Missed Target

Short story: When the FBI needs to find a terrorist, they create one. And sometimes things go wrong.

Nothing ever felt good for Maynard. No matter what he did, he could never feel any type of elation or joy. This was the case for as long as he could remember. Growing up, the phrase he heard from adults the most was “Why don’t you smile?” For years, he’d just shrug and look away, which always seemed to encourage the adults to continue their inane imploring to get him to smile. When Maynard turned 13, he came up with a response that shut the conversation down: “Because I have nothing to smile about.” 

That was five years ago, and Maynard hadn’t smiled much since then. Still no reason to. In fact, the anger that he had always felt inside, tucked away inside his chest like it was placed there on purpose, hidden so nobody could ever take it out, and it kept on growing. What drove this feeling, Maynard really didn’t know. 

Needing some way to explain it, he blamed black people, brown people, all the different Asian people, and most white people for letting the world turn into a sewer of filth and degradation. Needing some way to express it, he went online and spent several hours every day writing about his word philosophy on message boards, engaging whoever showed the slightest interest. 

“My goal is not genocide, my goal is self-preservation” he wrote. “The white man is being replaced by a globalist regime that wants race-mixing among the general population because it makes us easier to control. I will not stand for this and anybody who does is committing suicide.”

Maynard would rant online throughout the night, keeping himself up with vodka and Red Bulls. In the morning, he would finally let his eyes take a break from the screen, and he’d get a few hours of sleep before the combination of caffeine and cheap alcohol coarsing through his blood would wake him up so he could start all over again. 

Ranting about race was all Maynard could do. He didn’t enjoy it. He wasn’t even too sure he believed most of what he was saying since most of what he was saying he was just making up on the spot, spooling together random ideas, and spending more energy trying to give the impression he knew what he was talking about than actually understanding what he was saying. But for the moment, it gave him purpose. It made him feel like he was doing something important. Most importantly, it got him attention from people who felt the same way he did. 

“What are you gonna do about it?”

The words came in a direct message, the first time he ever got one on the messageboard. Seeing it gave Maynard a thrill. Maybe, just for a second, he actually felt happy. But he shut that feeling down. After all, it could be a troll trying to mock him. But he wrote back.

“Don’t know. What do you have in mind?”

Maynard didn’t expect a reply so soon, but it was almost instant, giving a cheerful ding to alert him.

“I have a few things in mind if you’re serious. Can we talk?” 

The last friend Maynard had was in the eighth grade when he was 13. The friend’s name was Mitchell, and they were close for about a year. They were both loners who didn’t have any other friends, but it wasn’t a friendship of necessity - they genuinely liked each other. Maynard felt calm when he was around Mitchell. He liked being in his company, and he liked looking into Mitchell’s wide, blue eyes when they talked. Maynard thought Mitchell’s eyes sparkled when he was really listening.  But then Mitchell’s family moved to another state, and Maynard lost the one person he had a connection to. Mitchell never contacted Maynard after he left. Maynard was able to find Mitchell on Facebook and tried to message him, but never got a response. Eventually, he just gave up. 

To make up for the loss, Maynard would imagine conversations with Mitchell. Sometimes, when alone in his room, he would say out loud something he wanted to say to Mitchell. And then he’d imagine what Mitchell would say in response. If he couldn’t imagine it as clearly as he wanted, he’d say it himself - but in Mitchell’s voice - and this would make him feel like he wasn’t alone and was being heard. 

Other than necessary social interactions at school and stores, this was the only non-parental social contact Maynard had for several years. And with his parents, there wasn’t much at all. They gave him the basement to keep him away. They regretted having him. Parenting was a thing they bought into at one time, but soon regretted their decision and wished they could just return it. Since they couldn’t do that, they decided to wait it out until it was gone. This, of course, wasn’t something they said to Maynard. But Maynard knew it was true. He knew how to read their minds. 

After years of imagining Mitchell’s responses, Maynard began creating his own Mitchell. This was a Mitchell with a purpose in the world, with a knowledge of what the world should be like and what their role should be. 

