The guards had provided Gilbert with a fresh white t-shirt and a pair of flimsy flip-flops after escorting him to an interrogation room. They left him sitting alone in the room for what seemed like almost half an hour - could’ve been an hour and a half as far as Gilbert knew. No longer handcuffed, he sat in a somewhat comfortable office chair with his elbow propped on top of a brown table.
This has to be a mistake, he thought, has to be. I’m a patient man. This will blow over. I’m a forgiving man when it comes to cops making mistakes. No lawsuit from my ass. Fuck my front door.
Gilbert was not the kind of guy to be arrested. He hardly drove around town drunk - sometimes, yes, but that’s beside the point. He would mostly spend his days off work at his apartment, reading, writing, or cruising the internet, researching, jerking off to porn, watching dumb shit on youtube, nothing unusual. And when Blair was living with him, she’d sometimes drag his lazy ass out of the apartment for a hike, a drive to the city, out to a restaurant, a party at one of their friend’s house. A rather mundane way of life in his eyes. Even more so now that Blair was gone, out of his life somewhere, most likely with another man.
The door opened and two men wearing FBI jackets entered the interrogation room. One was holding a folder, and before sitting in one of the vacant office chairs, slapped it atop of the desk. It was thick and heavy enough that when it hit the table Gilbert jolted in his chair, his shoulders shifting. Though the expressions of both FBI agents were stern and stoic, Gilbert could see a hint of satisfaction in the fright the loud sound caused him to have.
“I’m Agent Smith,” said the Agent seated in the chair. “This man standing behind me is Agent Anderson.”
Agent Anderson leaned against the wall, stared down at Gilbert, and held his hands together before him in a stance that said the spider holds it’s prey in the web.
“Agent Smith, and Agent Anderson,” Gilbert said, a bit bewildered at this chance encounter of meeting Federal Agents with those names.
“Correct,” Agent Smith said. “Good memory.”
“Those your real names, or aliases? Because…you know.”
“Yes,” Agent Smith said, “we get ‘The Matrix’ reference a lot. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, comical,” Gilbert replied.
“Well, this is no joke, Gilbert Vergo. People have died. Murdered by someone you knew.”
Gilbert put his hands up, and said, “Wait. Stop. This has got to be a case of mistaken identity, man. I don’t get why I’m here, why a SWAT team busted down my door and arrested me. Look, I’m a very forgiving person, so it’s not a humongous deal to me that I got arrested for someone else’s crime and ending up on television, shirtless and handcuffed for a shitload of people to see. All I ask, if it is possible, is compensation for the busted down front door to my apartment.”
“So you’re a forgiving person, huh?” Agent Smith inquired, reaching in his jacket pocket, and pulling out his cellphone.
“Yes,” Gilbert said, “especially when it comes to people of the law. I have a lot of respect for you guys. You’re the protection to our freedoms, and all that.”
“Does this sound forgiving to you, Agent Anderson?” Agent Smith said, pressing his thumb on the cellphone, and holding it up.
This came from the phone’s speakers: “You send me a check. And it better not bounce, or I’m bringing your ass to fucking Judge mothafucking Judy, MOTHAFUCKA! Fucka’ you. FUCKA’ you!”
Gilbert’s mouth dropped.
“That doesn’t sound like a man who forgives to me,” Agent Anderson said.
“I concur.”
Gilbert shook his head for a second, getting his bearings together, trying to comprehend what the fuck was happening.
“You recorded that shit?” Gilbert said. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not in this era of history,” Agent Smith said. “We only started recording and monitoring your phone calls early this morning. Why’d you leave Ms. Bloom over sixty messages?”
“We lived together. She dumped me without giving me a reason. I came home from work one day, and she was gone, all her things too. You can call her to confirm it.”
“We have tried contacting Ms. Bloom,” Agent Anderson informed Gilbert.
“And? How is Blair? What she say?” Gilbert sparked with a new light. The anticipation overpowered how he felt of the predicament he found himself in.
Agent Anderson looked down at the ground.
