Violation #4848CAT20

Jeff Doharty looked like any other city worker heading into the Brew-haha comedy bar on a Friday evening. Located at the 33rd floor of Quincy City’s famous Sunshine tower, Jeff ordered a bourbon neat and finished it in a single gulp as if building up the courage to talk to a pretty girl from across the bar. Instead, he gave a long exhale from the liquid’s burn and brandished his pistol. One shot went through the ceiling and all 20 patrons dropped to the floor. The situation was his, their lives were his, but so too was an erroneous toll booth violation serving nothing more as a slight to his perfection. Violation #4848CAT20.

It was late July when he received the toll booth violation in the mail. Jeff read it over in disgust, the $10.50 he owed for his 89’ Volvo evading a toll booth back on June 12th. Violation #4848CAT20 was mistaken, however. Jeff pondered the snapshot on the paper with hands trembling from rage. It was supposed to serve as visual proof of his violation. On it were a Volkswagen Passat, Ford Bronco, and a Honda Civic, but no 89’ Volvo. Yes, he thought to himself, this was a big mistake.

Jack had slaved away in his 5x5 cubicle at the Quincy City DMV for 2 decades prior to laying his eyes on violation #4848CAT20. Never once was he tardy in his tenure, take a sick day, a vacation day, or allow mistakes to be associated with his name. His work ethic was literally beaten into him by his father since the day he was born. Norman Doharty was the veritable Nazi officer searching and destroying Jewish runaways. In this case, the Jews were Jeff’s emotions and human features, and all were either killed or unrecognizable remnants thereof. No human, no error.

Other humans made mistakes, but not Jeff. His father molded him into the well-oiled government machine he is today with his high and tight buzz cut, white button up shirt, black tie, black slacks, black shoes, permanent scowl void of facial hair and black within black eyes. Making friends with coworkers would hinder productivity as displayed by the constant mistakes he saw them make. He relished correcting their mistakes, showing up 15 minutes early every day, making his workstation as perfect as he was, and taking mental inventory of the dirty and unkempt workspaces of his colleagues. They sickened and delighted Jeff, reminders of how much better and more perfect he was than everyone else.

In Jeff’s mind, his father is a two-story tall, picturesque statue he worshiped and paid tribute to with every flawless second he clocked in – 25 years worth of seconds to date. Each day was 9 to 5 perfection that he marked off with a little ‘x’ on his calendar, and each were a tribute to the beatings and mental/emotional abuse Jeff had learned to love and attribute to his perceived perfection. “You see, daddy,” he’d mutter to himself while taking a piss in the urinal during his lunch break. “I’m perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect stream here and not a second wasted. Just ate the perfect lunch too. No crust on the egg salad sandwich made perfect just like you taught me. Exactly 16 Lays potato chips in my bag, an apple 4.32 inches in diameter, and a thermos of 2% milk that is a week away from its expiration date. Perfect lunch, yes.”

Whether Jeff realized it or not, the statue of his father was actually a massive pyre within him, and the seconds of flawlessness and 25 years of perfect x’s marked on the calendar piled up at the base like kindling. Whenever a task proved difficult, nostalgic pain and throbbing from bruises long healed would course through him. It pushed him to complete the task no matter how long it took or if it required him to take the work home with him. He lived alone in his 1-bedroom apartment in downtown Quincy City. When the task would finally be completed, the satisfaction flooded through Jeff and doused the pyre within him with oil.

Perfectionism within Jeff festered into a manic obsession his coworkers became weary of and avoided at all costs. In fact, it begot a vestige of perfectionism from them just to avoid having to talk or interact with him. Jeff Doharty, who was so prone to tongue lashing coworkers for minor mistakes or human errors. A chip off the old block he was, belittling and ridiculing the way his old man did to him. He was unanimously disliked on his level of the building. People talk, however, and the stories of him spread the dislike throughout the business district of Quincy City. Perfect Jeff – as he was referred to – was a living, urban legend.

Everything was going fine, perfect as Jeff one might say, until he laid eyes on violation #4848CAT20. He’d seen human errors before and had developed breathing techniques over the years to cope with their madness. After about 358 breaths, he was able to see through his blind rage, and followed the violation’s instructions to dispute it. All it took was an email and 3 business days to get a response. As he already had an online toll account, the money was automatically removed from his savings – $10.50. A small amount, he knew, but it was much more than $10.50, it was a human error that had the audacity to exist in his life. Even though it wasn’t his, it was unacceptable, and the $10.50 the email said he’d receive back via check in the mail was the only way to omit this most terrible offence against him. He wanted his flawlessness reciprocated and it was up to other humans to make this right. A terrible fate to be sure, and Jeff thought to himself, “The IRS would never make a mistake like this. Maybe I should switch agencies.”

Maybe it was a shipping error, he thought, but a month passed and still no $10.50 check. It was a festering, burning wound in Jeff’s psyche. A ring of fire surrounding the pyre and inching closer. Every second that passed now was flawed, and he began to suspect his coworkers were involved.

Jealous, that’s what they were. Jealous of his perfect work. They were hiding his check, that’s what they were doing. They sent him violation #4848CAT20. They relished in his suffering without the money he is owed. Could it be it went beyond his coworkers, he pondered red-faced in his cubicle at lunch one day in August. Did jealousy of his perfection go up the chain of command? Were other government officials in on this elaborate hoax? Why not, Jeff kept thinking, these stinking humans get jealous all the time.

But why? I’ve pledged my allegiance to this flag and government, so why would they betray me like this? I realize I’m the greatest asset they have. Never has a government entity existed like me until me, and I know they keep me here in my cubicle as to not draw attention from foreign spies and other governments who’ve never seen perfection like me, Jeff thought to himself. They would kill to get their hands on me, so I understand it’s a delicate situation, but the question remains…why would they betray me like this? I thought my government to be beyond jealousy. That’s why they track people’s calls, spy on their web searches, listen to their conversations from their pockets, all to find perfection. Now that they’ve found it, they can’t handle it. Don’t they know I’m on their side!? Fools.

The thoughts flurried and spun around in Jeff’s mind like fruit in a blender. His white shirt became translucent with sweat at that lunch in August, marking the end of whatever patience he’d had left. The pyre within him was teetering it was built so high, glistening in oil, reflecting the fire creeping in on all sides, and waiting to erupt. The anticipation became a high-pitched ringing in Jeff’s ears that wouldn’t subside.

“Jeff…” he thought he heard muffled and distant. “Jeff Doharty…”

He wiped the sweat from his brow, turned. It was a human underling named Donna Bahita who’d taken 34 sick days and 80 vacation days in her 8 years working for the DMV. 14 mistakes to her name, Jeff knew, and looked at her blemished face in disgust. In her filthy, flawed hands was a letter with his name on it. Without a word, he snatched the letter and turned his back to her with one turn of his swivel chair. The clack of her shoes echoed as she walked away.

The DMV letter was addressed to him. His $10.50 had finally come, he thought to himself and the ringing in his ears subsided. Elation filled his heart and he exhaled relief that this human error would finally leave his life and his perfection would resume. As he ripped the letter open he shook his head at how silly his thoughts had been. Betrayal from his government? They’d never let their jealousy of him drive them to that. They needed him. This was the mistake of a lesser-than, not a higher up. Besides, they wouldn’t want to deal with the consequences of spoiling their perfect asset.

Jeff sliced open the letter with his pocket knife and he pulled out the tri-folded note that read: Violation #4848CAT20…overdue. Late fee penalty: $25.96. An additional $20 will be added to the fee every week following non-payment.

It was a spark that leapt from the page and into Jeff’s black within black eyes. Behind them was a thin, wire that connected what little of Jeff’s sanity was left to the real world. Beneath that was the teetering pyre built with 20 years of ode kindling to his father. The spark took a few moments as it landed on the wire, then it snapped with a pap! With nothing left to hold it above, the spark lazily floated down to the pyre. Taking its time, it swayed left and right before touching the glistening surface of Jeff’s perfection, his adoration to his father, and all that he was. All of it erupted in an explosion of mania and fury burning hot inside this perfect being. Yet on the outside he remained frozen, his actions yet to be decided until his body decided for him and wretched his egg salad sandwich all over his desk.

CHAPTER 2

Humans and their errors had dared to test him, and now they had a wildfire to deal with burning behind Jeff’s black within black eyes and catching onto everything around him through his actions. At first, numbness pushed Jeff outside his body. A sweaty, frozen statue he saw holding the paper that set the pyre ablaze.

Nothing happened for a few minutes with only the clamoring of customers from across the office, phones blaring, and copy machines bellowing their mechanical efforts with a bruhhhn bruuuuuhn. Then the snickering of his coworkers caught his attention and Jeff’s consciousness slammed back into his body, the inferno. Slowly, he turned his head toward the snickering and glimpsed their stares before they scattered like a flock of pigeons.

Jeff stood, folded Violation #4848CAT20, and slipped it into his pocket.

“I don’t feel well and I’m taking the rest of the day off to recover,” Jeff said to his supervisor two desks over. She looked up, disbelieving, ready to protest his departure at 1PM with half the workday ahead on a Friday. The silent inferno inside him radiated not heat, but a disquiet to all those around him. His eyes were hidden behind a glare on his black-brimmed glasses that only added to the ominousness of his presence. Anyone around Jeff for a minute knew something was off about him, but nothing to fear. That ‘nothing to fear’ had gone up in flames, however.

Jeff returned home and removed his unloaded Glock from its safe. He then stuffed his pockets with magazines filled with 9mm rounds and his mind with the desire to show his coworkers – and the world – what happens when you abuse perfection incarnate. He’d also be damned to pay any of it along with the late fee. What Jeff didn’t know was how far up the chain this went. Obviously, his coworkers were the perpetrators, but they were the grunts. This had to go to the top. Past the top even because Violation #4848CAT20 was an official government document. Jeff’s determination was absolute as he loaded the last magazine he owned and pulled back the slide. He held it back, eyed the bullet’s shiny brass, his father’s face reflecting off it back at him. It was red with anger and yelling at him for letting this happen. Jeff released the slide and his father and the bullet loaded into the chamber.

After that first shot into the ceiling, he locked the doors and demanded everybody smash their cell phones to bits in front of his face.

“Use the beer steins to smash them, idiots!” He responded to the weaklings’ cries of not being able to. “That’s good! Yes, yes, keep smashing,” He shouted relishing at the government’s grip on his privacy’s neck loosening with every crack and pop of the technology breaking.

