Los Angeles wind. Doesn’t wash the smells away. Even this high up. Just mingles. Exhaust. Cigarettes. Booze. Salsa. Sweat. All of it seeps into the skin like an overrun sewer into asphalt. It never rains in this town.
Dry scrape of cheap patio upholstery. Raw elbows. Still dark. Clear night. No stars. Small moon and skyscraper windows for stars. Jason, floating. Face down. Arms wide. No bubbles. No noise. Just that wind sending ripples over infinity.
How did we get here, J? Life hits hard and we always hit harder. Bonnie and Clyde. Robin and Marian. Tattoos. Forearms. The Sun and the Moon. Always one up.
Get up, J.
Fingertips dance across the table. Splat of corn tortilla half eaten and soaked in salsa. Crash of salt shaker, pepper mill. Crumpled carton. Faraday bag. Phone. Password: a1NhL]@}$03%ErS23hPn. Open: Termux. Worm: HEARTBEAT.sh. Status: active.
Exhaust. Cigarettes. Booze. Salsa. Sweat. Sharper now. Brass section of knives and honing rods.
Get up, J. Stop playing.
Yank battery. Rifle into bag. Scream of table legs. Feet punch across concrete. Dive.
Roar of water. Warm. Chlorine. Crystal clear to the black bottom dotted with stars stolen from the sky. Our sky. The people’s sky. Not our pool. Not our privilege. Still ours.
Smooth skin. Muscles. Normally tight like marble. Noble like David. Now, so many old and worn serpentine belts. Pull him to pool’s edge. Head up, back over it. Mouth open. Black hole pulling me in. No. Throat tight.
Slap. Black hole, pulling. Slap. Pulling. Slap, slap. Pulling.
No.
Life is only as good as the love put into it. Jason’s words. A romantic born with a weak heart. Mine, pounding. I should have had his body. The hormones are working and I am almost who I know I am. Muscles stretch like rubber bands. Some snap. J’s body slaps onto the concrete. Pinch nose. Breath. Breath. Compressions. Sternum a brick wall. Breath. Breath. Compressions.
Duffel bag. Epi-pen. Mobile d-fib. Hands shaking. No response. No response.
No response.
Get up, J.
Get up.
Black sky. Stale wind. Exhaust. Cigarettes. Booze. Salsa. Chlorine.
Somehow the world just moves on. Not as if you were never there, just as if the significance of your actions would never and could never leave a mark. Emptiness is an internal thing. Loss is a line of code. He would hate that. Meu Deus. The world doesn’t know what to make of us, Manu, he would say. We have to make it know us.
Know what? That ridiculous hairline? Barbershop clean? Dodger’s cap? Always. That was J. The charmer. Little Havana born, Miami raised. Pretended to bully me when I moved in from Rio. If only his boys knew the things I did to him after. If only they knew the things we did together.
Alright, J, I’ll do it.
Sirens. Far below.
Exhaust. Cigarettes. Booze. Salsa. Chlorine.
Faraday bag. Laptop. Password punched in like jabs from Ali aimed at the heart of the empire.
Encrypted terminal. Green on black. Access: Private military contractor reports. Weapons shipments, bribes, private armies. Maze of proxies. Upload. ProPublica. The Intercept. Al Jazeera.
Open: Termux. Worm: HEARTBEAT.sh. Total: $2874963217. Offshore holdings. Slush funds. Dirty cash.
J, are you proud of me? Will they remember? Will it hurt?
Convert. Monero (XMR).
Boot botnet: ROBIN. Microtransaction manager. Haiti. Palestine. Congo. Brazil. Sudan. Yemen. Myanmar. Nigeria… Food, infrastructure, tech incubators, legal defense funds, women’s health centers, fishing boats, unions, trans housing, dialysis, girls’ schools, medicine manufacture, indigenous rights…
Exhaust. Cigarettes. Booze. Salsa. Chlorine.
Fingernails on cheap patio upholstery.
J.
Tape. Peeling. Camera.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out. Mouse clicks like Tyson’s left hooks. Live.
“What you are about to witness is real. Empires bleed. $2.87 billion. Liquidated from its offshore accounts. Its shell companies. Its blood-money vaults. The trail is public.
They called it “aid” and they hurt us. They called it “investment” and they controlled us. They called it “progress” and they damned us.
This is just the beginning.”
Cut. Black. Fade in: counter. $1,000,000. $5,000,000. $15,000,000…
Laptop screen closes like the cover of a good book. Soft tap of screen against keyboard. Air feels fresh.
We’ll live forever now, won’t we, J? We die twice, you said, once when our bodies die and again when the last person forgets our names. They’ll be remembered together, too. In the Favelas they will pray to you. In Miami they will paint me on the walls.
Burner phone buzzing. Push notifications. Splash.
Sirens. Far down but many. Helicopter hum. Close.
Soft, wet steps.
Arms under armpits. Was he always this light? Gentle drop into pool. Crawl after. His body floats like a viking. They’ll be here any minute.
Paddling. Propelling. Ripples running behind us like capes. Skyscraper lights shining on our heads like crowns. His body, cold.
What happens now? Here we are, lovers at the edge of infinity, one across. Tattoos. Always one up.
What would you want me to do? We never actually talked about it. Are we Romeo and Juliet? Martin and Coretta? Bonnie and Clyde?
Glass shattering. Helicopter blades whip the water into a frenzy. Spotlight. Blinding.
“POLICE!”
Can’t hear the boots over the blades. Can’t see the guns, either. Too far to touch. Splash of armored bodies in the water. Human cannonballs.
Lift J onto the edge. Sit.
Home is where the heart is, right J?
Pão de queijo. Ropa Vieja. Coconut. Salt. Body odor.
Guns. Flashlights mounted on muzzles. I’m just a trans twink from Rio.
But I made an empire bleed.
S.D. Maxson 