Dangerous Game

A Story by Tom Bombidail

When there’s nothing new left to experience, when everywhere has been explored, when you can’t self terminate, you just might paint a target on yourself. You just might put a hit out on yourself.

A figure walks into the camera’s view. It’s that of a bearded man with glasses and longish hair. He looks dead into the camera and recites the words, “Britain, foxtrot, boxcar, Seneca, alfalfa, willow.”

Seemingly random letters and numbers scroll across the screen just below his face. His steely gaze never leaves the camera lens. He takes a deep breath that’s clearly picked up on the camera’s audio input, “That is half of a recovery key,” he begins, “The other half is in here.” He pats the breast pocket in his beige coat, “The numbers and letters I just showed you are linked to the wallet those six words are paired with.”

The man leans back in his chair. Rubbing his eyes for a moment. His body language says he may be rethinking his decision. After a few moments of indecisiveness he pushes through, “I’ve lived a very full life. There isn’t much left for me to do... Here,” he waves a hand in the general direction of the room around him. It’s nondescript. That might be the point.

“I’ve set foot everywhere worth setting on earth,” pictures superimpose over his chest illustrating this. “I’ve run out of bucket list,” he smiles a weary tired smile, “All but one item on the list. And I need your help to do it.”

Now his face is visible again. There’s a map of the continental United States behind him. The general area of the south has a circle around it in red, “When Russians play roulette and they lose, the victor wins everything the loser owns, for obvious reasons.” His wry smile comes back, “No, I’m not looking to play Russian Roulette with you. Leaving everything up to chance would be boring I think.”

The man pulls his gear up into view. It’s a large blue ultra lite backpack. His hands plunge inside. He begins pulling out weaponry and survival tools like a magician might pull a rabbit from his hat. His pack might be bigger on the inside, “I’m giving you permission to hunt me. As you can see behind me,” he jerks a thumb to the map at his back, “these are my general whereabouts. If you’re up for a challenge you’ll be looking for breadcrumbs. I won’t make it easy for you. If you find me... When you find me, prepare for the fight of both our lives.”

He pulls the folded up paper wallet from his pocket, “If I die, this is all yours. Yours to use as you see fit. And if you die, I’ll take everything you have. I think that’s pretty fair.”

The man begins shoveling his armory back in place. In a moment it’s all snug back in his gear. He stands up, his face now out of view. The camera adjusts to find his face. Buckles snap in place taking some of the considerable weight from his shoulders to his lower back, “There’s no time limit. There are no rules. Good luck.”

The Most Dangerous game walks off camera. Previously obscured by his body is an analogue clock. It’s set to central time. His video is scheduled to be automatically uploaded to several forums and boards that reside in the dark, normally inaccessible part of the internet. The places where hitmen, pedophiles, and drug dealers peddle their wares. The clearnet gets a copy too. He believes everyone should get a chance.