Crime never sleeps.
At least not with its eyes closed.
And never with socks on, that's just weird.
On one particularly restless night, a nefarious slumber party congregates in an abandoned warehouse, a giant rusty shoebox blending into the night. Those windows not blacked out or boarded up are obscured by heavy set figures with guns, silent silhouettes playing chaperon to the inner minglings of this late night soiree.
Inside the warehouse a labyrinth of shelves and boxes wind their way to the center of a cardboard city, looming over the fake streets with tapering darkness. The stars above flicker and die as old bulbs go supernova. Down below, this city's only inhabitants huddle around a giant circular table, safe in their Corrugated Castle.
Nothing is said at first. No one wants to be the first to break the silence in these situations as criminals have a natural tendency to either one up or ridicule anyone that comes before them. Not as natural as their tendency to commit crimes of course, but still pretty second nature-y.
Finally, an unassuming man in a khaki trench-coat rises from his impersonal seat at the table, removing his matching fedora in strained respect for his company. His voice is methodically slow and hoarse, like he swallowed a wire brush and decided to just roll with it (health insurance is the real crime).
"Welcome, everyone. Let me be the first to thank you for visiting on such... short notice".
His ellipsis was palpable as every eye at the table glanced towards the burlap sack in the corner of the room, still now after a brief bout of thrashing and sack-kicking when they had arrived. High above, the silhouette guards chuckled faintly. A few of the attendees showed slight signs of approval through nods and grunts; a genuine burlap sack was hard to come by these days, and they appreciated the attention to spectacle. All eyes turned back to the khaki man.
"You all know we've been suffering... cutbacks of late. This economy just can't sustain our...expensive tastes."
The pauses were abundant and poignant, as each rusty knight looked away from the round table to hide the shame behind their eyes.
These people were the top crime bosses in the city, yet over the last year they had lost over half of their collective businesses. They used to burn rivals with gasoline soaked piles of money, but nowadays they had been forced to just beat them with a big bag of coins. Not even a burlap sack, just a shopping bag filled with change. Though not the plastic kind; they may be criminals but they understood the benefits of recycling just like the rest of us.
A nervous cough broke the silence.
It was followed by an even more nervous exclamation that didn't just break the silence, it stomped it into the ground with nasal vehemence.
"Would you just get to the damn point already?! I haven't got all day and the dust in here is playing havoc with my asthma!"
All in attendance suffered from verbal whiplash at this outburst, their necks unable to tear away from the khaki speaker. He continued an onslaught of silence. Another nervous cough punctuated the empty air.
"Seriously, we've all heard this before! At least last time we got to shoot someone. We were even back before CSI!"
The loud asthmatic man stood wheezing in place, slowly realising that the chairs in his immediate vicinity had mysteriously retreated from the table. Their occupants had followed accordingly. He remained standing, though his demeanour had progressed from shaky defiance to stoic anticipation. His lungs heaved his heart back & forth in his chest.
With a deep, raspy breath he continued his critique.
"Look, you poor man's Dick Tracy, this is the time for action. We should be out there breaking legs and ruining names. We must have a mole or something, because between the cops and these little upstarts I can barely afford to keep my Hummer running! And I LOVE my Hu-uurk?!"
The confused chicken impression garnered some interest from the braver members of the gathering. One by one they dragged their eyes to the asthmatic whiner. The last pair widened with watery disbelief, landing just in time to see the blood first start to trickle, then pour down wheezy's neck.
The sound of 9 chairs scraping in unison echoed across the warehouse, and the wet thump of the suddenly limp dissenter echoed throughout. His head lolled back off his neck right after his eyes rolled up into it. Twitching briefly, he laid to rest on the dusty ground. His inhaler fell out of his white knuckled hand.
"I suppose there are other... opinions?"
The now upright crime lords snapped back to reality, forcing their attention again to Dick Tracy who was nonchalantly using a bright white cloth to wipe his sword. A slick black blade that had apparently been hidden.
"Speak up, why don't you? I promise I won't... bite."
Their gaze followed his hand like a drunk desperately trying to pass a field sobriety test as it slid up & down the shining Katana with methodical determination. No one said anything. No one could; the soft cloth brushing against the sleek steel was the loudest thing they'd ever heard.
A nervous cough.
"I'm glad to see you are all paying... attention. Now, let's get back to business."
With passive obedience, the 9 scared chairs scraped back to position, their passengers heads hung low. They sat like children now, necks burrowing into their shoulders as they awaited their teachers lesson. No one knew where the khaki man was going with this meeting, but none of them was about to interrupt him again. These men respected spectacle, especially when combined with horrifying authority. So they sat. Patiently. Still and quiet, in fear of their teachers paddle.
