Virtual Heist

Light poured out of a computer illuminating a black, dated apartment. Built at the start of World War II, we could call this place an antique. Unfortunately, the apartment did not age like fine wine. The brown stubbly carpet felt like a sundried towel. Stained, tannish walls had tiny cracks in the modeling. Windowless, cramped, and murky the living room had a much lived in demeanor. Bare, it only held three pieces of furniture; a two seat couch that you would sink into, a small coffee table with chips and nicks, and a very new computer resting on a deep brown compact desk coupled with a rolling chair. Crouched up like a perched bald eagle, sat a kid fixated on this computer screen.

Greasy blonde hair sloped down touching brown bloodshot eyes. Underneath that messy mop a twenty year old face was pale and sleep deprived. His body was tense, as his hand clutched a wireless mouse. His heart was beating, thumping so loud you could hear it out the door. That overworking heart belongs to Tyler Cores.

Lines and lines of numbers covered his computer screen, a screen Tyler’s eyes rarely left. Behind his computer was a very well decorated and prestigious wall. It held photos of Tyler and his friend climbing the Rocky Mountains, “thank you” notes from all of the charitable originations he had helped, even an impressive diploma from MIT. Right underneath this wall of impressive achievements, sat a man, (well sort of a man) unshaven, exhausted, and reeling of body odor. “Okay, you can do this.” Tyler mumbled to himself. He has been awake for three days. Crushed Red bull cans cluttered his shaggy brown carpet. For not showering in half a week, he didn’t smell too bad. It took him one day set up a program to crack his victim’s bank account; the second day was to hide his tracks, masking his presences; and the third day was for Tyler fantasizing about what he could buy with is soon-to-be five million dollars.

Dead silence was broken by the clicking of busy keys. Tyler paused. He took a deep breath, and leaned back into his chair. With one final click his screen changed. Tyler’s beating heart slowed to a healthy pace. The “deal” was done. Lines of codes and numbers were replaced with a single green box filled with two big bold words “TRANSACTION COMPLETE”. His eyes reread those two words over and over. Tyler began to chuckle to himself, growing louder with each rereading. Yesterday, Tyler’s checking account yielded an impressive forty-five cents, and now displayed five million dollars… and forty-five cents. Sporadic chuckles turned into maniacal laughter. He danced around like a beautiful ballerina dodging Red Bull cans. From an outsider’s perspective, he was a mad scientist who had just created the next atom bomb. But, Tyler wasn’t just any mad scientist. He is extremely gifted; he got that diploma from MIT a year ago. He’s twenty, and graduated at the top of his class. Tyler had a way with numbers and code. He could read and write them as easily as walking. Programing was second nature to him. Tyler’s majestic dance was brought to a disappointing halt by the loud and unwelcome ringing of his phone.

His heart’s pulse returned to heart attack levels, as his phone shook violently. Tyler glared at his phone as if where someone who has been watching his every move. Who on earth is calling me at 1 A.M? Tyler thought to himself. Stomach in knots, his graceful ballet morphed into the longest seven steps of his life. Tired eyes, shot red, peered at fuzzy text that displayed his late night intruder. Skylar, his coworker, was calling on the account of him disappearing from work for about half a week. “Oh it’s just Skylar,” he said as his stomach slowly untied itself.

“Skylar, do you know what time it is!?” Tyler yelled into the phone.

“Does it matter? I know you’re still up.” Skylar sounded unusually angry. Skylar was Tyler’s coworker, a waitress at the restaurant who paid Tyler to handle the technical side of the business. She always gave him a hard time, but in a playing I-hate-you kind of way.

“Yeah, you know me oh so well. What’s up?”

“Where have you been? You’ve been out of work for four days. We need our systems cleaned. Are you okay?” Even though it wasn’t Skylar’s place to call him about this, she did anyway. What authority did a lowly server have ordering him around? Skylar’s angry tone vanished. Concerned softness showed in her voice. She was usually very blunt, but today she was showing odd levels of empathy.

“Oh yeah, I quit. Tell Tim that I don’t work there anymore.”

“What? You are not even going to put in your two weeks? Tyler, what’s up with you? We’ve all been noticing changes with you. I’m kind of worried.”

“Changing? No one at the job knows me. I’ve been working on a side project and came into some money. The crappy pay won’t cut it anymore.” Tyler laughed, but not his normal laugh. This laugh was awkward and plain weird.

“Tell Tim I won’t need his pennies anymore. Later, Sky.” Tyler said gloatingly.