“You know why people don’t like you,” Mitchell told Maynard one night. “It’s because you’re white and the government doesn’t want white people to be liked because white people know how to challenge governments. White people invented governments and they know how to take it down. But now that the Jewish bankers run the world, they want to dismantle white power and give all the other races an illusion of control because the best slaves are the ones who don’t know they’re slaves. White people see through this game, so we must do something about it. Are you gonna do something? Or are you gonna be a slave?”

When Mitchell spoke to Maynard this way, he felt inspired and had to tell the world. He knew he was imagining Mitchell, but the feeling was so big, so intense, that he thought maybe there was a greater power talking to him through Mitchell. Or maybe Mitchell was dead and giving him the truth. Whatever the case was, Maynard knew a higher power was tapping into him and he had to do something about it. So he wrote to let others know. Writing was all he could do. He wrote and wrote everything  Mithcell said that described the world but he got no response from any of the forums.

This frustrated Maynard. It made him squeeze his fists so hard that he had to hit something. He hit his desk. He hit the wall. And when hitting his desk or hitting his wall wasn’t enough, he threw whatever objects around him, no matter their worth. Throwing glass felt good - the sound of the shatter made him feel like he did something. So he threw lots of glass. He would clean up the glass and this calmed him for a moment -the act of concentrating on getting all the slivers of glass into a dustpan got his mind off all the problems Mitchell talked about. But this only lasted a moment. It didn’t take long for Mitchell to start talking again. And Maynard felt that if he didn’t get Mitchell’s words out, he would feel pain in his stomach. That’s what happened when he didn’t do what Mitchell told him to. Maynard hated the pain, but he knew it meant something. He had to push because the pain made him do it. He thought about himself as a modern-day Jesus figure. And, well, if that’s how it had to happen, that’s how it had to happen. 

“You sound like Jesus. The way you word things, it sounds like you have an insight the rest of us don’t have.”

“Really? You think that?”
“I don’t think so. I know it. There aren’t many people like us. Let’s meet up. We can make each other stronger.”

Maynard stared at the words on the screen for several minutes, trying to make sure they were real. He logged out and logged back in to make sure the messages were still there. He thought of who was typing the words, what kind of room they were in. He imagined somebody who looked like Mitchell, but older and more worn-down - the result of thinking too much about this world. Maynard already felt a kinship with whoever was tying that message and, for the first time in so long, he wanted to meet with another human being in person, away from computer screens, real life just like he used to with Mitchell. 

“Name a time and place. I’ll be there,” Maynard wrote. He didn’t expect anything to happen. Every human interaction he had experienced eventually disappointed him. But this one would be different. 

“If you wanna really make a difference, if you want to make your entire existence matter, you have to have the courage to throw yourself into your cause.”

Sylvester was a tall, burly white man with a well-manicured beard and dark, curly hair that snuck out from under a plain black baseball cap. His voice was deep and confident. Maynard loved the way it sounded and wished he sounded like that. If he did, people would listen to what he said in real life. They’d look at him with respect and think he was a person who mattered. But it wasn’t just the sound of Sylvester’s voice. It was how he looked. A big man with muscles. People have an automatic respect for big men with muscles. It’s not necessarily a fear, but an acknowledgment that here was a man with power. Maynard wished he had that. If he did, things would be different and he wouldn’t feel so damned sad and lonely all the time. 

They were in a Super 8 motel room that reeked of cigarette smoke and stale coffee. Maynard sat on the edge of one of the double beds in the room and Sylvester stood in front of him, unable to sit because of all the energy within him. He spoke enthusiastically about how to bring about a “White Revolution,” as he called it, pacing the room and throwing his arms about. These movements captivated Maynard, who felt giddy and excited about hanging out with a rea person.

“The only way we win is to do the things that they do, but turn it around on them,” Sylvester said. “Look at what the Muslims did. They attack Americans and Europeans and what do the U.S. and E.U. governments do in response? Give them food, shelter, let them do anything they want in their cities, totally changing the culture, replacing white people so fast, people don’t even realize it’s happening. And we just let them do it. Well, not anymore. Me and you, we’re gonna start something big.”

For a brief flash of a moment, Maynard imagined a little white boy reading about him in a history textbook at school.

“The way you talk about it, you make it sound so easy,” Maynard said. “But I still don’t know what you are talking about actually doing.”

