Page 64 of Antihero

A tripod to hold a video camera.

They had recorded it.

Her.

They had recorded her.

And propagated her debasement to the world.

Bile clawed up his throat. He could practically feel the give of Manny’s soft neck within his clenched hands, the crackling yield of the trachea’s cartilage rings. Before it was done Evan would tilt the head back and stare down into the fading light of Manny’s eyes so he would fear judgment in his dying breath.

And yet. A promise had been extracted from Evan.

His fingers had tensed in anticipation, tendons aching with flexed restraint. He’d floated forward to stand just behind Manny. Those plush headphones disgorged the tinny scream of metal rock, an orchestral swell beneath the fiendish riot of the forever footage.

Each video had a logo watermark, a zesty font proclaiming: Young Tail Productionz!

Username YngTl69 coaxed to prurient elongation.

Manny shifted abruptly on the couch and slung his headphones down around his neck. He toggled a button on the keyboard and snapped a headset on, mic floating by his mouth. “You got the Manny Man.”

A pause.

“Wut?” Another pause as he listened to the caller. “She got chlamydia and gonorrhea?” A snort. Then: “Yeah, I suppose I do think it’s funny. Lookit, these girls know they get whatever’s coming when they submit to the pony. Which shoot was it?” Beat. “Those guys? They claim they test every month, but it’s a high-risk biz. Shit happens on high-risk gigs. Just ask offshore welders and elevator mechanics.” He listened briefly. “Well, that’s what the triple cocktail’s for, right? No one likes to see condoms, bro. It’s a turnoff. Plus, I mean, you wanna live or you wanna live scared?” He drummed his fingertips atop his head. “I’m not getting involved. She’s a grown-up. Tell her to act like one.”

Manny disconnected the call, flung the headset onto the couch beside him. He nudged up the volume on the computer, myriad audio tracks playing over one another, a cacophony of tongues: Once you go white, baby, it’s all right. It’s as big as my arm. Put it across your face. Now take it. You want more? Yeah baby, gimme more. Moans of pain. Slapping. Sounds of feigned pleasure giving way to gagging.

Manny’s fingertips fluttered across the keyboard, bringing one video to the fore. Using an editing tool, he blurred out the man’s face but kept the woman’s. In one of the background clips Evan spotted the pink couch from the ratty subterranean apartment, bowed under the weight of a half dozen undulating forms.

His rage simmered, reached boiling point.

He said, “Excuse me.”

Manny started as if cattle-prodded, jerking around on the couch and nearly toppling off. “What the hell? Who are you? How’d you get in here?”

Evan said, “Mute the videos.”

Manny grabbed the keyboard, dropped it, picked it up again, punched at it panickily. The loft went blissfully silent.

“Bro, look, whatever you want, you can have. I got plenty of everything and hookups for everything else.” Manny’s voice quavered, the tone entirely different from the one he’d used on the call. “Just … chill, okay? Let’s keep it cool.” His forearm twitched.

“Two days ago you rented an apartment for a pack of young men to rape a woman and record it for you.”

“What? Rape? I don’t do rape. I mean, not real rape.”

“And yet that is what happened. So you could post it as entertainment. And make money.”

“Money? You want money? You can have whatever I made from it. Or whatever else.”

Evan held unremitting eye contact until Manny wilted on the couch. “What then?” he said in a little-boy voice. “Why are you here?”

“For answers.”

“But I don’t know anything. I mean, it’s just a business model. It’s just a—”

Evan lifted his hand slightly and Manny froze.

“This instant is a dividing line,” Evan said. “Between life as you know it. And what is to come.”