually slept with a girl?”

I hesitated for a second, was about to shake my head but I saw him raise his fist, so I said, “Yes.”

The blow landed anyway.

“Yes! I sleep with girls! I have slept with girls! I like sleeping with girls! What else dya wanna hear from me?”

“The truth.”

“Last night! Maybe two nights ago, I don
’
t remember. But it was my birthday. My twenty-first birthday. They gave me a girl. I slept with her. That
’
s the honest truth, man!”

He looked me in the eye. The twinkle was gone. “You didn
’
t sleep with her,” he said.

I didn
’
t understand what he wanted to hear. I didn
’
t know whether to say yes or no.

“You had
sex
with her,” he said. “But you didn
’
t
sleep
with her.”

I nodded weakly. “We had sex,” I said.

The blow fell again, this time on my other cheek. “Don
’
t drag her into this!” he boomed. “
You
were the one who had sex, boy. The girl was the one who was asleep.” He jabbed my brow with a thick finger. “Face the facts, boy.” He leaned closer. “You raped her.”

“H-how would you know … you her uncle, her father? I didn
’
t hurt her, honest. I was just for fun. Wait! Please don
’
t hit me! Please!”

He hit me. The stars came brighter than ever. As I spun from Capricorn to Andromeda, I made two awful discoveries. First, I realized what he said was true. I had my way with the girl while she was drunk or drugged. It didn
’
t matter whether or not she was a hooker. Second, my nose kept mysteriously healing itself seconds after the last blow was given. That
’
s why each strike felt as fresh as the first time, every nerve awake to raw pain.

I recovered eventually, and Mr. C had pulled a chair in front of me at sat down. I thought about measuring my next words carefully, perhaps not saying anything anymore, but the only thing that came out of me was defiance. “How did you know? You like to watch? Were you watching me screw?” I didn
’
t care anymore. Let the blows rain down.

But he merely patted me on the cheek, which had already mended itself, good as new.

“I got me a list,” he said with a wink. “I check it twice. First to find out those who
’
ve been naughty; second to find out those who
’
ve been nice. And you, boy, have been very, very naughty.”

“But,” I said, struggling to find logic in this mess, “it
’
s the middle of July; it
’
s too early for Christmas…”

He stared at me, his blue-gray eyes peering from beneath the deep shadows of his brow. “That
’
s exactly why I
’
m here, boy. What do you think I do during the rest of the year?”

“Engage in kidnapping and assault?” I said.

“Of naughty children,” he added. “I check my list twice, remember?”

I bristled at the word. “I am not a child,” I said.

“Boy, when you reach my age, believe me, everyone
’
s a child.” He puffed at his cigar. “December is a busy month for us,” he continued, “production at full capacity. Christmas Eve is when I make the deliveries. The rest of the month, we manufacture the toys. That
’
s also when the letters come. It helps that there aren
’
t as many children who believe in me nowadays. Also, the naughty always outnumber the nice. The less houses we need to visit, the better.”

I was starting to feel cold again.

“By January, after Epiphany, we start a new cycle.”

“Cycle?” I repeated.

“Recruitment,” he said. “Eleven months of recruitment. With fifty percent attrition due to death and starvation, it
’
s a miracle we
’
re still in operation.” He placed his large hand on my shoulder. “How
’
s your memory?”

“What?”

“Your memory,” he said. “Think backwards. Was there a time you believed in me?”

I thought about whipped cream. I thought about snow. “I was six.”

“Indeed you were. Do you remember what you asked for?” The twinkle in his eyes had returned, and the air was thick with the smell of cinnamon.

“A bicycle,” I said.

“That
’
s right,” he said, “a silver-colored bicycle. Exquisite craftsmanship, I recall.”

“It was you.”

“Did you think your parents bought it for you?”

I did. I assumed they read my letter and bought me the bike. My mother never sent it but kept it in a scrapbook which she showed me when I was a bit older. “They didn
’
t buy it?” I said.

“My people contacted them a week after you wrote the letter. They told them that their names had been selected at a raffle and the prize was a brand new bicycle. Kiddie-sized. Your parents took full credit, did they?”

They didn
’
t. They never talked about it. I had just assumed. “Please don
’
t drag my folks into this,” I pleaded. “They
’
re innocent.”

“Indeed they are,” he said. “It
’
s
you
I want.”

“Why me?”

“You wrote the letter.”

He pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on; then he reached into his jacket and brought out a folded, yellowed piece of pad paper. He unfolded it, scanned the letter, and read aloud. “
I promise to be good always.
Your own words, boy. Your own hand.”

“I was six years old!”

“The letter was a contract. You made a request, we delivered the goods, you accepted it. You promised to be good.”

“You expect every kid to be good forever?”

“Not every kid,” he said. “Only those who wrote me letters, only those who once believed in me, only those who accepted my gift, and only those who broke their promises, who didn
’
t meet their end of the bargain. Kids like you.” He refolded the letter and tucked it into his jacket.

“I just turned twenty-one…”

“Oh, yes, that. As kids grow older, yes, they become nasty. That
’
s part of life, isn
’
t it? But I expect them to lead relatively righteous lives at least until they reach adulthood.” He puffed his cigar, licked his lips. “Rape, by my definition, isn
’
t particularly righteous. If you had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar, I
’
d have turned a blind eye. But this…”

“I told you, I had already turned twenty-one by the time I screwed her!”

He delivered a right cross, broke my jaw. I fell to the floor, nearly passed out, hands still tied behind my back. He waited for my jaw to heal. Then he kicked me, cutting my lip. He waited for that to heal, too.

“There are twenty-four hours in a day, boy. You might have been twenty-one in your city, but in my time zone, you were still twenty.”

I lay on the floor, stared at his shoes. A cigar dropped near my nose, and he extinguished it with a twist of his toe. Then he snapped his fingers, and my hands were suddenly free as if there had never been any rope in the first place. I was too exhausted to stand.

Then two figures came in:
Mr. Black
and a girl. “Take him to the factory,” Santa told them. “We could use him in our pogo stick division.”

Mr. Black
still wore that weird ponytail. The girl still had the face of an angel and the body of a whore. She smelled like cinnamon. They all did, come to think of it.

They each held one of my arms and pulled me up. My feet dragged as they carried me out the door.

“Where are they taking me?” I cry out to Santa.

“To Antarctica,” he replied.

“B-but
… I thought you lived in the North Pole?”

“Greenland, boy. But our toy factory is down south. I run a complex global operation and need to keep costs down.”

His voice faded as they dragged me into the darkness. “Who knows, if you perform well enough and live long enough, I
’
ll transfer you to o
ur bicycle division in Guangzhou
. Ho! Ho!”

“The Off Season” copyright © 2007 by Michael A.R. Co. First published in
the Christmas edition of the Digest of Philippine Genre Stories, 2007.

In the eyes of many, he was
“
paranoid about privacy, passionate about porn, and
”
—
as his public profile made plain
—
“
prevalently peppered his phrases with P
’
s.
”
Later, when the police finally caught up w
ith him, he was prosecuted for “perverse and predatory behavior”
in an indictment that was also written, on purpose no doubt, in preposterous purple prose. The judge was not amused and dismissed the charges for lack of merit. The prosecutor was also cited for contempt.

But for now, Pete Portacio enjoyed what seemed like perfect anonymity. Almost. Every morning, after checking his cell phone for text messages, using the toilet, and abusing himself in the shower, he
’
d switch on his PC screen, check his torrents, access his inbox, and ritually delete half a dozen or so emails from the wife/daughter/son of a very important, but recently deceased, government official. Then he
’
d make himself a cup of 3-in-1 instant coffee, a cup of instant noodles, return to his workstation, and read the rest of his emails. On this particular morning, however, he received no word from his Nigerian pen pals, but more disconcertingly, none from his online friends.

This was strange because one of his online identities, pinoy_playboy69, was a popular professional blogger, moderator of several adult-only social networking websites, and the best "friend of a friend" anyone could have. He was tolerant of queers but very hetero; liberal in his politics but staunchly anti-commie. He was a lurker who didn
’
t offend anybody and didn
’
t make any demands. Although he had more pet peeves than guilty pleasures, he never imposed his opinions on anyone, and he knew the difference between revelation and denial. He also loved to chat with strangers, especially bored housewives, teenage girls, or even guys who pretended to be girls. After all, he was a tolerant man.

Kittycutie15 was currently online. He met her three weeks ago while lurking in a singles group, and they
’
ve chatted a number of t
imes. He instant messaged her: “Hiya! wazzap :)”
Seconds later, her smiley icon went to sleep, indicating that she had gone offline. He would
’
ve felt slighted if he had actually met her in person. Instead, he shrugged and assumed she wasn
’
t in the mood.