Sylvester grabbed a chair and sat down - the first time he sat since Maynard got there. He looked Maynard deep in the eyes and whispered: “We just fucking shoot them. We go someplace where all kinds of races mix and we shoot everyone we see, so the world knows it’s not natural for there to be so much damn mixing.”

“And then what? We go to jail?”

“That’s up to us. Whether we want to go to prison or go out on our own terms.”

Maynard liked the way Sylvester said “our own terms.” It made him feel like he was in an important business relationship. 

“Listen to me,” Sylvester said - and Maynard did, to every word. “Your whole life, you never felt like you belong, right? I know because I’ve felt the same way. It’s because this world is too damn fucked up. We are morally superior beings who are meant to live in a pure world. Purifying the world will take longer than our natural lives will last. That’s just our fate. But we can help make the world pure in our lifetimes.”

The next day, Maynard started his day like he normally did - woke up, made coffee, and opened up a Word doc to start ranting about how corrupt world governments are destroying the white race. But as soon as he began to type, he felt like it was Sylvester talking through him. Just like how he felt when he imagined Mitchell talking to him, he could feel Sylvester’s words being formed in his own brain and coming out through his fingers. He typed faster because the words were coming at him so quickly - inspiring, blunt, and powerful. Something definitely had to be done and Sylvester was going to show him the way.

Special Agent Harold Kind walked through the offices of the Miami FBI with his shiny bald head held high. He was making progress on his case and just knew he was close to getting his first arrest in the domestic terrorism unit. He fought hard to get into this unit, desperate to get out of the mind-numbingly boring Medicare fraud division, and he was going to show the doubters he had what it takes. And there were definitely plenty of doubters who didn’t think a gay man with a financial crimes background could make it in the rough and tumble world of white supremacy hate crimes. 

“They’d be able to smell the gay off you,” said one of those haters, Harold’s friend, Michael from the academy, who ended up in the terrorism unit after graduation. Harold couldn’t believe Michael said this since Harold had a bigger build than him and, he thought, had a more intimidating demeanor, especially with his deep voice and, now, bald head. “What are you talking about? I look scarier than Ed Norton in that one movie where he plays a skinhead.”

“He didn’t look scary in that movie. Great movie, but Ed Norton is a rich kid who went to Yale, and it comes across when you watch him in it. He just has that way about him that he can’t get rid of, even when they have him do a bunch of crazy violent skinhead shit. You gotta understand, most of these people are the redneckiest of rednecks, and they can see a yuppie coming from a mile away with their eyes closed. They have some kind of sonar device, I’m telling you.”

Michael thought he knew what he was talking about, but Harold didn’t buy it. 

“I know you think you’re an expert because you’re from West Virginia and all that shit, but not all white supremacists are one-tooth hillbillies like your family members. Maybe I’ll be a well-dressed, educated one like that one guy CNN and NPR kept putting in the news everyday a few years ago.”

“Well, you certainly picked the right undercover name for it. Sylvester? Jesus Christ, boy!” Michael said, laughing hard. But Harold liked the name. He thought names that took just a little effort to say demanded respect, and that’s what he wanted to do by naming himself “Sylvester” for his first undercover op. Also, he just always really liked the name. It reminded him of 1980s Stallone and something vaguely French. The cat, too, but so what? 

Harold put aside all the self-doubt thoughts in his head as he gave his supervisor, Ralph Perry, an update on his case. Perry was a year away from retirement on the books but way past it in his head. He had deep, weary eyes that gave the impression he had seen the worst of the world for too long, but Harold thought he was just bored and overweight. Despite this, he had a reputation for knowing what agents needed to make a case stick. The worst thing an agent could do was spend months, even years on a case, just to see some prosecutor screw it up because you didn’t connect every single dot for the moron. By the time you handed the case over, it had to be airtight, and Perry knew how to do that. 

“You’re off to a good start, but you need a little more,” Perry said. “We don’t need to catch him in the act, but we need to catch him close to it. As of now, you got a fucked-up reject kid talking about doing something. It might be enough for a conspiracy conviction, but nobody gives a shit about some kid talking about doing something. Push him harder and we get him right before he does it. Then you not only have a stronger case, but you have headlines like ‘FBI Arrests White Supremacist Terrorist Moments Before Planned Attack.’ That sounds a lot better than ‘FBI Arrests Idiot Kid Rambling About Shit Online,’ don’t it?”