The khaki man stood firmly in place at the head of the round table, an impressive feat considering the geometrical impracticality of such an act. He was not surprised at all, though.
This man commanded respect, demanded obedience, and always got what he want. This much was obvious just by looking at his demeanour; in a room filled with the most violent criminals in the city, he carried on as though strolling the corridors of a pound looking for his next pet. He obscured his eyes by tilting his hat just far enough that all they could see was his mouth as he talked. His teeth, encased in a dangerously smug smile, told the men what they needed to hear.
. . .
In 2015, the internet was hacked.
Not just certain sites or businesses; the entire internet became the playground of a few super-smart idiot teenagers with nothing better to do than bring the technological revolution to a standstill.
The whole world was faced with complete privacy invasion as a million blogs screamed in violated fury.
International pandemonium spread like a celebrity nip-slip. The government, the police, social services, even those humorous websites with the never ending barrage of cats; they all fell into the hands of a rising number of computer experts who had no idea what they were doing.
With the infiltration of their government web sites only 4 months after the initial “attack” (there was no other word for what amounted to someone reading through your diary), the United States were the first to declare martial law on the information superhighway. No more unmediated web surfing; everything was under scrutiny and control.
They shut down the forums, the social networks, and even the chain mail groups that had been circulating for over 20yrs. Millions of people suffered anxiety issues and ‘Net-Deprivation Syndrome’ as it was later coined, yet their troubles were far from over. After the success of the first wave of constraints, the American government decided to keep the ball rolling. Small businesses, big businesses, personal emails, private websites; every single aspect of the internet was put under federal control, with nothing sacred and everything monitored. The people of the United States were cut off from the rest of the world, deciding to concentrate on their own security while the other countries handled theirs. America essentially had its own enclosed internet, at the behest of the commander in chief. A closed circuit of information that only the highest authority could regulate.
Their were dissenters, of course. You can’t take away that much freedom without upsetting a few people.
The porn addicts were the first to revolt. They took to the streets in jittery droves as they unleashed their pent up aggressions on any authority figure they could find. Riots formed around these crazed depraved individuals, with more followers joining their cause around every block. The Twitterers, the status updating junkies, the technology review site curators; most if not all came to arms in an attempt to convince the powers that be that they had made the wrong decision. That this wasn’t for the best. That the people needed their internet.
It was all in vain. The rioters and freedom fighters and dissenters and regular folk caught in the excitement had not yet learned to live without the world wide web. They kept using it to organise, to spread intel and learn methods of resistance. All these things monitored by the very regime they sought to overthrow.
It took less than a month to quell the angry voices. With no way to communicate their angst and frustration, they accepted their fate. As much spit and vinegar as they could muster to rally against the hordes of eFacism, they would still rather some form of internet than none. So it was that in 2016, not even a year after the inital hack had started it all, the American Web was officially announced; cut off from the outside world, but secure in their own. Limited access with many private information rights waived, but all citizens had an official right-to-surf and it was still free.
. . .
The khaki man paused in his historical rhetoric as a quivering arm rose up in front of his face. The smug smile disappeared, replaced by a thin line of unamused lips.
“You... may speak.”
Instinctively the hand-raised man stood to attention. The teachers unseen eyes demanded it.
“Erm, sorry sir but we all ah-a, that is to say, well, we uh... we were there. We know all this.”
Eyes scrunched tight and mouth pursed as tight & to the lower left as could be, the hand-raised man waited for a response. He was only three seats away from faux-Dick Tracy, what else did he have hidden under that trench-coat?
A nervous cough.
“Put your damn... hand down, and I’ll explain myself.”
. . .
The fall of internet privacy saw the fiery rise of eCrime.
Previously the realm of credit card fraud and surprisingly debt laden African royalty, the American Web had become the new gangsters paradise. All businesses and people were connected to the new Net whether they liked it or not, and the more tech savvy criminals liked it a lot.
Soon, if you didn’t know how to hack into someones bank account and rob them blind then you were no more successful than a pickpocket. The modern criminal could have you mugged, homeless and killed all in one day without ever knowing what you look like. eCommerce had been hijacked by eCrime, and the authorities were overwhelmed.
For every highly trained computer literate police officer there were at least 20 self taught near-savants ready to ruin that officers life. The typical age for the most common crimes came down to 14 at one point, and the death penalty was even suggested for a 16yr old who had managed to cause numerous suicides through their illegal dealings. The government was unwilling to admit fault on their part, so they poured funding into better security and even more monitoring. Regular citizens faced the consequences of ever increasing numbers of eCriminals.
