The Carma Klown 6

Chapter 6

© 2013 by the author

Wednesday, ca. 7:30 a.m., June 9, 2010

“Why are you all dressed up?” Michael stopped midway through buttering a slice of toast and looked up in surprise as Jeff entered the kitchen. “And isn’t it kinda early for you? You were up past two last night. You woke me up when you took your shower, and I looked at the clock. You only got four-five hours of sleep.”

“Dressed up? What do you mean?” Jeff yawned. “Is there more bread or did you take it all again?”

“Usually you wear a T-shirt to work.” In answer to the last question, Michael pointed to the loaf of bread sitting on the counter.

“I wear shirts sometimes.” Jeff looked down at the pale green, short-sleeved shirt he had just put on. He scowled at it. “Is this too formal?”

“Depends on what you’re doing today?”

“I told you last night, Michael. I’m being interviewed by Geo Arlecchini. He called Carson yesterday, and Carson set it up. He thinks it will be good PR.”

“Who’s Geo whatshisname?”

“Geo Arlecchini. I told you last night, when you finally got home. Don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Hey, back off, you don’t have to snap at me. I’m just asking.” Michael suddenly sounded as grumpy as Jeff. “It’s not my fault if you don’t get enough sleep. You could go to bed earlier instead of staying up all night. I tried to be quiet when I got up. I’m sorry if I woke you up. I worked fifteen hours yesterday trying to track down leads on The Carma Klown. I had a frustrating day. I had a lot on my mind, and I was tired when I got home. I’m sorry if I wasn’t paying attention. I just wanted to get some sleep.” Michael smiled apologetically. At least he hoped he looked apologetic. What is Jeff getting all upset about anyway, he thought. It isn’t like it could be anything important. He tried a more placatory tone. Maybe that would lower the temperature in the room. “So, please, tell me again. Who’s this guy you’re going to see?”

“Geo Arlecchini. He runs a website about games.” Jeff spoke slowly and carefully as if he were attempting—with difficulty—to keep the anger out of his voice. “He has lots of followers. A recommendation from him can mean several thousand more sales. He wants to interview me about how games are written.”

“Maybe you should put on a tie then.”

“Are you out of your mind? A tie?” Jeff glared in irritation. “Jeez, he’ll think I’m some sort of corporate hack if I wear a fucking tie. I’m supposed to be a writer of cutting-edge games.”

“Okay, okay. Just trying to help.” More and more it seemed to Michael that whenever Jeff got tense or felt pressured, his temper flared up and the arguments escalated so easily. He tried to tell himself that Jeff acted this way toward him only because he felt it was safe to get angry at him. What he really wanted to do was scream back at Jeff, to tell him that he didn’t have time to put up with all this shit right now, that he was sorry, okay, goddammit, he was sorry, but Jeff’s problems weren’t his fault. Instead he smiled weakly and shrugged.

“You’re right.” Jeff abruptly pulled the shirt out of the waistband of his pants and started unbuttoning it. “A shirt’s not right. I’ll wear a T.” He wheeled about and rushed out of the room.

A few seconds later, Michael heard drawers being opened and shut. He took the opportunity of Jeff’s absence to grab his coat and leave. It was best, he had found, to get out of the way when Jeff was in one of his moods. As he went out the door, he called out in the most neutral voice he could muster, “I’m off. I’ll see you later. What about dinner at Blanca’s tonight? 7:00? Okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He would text Jeff later to remind him and confirm the time.

*****

Wednesday, ca. 7:30 a.m., June 9, 2010

It was a moment for self-congratulation, he felt. He owed himself that much. He lifted his cup of tea and saluted the screen, where a dim reflection of his face and body were superimposed on the Klown’s image at the end of the video.

It was his first production with two “victims.” He had wondered if that would make it more difficult, but everything had gone smoothly, just as he had planned. Perhaps a future session could feature two korporate kriminals in a bidding war to see which of them would pay more for the privilege of demonstrating exactly how much he liked to worship another man’s asshole. Maybe three, or even more, rimmers forming a daisy chain, each with his nose shoved up another man’s ass, except for the unlucky ones at the front and back ends of the line. Unless he had enough participants to form a circle. Or maybe even a contest. Four contestants, three elimination rounds. A panel of distinguished judges drawn from the ranks of gay porn actors critiquing each candidate’s efforts. “Mr. X’s tongue work lacks finesse.” “Mr. Y demonstrated a playful inventiveness in the use of spit.” “Loved Mr. Z’s groans. I want him for my next video.” People could vote in the comments section, and the person receiving the least votes would be eliminated. He would have to think about that. He had so many ideas, his mind was filled with them. Which contestant would have that elusive XXX factor?

Also, the selection of participants for the video had been perfect. He had to acknowledge that he couldn’t have made the video without them. Of course, viewers of the video would soon be calling them the Klown’s latest “victims.” He detested, really detested, that term. “Victims” was just plain wrong. The media in particular had become wedded to it. The chosen men weren’t victims. They were the deserving recipients of punishment. He just didn’t care at all for the implications of “victim”—the media’s use of the term was simply another example of their general laziness. They just could not be bothered to take the time to understand what he was doing. He resolved to devote some thought to how he could make his point more explicit.