Maynard picked up the gun and immediately put his finger on the trigger.

“Don’t do that!” Sylvester said, almost yelling. “You have to always maintain trigger discipline. You only put your finger on the trigger when you intend to shoot. You understand?”

“Yes,” Maynard said, feeling scared of Sylvester’s authority, but also comforted by it. “Sorry, I guess I really don’t know about guns. I never really used one.”

“That’s alright. We all have to start somewhere.”

For the next three hours, back at the same room in the Super 8 Motel, which Sylvester arranged with the owner to have permanently available for him so he can install hidden cameras and audio devices, Maynard received an in-depth introductory lesson in gun handling. Sylvester started with a basic handgun, the evergreen Glock 19, to get Maynard used to the feel of a firearm in his hand. He taught Maynard how to check the barrel, load it, unload it, click the safety, unclick the safety, and how to conceal it on your body to make sure it doesn’t fall out and you shoot yourself like an idiot, which Sylvester told him was one of the most common types of gun accidents in America. 

“You’d be surprised how many people accidentally shoot themselves just before they’re about to take a shit,” Sylvester said. “They go to the john, drop their pants, and boom - instead of an exit, they get a penetration. Don’t be one of those assholes.”

Maynard laughed, said he wouldn’t forget it now, and just felt good all over, for the first time since he hung out with Mitchell - really hung out, not just in his imagination. Sylvester was a cool guy. He knew lots of cool stuff and was taking the time to share what he knew. Maynard was about to tell Sylvester how much he appreciated it, but Sylvester told him he had to leave right away.

“I completely forgot I have my kid’s soccer game tonight - my wife’s gonna be pissed,” Sylvester said.

“You have a family?”

“Of course! Wife and two kids - boy and girl. The boy is eight, he’s the one playing tonight, and my girl is 3.”

“You’re a busy guy.”

“Yeah, but you gotta have a family. One of the most important things whites can do is procreate. Separate and procreate. That should be our international motto.”

Later that night, the happiness Maynard felt had diminished a bit. He felt alone, but not in the way he always felt. This was more of a longing, and he knew what for: Sylvester’s company. He didn’t want to rant online to a bunch of strangers he couldn’t see. He just wanted to be with somebody he enjoyed being with, deeply discussing ideas and learning how to do things in the real world. Learning how to handle a gun with Sylvester was the first time he had sat down with somebody one-on-one and participated in a project together since Mitchell was around. And that was five years ago. Maynard looked around his room and realized how much of his time he spent in here alone. His glowing computer screen, his only method of interacting with people, the only thing in his life that distracted him from his loneliness and self-hatred, suddenly seemed to mock him. ‘You need me’ it said to him. ‘You’re nothing without me. I own you.’

Maynard had to get out of there. He ran up the basement stairs and was about to exit the house through the kitchen door like he always did to avoid running into his parents in the living room. But as soon as he put his hand on the doorknob, he heard his parents laugh and became intrigued. They were watching TV, and he was curious what. He walked slowly, a little nervously, into the living room. 

“Hi,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Neither parent noticed him at first. But after a few moments, his mother felt his presence first and turned her head from the TV to her son. The movement seemed to strain her neck, and she winced a little. 

“Hello,” she said. Maynard thought she sounded surprised and scared. That feeling was validated by the quick response from his father, who turned toward Maynard with a concerned look like he was protecting his wife from an uncertain threat. Both parents, who had been laughing carefree just a few moments ago, now looked as if they were being confronted by a stranger in a dark alley. But this wasn’t new. This was how it always was. Maynard always felt that his parents looked at him like he was a stranger. Maybe he was. And he felt an even greater need to be with Sylvester. 

“I won’t hurt you,” Maynard said. “I don’t know why you have always thought I will. But I won’t. I don’t need to. Not anymore.”

The parents looked at each other, baffled. Sounds of laughter from the TV broke the silence. Father opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t find any words to say. Speaking to Maynard had always been a revolting thing for him to do, and he much preferred his wife to handle the communications with their son, which she did, despite the fact she had the same feeling of revulsion towards Maynard. 

