Nick stared at the screen, hands clenched on the controller. A caustic stygian darkness invaded his thoughts. If he wanted to he could do it. He knew it. It was as easy as tossing a penny into a splattering fountain. A dancing splattering fountain of death. The black headed scorch poked its head out. It poked Nick with its defiled trident, each finger allaying a union of panoramic failures. Bloody ink poured out of his ribs and his heart pumped out, crying out. If he wanted to he could do it. But of course, there was just one thing...

"Mickey, take the cut and finish off userxisonfire. I'll go into the chamber and clear the area." The screen flashed brightly on Nick's face. His soldier was marching toward a dark room, gun poised for destruction.

"That's a bit of a reach, Morning Eyes. Let's leave the stiff and go in there as a team." The explosions popped off the screen. "We don't need you dying before you have to."

Nick squinted. "Their kill count is pretty mid. We've got them." The controller shook frantically, reinvigorated. "I don't think any of them have ever played this game before. Just worry about their captain."

"Damn it, I'm dead!" rang Mickey.

Nick's soldier, however, had just barraged through a horde of soldiers. He ran out of bullets for the final player and quickly switched to a flamethrower. The player fell in a uniform of flames. "Done, where's Enzo?"

"Taking on userspacesex. I think he might've taken a snooze, that bitch. If he's not back by now–"

"I need your gun," Nick said, uninspired by Mickey's glib. "Where you at?" Nick found Mickey's soldier slumped near a metal pipe and picked up his gun. A shadow of a sneak attack encroached the soldier but the grenade was briskly thrown in spite. The exigency ensued and the soldier receded back into the eerie chamber. A bright explosion flashed on the screen and the familiar green banner appeared victoriously. Nick rested his controller.

"Suck it assholes!" Mickey shouted, nearly blowing Nick's headset.

"Sorry guys, life calls. What happened?" Enzo's voice crackled through the headset. He didn't sound very sorry at all.

"We stole another victory, no thanks to you," said Mickey. There was a sharp edge in his voice. "You were supposed to–hold on, you're not still with that black girl are you?"

A tar of silence started to bubble up. "She's mixed. And what if I am?" said Enzo. There was no salt in his voice, yet. But he couldn't help being shocked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Mickey squeaked a laugh, vainly hoping to mitigate any contention. "It's purple pussy, brother, you can't possibly like that shit."

"I do."

"Nick don't. Ain't that right, Nick?"

Nick laid back and grinned. "Don't drag me into your shitspeech."

"It's-It's not that I'm not into my black sistas..." Mickey stuttered, through mock form of sincerity.

"And you wonder why you have no friends," said Nick.

"Tell me about it," Enzo yawned. A jumble of static attacked the mic.

"Shit. It's just locker talk, guys."

"I still haven't found the ticket," said Enzo. A munching sound bled through the mic. "And there can't be that many left."

"Throw it in already. I heard that broad Diana Quire found the last one. Who needs that game anyway?"

Nick stifled a yawn, slowly falling from the liaison. The subject had changed to the game, who would've guessed? Of course, they were talking about Chaos, a game that had aggregated a lot of buzz these last few months. Nick's mind clamped. Chaos, the newest and shiniest virtual reality game that everyone in the world wanted to play and the prize for winning would be a handsome reward of ten million dollars. It was the most anticipated game of the year, a game everybody in the world wanted to play.

But nobody knew what the game was actually about. Nobody knew the rules. And most mysteriously, nobody could figure out whether or not it would involve death. All people wanted was the bug's bite of fame and money. Fame and money without the sacrifice. 

The game wasn't for the faint-hearted. It didn't just choose anyone, you had to be blessed by finding the entry ticket. It would seem that only the best of the best would be playing this massive game, so you really had to stand out. Also, if you were in the top league, who could you trust to be friendly? How can you be assured you won't be stabbed in the back and killed before the game even started?

Nick's tongue stuck out in his cheek. But the fame and money...It would surely alleviate his current financial problems. It would satiate his vacuous life and abate the crippling failures in his life. Nick shot his eyes away. The thought of death was beginning to rear its ugly head again. Poking. Poking.