“She hasn’t answered our calls either,” Agent Anderson admitted.
“But you can find her, right?” Gilbert asked, almost desperately. “GPS, man.”
“We know she’s within the city limits,” Agent Anderson said, looking Gilbert right in the eyes again.
“Hey, kid,” Agent Smith said, “enough about Blair Bloom. We need to focus on your connection with Paulo Henders.”
“Who?” Gilbert asked, perplexed. The name was unfamiliar to him.
“The man behind the mass shooting in Shaker Krista. Did you hear about the incident that happened last night on Halloween?”
“I saw something about a shooting on the news channel, but I didn’t pay it much mind. Didn’t it happen in Southern California?”
“Correct,” Agent Smith said.
“But this is Oregon, man.”
“Well, obviously,” Agent Smith said. “You are in custody because of your connection with Paulo Henders, the shooter.”
“I don’t know a Paulo Henders,” Gilbert said. “I know like two people living in California. Both are girls, and as far as I know, they don’t live a double life. I don’t know this Paulo.”
“On youtube he goes by another name: Ultra-tripleX.” Agent Smith opened the folder on the table, took out a sheet of paper, and pushed it toward Gilbert. The paper had an image of a man staring in the camera. He looked like he was in the middle of saying something. Behind him was a blank wall, painted in a khaki color.
“Yeah, I know Ultra-tripleX,” Gilbert said, looking at the image.
“Did you send him this e-mail?” Agent Smith placed another sheet of paper on top of the picture.
Gilbert picked up the copy of the e-mail, skimmed over it.
“Yes, I sent him this e-mail. He replied too.”
Agent Smith held up another sheet of paper, and said, “We know.”
“Of course, you’re the government,” Gilbert said.
“Why did you e-mail Paulo Henders?” Agent Smith asked.
“You guys already read the e-mails. It’s all there.”
“Tell us, so there won’t be any misinterpretation from our side.”
“Okay, Agent Smith. I saw a few of his youtube videos. I admired his art performance. The way he spoke his poetry in a kind of Stream of Conscious voice. I’m a writer you see, and I had this idea for a screenplay that had a character like the one he performed as. A type of misanthropic, iconoclast type of figure. I e-mailed him for his insight. And he replied, saying he appreciated my compliments about his videos.” A realization comes to Gilbert. “And you know what, he did say his first name was Paulo, but didn’t mention his last name. It was like a month ago I had this exchange with him.”
“In your viewing of his youtube videos, Mr. Vergo, did you see any indication he’d commit the mass shooting at the fraternity in Shaker Krista?” Agent Smith asked.
“He was playing a character. A whining, bitching narcissist, spouting how much he disliked American society. You know, he’s not the only one on youtube that plays a character.”
“You know there was only one person subscribed to his channel?”
“No, but I’m guessing it was me being that I’m here in an interrogation room.”
“Not only were you the only one subscribed to his channel, Mr. Vergo, but the only person to watch his videos. Why didn’t you call the authorities to warn of the ticking time bomb that was Ultra-tripleX, a.k.a: Paulo Henders?”
Putting his hands up and shaking them, Gilbert said, “Whoa! Whoa! How the fuck was I suppose to know he’d kill people? He never said he was going to. Plus he never brandished guns in any of the videos. This has got to be a joke. Am I on some reality prank show?” Gilbert looked up at the security camera filming the scene. “Hardy fuckin’ har, guys. The jokes over.”
“That’s enough,” Agent Smith said. “Stand up, Mr. Vergo, put your hands behind your back. You are under arrest for being an accessory to the murder of the people at Zion Fraternity.”
Agent Anderson walked up to Gilbert, nudged his shoulder.
“Come on, get up,” he said.
“No fucking way, man,” Gilbert said. “This is too unreal to be true. How can Federal Agents be named Anderson and Smith anyway? What are the chances?”
“Get the fuck up, or I’ll taser your ass,” Agent Anderson commanded. He made a gesture to reach for a taser.
Gilbert stood right up.