“Maynard? What are you talking about?” she said. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is great. I figured some things out. It took me a little while, but somebody helped me find them out. And I’m gonna do great things for the world. They will remember my name. I will never be a nobody again.”

More laughter from the TV. Maynard waited for his parents to respond. They just looked at him with confusion and disgust, like he was a rotted pig carcass that had been suddenly dumped on their front porch and they had no idea why they had to deal with this freak occurrence. 

Special Agent Harold Kind had just finished fucking a young and fit but not too bright local cop, and he wasn’t satisfied, so he decided to talk about himself.

“I’m working on a big case right now. White supremacist nutjob. He thinks white people are going to form their own society, kick everyone else out. I’m pretty close to making an arrest. And when I do, it’s gonna get my name known at the agency.”

“That’s great,” the cop said. “It’s really cool you get to do big cases like that. I’m still writing traffic tickets.”

“You gotta work hard,” Harold said. “Don’t give up. You’ll get there one day. I worked hard, never gave up, still working hard. I’m just a very focused, no-nonsense guy. When I want something, it’s all I think about until I get it.”

Harold pushed the cop’s head down to his crotch and got hard by thinking of himself winning Special Agent of the Year for bringing down white supremacists and saving countless American lives. Everyone was applauding him, even the agents in the financial task force who didn’t think he had what it takes to do terrorism cases. They didn’t like it, but they had to applaud. 

Perry, the dry old geezer, patted Harold on the back and whispered, “You’re gonna be one of the greats, kid.” Harold imagined everyone in a giant auditorium - all his family and people he knew growing up, everyone watching and applauding him. “Proud to Be an American” by Lee Greenwood blared on the speakers. Magazine covers were being printed - ‘The Great Gay Cop’ read the headine on Vanity Fair, with photographs of Harold taken by Annie Leibowitz - elegant grays and soft whites, sultry stares of power into the camera, wardrobe by Hugo Boss and Tom Ford. Harold knew his time was coming. And when it did, it would be fantastic. 

Dusk filled the sky, and Maynard stared at the burnt orange and ashy gray clouds of the Baltimore sky. He always liked the way the sky looked at this hour, but never gave it much thought until now because it wouldn’t be long before he would never see it again. He and Mitchell never gazed at the dusk sky together, but Maynard imagined a time they did - staring up at the colorful immensity. He imagined Mitchell putting his hand over his, his palm a little sweaty but familiar and caring. Maynard’s imagining of this moment was so vivid, he questioned whether it happened. He tried to trick himself into thinking it did happen, but he knew it didn’t, and the feeling remained false. He and Mitchell hardly ever did anything that didn’t involve a video game or computer screen. But he really wished they did - and this longing cut him deep. If he had to die soon, he wanted to feel something real before he went. His life had been spent in front of a computer, getting angry at words and images. He justified it as just the way the modern world was for most people. But before he went, he wanted to experience what life was like away from the glow of a computer screen. He wanted to experience love, even if just for a moment, before he died. 

Sylvester arrived at the Motel 6 two hours earlier than Maynard to make sure all the hidden cameras and audio recorders were in working order. This was the big day. He had to get Maynard on tape, agreeing to do the terrorist plot. It had to be clear and plain that Maynard intended to carry out the attack. He was confident he would be able to, but couldn’t afford to make any big mistakes. You never know what could happen in trial. It had to be airtight. He was sure it would be. His target was a stupid but dangerous individual, and he knew everything about him. He knew exactly how to handle this type of person. After all, he was a trained FBI professional. 

Maynard walked in the door with a numb and uninterested look on his face. This was the first time Sylvester saw him like this. He knew Maynard could be a morose and depressed person. His search history, which consisted mainly of reading about Nazi history, video games strategies (always war games), the occasional porno (always white people), and of course, angry ranting on white supremacist forums -  was that of a depressed loner who lacked the ability to enjoy one’s self in their current reality, so they resorted to obsessions of ideas and periods of history that they believed to be better. So seeing that look on Maynard’s face wasn’t surprising, but it wasn’t good. Today was the day. If Maynard was in a bad mood, he might not agree. 

“What’s wrong, man? Everything all right?”

