Chapter 2

Brian Abell woke up with a grunt. His tongue was thick with the taste of old garlic and bread. A piece of crust stuck to the side of his cheek. It was cold and greasy from the previous night’s dinner. Last night he found three slices of Little Caesar’s stuffed in the back of his fridge. He wiped it off with his shirt and swung his legs over the side of his sunken mattress, the springs creaking like protest. The trailer creaked too, as it always did in the morning heat. The song “Born to Be My Baby” by Bon Jovi was playing in low volume in the background. A dusty beam of light slipped through the torn blinds. They were casting stripes across the linoleum floor. Brian shuffled into the kitchenette, opened the fridge, and pulled out the pizza box. Two slices left. Breakfast was served.

He didn’t bother heating them up. He devoured them cold. He stood over the sink and crumbs caught in his chest hair. His stomach gurgled in protest, but hunger always won. After brushing his teeth with a frayed toothbrush and spitting into the rust stained sink, he plopped onto his torn recliner. The cushions had molded perfectly into the shape of his body over the years, like an imprint of his solitude. He pulled out his phone and opened TikTok.

For the next fifteen minutes, Brian scrolled while listening to his favorite Bon Jovi songs. His screen glowed softly in the dim light of the trailer, illuminating the hollows of his face as video after video flickered by, endless loops of flawless young women. They were dancing, lip syncing, and complaining about life. He recognized most of them by name. He knew their handles, their upload times, and their favorite filters. Some he had followed for years. Others had become part of his daily routine, like morning coffee or taking out the trash.

His thumb moved with a practiced rhythm. He paused now and then to watch a clip again. Or a third time. He lingered on certain angles, certain smiles. He always tapped the heart icon. Always left a kind word, “You’re amazing,” “So gorgeous,” “Perfect as always.” The comments vanished into a sea of thousands, but he posted them anyway. Like casting messages into a bottle and tossing them into a tide he knew would never return them. Some part of him, buried deep beneath years of rejection and resignation, still clung to the absurd hope that maybe, just maybe, one of them would notice. One of them would reply. One of them would see something in him no one else ever had. He knew it was not real. But knowing did not make it easier to stop.

Eventually, Brian closed the TikTok app and opened Reddit. His thumb moved out of habit more than he thought. He went straight to r/politics, where the same recycled debates about Trump and Biden had been looping for days like a broken record in an echo chamber. Still, he returned every day, scrolling, reading, arguing. He hated Donald Trump with a passion that bordered on religious. The arrogance. The cruelty. The smirking bravado that reminded him too much of the bullies who used to throw food at him in high school. He loathed everything the man represented: entitlement, power without merit, cruelty wrapped in a punchline. And he despised the right wing movement behind him even more.

Today’s thread: Who would win in 2024? Brian cracked his knuckles, already feeling the blood on his fingertips start to buzz. There were not many Republicans in this particular forum, but the ones that were here he loved arguing with them. He loved showing them how wrong they were. Trump’s a fascist. He typed quickly. Anyone who votes for him is endorsing white supremacy, authoritarianism, and the slow death of American democracy. He paused, then added. Biden’s old for sure, but at least he believes in the Constitution. At least he’s not trying to burn it to the ground. He hit “post” and sat back, waiting for the replies to come. The insult always came, the arguments, and the downvotes. But that was the point. It wasn’t just about being right. It was about being heard. Even if only for a moment.

Brian Abell spent hours in the politics forums, sharpening his arguments like blades, but his favorite battleground was the dating forums. That was where the real fire lived. It was where resentment simmered beneath every post, every comment. Any thread that criticized men, no matter how mildly, felt like a personal attack. He jumped in with both feet, defensive and raw. He called out what he saw as hypocrisy. He ranted about double standards. The way some women demanded kindness and empathy but did not extend it in return. The way dating apps felt like meat markets where he was always left to rot on the shelf. He filled paragraphs with frustration, recounting stories of rejection, of being overlooked, of feeling invisible.

