404 Documents Fourteen: Tipping Point

(More 404.)

Whether it was a self-fulfilling prophecy or whether it was just meant to be, Stella left me a month later, almost to the day. It was a fittingly maudlin but quiet parting: the sky was overcast, it was drizzling, and she pulled out in our car. OK, admittedly, it was her car to begin with, but it was also my only form of transportation. She was also the only one with a steady income at this point, so I figured I had a month, maybe two, before the eviction process really got underway.

First thing - before I put on my clothes, before I showered (why bother) - I picked up the phone and I called Bradley. “I am on to you, you deranged fucker. Or are you on to me? Either way, I’m ready.”

“Oh, is that how it is, now? How long since the missus pulled out of the driveway?”

I didn’t even bother to guess how he’d figured that out at this point, and grunted an affirmative. I still felt nothing. Well, I felt ready to die. But like a soldier is ready to die, not like you imagine a love-lorn fuckup living on borrowed time. I looked through the nearly empty fridge, rummaging for something to quell my gurgling stomach. Milk. Eggs. That’ll do.
“Our test of mall security showed me a few things,” he said.
“Our test?!”
“Yeah. You took one for the team. Now it’s time for the real Op.”
I drank half the milk carton before I realized it had gone bad. A chunk of congealed milk stuck in my throat like stale semen (& my God, how did I know that, anyway?). I swallowed with a wince. “Ready to do my duty for God and country.”
“You’re really starting to scare me,” Bradley said. “Alright. This time we call in the bomb threat before anyone shows up. Maximum chaos, maximum fun. All the Agents will roll in dressed like Santa Claus, a giant fucking parade, one of you crucified on a giant dollar sign.”
“Isn’t it really early for Christmas?”
“Hm. Yeah. Well, they say Christmas comes earlier every year, right?”
“Sure,” I said. I threw out the milk. Glug-glug-glug. It shuddered in my hands like a prom queen puking up a gutful of tequila and cake.
“They’ll think it’s a prank. Boy cried wolf, right?”
“Right. But in reality it’ll be...” I trailed off, eyes unfocused.
“Oh? Nothing. It’ll just be that. A crazy reality art prank.”
I knew with absolute certainty that he was lying.