Sylvester put his hand on Maynard’s upper back, gently. Maynard sighed when he felt it, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I’ve never been touched like that before,” Maynard said.

“Like what?”

“Like how you just put your hand on my back. I can tell you care. Nobody’s ever told me they cared about me. That was the first time.”

Sylvester wasn’t sure if Maynard was having some kind of mental breakdown - or maybe was telling the truth. But he did know he had to manage this situation like a professional. That meant guiding the target’s behavior towards the desired purpose.

“I’m here for you, bro. You know that. Anything you want to talk about, I’m here for you.”

Maynard nodded. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a deep breath. He seemed to calm down, so Sylvester decided to get back to business and took out a photograph of South Miami Beach and placed it on the bed, accidentally touching Maynard’s left thigh. That touch made Maynard feel like he wanted more of it. A million mental images of Sylvester’s hands touching his thighs, like a flood that just crashes through a wall. 

“Do that again, please.”

“What?”

“Touch my leg again, please.”

Sylvester tapped his leg, confused, and worried this wouldn’t be the day he gets his target.

“My whole life, nobody has ever wanted to touch me,” Maynard said. “I just want to experience what apparently billions of other people experience every day, you know? Billions of people have sex every day and I’m not one of them. I never have been. Not once. I just want to have the experience before I do what you want me to do.”

Sylvester had to stop him at the “do what you want me to do.” The asshole lawyers might try to say this was entrapment. 

“Not what I want you to do - what you want to do for our people,” he said.

“Definitely. For our people,” Maynard said. He knew he was letting down Sylvester and he started to cry. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You probably think I’m some kind of weird, sick pervert, but really - I just never had this experience and I dunno, I was wondering if maybe you could give it to me. I’m not gay, well, maybe I am a litle, whatever I am, I don’t think it matters with who. I just want a real experience.”

Sylvester stood over Maynard, who sat on the edge of the bed. Sylvester looked down at Maynard’s face and focused on its details for the first time. Everything about that face was unfortunate. Maynard had small, beatty blue eyes, a pug nose, double chin, and a generous portion of freckles and pimples dotted across skin that was pale from lack of sunlight, not melanin. And behind that face was an insecure gay man whose lack of self-esteem had mutated into irrational racism. Up until then, Sylvester had no personal feelings about Maynard. It was all business. He had to make his first domestic terrorist arrest and Maynard would serve that purpose. But now, he  felt like he knew the young man, and he was disgusted. Here was a man who was deformed in every way - physically, intellectually, socially, and spiritually. He served no purpose in society and taking him out of it was simply the morally correct thing to do. Immediate eradication would be best, but due to current governmental circumstances, a lengthy prison sentence would have to suffice.

Sylvester sat down next to Maynard and hugged him tight.

“I know what you’re feeling. I feel that, too. It’s okay. It’s good and normal. And I want you to know this: I feel it for you, too.”

Sylvster saw Maynard’s beady eyes brighten. He thought Maynard looked even uglier when happy. But he put his hand on Maynard’s thigh and squeezed.

“Me and you, we’re gonna change the world together,” he said, and kissed Maynard on his cheek. More tears ran down Tepo’s cheek. Sylvester watched them crash into pimples and felt sick to his stomach. He’d have to get this over with, fast. He pushed Maynard down so he lay flat on his stomach, pulled down his jeans, and penetrated him from behind.

For the next seven minutes, Sylvester fantasized about the President of the United States awarding him the Medal of Honor for keeping the country safe from white supremacist terrorists. This kept him hard and he was actually enjoying himself, despite Maynard’s annoying cries and mumbling. 

When he was about to cum, Sylvester turned Maynard over and put his dick in Maynard’s mouth. 

“White power,” Sylvester said in a gentle, almost loving tone, and exploded in Maynard’s mouth. As soon as he finished, Sylvester made a mental note to shower thoroughly as soon as possible since Maynard didn’t look or smell like a very hygienic person. 

“I love you, Maynard,” he said. “The kind of love we have is something nobody else will understand, maybe not even us. But we know it’s real. It’s real because we’re gonna change the world. Are you with me?”

Maynard nodded, but Sylvester needed a verbal confirmation for audio evidence. He kissed Maynard on his forehead and whispered: “Say it.”