For the past decade, up until 2035, virtual reality games had become mainstream due to the construction of the iTech, a large billboard technical device that made it possible for you to watch players in a video game in real life. All you had to do was put on your iTech goggles and go crazy. You could watch the iTech on the billboards or on your laptop and TVs in the comfort of your home. No longer did you need to climb the mountains of Hollywood to become an actor and a singer in order to make it big. With the emergence of iTech and the boom of virtual reality games, celebrities were made by the dozen and showered with real cash. This was where the race was at. This was the new gold. And up until the arrival of Chaos the buzz of virtual reality games hadn't been this favorable.

"Let's just promise that whatever happens that we won't let a game get in between our friendship. Our gay gay friendship," Mickey declared.

"I won't. You know I won't," said Enzo.

"Morning Eyes?"

"Come on, Nick," Enzo said in a singsong voice, dangling the bait. "Say it. Just rub our oily egos and say it."

"Whatever," Nick muttered.

"Nick? Do you still want those pornos?"

Nick stared surreptitiously. "Not here..."

"Do you want them or not!"

Enzo's laugh echoed through the mic. "Let me rifle through the options. Is it big titty, pawg, or big ass?"

"I'm waiting..."

"You already know my answer."

"Let's meet up downtown, at that liquor place."

"Oh! The GF5 tournament!" Enzo shouted.

"Right! Give your solemn oath that you guys will show up for that tomorrow!"

"What's it with you and oaths?" Enzo said.

"Do it lumpy lard!"

Before Nick could say anything, the door had opened and a blonde, dumpy, middle-aged woman stood in his room, pale stricken, and solemn. Her lips were thin and dry. The dryer they became the more livid she appeared. The sculpture of her arms remained crossed and her blue eyes ossified.

Nick recoiled, already sensing the whiplash. "Guys I think I'll talk to you later."

"What are you on about, Nick? Aren't—" But Nick cut Mickey off and took off his headset. He turned off the monitor and the blank screen stared at him. Nick rubbed his eyes, and tried to blur out the tired reflection. A marred reflection of the disheveled nut brown hair and swollen baggy eyes. There were still dried eye boogers that he needed to dig out despite not having slept for a solid ten hours.

"What?" said Nick.

"Nick, we need to have a word," said Nick's mom. She always sounded honest and firm when it came around to these "talks". "I'm worried about you."

"Worried for what?" Nick couldn't seem to take his eyes off the monitor. His hands couldn't keep still. His stomach lurched. The bloody tips of the trident returned. The mothlike memorabilia of death beckoned to him...

"I don't know, you fill me in. You dropped out of college, you quit your job, and your girlfriend kicked you out because you refused to work. She told me you kept on using her for money! I did not raise a quitter!" the trill rang with resonance. It seemed as if all these words had been wanting to burst out since Christ walked on earth. "What's going on here, Nick? You're twenty three for christ's sake! What are you going to do with your life?"

"I don't know mom, what have you done with yours?" Nick said tartly.

Nick's mom stared, glassy eyed. A cascade of tears stood lodged behind the dam. "We can't keep living like this."

Nick grunted. There it was. The magical word we. The damned picture of his father fulminated his inky mind. It left etches and messy holes all over his memory. Dark dances of abuse, lies, and false promises by a man who cheated on his mother for a lawyer and then landed himself in jail. We hadn't been part of their lives for a long time and it seemed as if he never was.

A wave of provocation ensued Nick. Was she insinuating that this was all his fault? That he in some ways was like his father? Nick exchanged a stone face, the mock of mollification ebbing away.

"I'm not saying this is your fault, honey..." Honey. Of course. It was always honey. Very sticky unsweetened honey at the discounted price of fuck you. It was as if the poor bitch had read his mind and couldn't even be bothered. "...but you need to take responsibility for your life, Nick! You and your brother! Look at Jonathan, he's working as a janitor at a fucking warehouse! Twenty eight! Why are you guys wasting your potential?"

"That's very inconsiderate of you, mom. I'm sure Jonathan and all the janitors in the world appreciate their job."

"This isn't funny! You guys need to get your act together, especially you Nick. At least act like you care and get your old job back. It's a place to start. Please, do it for me."

