Travis removed a DSLR camera from the forest green JanSport backpack next to the Swarthy One. When he turned it on, the camera played a jingle as a graphic spun, then vanished. They stared at him.
He clicked through the files on the camera and pressed play. It’s him—Travis—talking to a young girl with long, straight, brown hair. She’s wearing an orange apron; she laughs, pulls at his front pocket, says something into her walkie-talkie, and spins away from him. That’s Jessica.
The camera pans to the Blonde One, who’s simultaneously speaking to the camera and the cameraman, the Swarthy One.
“Wow, he’s rizzing the Home Depot girl.”
“Dude,” the Swarthy One replies as they both laugh.
Travis stood silently while watching the video, his gaze shifting between the 2”x2” screen and the two young guys sitting on the floor. He wasn’t sure why he made them sit on the floor, but there they sat. His palms started to sweat. He adjusted his grip on his Sig P365 in his right hand.
“Look, man, just delete the video if it’s that serious!” the Blonde One with curly hair said.
“Yeah, man, we won’t, like, call the cops or anything, for real, bro, just delete it,” the Swarthy One added.
“Show me how,” Travis said, turning the camera toward the Swarthy One. He leaned forward, and the camera made a chirping sound, apparently confirming the video had been deleted.
“Alright, it’s done. Are you happy?”
“We’re getting there.”
Travis is an even 6’ tall, lean and muscular. His wire-rimmed glasses gave him an unassuming appearance, along with his long face and recessed jaw. He’s been home from his last deployment for eight months.
There was a look between the two that told Travis they might try to rush him.
“I won’t hesitate.” His tone was firm, not the slightest bit unsure.
Somehow, this statement didn’t quite calm them, but it dismissed any assumptions that they should attempt to fight back. Now they were sure who was in control.
“Sir,” the Blonde One spoke up, “we just make prank videos, you know, content for TikTok. We didn’t want to offend you or whatever we did to you.”
With this “occupation” of “content creation,” Travis could guess they’d run into confrontation before. Clearly, not to this extent, but he could tell by the way the kid spoke that he was being genuine, perhaps for the first time in his life. It’s a shame it had to be drawn out at gunpoint.
“I’ll tell you what,” Travis said, tossing the camera in his hand. The Swarthy One’s eyes traced the camera’s trajectory.
“I’ve got an idea for a prank. If you go along with it… I’ll let you live.” The two boys’ eyes met, saying: Would he really fucking kill us? Travis could almost hear the telepathy; he nearly grinned. These two kids haven’t faced anything yet, until this moment. This isn’t their bootcamp, their war; they’ve never seen reality. They’ve been bred for a world of illusions, so it’s no surprise how they’ve turned out.
“Sound good?”
“Yeah. Yes.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
The shadows from the blinds striped the coffee table, littered with hard seltzer cans and tins of nicotine pouches. The apartment smelled like ground beef left out, half-eaten, in the frying pan on the stovetop.
“What are your names?”
“Aiden,” the Blonde One said quickly.
“Donny,” the other one said.
“Good.” Travis looked at the two for a second, as if making a decision, then immediately spoke, “You.” He pointed the handgun in a non-threatening manner at Aiden and hit the record button on the camera with his left thumb, setting off another jingle in a new tone Travis hadn’t heard before.
“Suck his dick.”
Aiden and Donny looked at each other, confused, disgusted, terrified.
“What the fuck?” Aiden said.
“What, you always gotta be the star? Well, maybe you will be if your skills are good enough.”
“What the fuck, man?” Donny said.
Travis’ gaze changed to a look of pure rage, one that could kill and had. He hit the stop record button on the camera, and it made a beeping sound, as if reluctant to stop.
“Donny, are you holding the fucking camera right now, or am I? I thought we had a deal. Now, unzip your pants and pull out that little dick so Aiden can get to work, alright?”
“What the fuck!” Aiden said, almost crying, his voice on the verge of cracking.
Travis stepped forward; the carpet made no sound. His stance held a psychopathic authority. Aiden was now crying, a cluster of snot shooting out of his left nostril. Donny moved to his knees, shaking and breathing fast and heavy. He didn’t know what to do with his hands yet.
“You two walk through this world like it’s designed for you, not even that the world owes you something—that’s what my father told me. Your generation is different; you don’t have the angst young men always had. You lack desire; you can’t even comprehend it. I don’t know how you think, but it’s like you see everything, every person, as yours—yours to command and manipulate. And when someone asks for privacy, what do you say? ‘Chill out, bro! It’s just content!’” He paused, then spoke again, as if to himself, “I pray to God there’s another draft.”
Neither of them spoke. They didn’t know if they should respond or, if they did, what they would say. No one had ever spoken to them this way before. It was like a mathematician ranting at a janitor; the gulf of understanding was too wide to cross.
“Say something for yourselves.”
They looked at each other, hoping the other would know what to say.
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a police officer,” Aiden said, his tone turning to a plead. “I don’t even like doing pranks, but he said I had aura!” Aiden cried and shouted, pointing at Donny.
“Dude, what? You said you wanted to be like Danny Duncan!” Donny shot back.
Travis hit the record button, and the camera played a happy jingle.
“Well, maybe after this, things will come into perspective. Begin.”
Aiden froze. Travis aimed the gun, and Aiden began creeping on all fours. Donny had started to unzip his pants. Both their eyes were closed. It must have been three minutes since Travis first walked through the door to this point.
The barrel of the gun was pointed at Donny’s neck, the barrel of the camera lens capturing the scene. He stood over them, authoritative, non-judgmental, like a king about to witness the beheading of a subject whose name he didn’t know and had never seen before.
“Stop!” Travis yelled. He stopped the recording, then fumbled the camera under his arm holding the gun, found the rubber seal protecting the memory card, flicked it open with his free hand, popped it out, placed it in his left jeans pocket, and launched the camera into the fridge, denting it before it smashed on the tile floor. Aiden fell to his forearms from a crawling position, his face in the carpet, crying in horror. Donny stayed on his knees inches from Aiden, his breathing shallow and fast. They didn’t dare move.
Travis turned around, holstered his piece, and walked out the front door, closing it like a gracious guest. It was 1 p.m., and the sun was raging. He checked his phone on the way to his truck. He’d missed a call from Chandler, his wife.