But nothing enraged him more than one particular phrase. When a fat woman would casually declare that she would never date a fat man. That she found fat men repulsive! It hits like a slap to the face every time. He hated the way it was said so openly, without shame. As if someone like him didn’t even deserve basic decency. As if the pain he carried. The ridicule, the loneliness, and the years of rejection didn’t matter. As if his existence itself was a punchline. He fought back, in comments and long winded replies. Not to change minds, he knew that was impossible, but to shout into the void. To scream that he was still here. Still watching. Still waiting to be seen.

Brian was halfway through a Reddit post on corporate greed when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the cracked screen. It was Mike Beall. He let it ring twice. It was just enough not to seem desperate. He then answered.

“Yo.” He said.

“Hey, man,” Mike’s voice rasped through the speaker.

He always sounded like he would either just woken up or was halfway through a cigarette.

“You busy?” Mike asked.

Brian leaned back in his squeaky chair, scratching absently at his stomach.

“Just arguing with some MAGA clowns on Reddit.” He said.

Mike gave a low chuckle.

“Still doing the Lord’s work, huh?” Mike said.

“Somebody’s got to,” Brian muttered.

“These psychos are ready to hand the country over to a dictator. If Trump wins in ‘24, it’s game over. Seriously. America’s done.” Brian said.

“You said that last time.” Mike said.

“Because it’s true. The guy’s a fascist in a suit three sizes too big and a spray tan. I swear, if someone just made him vanish, poof, we’d all be better off.” Brian said.

Mike paused.

“Careful, man. You say that kind of stuff online, you’ll have the FBI knocking on your door.” Mike said.

Brian snorted.

“Good. Maybe they’ll fix my plumbing while they’re at it.” Brian said.

Mike laughed, low and gravelly. Brian allowed himself to faintly smile.

“But hey, that’s not why I called. You remember my buddy Zach? He works at the EZ Lock Storage off Exit 12?” Mike said.

“Yeah, the one with the busted vending machine.” Brian said.

“That’s the one, he gave me a tip. He says they’ve got six storage lockers, all abandoned by the same guy. He went missing last year, no family, no will, nothing. Like he just disappeared. Everything was prepaid for months, but now it’s lapsed. No auction. No red tape. Zach says we can grab the whole set. Cash only.” Mike said.

Brian’s gut stirred, half nerves, and half excitement. Deals like that didn’t come around often.

“What’s the catch?” Brian said.

“No catch. We Just got to show up today with cash in hand. Zach will look the other way.” Mike said.

Brian’s fingers tapped on the armrest as he ran the numbers. His checking account was thin. But he had not made a decent flip in weeks. Something had to hit eventually.

“How much?” he asked.

“$1000. I only have about $500, so I need you to come up with the other half.” Mike said.

Brian sat up straighter. What luck he thought. He had less than seven hundred dollars to his name. His brain ran in circles for a minute.

“I’m in,” Brian said.

“Hell yeah! Stop by and grab me, though. My truck is giving me trouble again.” Mike said.

“Figures. Alright. Gimme thirty.” Brian grunted.

Brian tossed his phone onto the recliner and shuffled down the narrow hallway to his bedroom. He pulled open a drawer and dug around until he found a pair of cargo shorts that did not smell too bad and a black shirt with a faded Rage Against the Machine logo stretched thin across the belly. From beneath the drawer’s bottom, he peeled off six crisp hundred dollar bills and a wrinkled fifty. It was his emergency stash, taped there like a secret lifeline.

Exactly twenty eight minutes later, his dented ‘98 Buick LeSabre rattled to a stop in front of Mike’s apartment. The engine gave a tired cough as he threw it into park mode. Mike emerged from the building like a man who had not slept. He shuffled on worn shoes. Mike clutched a homemade coffee in one hand and a red vape pen in the other. He slid into the passenger seat and immediately grimaced.

“Christ! It smells like sweat and broken dreams in here.” he said.

Mike waved a hand in front of his face.

“That’s the scent of hustle, my friend. Don’t knock it.” Brian said.