Not a second after the last phone was smashed and tossed into the pile at Jeff’s feet, blue and red flashed far below on the street outside along with a loud commotion of police and news choppers floating outside the 33rd floor windows. A knock rattled the entrance door behind them, and Jeff answered with a gunshot through the top. It wasn’t meant to kill, but let the authorities know he wasn’t ready to talk. The message was received, and hours passed without attempted contact.

Uneasiness stirred within the bar. Men and women whimpered and avoided eye contact with the gunman. Most didn’t know who he was, but he found all his coworkers sitting at a booth. Their heads and faces were hidden in the table, but Jeff knew it was them. They always came to the Brew-haha every Friday evening after work. He moseyed over to them and stared. They knew he was standing there, all feeling the inferno they lit and the weight of guilt for causing it. Never did they think he’d snap like this, but here they were with their heads down and perfect Jeff looming over them with a pistol. Their trembling delighted him as did their bowed heads. That’s right, bow to me Jeff thought to himself. He removed Violation #4848CAT20 from his pocket and slammed it on the table. The coworkers all screamed and looked up. Jeff had returned to center of the room to address his hostages, but on the table was the violation notice reminding them they were to blame for whatever was to pass.

“Alright, everybody,” he said feeling an ease rush over him and words flow from him in a casual manner he’d never known or displayed before in his life. He knew he wasn’t a public speaker, nor was he a terrorist, but that was yesterday and both came to him so naturally now that the inferno had melted away all inhibitions that kept him quiet save for tongue lashing his colleagues. Now he was a different kind of perfect, one far more verbal and confident. The type of perfect he needed to be to rectify his current situation. “I have no intention to kill or hurt most of you. There are a few of you in here I really do want to hurt and kill but haven’t decided if I’ll go through with it yet. Let this settle in, and be inspiration to follow my one and only rule…do exactly as I say. That’s it! That’s the one rule, the one ticket you can punch to get out of here if you’re not one of the people I want to hurt and kill. This won’t go on a moment longer than it needs to, and if you cooperate, you’ll be walking out of here alive and with one hell of a story to tell. If you don’t cooperate, well…”

BANG! Jeff let another shot off into the ceiling and listened to the screams of his hostages’ collective understanding. As if on queue, the phone behind the bar rang in response.

“Hello, Brew-Haha Comedy Bar, how may I help you?” Jeff said letting words flow from him and the wildfire of his mania spread into the ear of whoever was on the other side of the phone.

“Hello, this is Sergeant Mack Stevens. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“This is Jeff Doharty,” said Jeff. “Government DMV employee #3369-8.

“Hey there, Jeff. I assume you’re the one in charge up there on the 33rd floor?”

“Yes, sir. I am, indeed.”

“You ever been to the Brew-Haha before today?”

“Never.”

“I’ve only been once or twice. The comedians suck and the beer costs too much. Hell, everything costs too much in this city on my salary.”

“Are you not pleased with your government wage?” A pang of anger stabbed at the back of Jeff’s head hearing discontent with the government. Then Jeff reminded himself who he was speaking to – a nonperfect – and acquiesced to the nuanced mindset of these humans and how they connect through the shared struggle of too little of pay.

“If I said ‘yes’ I was pleased with $40,000 a year, you’d know I was a liar. And I don’t want our relationship here to be based off lies, Jeff.”

A relationship? Jeff thought to himself. He’s a hostage negotiator, of course he wants to establish a relationship and present himself as an ally. It’s too late, Jeff wanted to say, you’ve already taken part of Violation #4848CAT20, you son of a bitch. He then wanted to scream and ask why Sergeant Stevens and the government wanted to mishandle their most valuable and perfect asset? Stevens’ words fell into Jeff’s internal inferno and their smoke raised to his mind, prodding a realization that playing along will take him closer to the answers he needed.

“Indeed. I’m at $38,000.”

“I feel your pain, Jeff. Hard to live off that.”

“You…feel my pain? What the hell do you know about the pain I’m feeling?” Jeff’s mood shifted violently.

“I don’t know anything about it, Jeff. Nothing. Only the salaries.”

“That’s right, you don’t!”

“Mind telling me about it? Is it connected to how we can resolve the situation up there?”

“I didn’t start the ‘situation’ up here, Mack,” Jeff said panning his pistol to everyone in the comedy bar. He hadn’t noticed the neon lights rendered everything blood red and black, as that’s all he’d seen since the late notice. One woman dared to glance at him, Jeff who looked like a demon behind a bar, skin red with dark hollows under his eyes and sallow cheeks. “You…the government…and a few of these damn coworkers of mine started all this. I’m just righting a wrong.”

“What is it you want, Jeff? How can I help you right this wrong?”

“What you need to understand, Mack, is that I’m perfect. Okay? I understand what I am. You may not Mr. $40,000, but your superiors, their superiors, the superiors above them do. I’m the perfect government entity and you dare test me? You have any idea how lucky you are to have something like me content and perfectly working for you? Pumping out flawless results every day without question? Then you do this, rather, allow this…Violation #4848CAT20!”

“Violation #4848CAT20? What is that?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know, Sergeant!”

“I don’t, Jeff, I swear. Please walk me through this. I’m imperfect as you know, and I need someone like you to walk me through this.”

He’s right. It’s difficult to empathize with these non-perfects. At least this Mack Stevens acknowledges it. “Fine…I’ll tell you. A month or so ago I received this violation for evading a toll. I wasn’t there at the time of the toll nor was my Volvo in the picture provided. I’ve delt with my nonperfect coworkers mistakes before, human errors daily, it’s all infuriating. This was just one more instance I had to deal with. I thought I’d dealt with it, needed confirmation this blemish upon my perfection was wiped away only to receive a ‘late notice’ for not paying the violation. Me…late? No. No. It’s unacceptable. It’s deplorable, and have the perpetuators here in my sights. You fools. How dare you allow them to do this to me? They think it’s a joke, but it’s not. It’s so much more than that because I know this goes to the top and I want to know why. But first, I want this damn Violation #4848CAT20 removed from my record!”

“Yes…yes, of course. Well, Jeff, I don’t see why we can’t get this violation stricken from your perfect record. In the meantime, why don’t we talk about those people you got in there with you.”

“What about them?”

“They don’t deserve to get hurt. And neither do you for that matter.”

“Some of them do, but what’s your point?”

“While we get your violation settled, why don’t you let one go as a sign of good faith?”

“Good faith, huh? Sure. Just a second. I’ll show you my good faith.”

Jeff hung up the phone, picked up a barstool, and heaved it out of the giant glass wall overlooking the cityscape below. A hot wind swept through the bar bringing in the thick stank from the streets below. Jeff peeked over the edge, watched the deadly shards of glass and the barstool fall towards the swarm of cop cars flashing blue and red at the base of the Sunshine Tower. The stool seemed to pick up speed as it rotated. Faster, deadlier, it became as gravity pulled and smashed it into the top of a cop car. Jack smiled at his perfect shot that rid him of another pair of flashing blue and red lights.

BANG! Another shot went through the ceiling to remind the hostages of their languish rather than any sort of heroism. Stifled sobs and lowered heads surrounded Jeff, and he relished their worship of his perfection for a moment before spotting Donna Bohita at the table of his coworkers.

He squeezed her wrist and wrenched her to her feet in a single heave.

“Please, please, please, Jeff. Don’t do this. I don’t want to fall! I don’t want to die!” She pleaded and pulled away from the shattered window that spanned floor to ceiling. Now, it was just a howling opening to a miserable death. “I’m sorry, Jeff. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go this far!”

“Stop! You’re not falling to your death!”

“I…I’m not?” said Donna. Jeff turned to the imperfect and saw no face, only a blur within the head shape that spewed the voice he recognized.

“No, of course not,” Jeff said holding her at the edge of the opening and peering down at the flashing red and blues. They began to irritate him like a rash of poison oak on his pride. The imperfects vied to control the situation, to challenge he and his perfection, flashed red and blue to remind them of their feeble existence and even more feeble efforts. Jeff counted about 15 cops cars and a large crowd spanning multiple blocks. All were looking up at he and Donna. “Your death is a sacrifice.”

“What?” Donna glanced at him as he shoved her out into the air.

“And a bullet to the head!” Jeff shouted on her way down. At that last moment, her face ceased to be a blur, but fear incarnate on the woman’s face. Down she went, rotating slightly, reminding Jeff of the barstool. Her screaming, imperfect carcass was headed toward another flash of red and blue.

“C’mon…c’mon,” Jeff growled and aimed his pistol. 12 mile per hour winds pressed against his face, he adjusted his aim, calculated the moment right before Donna the imperfect would smash against the top of the cop car.

BANG!

Although it happened within a fraction of a fraction of a second, Donna Bohita’s death was a bullet through the skull before her body exploded the top of the patrol car spraying all around it with glass and guts. It was a perfect shot, Jeff knew.

His heart was beating out of his chest at the excitement of it all, but now knew that his hostages knew he was only lying to them so they’d calm down. They were all ungrateful workers, blurred faces, numbers, imperfects. Each of them would serve as a sacrifices until his perfection was re-established.

The phone blared again, doubtless the Sargent was on the other side needing answers. Jeff moseyed to the back of the bar rising to the tips of his toes with every step, relishing the total control he had over the situation and lives inside and out of the bar. He let the phone ring and a shot glass fill with Wild Turkey. It burned going down, felt the liquid spread its tendrils through his arms, legs, and torso. No relaxing exhale pushed itself out of Jeff’s mouth, however. No release, no loosening effect of the alcohol, just more fuel for the manic inferno raging inside him.

Finally, he picked up the phone.

CHAPTER 3

“What the fuck was that, Jeff!?” Shouted Sergeant Stevens.

“What do you mean? You saw what it was,” Jeff said with a calmness that irked Stevens further.

“I saw you push that woman out of the window to her death and fire a round at all of us down here. So now add murder and attempted murder to your record. This is already a dire situation, Jeff, god dammit. Why did you have to do that?”

“No, you saw a perfect throw onto a police vehicle to turn off another pair of those irritating lights. Second of all, Sergeant Stevens, you imperfect buffoon, check your cameras that caught her fall and zoom in on her skull. You’ll find I wasn’t taking a random shot at you and that herd of imperfects gathering beneath me down there. I hit my target before she hit the car. A perfect shot if I do say so myself.”

Sergeant Stevens rubbed his temples, accepted he wasn’t going to make it back for his daughter’s birthday party like he promised his wife. Just once he was hoping for a calm Friday. One that’d have him home at a decent hour to spend the evening with his family. Hopefully a hostage situation with people getting tossed out of windows onto police cars would suffice as an excuse.

