John never took the time to regret his decision. He didn't have time to regret his decision. He was always working at staying one step ahead of the FBI, the SEC, and half a dozen other federal agencies that kept their eyes open for people just like him.
John is the nondescript white-color businessman you see through the window of his corner office. John is the man sitting on the edge of a plush leather chair, holding a phone conversation while transferring international funds on his state-of-the-art laptop. John is the pillar of the community whose picture of his wife and two children is slightly obscured by his open date book filled with board meetings, PTA conferences, church functions, and soccer practices. John is a successful all-American white male. John is also fucked.
How is John fucked? Perhaps the more appropriate question should be - who has John fucked? His wife? Yes. Who else has John fucked? Some funds placed in the right pockets among John's co-workers revealed that he fucked the division vice-president's secretary in the corporate restroom at last year's Christmas party. A quick survey of his eighteen year-old daughter's room revealed pictures of her best friend. The night manager at the local Motel 6 recognized the picture as the girl who comes here with John every Sunday evening. It's not too difficult to place a hidden camera in a Motel 6 bedroom, which is how they got to John in the first place.
If you looked at John's office bookshelves you would notice Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, Who Moved My Cheese, and Rhinoceros Success. These books have helped to motivate John to go for the gold. They have helped him to settle for nothing short of excellence. These books have boosted John's self-esteem, they made him feel better, look better, and act better around his peers. These books have helped to make John's parents, siblings, wife, and children proud of him. These books made John a winner. Books such as these have motivated a great number of people. Regardless, an even greater motivator is blackmail - and you don't need to read a book on it to understand how it works.
Is John able to sleep easily on Sunday night? Does he get in bed next to his wife with his dick still warm from the vaginal maw of the barely legal cheerleader? Is he disgusted at the thought of the cheap motel room littered with condoms and the permeating mixture of some teenage perfume, Ralph Lauren cologne, and lust? Does he ever worry that a microscopic rupture in the condom may have occurred, resulting in a small number of his gene-bearing sperm entering her pulsating, disgusting, pelvic cavity? It's disgusting to even think about it.
Regardless of any possible thoughts of revulsion or self-loathing he may have, John doesn't have time to deal with that internal strife now. They've kept him busy. Very busy. If you're willing to look deep enough, you can see the financial transactions that John sends through various intermediaries. The equity in question usually changes accounts three to five times at the minimum. In addition, John is intelligent enough to utilize foreign accounts in countries that do not readily supply financial data to the very federal agencies he is constantly trying to out-maneuver.
For his part, John probably doesn't know why he has to do this. No. No. Rephrase that statement - John knows why he has to do this, what he does not know is the ends to which he is working towards. John knows that if he doesn't do what they want, then the two hour long video of John sowing his wild oats at the Motel 6 will be delivered to his wife. It is said that most women can handle a husband's mid-life crisis. Whoever made that statement must have been referring to the husband buying a Porsche, not fucking his daughter's best friend.
For all intents and purposes, John could care less about why they need him to constantly transfer their funds. He is not aware of the larger picture, nor does he want to be. All he wants is to make these illegal transfers without arousing any suspicion from the authorities until the blackmailing is over. All he wants is to get out of this web of deception, and return to his normal life.
John does their bidding out of fear. He is afraid of the shame he would have to bear if word of his statutory relationship got out. He would lose it all: his wife, his family, his career, and most likely his freedom. He realizes now how much he took everything for granted. The one thing John is not asking himself is this - did he really take all everything for granted? He was a man built upon achievement and success. He took pride in everything he accomplished, and that included his family and their well decorated home in suburbia. Everything about John was carefully and meticulously planned without flaw. John knew what he wanted and he went after it. He won the love of the woman who captivated the male half of his entire college class and married her because he wanted it enough. He bought the biggest and most expensive house in the subdivision because he wanted it enough. He earned all the plaques, awards, and trophies on the wall of his office because he wanted it enough. And he spread that sixteen year-old cheerleader's legs and fucked her nauseatingly warm vagina until her cherry popped because he wanted it enough.
On some subconscious level John probably enjoys what they are making him do. He enjoys the challenge. Everything was becoming too easy for him. Everything seemed hollow; everyone felt fake. Maybe that hollowness was just a reflection of what John felt inside himself. Maybe he realized that he wasn't who he thought he was - that he wasn't who he tried so damn hard to be. Did John doubt his sanity at times? Was John insane?
All these thoughts raced through John's mind as he sat in the cold basement, tied to a rusty metal chair with his pants around his ankles. The two leg-breakers who stood to each side of him had finished knocking him around a while ago, and John did his best to ignore the bruises and scrapes that adorned his body. Someone had found out, although it obviously wasn't the FBI or SEC. John didn't understand how very interested others would be in who he was transferring funds for. For the first time in his life, John had failed.
The door to the basement slowly creeks open. John looks over toward the old wooden stairs as the slow and methodical sound of footsteps can be heard throughout the basement. I reach the bottom of the steps and turn to look at John. His penis has shriveled due to the cold temperature. He stares at me, as if trying to understand who I am.
In one hand I produce a rubber band. In the other I hold a pair of pruning shears.
His mouth hangs open as countless questions run through his frantic mind. His first question is the same question all the others asked.
"Who... who are you?"
I answer the only way I know how.
"For the record I'll call myself Mr. Parker."
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This story © 2002 Seth Horton
This page © 2002 anneke@scarywhitegirl.net