Tyler hung up the phone to return to staring at his screen. Bank accounts in Tyler’s possession barely reach triple digits on most days. Now his checking account turned into a seven figure stash of gold. Tyler’s mind jumped into fantasy after fantasy. He raced Lamborghinis while buying a pet tiger. Tyler hated driving just as much as he hated cats, but why not? There was nothing he couldn’t do. Everything he ever wanted, he could have. Tired, he relaxed his stiff back into a creaky computer chair.

“Well, first thing’s first” He mumbled. His fingers went back to typing furiously. Web page after web page opened and closed. On each page he brought up, Tyler bought something new. About ten purchases every five minutes, not bad. He made Hollywood housewives with fake boobs and Chihuahuas in their purses look like they were saving money. The first few hours of his newly found riches were spent buying stocks. He bought stocks in Microsoft, Nintendo, Nike, any company that seemed promising, he invested in. If he was as smart as he thought he was, he’d be able to play Wall Street like a game of monopoly. His assets trumped Trump’s in just thirty minutes. After stockbroker Tyler was finished playing Monopoly with real money, he bought everything he ever wanted. He bought an old ps2 and every single game on the market. He bought an actual airplane! A bored twenty-year-old genius with five million dollars is a scary thing.

Despite everything he could be buying and doing, he was back on Facebook, again. Tyler is unlike any one of his age, he can excel at most things. Finding something that keeps his interests, that’s the hard part. Hfivee played basketball for one season in high school. Scouters from all over the east coast came to see him. They even offered him free rides to go to their respective universities. One scouter, Dug (he was worse than a used car salesman) offered to give him a full ride to the University of Florida. Tyler told him, he hates to drive and basketball is too repetitive.

Tyler’s mind, like usual, went back to boredom. His sleep deprived brain replayed the amazing robbery of that douche bag’s bank account over again. Tyler never felt a high like that before. The victim of Tyler’s virtual heist was a guy who ran over his bike last week. It caused Tyler to be late for work. He left a twenty dollar bill on the mangled metal with “Sorry for damages” written on the back. He turned my bike into modern art, and he expects to get away with that? Tyler thought to himself. Lucky enough, Tyler had nothing better to do one day and hacked surveillance cameras to the coffee shop under his apartment. Ironically, Tyler hated coffee and he never laid foot inside, but really appreciated the free cameras. He pulled the footage back to when this scumbag hopped a curve and ran over his bike. Watching the fuzzy video, he managed to grab the license plate number. A few Google searches and an encrypted password letting him get into a few insurance agencies yielded the name Mr. Bolshoi. Mr. Bolshois’s address, blood type, and list of fears (Okay not a list but one Facebook post about spiders) was basic knowledge to Tyler now. Only another thirty minutes of navigating web pages and passcodes, Tyler got into Mr. Bolshoi’s bank account. He now had access to most of Jonathan Bolshoi money. It would have never crossed Tyler’s mind that this guy who drove a black Audi with even darker tinted windows would have five million dollars. After transferring all of Mr. Bolshoi’s funds to himself, Tyler now considered the damaged bike repaid.

Three days of no sleep and his eyes could barely open. Red Bull supplies empty, he yawned and stretched. Slowly Tyler stood up out of his computer chair. Finally, time for bed he thought. While he was turning to walk into his vacant bedroom, loud ringtones kept him from moving. His dinosaur of a phone vibrated almost leaving the table. “What do you want Sky!?” He screamed into the room as if she had just broken into his apartment. Tyler picked up the phone.

“Hello.” This voice wasn’t Skylar’s. It’s a raspy male that also hasn’t slept. Violent intent oozed off his simple hello.

“Who is this?” Tyler’s stomach re-tied itself. His phone’s contacts contained four lucky individuals Skylar, Mom, Tim Bogrit, and Sarah. He makes it a point to never give his number out to anyone. Who the hell could this be?

“It does not matter who I am. We’ve learned you’ve come into some money.” His voice was clearer, scarier; with a hit of I’m-going-to-stab-you. His accent was without a doubt, Russian.

“Umm, no, I get paid every Friday. What are you selling?” Tyler’s was guilty just by the way he talked. His new Russian friend could hear the fear and anxiety.

“I am coming up now to get our money back.”

“Be what…?” His phone went silent.

Tyler’s phone slipped out of his jittery fingers. He whipped around to inspect the only defenses he had from his soon to be house guest. An old wooden door with a deadbolt and a wimpy chain-link lock was supposed to keep him safe. The guy on the phone sounded big and mad. On top of that, his I’m-going-to-kill-you-and-sell-your-body-parts-on-the-black-market Russian accent didn’t give off a warm and welcoming vibe. Tyler highly doubted that he’d come in offer him some tea and play board games.

