Ode to Joy Rewrite (Blogophilia 49.12)

The red convertible’s big V-8 roared down the Turnpike. The needle was inching near 100 with the joyous sounds of Beethoven blasting into the darkness. Trashcoast Parkway was fading into the rearview on this starry, starry night. The El Dorado was a congratulation present for me, a land yacht befitting a successful guy. And the polar opposite of the black Benz I’d been riding in. That was important. No more Mickey, the lifelong dream to stick it to the man had borne fruit.

I had perfected a scam, selling vulnerable women the latest super anti-aging cream. The website was a fake, though. A perfect clone of the product original where I gathered more information than their Experian account. The individual accounts were useless to my scam. Sure, there were several million dollars over the thousands of accounts that could have easily converted with no trace. That was chump change, though. I stacked a backtrace virus inside the orders. During another scam, I had found a way to skim fractional cents off multiple transactions in real-time. In an early test, I was able to capture a six-figure amount in two hours. The banks eventually did find the discrepancy, but never found the flaw. I made my plan. Several million copies had been deployed over eight months waiting for the activation command was sent.

I became of the largest wholesalers of the web product. I set up in an office park in the Orlando Tourist District to get it done. It was only a few miles from Air Cargo, and I could keep my onsite inventory fairly small for quick turnaround. It was almost more than the temps I hired could keep up with. Sometimes you gotta run before you can walk, you know. I told them orders needed to be processed within 24 hours from receipt. My customer service won awards from J.D. Power, although I had to pay the bastards for the privilege. 

I was making enough money to have the trappings of the good life and more. House on a lake, four-car garage and all the girls I could bed. But Orlando was still was just an overgrown military town. Disney’s money and influence didn't change a thing. The same social families and the tabletop terrain had become old. I was a turtle when I really wanted to be the hare. It was time to act. 

I sent the command to Belfast Wednesday. The code was innocuous—”Liam loves Claire”. But it was effective. Within milliseconds, eighteen banks were lightened of over $200 million, routing out through 45 shell companies all over the world. A total of 2.5 million transactions by 200,000 computers worldwide over a six-hour period. It will take the bean counters years to find it all.

Mary was waiting for me in Boca on The Honeymoon Suite. I bought it at a drug auction a year ago before the business was fully up. I had learned you always set up your end game before you get started, so even if something goes bad, you can get out. Even if we are spotted, a title search on the boat would trace it to a Grand Cayman shell corporation with a fictitious board of directors. We'll drink and dance with one hand free, leaving the wreckage behind.

I see signs for Yeehaw Junction and the service plaza. The gauge is at a quarter and my bladder is filling. I shouldn't stop, but I’m still a couple of hours out. Letting off the accelerator, I let the red monster drift into the off-ramp. Like all the others, it was a glass and stone structure designed for efficiency. Pull them in and toss them out, with no one caring whether you were a danger or not. An attendant was hosing off the area around the pumps. The yellow, red and green reflections splayed like a kaleidoscope. The sight made me high. 

Choosing a parking space down a bit from the doors, I shut off the car. The chorus from "Ode to Joy" came from a BMW parked at the gas pumps. The ultimate victory song. A stout man with horn-rimmed glasses nodded his head in time. Just a few more hours and they will be singing it for me. I look in the rearview and see an image of a South Beach bum with money, tousled blonde hair over an open shirt. No gold necklace though. I hate jewelry. I quickly gas up and then step inside. 

There is a screen running a CNN story about the breaking bank scandal. The sign pointing to the restrooms is next to the screen. My feet fell into marching rhythm as I approach the restroom door, a victory march. Smiling, I wave at the cashier and head back. Ahead of me, a young man comes out the door I notice his shaved head and star tattoo on his neck, but don't think too much about it. I turn the corner and hear a pop

Ow. Feels like someone just poked me. Why do I feel so faint?

The room swims and the sight of the marked face looms over me. 

"Keys?! Where the keys?"

The black steel barrel is the last thing I see. 

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Topic-Christine Wichman

Pic-Jonathan Harvey

Pic guesses: Stacked (in blog), Turtle (in blog), swimming , threesome, sunny day, sparkly, invaders,