Brian pulled out of the lot with a grunt. They merged onto the highway, swallowed quickly by the scorched emptiness. The desert stretched around them like a burned graveyard. Mile after mile of cracked asphalt, brittle brush, and scattered rusting signs. Towns out here were rare and far between, like civilization had lost interest. After a long silence, Mike spoke.

“You still reading the Lenin book?” He asked.

“Yeah. I am halfway through his book. The man knew pain. He knew what it meant to be chewed up and spit out by the system. People like us, we don’t stand a chance unless something breaks.” Brian said.

His eyes were focused on the road as he spoke. Mike took a long sip from his coffee and exhaled through his nose.

“Still think the revolution’s coming?” He asked.

“It has to. This system’s rotting. People can’t afford rent. Groceries. You can forget about having a future, most folks are just trying to survive. Inflation is going through the roof, you know?” Brian said.

Brian was thinking more about himself than anyone else. Mike sipping on his coffee.

“Guess I better start hoarding.” Mike said.

The sun pressed down harder, the Buick rattled along the road, and the promise of something, anything, worth finding lay just a little farther down the highway. The song “Miracles” by Jefferson Starship played on the radio. The two men sang with the song the car sputtered down the road. “And you’re right where I found you, with my arms around you, oh baby, if only you believe like I believe, baby, if only you believe like I believe, we’d get by.”

They reached the storage facility a little after noon, the sun a relentless white eye overhead, baking the earth into cracked clay. EZ Lock Storage sat off a quiet frontage road like a forgotten outpost. It was just a crooked stretch of corrugated metal boxes surrounded by a sagging chain link fence. It was topped with half torn plastic flags that once flapped red, white, and blue. Now they were just bleached ghosts, fluttering in the hot breeze. The lot was wide and flat. It was paved with crumbling asphalt that shimmered with heat mirages and spiderwebbed with years of neglect. Weeds poked through the cracks like stubborn survivors.

Rows of storage units stretched into the distance like rusting coffins, each painted the same dull beige with faded red trim, the numbers stenciled in peeling black paint. The office was a squat prefab trailer with a warped wooden ramp leading to a screen door that creaked in protest every time the wind nudged it. An old soda machine stood outside, faded and long empty. It hummed faintly like it hadn’t gotten the memo it was dead. Zach was already waiting out front, leaning against the trailer’s railing, one foot tapping restlessly against the wood.

He was gaunt and jittery, with deep-set eyes and a patchy beard that looked like it had been applied with static electricity. He held a half-smoked cigarette between two fingers and kept flicking his phone screen with his thumb like he was trying to win a race. His shirt stretched thin across his bony chest. His cargo shorts looked like they hadn’t seen a washing machine in a decade. When he saw the Buick roll in, he gave a jerky little wave and flicked his cigarette into the dust.

“Let’s see these abandoned lockers,” Mike said.

He gave Zach a hearty slap on the back that made the man flinch slightly. Zach nodded, already turning on his heel. He led them down a gravel lane between rows of rusted roll-up doors, each unit standing like a sealed secret under the brutal afternoon sun. The air smelled of baked dust and faint engine oil. At the far end of the row, six red storage units stood side by side, their metal faded to a dull maroon. The padlocks on each had already been snapped and hung loose like broken teeth.

“These haven’t been touched in over a decade,” Zach said.

He scratched the side of his neck.

“Old guy paid up years in advance, then he disappeared. No family. No heirs. Nothing. All his stuff’s just been ... waiting. Yours now, soon as I see the green.” Zach said.

Brian pulled the bills from his pocket and handed them over. Zach took the cash and pocketed it right away. He then glanced over at Mike. Mike wordlessly reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small envelope, thick with folded bills. He handed it to Zach. Zach opened it, thumbed through the stack, and nodded with satisfaction. Zach looked around the lot, making sure no one else was watching, then lowered his voice.

“Alright. This is strictly off the books. My boss has no clue about this. You’re ghosts, got it? In and out. No noise, no mess. You’ve got until eight p.m. sharp. Then I need you gone.” Zach said.

Mike gave him a nod.