Vignette I

„You don't have to do this.“ With a gun against their head they all say the same.

As if that would help. Once you can see the white in my eyes it's too late. The time has passed. By the time I get contacted, you stepped on someone's toes.

The bitter-sweet smell of fear fills the room. Sweat pearls make their way over their forehead as I recite their path of transgressions. „Cybertheft, industrial espionage, wirefraud, identity theft, destruction of corporate property, breaking and entering, member of an organized criminal enterprise, …“ Monotonously I rattle them down. This is the part were they still have hope.

The black gloss of my Beretta reflects the single neon light source. I get up. I ask them about their friends. I even say 'please'.

They think they are freedom fighters, some kind of console cowboys. They believe themselves the digital elite that changes the future. They don't. The future is planned and organized in board meetings. The only thing these cyberpunks create is a world of anarchy.

The cuffs burn into their wrists. There is no way to slip out of them. This is the end of the journey. I am the ferryman, I am here to collect what is due.

A cavity the size of my .45 has something definite. Sending a bullet between their eyes is the exclamation mark of my message.

It says 'We know where you live'.
It says 'We know who you are'.
But most of all it says …

                                                                  … 'You're next!'