Still, he felt he had to be fair. If his videos were to be effective, he had to understand how others saw them and make whatever adjustments were needed to deliver his point clearly. He could appreciate that those who identified with the participants might view them as victims, but no one, he thought—no reasonable person, that is—would consider these two to be victims, at least not in the same way as the participants in the other videos. They were examples—and warnings. He hadn’t selected them because of what they had done but because of who they were. That was necessary in order to send the message he wanted to send. He needed two men who hadn’t committed the financial and environmental crimes his previous examples had. Two men whose crimes, if indeed they had committed any worth noting, were minor and unknown, secret little thefts or small omissions, nothing of public importance, two men who had nothing in common with the participants in the previous videos. And the humiliation had been different this time—just enough to show his target audience that he could make anyone do whatever he wished. At most the video would be an embarrassment for the two men. Well, they shouldn’t be embarrassed. They should feel privileged to have been chosen to star in his seventh video. And if they did feel humiliated, that was their own problem. He had no desire to humiliate them, and it wouldn’t be his fault if they were so small-minded not to get the joke and to appreciate the honor of being chosen as vehicles for his message in this bit of public theater.

Nor had he made them reveal their names or addresses on the video. He didn’t even show their faces clearly. He had searched their bodies for some other physical attribute, a particular mole or a tattoo that was usually not visible and that was unique enough to them to link them beyond question to the video. But there hadn’t been anything dramatic enough to be usable. In the end, in a moment of serendipity, he had found the perfect means of identifying them. It was a stroke of genius, even if he did say so himself. And just in case that they tried to deny that it was them in the video or others tried to deny it on their behalf, he had marked them with the CK tattoo. For the two men’s colleagues, those verifiable IDs would be enough. And that was really all that mattered.

Nor would he make the video public. He had decided against that. There was a far more effective way to deliver the message to his intended audience. It wasn’t his intent to do anything but make a point. The message was meant for the two men’s colleagues, and the video would be sent only to them. He had no doubt, however, that some recipient would give in to temptation and post the video online or release it to the media. It really was too delicious to resist. It wouldn’t take long for the video to go viral. Of course, the police would question the two men later, but they would remember nothing.

The message—well, that was simple and straightforward enough. He hadn’t tried to be subtle. This time, he felt, he needed to deliver a punch to the nose, a hard uppercut to the jaw, given the general stupidity of the swine in his target audience. He had made the message so simple and spelled it out so clearly that everyone who saw the video would understand what he was saying: If I can get these two men to do this, I can get anyone—including you—to do anything. You, yes you, might wake up some morning to discover that you had become the latest star in a Carma Klown video—your secret vices exposed to the world. It didn’t matter that it was the first time you had exhibited that particular vice. Now, everyone would know of your affinity for assholes. And you could deny all you liked that it wasn’t you in the video, and that you would never ever rim another man with such obvious relish, but the video wasn’t a lie. Experts could take it apart, and they would swear under oath that the “victim” of the video was exactly who he appeared to be—you. Oh, you might be able to convince a few people that it was manufactured, that some clever computer operator had manipulated the image to superimpose your head on someone else’s body or had somehow inserted your body and your voice onto a video of someone else doing this vile, despicable act. But you wouldn’t convince everyone. They might agree with you to your face, but they would be thinking, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” And that certainly was a smoking hot ass in the video with you, and you were doing everything you could to set it on fire. And then there was that little matter of the CK tattoo on your left buttock. How to explain away that stylish addition to your body?

He was particularly proud of the red herrings in this video, little gifts for Michael Chang to find. He could see Chang running to his captain and trumpeting his discoveries. How many hours would the police waste chasing after those “clues,” clues that led nowhere near him, the first in a series of clues that implicated someone else? He had carefully picked the image he would use and had blown it up to the right size to attach to the wall. It was reflected on every shiny surface, and there were so many impossible-to-miss reflective surfaces in this video. The cops would leap on that “mistake.” He could hear them now: “The Carma Klown fucked up. He isn’t perfect. Carmie Klownie made a boo-boo.” Wrong, dickheads. The Carma Klown hasn’t fucked up. He is perfect. He never makes mistakes. It’s a trap, you fools, but you’ll never see that.

And the image was perfect—it wasn’t obvious. Chang would have to labor over it to develop it, and it would take him a lot of effort to identify it. So much time would go into detecting the one and only possible original that could result in that reflection that Chang and his colleagues would value it all the more. After expending so many hours of work, it wouldn’t enter their minds that they could be wrong, that they were being led down a primrose path of his choosing.

The game was becoming even more interesting and rewarding. Now, it was time to start planning the eighth video. But first he needed another cup of tea.

*****

Wednesday, ca. 9:00 a.m., June 9, 2010

“Hey, you must be Jeff Corelli. Thanks for meeting with me.”

