The Benefits of Wrestling with One’s Conscience

I’ve always preferred strong women. That’s probably one of the worst-kept secrets of my personal and romantic life—such as that is. What I’d always meant, though, is that I usually found myself drawn to strong-willed women. A demure and submissive one can be a nice a change of pace, but I tend to get bored with them quickly. I prefer spending time with someone who can be a partner in our decisions and adventures, rather than me having to make all of the decisions. Although Sarah was a bit of a surprise, once she got a bit smashed . . . but that’s a story for another time.

I don’t remember why I’d gone to the bar that night. I usually don’t like to drink alone. It’s more of a social experience with me, even if I do occasionally indulge myself with a drink alone at home. I think I was waiting for a buddy who didn’t show. He ended up having a fight with his girlfriend or something and never made it. I had about finished nursing one drink, stalling for my second one until my friend got there, when I noticed her at the bar.

I’m not sure how she drew my attention at first. It might have been some kind of unconscious recognition, or maybe something about the way she moved or held herself. At first, I thought she was a large woman. I don’t necessarily find that unattractive. I’m not usually drawn to them, but some have a way of carrying themselves, a certain air of self-assuredness and confidence that announces, “This is the way I am. I’m comfortable with it.” Some of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life has been with women who were carrying with few more pounds and inches than many people find socially acceptable. Their loss.

When she turned toward the guy on her left, clearly someone that she wished was sitting somewhere else in the bar—if not on another continent—and revealed her profile that I recognized her. It was then that I also realized that those few extra pounds I thought she was carrying were all muscle. It had to be. There was no other way that she could perform the way she did in professional wrestling ring otherwise. I’d seen her take down men a quarter again her size—and take down hard.

And speaking of hard, I discovered that my rod had gone swollen and stiff against the fabric of my pants. That bothered me . . . a little. I’ve never thought of her—or any her other female wrestling companions—in quite that way before. Clearly, something in my brain did.

Now, I’m no fool. I know that those cage matches are as much theatrics as athletics. Big and beefy as those guys (and girls) are, there’s no way their bodies could take that kind of beating and be back two days later for Round Two.

Making a Game of Guilt

- Ready Player One -

I let him die.

I left him to perish in a wash of his own filth. I knew it would happen. And I let it happen anyway. Because, you know, business.

It’s no secret that most gamers are obsessive types. It’s what tends to bond them together—and also what keeps good people from playing good games. Once the hardcore gamers settle in, it stops being fun for everyone else.

He was one of those. I knew it the first time I met him. He had that look—the ways that his eyes shifted, the unconscious motions of his hands, as if they were lost without a game controller or keyboard to occupy them. When I saw him, I knew we had to have him.

On that day, when he signed the contract, I had set him up to die.

There’s something you need to know.

Those who work in and for the gaming industry do it out of love. It’s about the only place outside of the movie industry where you can get paid to create that kind of immersive experience. The pay is low and the hours are long, but it’s worth it to almost everyone who participates in it to be able to claim that they had a part in creating “that thing”—particularly if it somehow manages to hit blockbuster status or at least wide public awareness. There’s also a strange sense of community, of both being in as part of the secret while the game is in development, and then later when people start playing it.

Sure, I’ve heard authors and publishers say that same thing about their field, but let’s face it, most people want to see stuff on the screen rather than just in their heads.

The thing is: the more immersive it is, the better it is. But it’s also addictive. It’s become to cliché to acknowledge that relationships and jobs are lost by gamers so caught up in “leveling up just one more time”, that it’s almost barely noticed in the news any more—unless the game or gamer involved is newsworthy for some other reason.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t even really an employee of the company. Sure, we compensated him, chiefly in promotional items such as posters and t-shirts. We’d probably contributed to a majority of what passed for his wardrobe over time—which probably also contributed to no one realizing that he was dead for so long. He’d had no need to do any laundry for weeks.

When the news broke, most of the people here shrugged. He had been a name without a face to most of them. Now, he was an account to deactivate and a resource to replace. Other than myself, I think only Sara in Legal expressed any kind of real concern or remorse. And her interest was wholly professional, of course. He had hardly been the kind of guy who would have interested her. For one, he would have hardly fit into her refined and polished Ivy League graduate crowd. And, second, he wasn’t a she. She preferred women. I’d learned that one the hard way.

Once assured that his contracts had all been properly signed and executed, even Sara forgot about him, other than as something she could bill the company for.

I had never met him in person. I had chatted with him two, maybe three, times over video. He hadn’t attended either of the conventions that we’d offered to comp him for. I got the idea that he didn’t get out much—by his own choice. I wondered if he even had his groceries delivered.

And now he was dead.

There were murmurs among the development team about listing his name in credits as some of memoriam. I think Sara squelched that one, though. The company was concerned, she said, about calling any kind of attention to the incident.

“Concerned” and “incident”. Those sounded like such nice subtle abstractions, allowing them to avoid admitting that a person had died while working for them. Those are not words that I would have chosen. But then, no one wanted to hear my words on the matter.

- Ready Player Two -

Jameson had smelled worse. It was not the first time he had responded to a Well Person Check, only to find that the person they had been sent to check on had been far from well. Usually, though, they tended to either be elderly folks who had suffered some kind of medical emergency and been unable to call for help, or drug addicts who had OD’d. The mess and the odors were pretty much the same. The main difference was that the old people usually had neat houses.

It seemed to be a thing for them, Jameson decided, remembering how tidy and organized his grandmother had kept her house, even during her final months. It made investigations easier, he knew, rather than sorting through the piles of assorted garbage and filth that usually accompanied an overdose.

This one, though, was new to him.

The guy was young, but his strongest drug of choice seemed to have been those thin cans of Red Bull. What had killed him . . . Jameson could only guess. He suspected that the guy’s diet—based on the assorted bags of Cheetohs and corn chips he found scattered around—had probably contributed to it. Even with the aroma of death, Jameson suspected that the guy had not showered for a few days either.

The television set remained on, stuck on a scene from some video game that Jameson didn’t recognize. He wasn’t much of a player, so hadn’t kept up on the latest releases—short of commercials on the web or at the movies. He had played some in college, but had not been particularly good at it.

Loser.

He didn’t say it out loud, but it was the word that came to mind when he eyed the sagging bulk of the guy in the loveseat. He wondered whether the landlord would try to clean it or toss it out before offering the place for rent again. At the prices that even the cheapest places commanded these days in this area, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the landlord had already posted the place as “Available”. Dead people don’t pay rent—and it could take forever to try to collect it from someone’s estate.

Jameson moved back through the small apartment, following the trail left by the crime scene team. They had found nothing remarkable or noteworthy; he hadn’t expected them to. They stood outside the front door of the apartment now, comparing notes. Jameson couldn’t blame them—the air inside the place was foul.

He peeked once more into the small room in the back that served as a bedroom. Jameson had seen larger closets. He wasn’t sure that it hadn’t once been one. With the real estate prices being what they were, and rents being what the market could bear—and it could apparently bear quite a lot—people were converting whatever spaces they could into leasable units. The inspectors couldn’t keep up with them all.