He checked out the blogosphere (no updates in the last 12 hours), logged on to his Friendster, Facebook, and MySpace accounts as
“
Pedro Potenciano
”
(nothing new there either), then scanned the news:
Terror plot foiled in Germany - Beijing police to patrol the web - EU official seeks to ban access to bomb-making websites - Russia and China deny cyberattacks -YouTube no longer banned in Thailand - Burma blocks Internet - Facebook adds safety measures -

A dialog box popped up. Koji Hentai
’
s
Bathroom Spy vol. 19
in
.avi
format had just finished downloading. He ran the video, and after a few minutes of un-subtitled opening credits that featured a blue-haired man installing a hidden camera behind a two-way mirror, the scene dissolved to a still shot of a buxom Japanese girl in lingerie. Her name (in hiragana and romaji) was Midori Sutomo, 20 years old, 5
’
1", 35-22-34, blood type B, a sure indication of a “wild” personality. The scene cut to hidden camera footage of Midori in her birthday suit stepping into a shower room, expressing perky shock over the lack of hot water. Pete knew that the whole set up was a sham, but the illusion was convincing and sadistically funny. He lusted after her flawless skin, watched as cold water fell against her chest, dripped down her abdomen, into her navel, between her slender legs. Her scene was over in less than ten minutes, and Mr. Hentai introduced his next victim.

Pete launched a new browser window and, as
Bathroom Spy
continued playing in the background, he Googled her name. From one fan site, he learned that she
’
s only half-Japanese, “Sutomo” being an Indonesian surname. Hoping to find more explicit videos of her, he narrowed his search: “Midori Sutomo” +video

The top search was a website called Ogle but the actual URL was much longer. He clicked the link. A video played automatically, showing a pair of delicate hands awkwardly massaging a muscled back covered with green and red dragon tattoos. It looked like a phony reality TV show except the scene was shot entirely from the girl
’
s
point of view
as she straddled her partner. Pete toggled to full screen mode and increased the volume. He heard the grunts of the man as the girl
’
s hands turned into fists and pressed down between his shoulder blades. Occasionally, her tan breasts would peek from the lower edge of the screen.

Being an amateur filmmaker himself, Pete was impressed with the camera work, particularly the POV. He imagined that she had a special camera mounted on her forehead like a human version of National Geographic
’
s “Crittercam.”

The scene panned up. Midori was staring at herself in a large mirror above the bed. She was nude, and so was her partner. She adjusted her hair, checked if her ponytail was still in place.

Amazing, Pete thought. But where
’
s the camera?

He paused the video but the status bar continued to show the seconds ticking by, as if the site was buffering. He tried to fast forward but the interface wouldn
’
t allow him to view beyond the time already elapsed. The video kept playing and all he could do was watch it in real time. The scene panned down as Midori examined her partner
’
s face; he seemed to have fallen asleep. Then she got out of bed, walked to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and did her business. Hardcore porn caters to all fetishes, he concluded.

Bored now, Pete returned to the site
’
s homepage. Ogle had a remarkably simple interface: a search box with advanced options to filter the results. There were links that allowed him to search not only by name, but also by location and proximity to user. Proximity? That didn
’
t make sense. A drop down list under proximity allowed him to select the radius - 10m, 50m, 100m, 500m, and 1000m. He chose “10m,” out of curiosity, naturally assuming that “m” meant meters.

Two hyperlinks appeared:

Peter Portacio / Pedro Potenciano / pinoy_playboy69…

Tricia Martinez

Thinking that the first link pointed to one of his own websites, he considered the second. Tricia was the name of his next door neighbor. He had noticed her a few times. Chinky-eyed, slightly plump, quite a looker. He stared at his wall, stared at his screen. Beads of sweat formed over his upper lip. He clicked on her name.

Another video loaded. Tricia was sitting in bed, clipping her toenails; like Midori
’
s video, he watched entirely from her POV. Was this a new trend? First person vlogging?  Pete hoped she
’
d eventually take a shower. Instead, she gave herself a pedicure. He watched and waited, learning much about cuticles
, French tips,
and acetone in the process. Then, while waiting for her nails to dry, she leaned back in bed and cracked open a dog-eared copy of
Pride and Prejudice.

The resolution was remarkably fine. If he wanted to, he could read along with her. Why anyone would produce a vlog like this was beyond him.