“I will help you attack the beach,” Maynard said.

Maynard sat in his room and stared at the bag with a brand-new AR-15  rifle and 100 rounds of ammunition inside it. At 11 a.m. the next morning, Sylvester was going to come by Maynard’s house to pick him up and go over the plan once more. Afterward, they would go to the beach at approximately 1 p.m., when crowds would be at their highest, and open fire on anyone and everyone. They would try to target black and brown people specifically but wouldn’t be too picky since the hecticness of the moment wouldn’t allow that. Everyone was fair game. 

“After all,” Sylvester told Maynard as he put the rifle and ammo in the bag, “This was about making a point that the races shouldn't be mixing - and if they do, well, things like this might happen.”

Maynard gripped his palms tight and tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. He would likely die tomorrow. Likely and hopefully. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in prison. He wanted to die and be known forever as one who started the revolution, just like Sylvester told him would happen. Sylvester, his only friend. The only person who had ever shown him real friendship, real closeness. Thinking of Sylvester mellowed Maynard out. He closed his eyes and thought of their time together in the room, on the bed, doing what they did. Maynard didn’t want to call it sex because the word had so many cheap, negative connotations. What they did was something different, something special. He still couldn’t completely believe it happened, and that it felt so easy. But it did. He hoped Sylvester felt the same way he did. 

Only one thing was bothering Maynard about the experience. Before they left the hotel room earlier that night, Sylvester said he was spending the evening with his two kids, acknowledging that he might not see them again.

“It hurts me to think about, but I know that they will understand one day and be proud,” he told Maynard, who didn’t think much of these words at the time. But now that he had time to reflect, the words broke his heart. 

Unlike his own father, he was sure Sylvester was a great one. He was a teacher, a mentor, and a person with vision. He was the kind of man who was best suited to lead and help others be better people so more people can work together to make the world a better place. 

During one of their training sessions at the gun range, Sylvester told him: “We will need to inspire millions of people to have a chance at saving the white race. And they have to be strong people. This will be a battle, and it will be very, very hard.”

Maynard opened the duffel bag and took out the gun. He held it just like Sylvester taught him to and looked at himself in the mirror. 

“I will inspire millions,” he said in a whisper. “And we will save the white race.”

Perry smiled and licked his lips after hearing the recording of 19-year-old Maynard Nowak admitting to conspiring to carry out a white supremacist terrorist plot against innocent Americans of color. He considered giving Harold Kind a cigar, but decided against it and took one out just for himself.

“This will be a big collar for you, Harold,” he said, lighting his cigar. “This kid, kids like him - white, online, lonely and angry, they’re the big threat now. They’re capable of so much violence, and you’re gonna prove how much. You’re also gonna show how the FBI protects Americans from these threats. Good job, kid. Now you go home and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Harold did as told, but not without having to fight back an urge to go get a few celebratory drinks. He drove by his regular bar and winced in pain at the thought of not being able to award himself with a couple shots of Patron. But that will just make the Patron taste better tomorrow after the arrest is made. Perry was right. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

He parked his car in the condo’s parking lot and reached into his glove compartment to take out the memory card containing the original recording from the hotel. In his condo, he played the recording of him fucking Maynard and started masturbating, listening to Maynard’s soft cries and shrieks. Harold felt a little sick to his stomach thinking about Maynard himself, how he looked, his online activity, his moronic rants. But when Harold thought about all the work he did to get Maynard into that room in the first place, he got hard. When he thought about the praise he would receive from the Bureau, he got harder. And when he thought about how big this case could be - 24/7 on cable news, trending on social media for days, constantly referenced by the country’s most powerful politicians - he came. After cleaning up, he put the memory card in a safe. Destroying it would be a crime. Putting it away until the case was finished - that’s just bending the rules a bit for a good cause. 

That night, Harold had one of the best sleeps of his life, as if his subconscious knew he needed all the rest he could get for the day that would change his life. 