“Okay, man,” he said. “Chill, chill. I’m not a violent person.”
As Anderson cuffed Gilbert’s hands behind his back, Smith recited the Miranda rights.
“Do you understand these rights I’ve just read to you?” Agent Smith asked.
“I don’t understand anything right now,” Gilbert said. “I’ll just shut up until I see a lawyer.”
Ultra-tripleX Vlog# 4: Omne Initium
“Hello there, everyone. Ultra-tripleX here, and thank you for watching and listening. Though none of my videos so far have any views doesn’t mean I’m going to cease uploading new ones. I’d like to think - and I know I’m not the only one who believes this - that nearly every beginning goes unnoticed, especially in this day in age. Just because the flow of information is by far the most gargantuan in humanity’s history doesn’t mean the commencement of the best of things are known about immediately. I mean, look at what I have to compete with on youtube, all these prank shows - most of which are ridiculous - all these new wave of critics with no actual publications in the world outside of youtube, these political types spouting their opinions as if they’ll inflict any kind of influence whatsoever. And all these fools make a living at it with the Adsense, making pennies with every click of the viewer’s mouse. Andy Warhol once said everyone will have their fifteen minutes of fame. He must have built his own time machine out of soup cans or something because it’s becoming true. (shrugs shoulders, lifts hands into frame) Hey, maybe I’ll end up on TV for some reason and have my own fifteen. I’ll enjoy the cocaine in the greenroom. Never had that shit before, but I won’t say no to Conan O’brien. Anyway, I’ll get back to myself, to my moment, my beginning. I must admit that the beginning is the most comfortable, a place where I can be most sane, true, honest, and not speak lies. (a moment of silence) The other night I went on a date with a girl I was introduced to by a coworker of mine. (chuckles, then belly laughs) Oh, shit, I took her to an Opera, and goddamn did she hate it. She ended up falling asleep, and snored so loud the uppity types gave me the dirtiest looks. I woke her up of course. And being the kind of rude bitch she was, she didn’t apologize. Afterwards she dragged me to a club where we downed some shots, then dry humped on the dance floor. I tried to enjoy myself, but the act felt soulless and without passion. I get nothing if those two characteristics are absent. She later scored some weed before we left, and I drove her home She was at least polite enough to invite me into her place, but I don’t smoke grass, nor do I fuck skanks. My again wasted by a talking Zombie. (rubs hands over his face) Why do I do such things to myself? Being with that thing that night killed my braincells. (impersonates a female) ‘Like, oh my God, what she did was like, you know, so…MEAN! Like, you know?’ (back in his normal self) No, I don’t know, you stuffed animal. You cannot complete an actual thought with that Jello of a brain you made with weed, coke, sugar, and Red Dye number four. What to do next, viewers, is to get myself out to the world. Explore. And I’ll bring you reports on what I found in the environment that is civilization. See you later.”
Not even my dreams are this strange, Gilbert thought to himself as a cop placed his finger tips on the paper, smudging the ink imprint of his finger prints. When the cop rolled and pressed down each of his fingers, a tingle went up his spine to the back of his head. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. The most vivid, trippy dream he ever had.
I think I’m in a fucking coma, or something, he thought, Maybe I swallowed a bottle of pills, and as I lay unconscious, slowly dying, this is going on in my head. Yes, that’s it. As I go into the light, God punishes me by having experience this horrendous and horrible event that I’m at the center of. There really was no shooting. No one died. And I’m not really about to go to jail.
“Look straight at the camera,” a cop commanded. “Don’t smile, asshole.”
The camera takes Gilbert’s picture. An image he’s certain will be on television with in the hour.
“Now, turn to your left.”
Gilbert’s profile was taken.
He could hear the words going to be spoken by the news anchors and pundits once his picture, along with the image of him without a shirt and handcuffed outside his apartment, was released.
He could hear the news anchor saying something like: “Here’s the man authorities have taken into custody in Eugene, Oregon for his apparent connection to the mass shooting committed at the college town Shaker Krista outside San Luis Obispo, California. His name is Gilbert Vergo. Police have not released any more information on the exact reason for his arrest.”