“Everything just got a bit more complicated, Jeff. Give me some time to cool some heads down here. You know how imperfects get,” Sergeant Stevens said after a few deep breaths to calm himself.

“Next time you call me I better hear the violation has been removed otherwise I’ll send you another reminder of how perfectly serious I am about this.”

“No reminder is necessary, Jeff,” Sergeant Stevens almost interrupted. “But before I leave you, I have to know…why did you murder that woman?”

“Donna was one of my coworkers who orchestrated the slight against my perfection. She helped create Violation #4848CAT20 in her blind jealousy of me. She and the rest of them wilted in my presence. Instead of worshipping me, they cooked up this sick prank and look what it’s become. She’s responsible for her own undoing, as will the rest of them be for their own,” Jack said, adding emphasis to every word pronunciation.

“Are you saying you’re going to kill the rest of your coworkers up there?” Sargent Stevens’ buried his head in one hand while the other held a shaking phone to his ear.

“Take care of the violation and we shall see,” Jeff said followed by the hum of a disconnected phone.

Sergeant Stevens hurled the phone which exploded against the side door of the Quincy City PD communications van. As if answering a knock, the door slid open and out stepped a scrawny tech officer without an ounce of muscle or athletic bone in his body. Thick, oversized glasses rested on his nose, seeming to weigh down and cause the forward bow of his neck and the hunch in his back.

“Gee, Serge, this turned to shit real quick, huh?” said the nerd.

“I’m aware, Rodgers,” said Stevens. “You got a smoke?”

“And a light,” Rodgers said handing over a cigarette and flipping open his Zippo lighter featuring Uncle Sam flipping the bird instead of pointing.

Stevens breathed life into the cigarette, exhaled the smoke toward the 33rd story of the Sunshine Tower.

“You did everything you could boss. This guy’s just a real whacko who woulda killed that lady no matter how much you sweet-talked him,” Rodgers closed the Zippo with a flink and pocketed it. “Thinks he’s perfect in every way. Ridiculous. His shot was pure luck, not perfection.”

“The hell are you talking about, Rodgers?” said Stevens.

“His gunfire. I dunno how he did it, but he did pop her one through the eyes before she went splat on the squad car,” said Rodgers.

“How do you know?”

“We have cameras set up all around the van to survey the entire situation and spot possible accomplices. We had a camera set up right in front of that patrol car and when we reviewed the footage, we can clearly see a spray of blood burst outta the back of her noggin before impact.”

“Bullshit.”

“Take a looksy,” Rodgers led Stevens into the van and pushed one of the other nerds to the side to make room for the Sergeant. His fingers danced over the keyboard with unnatural speed, making it clatter until he emphatically pressed down on ‘enter’ with a pop. “There, you see.”

Stevens squinted through the cigarette smoke at the monitor. Rodgers zoomed in on Donna’s head, slowed down the video replay. Clear as day, the bullet exploded out of the back of her head before she exploded atop the cop car.

“Son of a bitch,” Stevens said taking a final drag of the cigarette and tossing it out of the van’s side opening. “Rodgers, get me a new phone.”

“All we have is this headset, Serge,” Rodgers handed him an old headset with a single ear speaker, a thin microphone piece that hugged his cheek, and a wire connected to the van computer.

“Whatever,” Stevens put it on, dialed a classified number.

“Who ya callin’?” Rodgers asked.

“All of you, get out now. This is above your pay grade. Mine too for that matter,” Stevens pointed out the door.

The van of nerds obliged and Rodgers slid the door shut after hopping out. Only then did Stevens realize how stifling hot it was in the van. His blonde hair and blue uniform were drenched with sweat before long and the smell of the nerds’ collective body odor stung his eyes. Luckily, his call was answered after three rings and took his attention off the stench.

“FBI, how may I direct your call?” said a robotic yet feminine voice.

“Get me agent Abigail Murphy,” Stevens said wiping his brow.

“In what regard?”

“There’s a hostage situation here in Quincy City she needs to be made aware of.”

“Just a moment.”

“This is Murphy,” said a stern, female voice rasped by a lifetime of devotion to career and cigarettes.

“Murphy, it’s Sergeant Mack Stevens with the QCPD,” Stevens said watching the replay of Donna’s demise over and over.

“What’s up, Mack?” She said.

“Um, I’m not sure if you remember, but we met at the law enforcement convention in Vegas last year. You had some drinks one night and told me some crazy shit might transpire in my city soon. More specifically, that we’ll be dealing with a perfect storm,” Stevens took a deep breath. “I asked you what you meant by that, but all you managed was to vomit all over me. Do you recall?”

A long pause answered before Murphy’s words. “Christ,” she said sounding not so much embarrassed, but nervous. “Does it have anything to do with a certain Violation #4848CAT20?”

“And how the hell did you know that?” Stevens’ eyes widened.

“I’ll tell you when I get there,” Murphy said and hung up the phone.

CHAPTER 4

Murphy’s hand frantically rummaged through her desk drawer until finally coming back out with a palm pilot. Her thumbs punched the keys with such force her hands shifted left and right. Finally, her message was sent and the electronic fell from her trembling hands.

“Stupid, stupid,” she bopped her forehead with her fist with every ‘stupid.’

Murphy grabbed her duster coat off the back of her chair and made her way outside in the frigid cold. She leaned her back against the building, lifted a cigarette to her mouth, and patted all her pockets to find a lighter that wasn’t there.

“Fuck,” she exhaled letting her eyes fall up to the cloud-covered sky before wincing them shut at the gravity of the situation.

Flink. A familiar sound of a Zippo proceeded its kiss of warmth pressing against her face. Her lips pursed, sucked in the smoke, and exhaled more gray into the sky.

“Your twin runs tech down there, doesn’t he?” Murphy asked opening her eyes seeing Rodgers.

“Yup,” the other Rodgers said lighting his own cigarette.

“He say anything to you about the situation?”

“He’s texted me this video,” Rodgers showed Murphy the perfect head shot on Donna before her body imploded the cop car.

“Jesus Christ,” she pushed the phone away. “I…I tried to warn Stevens about this.”

“I remember. I had to carry you out of the bar then cover for you with the big man. You didn’t say anything specific, just sounded like drunken Murphy babble.”

“I don’t know anything specific, but I had to tell him something.”

“Abigail, even though you don’t know what it means, it’s still classified information you tried to give to him.”

“I know, I know. I just –“

“ – Just don’t have the stomach for it,” said a man’s foreboding voice akin to the crunch of snow beneath his footsteps.

“Captain Jones,” both Murphy and Rodgers tossed their cigarettes and stood at attention.

“At ease,” he saluted back. “Murphy, you’ve been in the FBI for 20 years and you’re still caught up in the sentiments of others? I thought you’d have a thicker skin by now.”

“My apologies, sir, but one woman is dead already after Violation #4848CAT20 was issued,” said Murphy.

“I’m well aware of the situation, thank you,” said Jones dawning an all-black suit beneath the once-black high and tight haircut and circular sunglasses. “And it most definitely is a problem we’re dealing with here. Well, a problem for us non-perfects. Jeff Doharty is merely enduring a stress test.”

“Stress test? What do you mean, sir?” Rodgers said.

“I can only tell you so much now that the shit’s hit the fan because I only know so much. And I reached out to my superiors a couple hours ago when I learned there was a hostage situation in Quincy City, so they’re on their way here to give me the full scope of everything. That’s when I got Murhpy’s scared little message. Jesus, Murphy. Grow some spine. Death means nothing to the FBI. That lady and whoever else dies are nothing more than spilt milk in this perfect storm,” Jones removed his glasses and crushed them with his leathered gloves. Staring back at Murphy was a remorseless hazel eye that more than made for the intensity of its missing partner. “Remind me, what did I tell you around this time last year?”

“A perfect storm will occur after the issuance of Violation #4848CAT20, that’s what you told me,” Murphy said trying desperately to keep her focus on Jones’ eye and not the empty socket next to it.

“Why do you think I told you and Rodgers that?” Jones said.

“Sir…I,” Murphy stammered, glanced at Rodgers who was frozen in his blue sweater vest and black brimmed glasses.

“Because I thought you’d stomach what was to come, even if you didn’t know what it was. I always have and you always had until now for some odd reason,” Jones’ face turned red and pus began to ooze out of his empty eye socket.

“Sir, I had a bad feeling about this one. More so than any other CBP (Classified Brief of the Potential). Stevens deserved to prepare or be ready somehow.”

“Bitch, this is Project Perfecto,” Jones scooped a glob of pus out of his eye socket with his index finger and flicked it at Murphy. The glob splattered on her forehead which immediately buckled the agent forward and induced vomiting. Jones walked to Rodgers and wiped his finger on his tie. “Even I don’t know how high up the chain this goes which means we could be at the very bottom. And if we’re at the bottom, we better be a strong goddam foundation for the top. Now be a good soldier and follow your orders until we see this through. You’ll be reprimanded later, Muphy.”

Murphy nodded, accepting the situation. Telling Stevens was stupid, she knew. It put her career at risk, the years of training, the personal sacrifices including her marriage, everything. Fuck Violation #4848CAT20, I wish I never heard of it she thought straightening her spine and wiping the remaining pus off her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Project Perfecto?” Rodgers asked stupidly.

“Shut the fuck up, Rodgers,” Jones snapped at the equally nerdy-looking twin. “Answers are on the way. And remember, us three are the only ones that know about Violation #4848CAT20 and Project Perfecto.”

“Yes, sir!” Murphy and Rodgers said together.

A distant helicopter drew nearer, its loud propulsion now undeniable behind the tree line 3 football fields away from the agents. 4 black hawk helicopters rather than 1 peered over the tree line and circled overhead. Jones, Murphy, and Rodgers squinted and shielded their eyes with raised arms from the artificial blizzard the helicopter props were creating beneath them.

24 soldiers in all black hustled out of the helicopters and formed a perimeter around them like Yaks pointing their horns in all directions to protect their young from the wolves circling from the outside. A squat man in a black suit and black sailor coat emerged wearing the circular black sunglasses similar to the ones Jones had crushed.

“Jones!” The man yelled over the helicopters powering down their engines.

“Martinez!” Jones and Martinez’ leather clad hands embraced in a powerful squeeze.

“Which one is the fuck head who tried to notify the QCPD of the perfect storm?”

“Me, sir. Agent Murphy,” she said saluting.

Martinez eyed her, shook his head.

“Any updates on the situation in Quincy City?” Jones asked.