Eventually the wild west of web crime began to calm down, as the most successful illegal entrepreneurs formed large groups and syndicates similar to the Mafia of the early 20th century. These mobsters controlled their own electronic turf, setting up personal security measures not just against the authorities but also rival gangs. Small time crooks didn’t stand a chance anymore unless they chose a side.
The police and the rest of the government factions couldn’t keep track of the spreading crime wave. Their efforts were strengthened and they were able to monitor much of the activity, but preventing it was a wholly different matter. The new eCriminals seemed to be one step ahead at all times. A few successes here and there were all they could hope for.
It was never an official agreement, but many people speculated that the government just gave up. They could still handle all the regular crime and dole out appropriate justice, but when it came to the modern eCrime they seemed to adopt a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. The police were still around to help when you called, but when it came to keeping all your personal information private they just shrugged their shoulders and filed the paperwork. They claimed it was to keep everyday citizens safe; they could monitor the wide scale bad behavior and do their best to weed out the petty crimes using the information gathered. The big eCrime-bosses were considered a necessary evil.
. . .
“And this is where we... come in.”
The round table of misfits were listening in slack-jawed fear of the khaki speaker. At the mention of “we”, some of them almost did. Regaining their posture they sat up to attention, realising something was expected of them.
“Ahem. Sir? Where do we come in, exactly?” A brave soul amongst a band of thieves.
The Dick Tracy look-a-like started to stalk around the table. His shoes sounded no steps as he seemed to glide around the assembled chairs.
“Gentlemen, we come in... armed." His sword had somehow disappeared from sight again as he made his way. None of the assembled eyes could see it anymore.
A nervous cough.
"Our rivals have suffered the same... losses we have in recent months. Considering the ignorant cowardice of the... authorities, I find it hard to believe they are involved."
His trenchcoat dusted the floor where he stood as the Khaki man came to a stop a few feet away from the silent burlap sack. Without looking behind him, he gestured widely to the slumped bag with his left arm.
"Which is why I believe... vigilantes are involved."
The table of troublemakers risked some sideways glances between each other at this revelation. It was amazing the self control one had when faced with a choice between chuckling in disbelief and losing your ability to wear hats.
Arm still aimed at the sack, Dick Tracy continued.
"We have no... moles. Trust me, loyalty is something I pay attention to." The teeth flashed momentarily beneath his shrouding brim.
"We lose our stock and our funds, both physical and... digital, yet our rivals make no gains. We would expect to see a victor rising from our... predicament, yet no such person comes forward."
Now the khaki speaker was walking backwards towards the burlap bag. His feet were barely visible through his shuffling coat curtains.
"Through my own... findings I have come to the conclusion that we have vigilantes in our city. OUR... City." He spat the last words through clenched teeth. It was the most emotion anyone in attendance had seen thus far, and it was more unnerving than the cooling body on the floor.
He crouched next to the sack now, still not looking directly at it but at his audience instead.
"They know the Net. They listen and watch. We have become... lazy, allowing simple children access to our accounts and plans. They steal our money that we rightfully stole from them, and they get away with it because we are... complacent."
His quick words were met with a flurry of movement as the khaki man picked up the burlap sack by its drawstrings and brought it to the table in one swift move. He placed it unceremoniously in the center of the giant table.
"I have traced these... usurpers back to a few select groups. We need to take back the... Fear. This city used to cower before us as we took what wanted. These vigilantes seek to... upset that balance of power." He was speaking louder now, his forceful nature aimed solely at the sack. The men around the table could feel his gaze trying to burn through the bag on the table. It defied his stare and remained singe-free.
A nervous cough broke the silence yet again. The embittered Dick Tracy continued with his tirade.
"Which is why we are here. I wish to make an... example of these ne'er do wells. They seek to challenge us to our own... game? Then its time they learned the rules."
This time they watched the sword emerge from his trenchcoat, its mdinight steel sucking them in like a black hole of awe. Teeth were unsheathed as the khaki man leveled his blade towards the burlap sack with steady determination, allowing the men a moment to appreciate the grandiosity of such a performance.
For a moment nothing could be heard except the faint hum of a generator far off in the warehouses streets of shelves. A nervous cough was the only addition.
Sword still steady and pointed at the sack, the khaki man's shark-like grin went under the surface. The hat pivoted slowly as it surveyed those in attendance. His unamused lips came back up.
"Wait... who keeps coughing?"
. . .