A pundit would say: “A man was arrested in Eugene, Oregon in connection to the shooting at Shaker Krista. And I must say, people, the man defines militant if I ever did see it. Just look at that tattoo. ‘I Heart Blair.’ Is that a reference to The Exorcist? Was this horrific tragedy done because of some Satanic ritual of some kind?”
Gilbert thought he was over-exaggerating a little bit. He felt certain he would be released by the end of the day. If not, eventually. There was no way they could put the deaths of those college kids on him. How? Because he watched some dude on youtube? He thought back to those videos Ultra-tipleX uploaded to youtube. There were only six of them if he remembered correctly, but he was not positive, it had been a while since he last watched Ultra-tripleX’s channel.
He sat in a holding cell, wearing an orange prison uniform. The correctional officer said a judge would see him before the end of the day for his bail hearing.
Four hours later Gilbert found himself in a courtroom behind a partition made of prison bars that reminded him of a birdcage. Behind him were two SWAT members, geared up, holding their submachine guns in the ready. Gilbert had the suspicion the safeties being turned off.
“Mr. Vergo,” the Judge began to say, “you are charged with being an accessory to the murder of thirteen people, along with fifteen counts of being an accessory to attempted murder.” The Judge looked around the courtroom. “Is there anyone here representing Mr. Vergo’s defense?”
A lady dressed in a purple blazer who represented the persecution spoke.
“He as of yet has not been appointed representation, your honor,” she said.
“Mr. Vergo, in time you will be appointed one,” the Judge said.
“Okay,” Gilbert said.
The Judge shot Gilbert an extremely disapproving look, that made clear Gilbert was not to speak unless spoken to. Feeling ashamed for speaking, he looked down at his handcuffs. It felt like a heavy weight dropped on top of his head, almost crushing his skull.
“What does the persecution recommend for bail?” the Judge asked.
“Due to the severity of the crimes, and the evidence provided by Federal Authorities, we ask bail be set for five hundred thousand dollars,” the lady said, raising her brow as if what she recommended was the fairest, most justifiable thing ever uttered by a law abiding citizen.
Gilbert’s head shot up, his mouth dropped. Shocked is not the right word to described the look on his face. Horrified seems more appropriate a description.
“Oh-kay,” the Judge said, over-emphasizing the O. “Bail shall be set at the amount of five hundred thousand.”
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Gilbert burst out. “Five hundred thousand! Is everyone in the courtroom on drugs but me?”
The Judge looked at Gilbert with a grin.
“I now set bail for one million dollars,” he said, pointing his finger in Gilbert’s direction. “With the addition of twenty five days in custody for contempt of court.”
“HOLY! FUCKIN’! SHIT!” Gilbert said with his mouth open as much as humanly possible at each word spoken. “You can’t be serious. A million fucking dollars. I work at a book store, man. How is this fucking possible? I didn’t even really know the fucker. It happened over a thousand miles away from where we are at right now, in another fucking state. Please, your honor, is this even humane?”
“Due to your outburst, I hold you in contempt for fifty days. And you will cease to cuss in my courtroom.”
“I can’t pay the ridiculous cost of my bail anyway. What’s the use of holding me in contempt? Whatever the fuck ever, man. This is a fucking Circus, and everyone but me is a freak.”
“I hold you in contempt for seventy-five days, Mr. Vergo. Officers, take this wretched man out of my court.”
The two SWAT members grabbed Gilbert by his arms and dragged him out the door into the hallway, escorting him to the holding cell.
“A million fucking dollars,” Gilbert said, beginning to tear up. “This nightmare is the worst I’ve ever had. Please wake up, Gilbert.”
“Keep it up, boy,” said one of the SWAT men. “You’re just making it worse for yourself every time you open your mouth.”
“The world is fucked,” Gilbert said, now weeping like a child who’s parents ate their Halloween candy.
“The world is fine,” the SWAT man said, chuckling, “but you’re fucked.”