Frustrated, Pete hit the Back button. Tricia
’
s link had turned purple, while his was still blue. This time, he clicked on his name.

A new video loaded: an image of his computer screen. Or more accurately, a video of his computer screen displaying his computer screen displaying his computer screen… like it went on forever. He slowly lowered his eyelids; the scene started to narrow, a dark shadow falling from the upper edge.

He choked on a noodle and nearly slipped off his chair. Pete stood up, looked behind him. He was alone in the room. He stared at the ceiling; nothing there either. Before returning to his workstation, he looked out his window, inspected his webcam, ran his fingers through his hair, pinched his forearm, and rubbed his eyes. Throughout all this, the video moved along with his eyes. He looked left, right, and winked; the video had panned left, right, and bounced slightly off center. He put his hand in front of his face; he could see the hand appear on the screen behind it. His heart pounded like a trapped gorilla. Pete had made an awesome discovery and his mind worked on how he might profit from it.

That
’
s when he noticed a link that read:
View people who have viewed you.

He froze.

He clicked the link, and a long list of names appeared; beside each entry were the date, time, duration, and whether the person was currently online. There were about seventy names, all of them online.
Bathroom Spy vol. 19
continued playing on his other window.

* *
*

Pete wasn
’
t the first to discover the Ogle website. Within 24 hours, the link to the homepage had been emailed, forwarded, blogged about, and posted in e-groups around the world. In 48 hours, the site hit the mainstream media and the Dow dropped 300
0
points sending the world financial system into a tailspin. After 72 hours, ten nations had declared martial law, and the number of reported suicides in South Korea and Japan quadrupled from the usual daily average.

Jon Lorenzo waited outside the college for his ride, notebook computer snugly stowed in a backpack. He wore contact lenses instead of eyeglasses and a baller band instead of a wristwatch, but his khakis and loafers betrayed his maturity and announced that he was a teacher of some sort. He entered the heavily tinted SUV when it pulled up to the curb. The Undersecretary of the Department of Science and Technology was waiting for him in the back seat.

“Are we meeting with the entire NSC?” asked Jon.

“Just the Executive Committee.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. The SUV made a right turn instead of a left and Jon knew that they weren
’
t going to Malacañang. He looked out the window from the corner of his eye. They were passing one of the city
’
s crowded slums. Three naked children, two boys and one girl, maybe six to eight years old, ran about with soap in their hair, as a woman, presumably their mother, scolded one of the boys to keep still while she rinsed his skinny body with what little water she had. Jon wondered when these children would start bathing on their own. In private. As the entire squatter community flashed by the window, he wondered how anyone could have time alone at all.

Thirty minutes later, the SUV entered a compound in Quezon City surrounded by a high perimeter wall and guarded by men wearing barongs and sunglasses. The vehicle ground to a halt, and without a word, two security men escorted Jon and the Undersecretary into the house. Guards frisked them for weapons bu
t did not confiscate their cell
phones. They were led down a hall.

“She
’
ll be expecting simple answers,” said the Undersecretary.

“Sir, the problem isn
’
t that simple,” said Jon.

“Just your answers, Jon. Keep them short and honest. Speak only when spoken to. Don
’
t stall. Hesitation implies uncertainty.”

“These are uncertain times, sir.”

They paused in front of a mahogany door. Another man in a barong motioned for Jon to go right in.

“Aren
’
t you coming with me?” Jon asked the Undersecretary. The latter nodded and Jon felt ashamed for even asking.

The room was cool, almost cold, the air-con humming and hissing, indicating it needed cleaning. All the lights were off except for a small desk lamp illuminating a sheaf of papers on a dark brown dinner table. Jon had to adjust his eyes to the dim light conditions. At the head of the table, he could make out the petite form of the President. There were several men seated around the table, some of whom he could still recognize despite the gloom: the disheveled hair of the Secretary of the Department of Interior and Local Government, the semi-bald pate of the Defense Secretary, the grim head of the Justice Secretary, and the bulky mass of the National Security Advisor who sat immobile, silent as stone. Jon nearly jumped when the thing spoke.

“Gentlemen, please take your seats.”

Jon pulled back a chair, but the Undersecretary, thinking that Jon was offering him the seat, promptly took it. Jon was forced to sit at the end of the table, directly across the President.

“Another day, another scandal,” she said, her voice unmistakable. “I looked over your initial report. You should have used less technical language.” She closed a folder labeled Top Secret: For Your Eyes Only.