“None, I only know so much. In fact, my superior is coming here to brief us all,” Martinez said putting a cigarette in his mouth. Rodgers stepped forward to light it but was waved away as Martinez lit it himself with the tip of his index finger meaning the tip of his leather glove could heat up for just that purpose. “All I can tell you is this is a stress test for Perfecto subject: Jeff Doharty. But Violation #4848CAT20 was not issued by me. That was something I was waiting on.”

“Indeed, sir,” Jones said when a whizzing noise pierced the frigid air from the far side of the 5-story FBI facility at their backs.

The perimeter of soldiers shifted its focus above the heads of the agents. Martinez, Jones, Muphy, and Rodgers looked up and about 20 drones formed their own perimeter around a person floating 100 feet above the facility roof. The lower they got, Murphy could see propulsion technology around their wrists and ankles while the drones orbited around them with machine guns attached underneath them.

The person and drones landed slowly next to the now quiet helicopters. They kicked off the devices on their ankles and tossed the steaming wrist jets into the snow as if they were trash and not millions of dollars of taxpayer money. Finally, the person removed their helmet letting a bundle of blonde spill out over their shoulders.

Covering her body was a suit made out of as much black leather as protective technology. Over her eyes, of course, were black circular sunglasses. She touched her wrist and the drones turned off as did the invisible shield they produced that somewhat blurred her appearance.

“Gentleman,” she said shaking Martinez and Jones’ hands with black leather gloves over her own.

“Miller,” they both said in their respective greetings.

“So who’s the fuck head who tried to warn QCPD?” she stared at Murphy and Rodgers.

“That’d be me, ma’am,” said Murphy.

Miller eyed Murphy, shook her head, and raise a cigarette to her mouth. Before Rodgers could whip offer his Zippo, she pursed her lips and the cigarette lit itself with a satisfying pop.

“What’s the briefing, Miller?” Martinez said.

“It’s do or die, boys,” said Martinez. “This stress test involves a lot more collateral damage, but we’ve anticipated this and have created a budget with a lot of wiggle room.”

“Budget, ma’am?” Murphy asked instinctively before she realized she was speaking out of sorts to her boss’, boss’, boss.

Martinez and Jones passed looks that indicated without a doubt that Murphy would be terminated at the end of this ordeal. She understood what the stares meant, perhaps being the reason her bold curiosity spoke itself into existence.

“Death budget, you dumb bitch,” Miller said.

The words warranted no further explanation. Her tone inferred the powers that be were willing to sacrifice the 14.5 million inhabitants of Quincy City.

“QC, huh?” Jones’ words were puffs of smoke floating in the air.

Miller nodded, flicked her half-smoked cigarette at Murphy.

“Never liked that dump anyway. Think that’ll be enough?” Said Jones.

“We can always incorporate Tallonapolis and Behaven too if need be. Depends on how things shake out. Boss man was quite stern on the fact that what this perfect does is out of our control which is not his style. What he can control is the amount of taxpayers we’re prepared to sacrifice to see it through. Luckily, we’ll mitigate fiscal hit with the new funeral taxes we’ve imposed on the state this last year,” Miller said.

“Good, good,” Martinez said flicking his cigarette at Murphy as well.

“To what end is this stress test?” Murphy said folding her arms. “If we’re all involved in this, we at least need to know the scope of the situation.”

Then it was Jones’ turn to flick his cigarette at Murphy. It rotated toward her, but the FBI agent caught it out of the air and put it out on her exposed wrist between her jacket sleeve and glove. She made sure she made eye contact with every boss as she did, showcasing her training-induced stoicism as the pain raged through her wrist and body.

Meanwhile, the stoic demeanors of the superiors hid their delight at the toasted circle of flesh on Murphy’s wrist. The display reminded them of that fact that she was indeed an FBI agent, was stronger than pain, and was worthy of being part of project perfecto.

“Well then, Murphy,” Miller started toward the building. “If you’re to be fully in-the-know about this perfect, Jeff Doharty, we’d best get inside out of the cold.”

Miller’s phone buzzed from a text message. She raised it to her face which distorted in anger from the news.

“What is it?” Martinez asked.

“Bettis is about to be compromised.”

CHAPTER 5

“Alright, you imperfect swine,” Jeff said bringing a tray of shot glasses to the table of coworkers responsible for Violation #4848CAT20. “We’re going to play a little game called ‘you’re going to tell me everything.’ This coincides with the game we’re all already playing where you do whatever I say. So, in this game, each round you’re all going to take a shot, then answer a question. Puke, you die. Lie to me, you die – and I will know whether you’re lying or not. It’s a symptom of my perfection that ability. Now, are there any questions? I’m sure you imperfects have them.”

A cold, evening breeze circulated the comedy bar. It howled amongst the distant chopping of news and QCPD helicopter props. Their spotlights pierced the opening Jack had blasted open and thrown Donna through, but the remaining glass windows were tinted and rendered the inside of the comedy bar an ominous dark light resembling a solar eclipse. It embodied the dread of all in the bar but Jeff Doharty and Tiko Bettis.

Tiko sat amongst the coworkers all marked for death. He’d indeed been a part of the scandal involving Violation #4848CAT20. In fact, he was the mastermind of it all because he’s known of Jeff Doharty’s perfection all along and was given orders to issue the violation.

Agent Bettis, rather, was ordered to observe the perfect in a work environment and had done so for a decade. Every so often he’d alter other employees’ work and send the errors Jeff’s way. The perfect did not disappoint in the logistical perfection but Bettis reported the growing arrogance and increasing, dormant mania. Even still, the higher ups ordered the ultimate stress test for the perfect, the issuance of Violation #4848CAT20.

Even now, Bettis saw the crazed fire burning within Jeff’s eyes. Gateways to the soul he’d always been told. A portal and bridge from the three-dimensional reality everyone lives into the unseen reality that are the thoughts and emotions dwelling within every human. But Jeff wasn’t human, he was perfect, and the fire burning in Jeff moved its way toward Bettis inexorably through their gaze.

At first Bettis was unable to look away from the inferno. That’s when it jumped from Jack to Bettis, and the mania consumed the FBI agent’s soul removing the desire to look away. It raged, scalded, and seared Bettis’ soul into an unrecognizable force driven only by devotion to Jeff and his perfection. To follow him, serve him, or die for him is the closest thing he'd ever get to the perfection Jeff had achieved. Tears welled in Bettis’ eyes having seen the light and he wanted nothing more than to grovel at Jeff’s feet and pronounce his devotion to this living god, but that would be imperfect. Composure, he told himself. Jeff is perfection, perfection is Jeff, I will serve him the way I serve the FBI. Covert and patient until action must be taken.

“How do we win this game?” Bettis asked shifting his weight to feign apprehension.

“Excellent question, Tiko,” Jeff said using Bettis’ first name for the first time since he’s known him. “You don’t win. I win. And it’s over when I say it is, or if you all die. Understand?”

Silence compounded the fear of all at the table save for Tiko who nodded as casually as if he were asked if he’d like a refill on his beer. Jeff took heed of it, but not the flip phone in Tiko’s hand under the table corresponding to his superior, Miller.

“Understand!?” Jeff yelled at the other 4 coworkers (2 men and 2 women) Zou, Hammot, Blithe, and Koach.

They nodded obediently. Jeff then moseyed behind the bar and fit a bottle of tequila under his armpit with another bottle of bourbon in his hand. His white-knuckle grip strangled the neck of the bottle and his perfect senses indicated it’d shatter in his hand. He calculated with the glass strength and shape that it wouldn’t shatter by the time he placed it on his coworkers’ table. He was right.

“Alrighty. Each of you take a shot glass. We’re going to go one at a time starting with you, Zou,” he poured the portly, oriental woman a shot of tequila with one hand while the other seemed to have fused with the pistol in a white-knuckle vice grip. “Go on, take the shot and loosen up. We’ll be here for a while.”

Zou’s trembling fingers picked up the glass. The tequila shook like a micro storm in the tiny ocean of tequila within it. Lips pursed, Zou attempted the shot but the glass slipped from her fingers and spilled on the table in front of her. She burst into tears fearing she’d be killed. Meanwhile, Jeff simply shook his head and made a tsk tsk tsk with his tongue smacking the roof of his mouth.

“Shame. I think you should Zamboni the tequila before you die,” Jeff said.

“W-w-what?” Zou managed through her sobs.

Jeff made an overly emphatic slurping noise. Zou understood, put her lips to the table, and sucked up the spilled tequila in a back-and-forth motion.

“Wonderful, now time for the question. Don’t worry it’s an easy one,” Jeff said pulling a chair from a nearby table, flipping it backwards, and plopping himself down with his arms crossed – gun pointed in Zou’s direction. “We’ve worked together for 8 years, 4 months, 2 weeks, 2 days, 6 hours, 23 minutes, and…43 seconds. How much would you say you’ve grown to hate me in that time?”

“Jeff…I…I don’t…” Zou stammered before Jeff cocked back the slide of the pistol to re-emphasize the rules of the game. “Okay, okay. I…hated you a lot. At first, I just thought you were a little weird. Then you began yelling at us for the smallest mistakes. So yes, I hated working with you.”

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jeff said.

Zou shook her head.

“Was it? Come on now. Verbalize it!”

“No, it wasn’t so bad!” Zou winced, her adrenaline dispelling any effect of the alcohol.

“How about you, Hammot?” Jeff poured the balding man a shot of tequila then another of bourbon. “You hate working with me to?”

Hommot reached for the bourbon.

“Tequila, first,” Jeff pointed with the gun.

“I would say I was more irritated with you,” he said gulping down the tequila and following it with heavy breaths to settle himself. “You set an impossible standard for us to follow. Perfection’s impossible for us, you know? But secretly, I admired you. You worked so hard, never made a mistake. You are perfection, Jeff. And I hoped in my heart I could be more like you over time.”

The appeasement raised half a smirk on Jeff’s face. It worked, Hommot thought. If I can get back on Jeff’s good side, play into his crazy fucking world of him being perfect, then maybe I can get out of this alive. Just go along with it, Jerry Hammot, and you’ll survive this yet.

“And your second shot,” Jeff said looking to the ceiling.

“To your perfection,” Hammot raised the bourbon, feeling bulletproof after his gamble and displaying further subservience to the perfect before him.