As Harold rested, Maynard gnashed his teeth as he gripped the rifle and stared at the ceiling light, intentionally hurting his eyes until he had to reflexively look away, and then doing it all over again. He wanted a reason not to have to do what he was supposed to do tomorrow, one that wouldn’t make Sylvester think he was a coward and a traitor, but knew this wouldn’t work. He did it anyway. The burning sensation kept him focused on the pain instead of letting the whirlwind of his thoughts take over. Then he had an idea. He could practice. If he practiced, maybe he would be more prepared for tomorrow, and Sylvester would be prouder of him. 

Maynard peaked out the one window of his basement room and saw the sun was just about to come up. The street was silent. He clicked the safety off his rifle and walked up the stairs, down the hallway, and stood in front of the closed door of his parent’s bedroom. For what felt like an hour, he stood there, unable to move, his mind totally blank. He stared at his rifle, not even comprehending what it was - just a piece of black metal in his hands. But when he heard his father snore, he snapped out of his daze, and a lifetime of memories flooded his mind. All the hurt he imagined his parents caused him, all of their disappointment in him, all of his resentment of them. They were like a team that ganged up on him his entire life. They were always against him, wanting him to fail and disappear. Maynard looked over to his right and saw Sylvester standing at the end of the hallway, smiling at him. He knew Sylvester wasn’t really there, but he saw him there in full detail, and the sight gave him confidence. 

“They never loved me, and they would only hold our revolution back,” Maynard said. Sylvester nodded yes, and Maynard opened the door. 

Both parents were asleep on their backs with their open mouths emitting snores and heavy breaths. Maynard thought they looked older than before, closer to death than he had ever seen them, and he pointed the gun and fired. As he watched their bodies get shredded by the barrage of bullets, he was unnerved only by the loudness of the shots, a rapid banging against his eardrums that filled his head and didn’t allow his brain to process anything else, internally or externally, such as the sight of his now torn-apart corpses of his parents and any feelings that might result from it. After he emptied the magazine, he went back to his basement room, the sound of the bullets stilling causing a relentless ringing in his ears, and sat in front of his computer. He logged into his account on the forum and began to type:

To all my brothers on this site, I want to first apologize for not posting more in recent days. I have been busy with another member of this forum planning something special. You will soon find out what it is and you will not be disappointed. In fact, I hope you will be inspired to do more and bring about a world where our race will regain the power we rightfully possess. What you will need to do from now on, I cannot tell you. All I know is my part will be done today. I humbly accept my mission and will carry it out with honor. To that other member of the forum, whom I will not name without his permission, I want to thank you for your guidance and your friendship. I know you wanted to participate in the mission, but I think you are better suited to stay and continue inspiring others like you inspired me. You are a leader and you need to continue to lead. Thank you so very much for what you have done for me. I know this sounds corny, but I love you. You are a truly special person. 

In power,

Maynard Nowitzki 

At the end of the letter, Maynard posted a photo of him holding his AR-15. Nobody ever identified themselves on the forum, but he knew this letter would be sent to the media, and he wanted a strong photo of himself to be shown to the world. 

Using his father’s car, Maynard drove downtown, and stepped into a crowded diner. He found a small table in the corner and sat down. He looked around and realized he couldn’t see anybody’s face. They all seemed blurry. He also felt like his mind was separating from his body, which made him feel like he was about to pass out, and like he was running out of time. Panicking, he took out his gun and started firing. He fired until the blurry faces became blurry bodies, until everything else became blurry, too, and then until he saw nothing but blackness. The last thing he felt was hot, piercing metal in his chest, but they felt good, like kisses, and he imagined it was Sylvester kissing him good-bye. 

Special Agent Harold Kind had just finished showering and was admiring his shoulder muscles in the bathroom mirror when his phone rang. It was Perry. He answered.

“Your target got loose,” Perry said. “Your investigation never happened, understand? Get rid of everything.”

Harold’s legs felt wobbly, and he had to lie down. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking about all the time he spent with Maynard, trying to figure out what he missed. He turned on the TV. 

A white blonde woman stared into the camera: “White supremacist terrorist Maynard Nowitzki shot and killed 14 people at a diner in downtown Baltimore this morning. Before the attack, Nowitzki posted a call to arms on a white supremacist forum, telling other terrorists to follow his lead. Folks, I don’t like to express my personal opinion very often, but if the United Staes government doesn’t do something about this terror threat, we will all suffer. They must do something fast.”

Harold felt a little better knowing America needed him.