Geo Arlecchini wasn’t quite what Jeff had expected. He hoped his face hadn’t betrayed his surprise. Arlecchini was thin, almost emaciated. His arms and legs were like pencils. Apparently he never went out in daylight. He was bleached-looking. The black T-shirt and shorts he wore accentuated the pallor of his skin. Jeff knew from references on Arlecchini’s website that he was in his late twenties, but the man standing in the doorway looked much older. His head was shaved to the scalp and waxed until it shone. A moustache and goatee surrounded his mouth and covered his chin; the rest of his face was shaved cleaned, but the dark shadows under his skin implied a heavy beard. He had little flesh on his face. The skin was thin over his prominent nose and his high cheekbones, and stretched tight across his forehead. His cheeks were hollow, almost cadaverous. His eyes were an indeterminant color. His pupils were so dilated that the irises were only narrow bands of color surrounding them. Jeff wondered if he was on drugs.

Arlecchini shook Jeff’s hand and then step aside and motioned for him to enter his apartment. “Coffee? I have a great espresso machine. Do you know Peggy’s on Hudson? They roast beans every morning. I figured since you were Italian like me, you like strong coffee. So I got their special Italian roast. It’s great. The machine’s ready. It won’t take long.”

“I’m only a quarter Italian,” said Jeff. “But I love coffee.”

“A latte? An espresso?”

“Espresso for me.”

“Good man. You don’t dilute. Already I like you. Have a chair. Two espressos coming up.” Arlecchini’s apartment was one large room. The kitchen stretched along the length of the interior wall. It was separated from the rest of the room by a work counter.

Jeff leaned against the counter and watched Arlecchini as he made the coffee. “You look like you’ve had a lot of practice. Did you ever work as a barista?”

“No. When I bought the machine, I asked Peggy if she would teach me how to use it. It took me several hours of practice, but I finally got to the point I could pull a cup that satisfied her. She said I wasn’t good enough to work in her shop yet but that at least I was no longer committing criminal assault on the beans I was using. Okay, we—are—ready. Why don’t you sit over there, and I’ll bring it to you.”

Arlecchini placed the small cup on the table next to Jeff. “Do you mind if I record the interview? I find I can concentrate better on the conversation if I don’t have to take notes at the same time. As I told you when I called, I’ll let you read the edited text of the interview before I post it online. If the recording comes out clear enough, I may even post that.” Arlecchini didn’t wait for Jeff to answer. He placed a small tape recorder on the table and turned it on.

“Okay, why don’t we start with your background? You’re not a native New Yorker. I can tell from your accent.”

Jeff gave a quick summary of his life.

“And are you married? Partnered?”

“I have a partner.”

“Is she in the game business too?”

“He. And he’s a detective with the NYPD. He specializes in computer crime. We’ve been together since our junior year of college.”

Arlecchini nodded. The news that Jeff was gay didn’t seem to come as a surprise. Jeff got the impression that he had suggested that the partner was a woman simply as a means of checking Jeff’s honesty. Arlecchini asked a few more personal questions and then moved the conversation to Jeff’s work. He had a detailed, first-hand knowledge of all the games that Jeff had helped write. “I think many gamers will be surprised to learn of the amount of work that goes into writing the story outlines for games. We tend to think of games as being visual and interactive. Since the player appears to be creating the story as he plays, I think there’s a feeling that somehow the story is evolving and being created as we play.”

“Well, a lot goes into the backstory for each character in a game, and a lot of people are involved. Not just writers, but visual artists. Camera and sound techs. It’s a joint effort of a team. We want a character whose story not only makes sense but who looks and sounds the part. It helps me write the bio and the backstory for the characters if I know what they look like, what they wear, how they sound. And what they look like and how they speak depends on the life history we writers create for them. So our work is a process of shared inspiration. It’s dialectical rather than linear. I have an idea. Other people take that idea and modify it. Then it comes back to me, and I modify my idea. We keep doing that until we have a complete character. That’s what we’re aiming for—a well-rounded character. And we take it to a level of detail that may well be irrelevant to the people who eventually play the game. It may not be necessary to the game to know that the particular character eats raw meat for breakfast every day or is a coffee fanatic, but it helps us conceive the character to know that he does.” Jeff explained.

“So, recursive feedback loops? Speaking of coffee fanatics, can I make you another espresso?”

The interview continued for another hour. Jeff had been reluctant to participate in it when his bosses first broached the idea. His knee-jerk reaction to people asking him questions dated to his teenage years when he felt that he had to keep his sexuality totally secret. Questions about his personal life still disturbed him and made him uncomfortable. But Carson and Will had made it clear that Arlecchini’s posting of the interview would be great publicity. As they had instructed, he mentioned all the games and updates currently in development. In the event, the interview turned out easier than he had expected. Arlecchini wasn’t particularly interested in his personal life. His focus was on the creative and technical process, and he understood it so well that his questions were intelligent and to the point.

“I really enjoyed this. I didn’t think I would.”  Jeff paused at the door to Arlecchini’s apartment. “Maybe after the interview is published, we could have lunch sometime.” It felt really great to talk to someone who listened and thought what you were doing was important. He left in a much better mood.