At first, Bettis wasn’t sure why his ears were ringing. His eyes blinked dazedly at the sight of Hammot sitting across the booth from him and wondered why he was now covered in blood and staring blankly at the ceiling. Then, like the snap of fingers in front of one’s face to break them from a trance, the odor of gunpowder reached his nose and reintroduced him to the reality of the moment. Jeff’s perfection blasted a small red dot in between Hommot’s eyes and splattered the wall behind him with wet chunks of skull and brain indicating he’d, indeed, lost the game. Death number two in a budget that allowed for the entire city, Bettis thought.

“He was lying,” Jeff lowered the pistol, its smoking pouring upward out of its barrel and caressing his cheeks as if congratulating him on a great kill. “He didn’t really think I was perfect, which I am. He was just saying that to get in my good graces.”

The ringing subsided in Bettis’ ears, replaced by the crying and moans of despair from the other 20 patrons in the comedy bar.

“You’re all so uptight!” Jeff turned to the other hostages behind him. “You, pour everybody here a shot. Don’t worry it’s on me.”

Jeff pointed the gun at a red-headed woman in her mid-50’s, designated her to be the new bartender.

“Go on! Everybody up, everybody drinks. Now!” Jeff screamed and relished the sight of fearful obedience to his will. “In fact, pass out a bottle to everybody. There’s more than enough stacked up behind that bar.”

Drinking. What a homage to the man who made Jeff into what he is today. As a useless kid, Jeff was just clay, and his father was the artist who’s punches and kicks and curses molded and formed Jeff into a perfect piece of art. He was perfect, yes, but he remained raw clay and needed time in a furnace to be complete. Jeff’s manic inferno raging inside him, however, served nicely in place of a furnace.

Meanwhile, Bettis’ fingers furiously punched his phone’s keys beneath the table, relaying the details of what was happening and the likelihood of his death. Jeff was crazy, Bettis knew, but was also a perfect who’d sniff out deception from a mile away.

“Blithe, Koach,” jEff said turning back around and pointing at the gun at the men sitting next to Bettis in the booth. “How about you two. Hate me?”

“Yes,” Blithe said taking the shot glass Jeff poured him.

“Uh huh. Yes,” Koach said doing the same.

“Now you guys are getting the hang of it. Very good, my beloved coworkers,” Jeff said giggling to himself. “Whoops, that was a lie.”

Jeff held the gun to his head, took another shot.

“Bang!” Jeff shattered the shot glass against the wall and started laughing hysterically.

Bettis and the others exchanged looks. All understood they were going to die today, but what they didn’t know was when. If there was any chance to alter this reality, they’d need to buy time and prolong that ‘when.’

“What about you Tiko Bettis? You hate me too?” Jeff asked.

“That’s a complicated answer, Jeff,” Tiko said.

“It’s yes or no. Nothing complicated about it,” Jeff said tossing the empty tequila bottle aside and pouring Tiko a shot of bourbon.

“Giving you a simple yes or no would make me a liar. If I lie, I die. Isn’t that right?”

Jeff rocked back on the chair, pondering, feeling the liquor add fuel to his internal fire.

“Fair enough,” Jeff slammed the chair back on all-fours. “What is this wild and crazy answer of yours that can’t be contained to a ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

Bettis nodded, uncertain of the extent of Jeff perfection and its capabilities for detecting lies. That’s exactly what this stress test is about though, he thought to himself. He glimpsed at Hammot – his possible future – then to Jeff. Presently, he knew his and the rest of their lives were compromised, but he also had Jack’s intrigue which was at least something to work with and draw out.

“You know me as Tiko Bettis, DMV employee number #189-22. We’ve been working together for the last 8 years – or at least that’s what my cover would lead you to believe. The truth is, Jeff, you are perfect and any attempt to dissuade you from who I really am – I believe – would result in my death,” Bettis said. “In reality, I’m an FBI agent under orders to keep an eye on you, a product of Project Perfecto. You may have influenced yourself and told others of your perfection, but you really are. Your reflexes, actions, words, thoughts, all of it is perfect. Of course, you’ve already suspected this is the case for years now, I think based off my observations.”

Jeff nodded, slid a shot glass to Bettis. Both knew he hadn’t answered the question yet.

“Your question was whether I hate you or not. Hate isn’t the word I’d use. Even now your perfection is dissecting my words, the way they release from my mouth, my pupil dilation, heart rate, all to determine whether or not I’m lying. My answer is no. I do not hate you,” Bettis swallowed the bourbon as easily as water. “While I don’t hate you, I am made of envy. For 8 years I’ve watched you operate. I covertly sent you errors and challenges to overcome, and each you handled perfectly. Your lunch breaks are efficient and prompt, your sandwiches are perfectly made as are the number of chips you eat along with it. Statistically, it is the perfect ratio. Day in and day out I’d endure watching a perfect exist while I suffer in silence. Envious and jealous of you. And the more I felt that jealousy and envy, the more I was reminded me of just how imperfect I am for feeling them.”

Jeff teetered back and forth on the chair, stared at Hammot’s bloody corpse, then back at Bettis. It was a wild confession that rang almost as loud and abrupt as the gunshot that ended Hammot. Zou, Blithe, and Koach were lost in the story, wondering if Bettis was telling the truth, if Jack really was a perfect specimen. Seconds passed and Bettis didn’t get a bullet to the head. Rather, it seemed as if Jeff accepted his answer and moved Bettis to the next round of the game.

Not an ounce of anxiety coursed through Bettis’ bloodstream like he thought it would as he spoke to Jeff. Every word that came out were thoughts manifested, becoming real with every breath as was the – until now – unspoken admiration and reverence for the perfection Bettis had nurtured for years. To the point even where he wasn’t sure he wanted the FBI to be the sole-owner of his loyalty.

“What about Violation #4848CAT20? Why provoke this situation?” Jeff said. “All you at the FBI had to have known deaths would ensue.”

“We knew. We even created a budget for it,” Bettis poured himself a drink this time. “Violation #4848CAT20 was a falsified document put on your record and un-correctable. You went through the motions, did the paperwork perfectly, Jeff, but there was no way it’d be removed from your record because it was never supposed to. The violation itself was a stress test for you, a perfect specimen part of Project Perfecto. We needed to see how you’d react with imperfection imposed on you.”

A breeze swept through the bar as if summoned by Jeff himself. It would’ve sent a chill down the patrons’ spines if they hadn’t been taking swigs of their respective bottles of liquor. All during Bettis’ answer, Jeff gave silent gestures with his hands for them to drink and drink and drink. To acquiesce was to live, and all drank like their lives depended on it.

“My feelings are validated and I really am a perfect specimen, Jeff thought to himself letting the crazed wildfire within him manifest in a ear to ear grin. The broken glass crunched under his shoes as he walked to the open space in the glass wall and looked down at the imperfects shining their red and blue on the street.

“So, Bettis…what do you think your companions at the FBI are going to do in retaliation? You know, the ones you’ve been texting all this time,” Jeff said leaning against the window frame.

“As far as I know, the plan of action is inaction. Wait and see what you do. Beyond that, I don’t know,” said Bettis.

Jeff nodded. “And this Project Perfecto. What is that? Its purpose? Tell me everything.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“It’s true purpose is above me,” Bettis held up the cell phone he’d been using to text updates to the FBI. “But my superiors, Jeff! They can tell you everything. Everything I wish I could tell you and your perfection.”

Jeff recognized the infatuation Bettis had with him. Rather, his perfection. Bettis was compromised, charmed, under his control now. It’s probably the only logical way an imperfect can and should act towards his perfection, Jeff thought. Bettis’ submission delighted Jeff who, through no conscious intention, had this power over a select few. Delight aside, Jeff wanted answers now and shot out the remaining windows leaving a 1-story open space between ceiling and floor. Gusts of wind whirled in, spreading the shattered glass and drying the tears of fear on all the patrons’ eyes.

“That’s 10 shots,” a voice came from behind Jeff. He turned to identify the imperfect who dared speak without permission. A heavyset man in a collared shirt and cargo pants raised shakily and swayed, being shoved back and forth from Jack Daniels and Jose Quervo. His eyes were glazed over from the alcohol and shielded them from Jeff’s persuasion.

“You’re breaking the rules,” Jeff said raising the pistol.

“And you’re out of authority. I’ve been counting. You’re out of ammunition, you sick fuck. I don’t care if I die, nobody else is dying here today!”

Jeff lowered the pistol, watched the man make a mad dash towards him. Only an imperfect would try something so stupid. He must think he’s a hero, Jeff thought. A selfless martyr who will be famed for tackling the madman out the window and falling heroically to his death.

The raging, intoxicated bull of a man lowered his shoulders ready to tackle Jeff and end this madness. Even though perfection incarnate was only a blur in his eyes, the fat man raged at why Jeff made no attempt to move. Good, he thought, stand still so we can get this over with.

CHAPTER 6

The sweaty, fat imperfect’s expression changed from furious resolve to uncomprehending surprise after his ribs were shattered by the impact of Bettis’ shoulder. In fact, he didn’t realize he was falling out of the building with the wrong person until about 5 stories down on their trip to the asphalt.

“I love you, Jeff! I love you!” Bettis screamed his insanity, his submission to perfection all the way down.

Jeff gave his new lacky the respect of watching his body explode on the ground along with the fat man before returning his attention to the crowd inside.

“In case any of you were wondering if I really am out of ammunition,” Jeff unloaded 3 shots into the ceiling. “What’s left of the fat man who just tried to murder me made the fatal flaw of assuming I was one of you. Bound by imperfection and…laws. I’m beyond it all. Bettis realized that in the end and gave his life accordingly to perfection. You should all have a drink about it now in his honor. And by should, I mean you have to.”

The phone behind the bar rang and Jeff took his time getting to it, basking in the murmurs of inebriated despair, the lowering of heads, sobbing, and lost control of bladders.

“If anyone needs to use the restroom, relieve yourself out the window. As for the women, well, have someone hold your arms while you squat over the side. Should be the most exciting piss of your life 33 stories up with the wind at your ass,” Jeff said as he picked up the phone. “Stevens, you there?”

“Why, Jeff?” Stevens’ cracking voice stammered from the other side. “Why are you still killing hostages? We’ve been working on erasing the violation!”

“Wasn’t me this time, Stevens,” Jefff said calmly. “You probably can’t tell now that they’re splattered on the ground, but there was a fat man who tried to tackle me out of the window, but low and behold, an undercover FBI agent sprang into action and saved me by tackling him out of the window.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“Yes…yes, I do.”

“Why? You’ve given me no reason to trust anything you say or that there’s a way to resolve this.”

“Anytime now, Bettis’ FBI companions will be arriving to take control of the situation and you’ll be able to head home to your family. Or isn’t that what you’ve really wanted since this all started?”