Nick's heart throbbed. There was a tonic desperation in those last few words that made Nick feel disheartened. The door shut before Nick could approach his words. Deprived. Guilty. Those were just the few taunting ones that Nick could understand.

A touch of incompleteness brushed against him. How could he possibly get a job without quitting? And the college...how would they ever let him back after he groped the professor's ass? But most importantly, where would he find the quietest place where he could hang himself? No one ever talked about that last part, it was always about schoolwork and grades...it was always about climbing the crippled social ladder.

Nick sprung up from his gaming chair and lay facedown on his bed. Quit your pussy moaning and get a job you lazy fuck. You heard her, it's a place to start.

The door opened humbly and two skinny legs and broad shoulders attacked the open space. A capture shot of a face with long Viking blonde hair lingered almost like a taunting sunny haze. He was holding two beer cans and a newspaper in his hands. All grasp, no touch. "Dog shit on your breakfast? What's up with you?"

"I died and became the Mona Lisa you prick," Nick said, staring avidly at the ceiling.

Jonathan Galloway raked the white blonde strands from his eyes, blew a short one, and handed Nick a can before he sat down. He took the newspaper and started rifling through it.

Nick snapped his gaze. "It's 2048, who still reads the newspapers?"

"Vintage never dies out, Morning Eyes. How are things?"

"Thingy." Nick would ask why his brother was there, but he always had a tendency to barge into his room. At least this time he had the decency to bring a drink. Damn it, it was warm.

"Holy shit!"

"What?"

"There's still one more ticket left!" Jonathan held the papers close to his face, this time bothering to trace the words with his fingers.

Nick raised an eyebrow. The papers showed the image of a girl with the biggest eyes he'd ever seen. And the hair... slimy and wet. She looked strangely familiar. Nick marveled at the unpleasant beauty, and pointed as he said, "But Mickey told me the last one was found by that Quire girl."

"I was beating on the same drum, but I guess we miscounted. Imagine it Nicky boy..." Jonathan cuffed Nick's head. Nick fought like a ram trying to dislodge its horns. He couldn't stand the stuffy armpit smell. "...one of us finds the final ticket. We'll have it made! Not just Aunt Lou's beef stew made, but fifty of them with cherry pies and wheelbarrows of cash waiting to be spent. And the girls...we won't be nobodies anymore. It's the dream, Nick. It's the American dream. Can't you taste that day?"

"No, just your sweat," Nick rasped. Jonathan let go. "We still have to find the ticket genius, and my bets are slim to none."

"Your bets are blue balls," Jonathan said, licking to the next page.

"We live in Ohio. Who's gonna be hiding a virtual reality game ticket here?"

"Ok then, it's settled. We'll buy every store in Columbus." Jonathan grinned. He put the newspaper down and gulped the final sip from his can. "What was mom going on about?"

Nick grunted, his fingers taut around the beer can. He launched into the story, waiting to see if Jonathan would bite.

"Huh," Jonathan said once Nick finished. "She must really hate janitors."

Nick didn't return the laugh. Not even a feeble grin.

"Oh, come on, she may be a pain in the ass, but I think she's right," Jonathan's lower didn't seem to blend in with his blonde, jocular appearance. "Look, our lives are fucked, Nick. Maybe we do have to look into the future a little bit. Maybe...maybe it won't be such a pain in the ass to wear a suit."

Nick shot an incriminating look. "Who are you?"

The two slouched figures sat in silence, melting in their thoughts. Only angels and devils could understand the war that was their poverty.

"You know what? You still need a job, right? Go to the convenience store downtown and ask them to hire you. Tell the Indian man that Jonathan put in a word for you. We're good friends, he'll understand."

Nick sensed his doubts about being hired at the store. But somehow his feet found life and tugged him towards the door. Nick snuck down into the living room and reached for the gilded doorknob. But his ears couldn't help picking up on the strange noise that made him freeze. Weeping. A dolorous type of weeping that excavated his insides. Nick spotted the figure of his mother on the couch, hands covered on her face, deluged in tears. Nick left before his eyes grew hot. He hated feeling sorry for people.