He looked around the room, like an owl with paranoia. Tyler got up and ran into the kitchen. Foraging through the kitchen he ripped out drawer after drawer. Then he found it, the deadliest tool in his arsenal, a dull chef’s knife he used every now and then when he decided that the Gordon Ramsey videos he watched on YouTube were not all the hard to do. Oh god, I’m going to fight off this Russian killer with this small shitty piece of metal. Tyler’s breathe quickened. His heart raced matching the pattern thirty minutes ago. Okay, think. How does he know where I am? How did he get my number? There is no way that he could actually show up at… KNOCK KNOCK.

“Tyler.” That thick accent was getting so old now. At first, the cold I-kill-kittens-every-Thursday was scary, sure, but now it was just annoying. This guy was almost impossible to understand. Tyler just wanted to hear something he didn’t have to think about for the next five minutes for it to make sense.

“Friend, do not make me open this door.”

“Who is it?” Tyler’s voice ran through the drywall into the hall of his apartment complex. Sleep deprived, he crept behind the wall ready to attack his new friend. Trembling, he raised the knife and aimed it at head level to the entrance of the door.

“You know who this is. I won’t ask again.” The accent was driving him mad. It’s to cliché, a Russian killer about to, well kill him. Why is it never a nice German doctor or a Norwegian hiker? Why is it always scary Russians?

“It’s three in the morning! People sleep ya know. Hold on, I’m opening the door.” Tyler’s great plan was to let Mr. Russian Cuddles into his house to lower his guard, yell surprise, and stab the poor bastard. Calling for help didn’t even cross his mind.

Quietly, he removed the chain and unlocked the deadbolt. Twisting the metal lock at the door knob and looking through the small circle to inspecting his soon to be the attacker, he got ready. Of course, he is wearing a leather jacket and has a 5’oclock shadow! This guy looked like he belonged on FBI’s most wanted. Not only is this guy going to kill me, he is probably going to sell my kidney to get a double cheeseburger and a large soda. Damn, dying for a meal at a burger joint. That’s a pretty terrible way to go.

“Okay, it’s open,” Tyler said in a surprisingly confident voice.

Everything went quiet. Tyler’s one room apartment went back to being void of sound. Faint noises of a ticking clock in the bedroom echoed. Ticking always annoyed Tyler, he meant to rip out the batteries months ago. If you tried really hard, you could still hear a caffeinated, exhausted heart thumping out of control. Brown eyes struggling to stay open leered at the door, as his hand clung tightly to his wimpy “sword”. Okay, where is he? Seconds felt like minutes.

Trembling returned but, even worse than before. Stealing from people was so much easier behind a computer screen. His eyes peered down to the door handle, as he noticed it slowly turning. THUMP, a steel-toed boot kicked the door jamming into Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler dropped the knife. In a leap of faith he dove on the ground to grab his only defense. Leather jacket sleeves wrapped Tyler up and threw all of his 150 pounds straight into the ground. Face, ribs, and legs crashed to the floor all at once. Shock waves of pain rippled through him. The sound of his body thumping on the floor over shadowed the ticking clock. He looked up to catch a glimpse of Mr. Russian, dark green eyes wanting to be gray and just as bloodshot as his gazed back. Lips grinning under that cheesy 5oclock shadow and murderous pupils were Tyler’s last sight, before a bonny fist filled his vision. Fist after fist connected with his skull. Each punch sent excruciating pain echoing through his head, jiggling his brain. The room was ringing now. Grunting, hitting, and gasping rang through old, cheap drywall. His vision went blurry. Through punches, Tyler struggled to speak. He tried to put his hands up. All he could do was look at Mr. Russian through swollen, bruised, and bloody eyes as he punched him.

“Mr. Tyler, you made mistake.” Mr. Russian finally stopped. His fists turned Tyler’s face into a bloody, mangled wreck. As hurt as Tyler was, he still found the time to think about how annoying Mr. Russian’s broken English was.

Trying to breathe between each word, he managed to speak. “I…don’t… under…stand”

“Mr. Tyler, lying hurts more. “ Cracking his neck from side to side, he punches Tyler again. Aimed right for Tyler’s nose, Mr. Russian’s knuckles left a broken indent where Tyler’s nose was.

“Okay…okay…what…do…do you want me to do?” He had enough. Every inch of his face throbbed with pain. He couldn’t breathe and he’d cry if his eyes were not swollen shut.

“You see, that was all that was needed. You made difficult with knife. We’ve learned?” Damn that accentHow was he getting more uncivilized as my beating went on? Does violence turn someone illiterate?