“Yes, but I have a duty to perform. I’m responsible for the lives of those inside and for…the three who are dead. My family means everything to me, and I’m sure it meant something to the three souls down here who’ll never see theirs again. Ever think of that, Jeff?”

“Emotional ties form a noose around the neck of perfection.”

“Even when it comes to your father?” A cold voice said after a brief scuffle on the other side of the phone. Just the thought of his father was a gale of wind breathing life and fury into the fire within Jeff. The voice belonged to someone who knew Jeff, what to say, and Project Perfecto, Jeff deduced.

“Who is this? One of Bettis’ comrades I assume” Jeff said scratching his scalp with the slide of his pistol.

“This is special agent Jones. Of course, I expected nothing less than for you to have discovered Bettis’ true purpose there,” said Jones.

“As it turns out, his purpose was to serve me,” said Jeff. “And you know what, as will everyone else’s.”

CHAPTER 6

The phone line went dead and Jones gave a convincing performance that he was still talking to the perfect for another two minutes. Murphy stepped beside him, raised her binoculars to the gaping hole on the 33rd floor of the Sunshine Tower.

“We all know he disconnected, sir,” Murphy said seeing Jeff’s dark silhouette carved out of blood red light staring back down.

“I don’t need to take that from you. Go secure the perimeter or something, you condescending bitch,” Jones pushed the phone back into Stevens’ chest.

“No,” Murphy said lowering the binoculars. “I’m going to go up there.”

“Like hell you are,” Jones spat.

“This insubordination is unfounded, Murphy,” Martinez chimed in. “You’ve already put your career in jeopardy and now you’re pushing the envelope?”

“With all due respect, my career at the FBI is already over. Might as well do something worth a damn while I’m still on the payroll.”

“Absolutely not,” said Miller standing beside her fellow FBI overlords.

“Why not? Am I going to take away from your clout? From the success of Project Perfecto?” Murphy said removing a strand of hair from her burning eye. “By the way, which one of you is getting all the credit for this project? I mean, obviously it’s going to work out in your favor, but who’s name will be on the headline?”

“Mine,” Martinez, Miller, and Jones said simultaneously.

The three immediately began to scuffle in a pathetic display of martial arts rusted by years of inactivity and comfort behind a desk. Officers, medics, and civilians turned their attention from the 33rd floor to the slow-motion.

Stevens crossed his arms and laughed at the sight, turned to Murphy. “Nice to see you again, Murphy. Just wish the circumstances could have been better.”

“Likewise.”

“I appreciate you trying to warn me about what was to come,” Stevens said. “The situation is FUBAR, unfortunately. Everybody up there is going to die, including Jeff, if we don’t do anything about it now. He’s unhinged. I hate to suggest this, but I think now we need to send a team up there and try to put him down before he kills too many more people.”

“His perfection was going to sweep over this place one way or another,” Murphy said putting on her sunglasses. “Before we resolve to more bloodshed to end this, let me go up alone to see what can be done.”

“My men have secured the 32nd floor. Tell them you have my full clearance, code #595921, and they’ll let you pass through their barricade.”

Murphy nodded, tossed her FBI jacket to the ground, and hustled through the Sunshine Tower’s glass doors.

Stevens turned, walked towards Rodgers talking with his twin who he could only tell apart by their clothes. One of the nerd brothers handed him a cigarette and lit it.

“Who’s winning?” He asked as all 3 watched the fight between the FBI overlords continue.

“Jeff Doharty,” said Stevens’ Rodgers.

Another laugh escaped Stevens in an uncomfortable acceptance of their situation. Nobody present had any control of the situation, and more people were going to die before it was resolved.

“Everybody on their feet!” Shouted Jeff turning away from the opening.

The command was met with wobbly, intoxicated efforts to stand. One woman vomited all over her blouse which enticed the man next to her to do the same on his pants.

“Good, good,” Jeff walked through the teetering crowd. “Now go stand with your backs to the opening in a straight line. Do be careful, you won’t want to stumble backward.”

Tears ensued but so did the obedience. Jeff even nodded with his gun to his old coworkers to do the same.

“Our little Q & A game has ended. But you’re still going to listen to my rules or else…” Jeff punctuated his sentence by sending a bullet into Blithe’s foot.

He toppled, screamed in agony.

“That was just a bleeding reminder in case you thought I was getting soft. Zou, Koach, pick him up and stand with your backs to the damn sky with everyone else.”

Jeff allowed the drunken, slouching imperfects 2 minutes to situate themselves. Disgust pursed his lips watching them until finally they’d acquiesced to his demand.

“You may think me a maniac. A terrorist. Murderer perhaps. Whatever it is, I could care less, because all that I am and ever have been is…perfect,” Jeff exhaled slowly at his grandeur. “Even someone who’s perfect needs to adapt to situations and extreme circumstances. I now realize the extent of my perfection and power, and in light of everything, I’ve decided to extend my perfection to you.”

Murmurs and silent tears and sniffling were swept away by the howling wind at the hostages’ backs.

“I’m going to walk by each and every one of you. When I do, stare back. Look into my eyes, see what’s going on in there, let it become you,” Jeff said walking to the left end of the line that extended the entire length of the shattered glass wall.

Jeff stepped to the first hostage, paused, stared. The swaying man straightened up and the drunken glaze in his eyes disappeared immediately. Replaced by a stoic focus forward with Jeff’s fire blazing behind his pupils.

“Now stare into his eyes,” Jeff said to the woman next to his newest disciple and made his way to the bar.

“F-f-f for how long?” she stammered trying to keep her balance.

“Until you’re mine,” Jeff hopped onto the bar top. “Then repeat the process. Stare, turn, repeat. It’s the simplest thing ever.”

Jeff’s legs swung back and forth like a child on a swing as he watched his perfection spread and infect one hostage after another. There’s no way they’ll ever be perfect like me, Jeff thought. It’s strange, I had no control over Bettis, but I’m more perfect and powerful now than I was a moment ago. All these people’s lives belong to me. Perhaps this new power takes some getting used to, some refinement before I’m able to give telepathic commands to my lackies. I can feel it already with that first guy. His thoughts are a pulsing morse code that resonate as nothing short of absolute obedience to my will. Most interesting.

Though lost in thought, Jeff reached behind the bar and picked up the phone .01 seconds after Stevens’ called it.

“Sargent, you’re back in charge?” Jeff said, perfect instincts telling him who it was.

“Self-appointed person in charge while the three people in charge are fighting over who’s getting credit for this whole, Project Perfecto crap,” Stevens said. “But, um, you’re making me a little nervous here, Jeff. Why do you have your hostages’ backs to the open air? Enough people have fallen out of that gaping window hole don’t you think?”

“Look closely, Mack,” Jeff said.

Sargent Stevens peered through his binoculars. Half the hostages were standing at attention like soldiers while the other half swayed and slouched. Then he noticed the bizarre game of telephone they were playing, but instead of whispering, the person passing the secret would just stare into the other’s eyes. After a moment, that person would stand upright, turn, and do the same to the person on their left.

“What am I looking at here, Jeff?” Stevens said.

“My perfection is spreading, my dear Sargent. They’re surrendering their will to me. Opening their eyes. Becoming closest to perfection they’ll ever be,” said Jeff in a calm mania. “No matter what happens to me, my perfection will live on and continue to spread There is no stopping it.”

“That’s all well and good. Good for your perfection, but please, Jeff, be reasonable. They don’t need to die. We can figure something out!” Stevens pleaded, waited for what seemed a lifetime for Jeff to respond.

“I’ve grown to appreciate your imperfect self, Sargent Stevens. Just climbing up a slippery hill that is your current circumstance, falling down time and time again, yet you still climb knowing there’s no way to ascend to the top and save anyone. I’m quite pleased my perfection doesn’t yield contempt for you and your effort against the impossible. Only perfection is capable of the impossible, as you know,” said Jeff.

“Yes…as I know,” Stevens said also knowing he needed to stall Jeff enough for Murphy to reach the 33rd level of the Sunshine Tower to stop him. “As an imperfect, as you’d say, I’m still confused.”

“At what?”

“This all started because of some toll violation. #4848CAT20. I mean, does that mean nothing to you anymore? If that was expunged, can we all just walk away from this?”

Heavy breathing responded over the phone waves. Jeff maybe hadn’t forgotten about it but pushed away that aspect of his mania somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Now, Stevens had highlighted it and the slight against Jeff’s perfection was prevalent in his mind once more.

One of the Rogers brothers ran out of the communications van with a sheet of paper, handed it to Stevens.

“Jeff! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up the violation. Er, the slight against your perfection. But I had to because the slight has been removed! I hold here in my hand Violation #4848CAT20 with an official, ‘VOID’ label printed on it. You understand what I’m saying? Your perfection remains intact,” Stevens waved the paper over his head toward the top of the tower. It was nighttime now, and it glowed eerily with a line of body silhouettes standing next to one another like paper cutout people holding hands and hung across a classroom. “Jeff? Hello, Jeff? Dammit!

Stevens twisted the channel knob on the phone to change frequencies. “Murphy! Come in, Murphy!” Stevens said as his fist left a dent in communication van’s sliding door. “Murphy, if you can hear me, get your ass in there and stop him! I think he’s going to kill everybody.”

CHAPTER 7

Murphy pushed her way through the SWAT team crowding the stairwell. All were briefed, aware the terrorist had already killed some hostages, and ready to put a screeching halt to his perfection in a horizontal hailstorm of bullets.

“Murphy?” The SWAT captain glanced down at the perspiring woman in black pants and rolled up white sleeves. She nodded, gave the clearance code.

“Entrance is right here,” he pointed to a double door with a neon sign hanging over it burning a pink ‘Brew-HaHa’ into the darkness. “Do what you can, but Stevens gave us the green light to take Doharty out if you fail.”

“Thanks captain. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Murphy.

The captain gave a snort that Murphy deduced as ‘It’s already come to that and this bastard is either getting shot in the bar if you fail, or in the hallway if you succeed.’

She nodded, jogged down the hallway to resolve the situation, and unholstered her pistol.

“You’ve all taken a step toward perfection. How does it feel?” Jeff asked his followers.

“Unlike anything ever,” said one man.

“Agreed,” barked a squat woman with a shaved head. “You are mother, father, friends, family, and forever.”

“Good…good,” Jeff sat on the barstool staring at the crumpled remains of Violation #4848CAT20. The spark that set him ablaze. The slight to his perfection and the years of beating it took his father to mold him in such a fashion.

