“I will not have him behaving like this!” Mr. Bricks slammed his fist on the table. “I need you to take care of it.”

Tinker looked uneasy. “Take care of it? He’s your son, boss.”

Mr. Bricks went crimson. Tinker shuddered, remembering how he had gotten his nickname.

“If I needed you to make me a family tree---

“Shit.”

Richard stabbed the backspace key, striking out the last sentence. He wished he
had a brick to toss through the monitor. He was tired, drunk and three weeks past deadline.
He had half a book and none of it rang true.

“Screw it.” He reached for the power button, but something drew his hands to the
keyboard. He tried to pull away, but he couldn’t. He began typing; having no idea what might
come out.

“We got another problem.” Mr. Bricks pushed his plate away and lit a fat cigar.

“What’s that?” Tinker asked. Rocco watched impassively.

“This writer guy.” Bricks blew perfectly formed smoke rings and watched them drift to
the ceiling. “Our operations require discretion and this mug’s writing a goddamned book
about us.”

“What is this?” Richard wondered. His fingers moved independently. He tried to pull
away again, but it was useless.

“Someone needs to chat with him.” Bricks continued. “To…emphasize…the importance
of discretion..”

Tinker leered. “We’re on it, boss. Come on, Rocco.”

Richard finally tore himself away. As he sat there, panting and sweaty, the screen
swelled. He blinked hard as the bulge grew larger. The glass stretched like a thin sheet of
rubber and took the shape of…a man, struggling from inside the monitor. He popped
through with a plopping sound, landing on the floor by Richard. He brushed himself off as a
second, much bigger man squirmed through.

Richard had never seen the men, but he had an odd feeling. He scrambled back, falling
over his chair. The big man stepped forward, cutting him off. He placed a very firm hand on
Richard’s shoulder. Richard felt weak in the knees.

“You the writer guy?” The smaller man asked.

Richard mumbled. The big man slapped his head so hard that his ears rang.

“Are you the writer?”

Richard nodded.

“I think you know us and our…client. I’m here to make an offer on behalf of that client.
You’d be wise not to refuse.”

Rocco made an odd guttural sound – his version of a laugh? Richard wondered if he
had calluses from his knuckles dragging the ground when he walked.

“Here’s the offer. You stop writing about certain…sensitive topics, shall we say, and
everything’s fine. Otherwise…”

Tinker nodded. Richard heard the snap before he felt the blinding pain. He ground his
teeth and clutched his finger, as they wedged themselves back into the monitor. Tinker
paused, head and shoulders protruding.

“You got nine more, and that’s just the start. Do we understand each other?”

Richard nodded. Tinker disappeared as he sat down, reaching for the delete key with
his good hand.

The End


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