“Is something the matter, your perfection?” Asked the vessel formerly known as Zou and was now just a fragment of Jeff’s perfection.

Jeff crumpled the paper and ate it. The violation was now a part of him, in him, and burning. The slight, Jeff thought, was a necessary step towards realizing his true perfection. It was fake, but the consequences of its creation were very real. So too would be his reign over the imperfects. Rather than hate them, he realized they simply needed saving. The only thing that could was the perfection that acted through him, his words, and actions.

“Absolutely not,” Jeff said beckoning in his disciples with the wave of his hand. “You may come in too, whoever you are lurking outside the door.”

The FBI agent slipped in through the double door like a whisp of smoke. All the fragments of Jeff’s perfection rushed to put themselves between Jeff and Muphy’s gun. She put it away while keeping her off hand up with fingers spread to docile the agitated swarm of perfection. If he saw fit, Jeff could snap his fingers and watch the FBI agent ripped limb from limb. Instead of a snap, Jeff beckoned Murphy towards them.

“My name’s agent Murphy. I’m here to help,” Murphy said.

“Of course you are,” Jeff said setting his gun down on the bar top – the first time it’d left his hand since this ordeal began.

“Unfortunately, out this door will make you about as dead as if you leapt out over the edge there,” Murphy said.

“We’ll rush them,” said one man.

“We’ll take all the bullets while Jeff escapes,” said another stepping forward.

“Our bodies may die, but perfection is immortal,” said a woman from the back.

“Protect perfection,” an older man tugged at Murphy’s arm.

“Calm down, calm down,” said Jeff to his disciples. “Agent Murphy, what do you suggest?”

“I told Sargent Stevens I came up here to resolve the situation, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” said Murphy.

CHAPTER 8

“Murphy! Murphy come in, dammit!” Stevens barked into the phone.

“Sir,” Rogers said.

“Murphy!”

“Sir.”

“What is it!?” Stevens turned to one of the nerdy brothers.

They motioned with their thumbs simultaneously at agent Miller standing over the unconscious bodies of Jones and Martinez. She was cut, bruised, battered, and clearly the one who will receive all the credit for Project Perfecto.

“Hand it over,” she commanded Stevens.

She grabbed it, but Stevens did not let go without passing along his own fire through a stare. She saw the disgust and disappointment in his eyes at his ‘superiors’ and yanked the phone free from his hand.

“Take a hike, Stevens. You’re relieved of your duties,” Miller said.

“Your monkey, your circus,” Stevens said. “I have no clue what you FBI folks are trying to pull, what all this crap is about, but something bigger than you and me is at play here. It’s cost people their lives, and what’s most sickening is that you think you can control it all.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Miller snapped, pointed to the 33rd floor. “He is the product of Project Perfecto. Doharty thought his father was molding him into perfection all these years but no, that was never his father, that was one of the most decorated agents we’d ever seen in the FBI. We told him what to say, when to say it, when to beat Jeff, and how to beat him. For a lifetime he did this until all that was left was raw perfection.”

Maybe she was knocked silly from her fight, Stevens thought, because everything she’s saying was far beyond his pay grade or anything he should know. However, he shot Miller a curious glance to prod her into revealing more of the FBI’s insidious planning.

“Jeff eventually murdered our agent who molded him, but that was to be expected and well worth the end product. Well, we’re nearly there after this stress test,” said Miller.

“I don’t understand, what is the damn purpose of all this then?” Stevens asked.

“AI is here and that type of perfection is something truly beyond our control. We needed a contingency to compute and compete with whatever AI throws our way in the future. Thus, Project Perfecto and thus Jeff Doharty. We’re just weathering this firestorm now and he’ll be working with us in the end. No matter how many lives it takes,” Miller wiped the blood from her lip, turned her head to the top of the Sunshine Tower. “Jeff. Come in Jeff, this is FBI agent Miller. I’m the real one in charge here now, so let’s talk.”

Stevens slammed his badge on the hood of the squad car. With it, a lifelong career in public safety and a dream the powers that be weren’t half as corrupt as his imagination led him to believe. But they were. A grotesque, delusional entity that believes its control and power to be perfection. The 54-year-old would no longer take part in it and turned his back to the Sunshine Tower, the FBI, and Project Perfecto.

“There he is!” Someone shouted. “The terrorist! He’s standing by the window. My God, do you think he’ll jump?”

“No way,” answered the voice’s friend. “That’d be pretty bad ass though. Jump! Do it, pussy! Jump!”

The crowd below recognized Jeff by his white shirt, buzz cut, and black pants. Gales of wind tugged and tossed his tie in all directions, barely visible from the ground level.

Curiosity begged Stevens to turn his head. Seducing him with thoughts of how the fate of perfect Jeff will unfold. He shrugged off the temptation and stayed the course to his family.

30 years, Stevens thought to himself, 30 years of law enforcement and dedication to this goddam city and this is how it ends? A fucked up hostage situation with a whacko who thinks himself perfect sprinkled with some FBI intervention? I thought there was more to what I was doing. I mean, clearly there is a lot more going on than I could have possibly imagined, but just the simplicity of what I did being more. Helping people every day, having them remember the help and carrying it over to help others in their lives. That something more. Maybe I did do that, but I can also do that without wearing a badge.

Stevens continued down the street lost in thoughts of what he’ll do next and taking solace it’ll include more time with his family. Then came the screams of horror from the flood of humans rushing around either side of the recently retired Sargent.

“Oh my God, he jumped! HE JUMPED!” People screamed.

This didn’t turn Stevens’ head but halted him for a moment. His fists clenched at the utter meaninglessness of the entire ordeal. Then he thought about how a narcissist of Jeff’s degree – if there ever was one – would never end themselves. Agent Miller only saw him as perfect and that his every move of his was surface level.

A sound echoed over the screams and howls of horror. A fleshy crunch intertwined with a booming crash of metal and glass. Only the sound of a body falling 33 stories onto a cop car – Stevens’ intuition assumed as Jeff hated those blue and red lights – could make that noise. Another death. Another meaningless death. Just perfect, Stevens thought.

“The hostages! Agent Murphy has rescued the hostages. SWAT is escorting them all down the tower now,” Stevens’ radio blared on his shoulder. “She reported Jeff Doharty has committed suicide and released the remaining hostages without struggle. All of them are reporting her negotiations saved them but Doharty was overcome with guilt. It’s all over!”

“That’s a crock of shit,” Stevens said without pressing the button on the radio. “He’s never felt guilt in his life.”

In a rage, Stevens bit the cable connecting the transponder and tossed the radio into the trash and hailed a taxi to take him to a birthday party he was late for.

CHAPTER 9

Weeks passed since the hostage situation at the Sunshine Tower. With so much gore and mayhem and perceived political motivations, mainstream news outlets featured nothing for months. The story was a gold mine of division, and it was far from serving its purpose – even if at this point the mine was used up and the news outlets were presenting fools gold. Up for debate was how it should have been handled, if Jeff or a second shooter really killed that woman before hitting the cop car, what radical right or left wing ideologies Jeff Doharty was following with some conspiracies claiming both, and so on. Talking heads made gaps in the narrative and filled it with their expertise which only stoked fires that burned bridges between friends and family. There were even talks of a Hollywood movie already in production (with zero proceeds going to the casualties’ familise to help them pay for the new funeral tax imposed immediately after the incident). It would feature interviews with the actual victims of the, what was being called the ‘Brutality at the Brew-haha.’ It was a curious thing, however, that none suffered any lasting PTSD or psychological trauma. In fact, they all went about their lives with grace and poise, as if they’d attended a self-realization seminar in the mountains.

Days of questioning and debriefing followed Stevens’ decision to quit the force. He gave his why, understood he was disqualified from receiving his pension, and passed a polygraph test inquiring whereabouts of FBI agent Murphy as well as both Rogers who’d all mysteriously disappeared the same day. It took about a week after his decision to quit for all the tests and questioning to subside.

Stevens was very much at peace with his decision, but it was physically leaving department building that broke his heart. Dozens of friends he’d worked with for years bid him farewell and he did nothing to deter their willingness to remain on the force. There was a goodbye breakfast filled with heartfelt stories and sentiments which made his departure that much more painful. Despite no longer wanting to be another tool on the FBI’s belt, he truly enjoyed being shoulder-to-shoulder in the trenches with his fellow officers. Now it was time to climb out of the mud and step away.

One day, he was out running errands downtown and parked his Toyota truck in the parking garage beneath the Sunshine Tower. He waited far too long and paid far too much to watch a teddy bear get a metal rod shoved up its ass and blasted with stuffing – as Stevens would so modestly describe. However, his wife had always wanted one, so there he was doing his duty. After, he moseyed through the ruckus crowd whirling around him in the mall comprising the first 10 stories of the Sunshine Tower.

Teens screamed and shouted at one another, all congregating in their social savanna known as the Sunshine Mall. All other patrons shouted just to be heard by the person next to them or on the phone. Stevens kept to himself marching through the noise, but it was the sudden and utter silence that froze him in his tracks.

At first, he thought he was having a painless stroke or some other outlandish medical condition that would explain why everybody around him had ceased to move or speak. He placed the bag holding his bear on the floor and rubbed his eyes. Even the mall music had gone silent. Presently, every person on the 8th level was staring directly at him. Stevens’ eyes – trained to notice nuance in every form – looked above and below the hollow, airy center of the mall which spiraled upward within the tower. Everybody leaned over the rails stared down or up at him. Have I finally lost it, he thought to himself. Did the pressure of being a cop hide away in my subconscious just to reemerge in a nervous meltdown? But why here? Why now? I thought I’d left this trauma behind me.

“Hello, Sargent Stevens,” said a familiar voice he’d only heard over the phone.

Stevens turned, saw a man in a black coat walk through the parting crowd. To his left was the missing FBI agent, Murphy. On his right were the Rogers brothers both in white, collared shirts tucked tightly into their jeans.

“I knew you weren’t dead,” Stevens said crossing his arms.

“And I knew you were the only one that would have figured that out. But gosh, dying does yield a certain amount of celebrity in this country,” said Jeff adjusting his Ray Band sunglasses concealing his eyes.

“How’d you do it?”

“Simply switched clothes with one of disciples and had Murphy beat my face to an unrecognizable pulp. My disciple jumped, and I assumed their role as a hostage while walking past the SWAT team. Of course, I blamed that dastardly, Jeff Doharty for the beating,” Jeff smiled revealing a missing K9.

“No, I meant how’d you convince that hostage to literally take the fall for you?” Stevens said before shifting a menacing glare to Murphy. “And you, Murphy. How the hell could you betray everything you stood for and help this guy escape? You, who warned me something bad was going to happen months ago. This is some treasonous bullshit. And both of you Rogers’, what are you getting out of helping this murderer? I’m sure by now you know I’ve quit the force, but I sure as shit never betrayed my country.”

Murphy stepped forward to speak but felt the squeeze of Jeff’s hand on her shoulder, silencing her.

“To be perfect, Stevens, is to be a god. Humans are incapable of achieving what I’ve achieved, and to serve me, to willingly give oneself to me, is the closest thing to perfection humans will ever be. By giving themselves to me, Murphy, the Rogers’, all those hostages, all these people,” Jeff spread his arms wide and the masses in the mall mimicked the gesture. “All of them are now part of my perfection. Which is quite intoxicating I’ve come to find. It's like they’re answering to a higher calling and living their destiny.”

“Is that right?” Stevens asked, unimpressed.

“THAT’S RIGHT,” echoed the entirety of the mall save for Jeff who only smiled at his strengthened telepathic control over the hundreds shouting his answer.

The noise rattled Stevens some, but his face refused to show an ounce of apprehension.

“This world is eating itself alive, Stevens,” Murphy said. “Imperfection is a tumor on the human spirit, spreading its tendrils of anger, greed, and corruption all around it. Every day those tendrils spread further, deeper, and strangle that spirit. That’s why I’ve given myself to Jeff’s perfection. It’s pure and seeks to free – no – save humanity from its terminal imperfection. Or isn’t that why you quit the force? You saw the corruption from the top level and just how little they cared about the human lives. You didn’t want to be a part of that any longer.”

“This rambling manifesto…you didn’t join perfection, Murphy, you joined a cult. His words have poisoned you. All of you!” Stevens’ shout echoed to every ear in the mall. His fear welled behind his stern gaze, utterly in disbelief at how many have been snared by Jeff’s mind control. “Innocent people have died because of him, and you want to be a part of that?”

“There’s no pleasure without pain,” Jeff said. “I, myself, wouldn’t have been spurred into action if it weren’t for the agony of receiving Violation #4848CAT20. I knew I was perfect all along, you see, but I didn’t realize to the extent. Sargent Stevens, I developed such affection for you as you and I were witnessing the growth of my perfection as it was unfolding. If you could only feel the extasy of perfection that I feel now. And that’s why I’m here.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Stevens asked.

“It wasn’t my words that inspired mass submission to my perfection,” Jeff said adjusting his glasses. “It was my divine gaze, Stevens. My eyes and the perfection that dwells within them catch hold and burns away any resistance and imperfection left in you. Staring into one’s eyes is far more impactful that words, and now whenever my disciples stare into others’ eyes, they glimpse my soul and perfection. When you think about it, when’s the last time you just stared into someone’s eyes and saw their soul?”

Stevens wiped the sweat from his forehead. At the wave of his hand, Jeff could have him tossed over the railing by a mob of perfection if he didn’t acquiesce to becoming part of the mob. Then he realized if he did, he’d go home and corrupt his wife and son. The thought sparked a fire in his own eyes and a rage he struggled to control in his words.

“I stare into my wife’s every night I go to bed. My son when we wash the truck together. My dog when I get home from work,” Stevens said through gritted teeth. “Every damn day for decades in my time a cop as a matter of fact. I’ve seen it all, dammit. Lies, addiction, loss, despair, regret, everything. I can tell if people are hurting, and if I see that pain in their eyes you bet your ass I’m going to ask what’s wrong. If they’re happy, I’m going to ask why and try to add to it.”

“All these emotions. So messy, so imperfect,” Jeff said. “They serve no purpose anymore and it’s about time we’ve evolved past these ridiculous feelings that are nothing more than genetic defects hindering progress. Imperfection, unfortunately, is intertwined with human nature when we’re meant to be one perfect collective. Only through me can this world and these imperfect humans be saved and become one.”

“Jeff, I’d rather be part of an imperfect, scattered mess than join your mindless, goddam collective one. That’s what makes people better than perfect. We’re a bunch of messy, emotional fools who can choose to stick by and love one another through our flaws,” Stevens said stepping closer to Jeff. “Sure, there’s a lot of bad people out there that muddy this whole thing, but there’s a lot of good folks out there too. There’re good people who do bad things, people who just have a bad day or make a shit decision they’ll learn and grow to regret. Regardless, we’re here to help each other out and balance the good and bad. The mistakes with the progress. We’re meant to be imperfect.”

Jeff scowled, removed his glasses.

“You’re wrong, Stevens,” Jeff said stepping to Stevens and standing 2 inches shorter. “I’ll show you.”

Their eyes met, and Stevens saw the fire burning fiercely behind Jeff’s eyes. He witnessed the perfection, its beauty, temptation, and flawless nature. Reverence became him, now understanding the appeal of Jeff’s perfection as it seduced his mind and soul. Glorious, Stevens thought to himself. Simply glorious seeing a world without pain, strife, greed, or envy. Only Jeff’s bliss.

Stevens’ arms opened wide as he stepped in to embrace Jeff. A bewildered expression overcame the retired cop’s face as it rested on perfection’s shoulder. Jeff did not reciprocate the hug. Only felt the heaving of Stevens’ body as he sobbed and submitted to his will. Never had Jeff encountered a mind and will so stubborn. Resistant to his perfection to be sure, but not impervious. Perfection, Jeff thought to himself, grows stronger this day.

“Very good, Stevens. Very good. You needed this. You deserve this,” Jeff said attempting to remove himself from Stevens’ embrace.

He couldn’t. Troubled, he shifted his weight but couldn’t break free as Stevens continued to sob. The old cop finally pulled back, hands clasping Jeff’s shoulders tightly.

The perfect being’s fire waned at the sight of Stevens. The man’s face was red and shiny from tears and smiling. They were tears of happiness, but such emotions shouldn’t be possible or necessary for someone part of perfection, Jeff mused.

“Fuck you,” Stevens smiled with trembling lips upturned in a smile. “You can’t have me.”

CHAPTER 10

It started with a low growling from Jeff – something between a cat’s groan and a child crying who was just told ‘no’ for the first time in their life. He was the epicenter of thought and feeling radiating his distain and malice to the rest of the collective perfection. Stevens stepped back, wiped his eyes as the growling heightened in intensity and spread all around him as if the wildfire controlling Jeff’s followers made itself audible. Within moments the growls and screeching behind hundreds of clenched teeth transformed into a rumble. It echoed throughout the mall sounding like a demonic choir hitting every pitch of rage and anger in its crescendo.

In a way, Stevens knew, his refusal to submit cut Jeff deeper than Violation #4848CAT20. This wasn’t some fake document that was part of an FBI test. This was a very real slight to Jeff’s perceived perfection and no amount of paperwork or ‘void’ stamps could wipe it away. Stevens’ will was fireproof and still his – no matter how hard Jeff tried in his continuous glaring.

The arrogance Stevens once saw in Jeff’s eyes was replaced by bewildered fury. If Stevens was murdered by the perfect mob now, he’d die a memory that could not be forgotten or erased. He’d become a ghost to ever haunt Jeff reminding him he was, indeed, one Sargant Mack Stevens short of perfection.

For all Stevens knew, the rest of the world was growling at him. In the weeks that’d passed since the hostage situation, there was no telling how far Jeff’s perfect wildfire spread from eye to eye.

“You’re making a big mistake,” said both Rogers’ simultaneously.

“No, I made a choice,” said Stevens. “That means more to me than having no choice at all. Or at least living with Jeff’s irrefutable, perfect choices.”

“You’re making the wrong choice. People always make the wrong choices,” said Murphy lowering her growl.

“Whether we’re the ones making them or not, wrong choices have a way of becoming lessons to learn from. Or at least I try to, I’m not perfect,” Stevens said laughing quietly to himself.

Jeff looked over either shoulder, beckoning telepathically for his fragments of perfection to disperse and resume their human interactions. Almost immediately, the growling ceased, and the clamor of the mall resumed. All that remained were Stevens, Jeff, and their unbroken gaze.

“Go on, live your life, Sargent. If you want to call what’s left of it a life. You have no idea how far my perfection has already spread or who is a part of it,” Jeff said, chest heaving up and down. “When you look into your wife’s eyes, your son’s eyes, all your friends and family…you won’t know if it’s them or my perfection staring back. You will live in constant dread and worry wondering if the world is really going on around you or if it’s all me. You will succumb to me, and I will know when it happens because I will always be watching.”

Stevens hadn’t contemplated the full capacity of Jeff’s influence or what he was capable of. If anything, he’ll only grow more powerful as time goes on, Stevens contemplated. What a hell to live in if everyone he knew and loved were under Jeff’s mind control – or soul control. The thought frightened him, made him scared for his family with flashes of his wife and son playing clearly in his mind’s eye.

“I have faith,” Stevens said, unsure why those were the words that came out of his mouth but were clearly the right ones.

“Faith? In what?” Jeff spat.

Stevens picked up his bag and pulled out the bear he was going to give to his wife for their anniversary. He squeezed it and the bear’s voice box squeaked, “I love you.”

He smiled at the cuteness of the brown, $50 teddy bear. Stevens brought his smile up to Jeff and handed him the bear.

“Faith that you’ll lighten up a little, man. Here, take this. I was going to give it to my wife for our anniversary, but I think I’ll take her on a vacation instead. 30 years with me is no easy feat,” he said handing the bear to Stevens. “A little love goes a long way. Let’s see how far it goes with you.”

Stevens turned his back on perfection and made his way to the escalator. On his slow descent, he heard through the ambient mall noises another faint, “I love you.”

A smile plastered itself on Stevens’ face all the way to the parking garage. Jeff was right, he thought, everybody he passed came with a wondering whether or not they were autonomous or part of perfection. It’s just something he’d have to get used to.

After wondering aimlessly around the garage for a few minutes trying to remember where he parked his truck, he finally found it with an exhale of relief. Stevens reached for the handle when he noticed a neon yellow slip of paper tucked under his windshield wiper. He snatched it knowing exactly what it was.

“A $40 dollar ticket!” His yell echoed throughout the garage. “For a time limit violation?”

Stevens glanced to the concrete slab in front of his truck. A sign read ‘30-minute parking.’ He raised his fist to slam it on the hood, but realized it was the encounter with Jeff that made him late and the smile returned to his face. It remained there the rest of the day, utter contentment with his choice to stay and show perfection the love it was lacking.