A face on its side caught mid-anguished scream, lying in the barren, arid dunes is a common symbol of decay. Ozymandian, they say. A touchstone. A callback. Look upon me and weep, I think.

****

Augustus Boyle, as I insist on calling him after the fact, insists that I join him on a quest. I’d dithered. I’d been down this road, in the desert on some journeyman shit before. I spent part of my twenties running in circles about the Geezer Bandit before doing heavy journalism on sandwiches. Now, in my own This American Life-sort of way, a story has come to me, and I don’t want to offend it, but does anybody even want journalism anymore?

“It’s to bear witness,” he says. The first time he says it through an encrypted message on a private server. The next and later times, it’s in texts, chats, eventually, in person.

“I’m not trying to go gonzo anymore,” I say repeatedly. Augustus Boyle doesn’t care. Augustus Boyle has seen things that no person of his position – father, husband, etc. – should have to, and there’s a question of what he’s owed. Not by me, obviously. What’s worse, Augustus Boyle keeps all the stresses and strains on hand in his slim, lithe device that he pokes and prods at. He’s from an earlier time. Unlike me, his career didn’t come with the digital age. For him, tech was a chimera that lurched from the sky and took what was dear to him. Except it wasn’t the sky that was grabbing. It was the air, I guess. The atmosphere. The ecosystem. 

I know what Augustus Boyle saw because I saw it too, what they did to Donkey. That’s his name now, Donkey. Augustus Boyle accepts it, didn’t choose it. He’d given Donkey another, but that’s all in the past. On the day of, I didn’t realize about the trunk. It was all supposed to be sorted. I thought I was going to see something that had already been brought out there.

***

Augustus Boyle picks the idiot up from the bus stop near his motel.

“Those marks? They from this?” the idiot asks.

The war, Augustus Boyle murmurs angrily.

“Yours or ours?” the idiot asks, fishing.

A pause. Ours but yours has its fingers on the scale. That’s how we got here.

Augustus Boyle grunts through the rest of the idiot’s questions – pleasantries, not journalism – as they speed out of the city. After a while, the idiot gets the clue and Augustus Boyle pumps the volume on the radio.

“You sure do love those speedbumps,” the idiot shouts over the radio. Later, the idiot asks about gas and water, realizing too late that he’s asked too late. He should know now that those things aren’t concerns. Once they’re out there and properly alone, the idiot is nothing but questions. Augustus Boyle says nothing, just gets out and goes to the trunk.

“Holy fuck!” the idiot shouts as the man squirms bound and gagged in the trunk. “You said you already brought him out here. You said it was done!”

Augustus Boyle heaves the body up and tosses it to the ground. The squirming starts anew. He bends down and rips the tape off of his mouth, glancing at the blood and lip skin stuck on the tape. He feels a brief moment of calm. You can scream, Augustus Boyle says.

He does. No one’s around to care. Just Augustus Boyle and the idiot, who’s gone white. They have a deal, Augustus Boyle and the idiot. The idiot bears witness and Augustus Boyle doesn’t implicate him. There’s a story to tell. Augustus Boyle doesn’t want to tell it nor does Augustus Boyle want to be around when it’s told.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck! Help! Fuck you! Fuck you motherfucker! Help!”

You know who I am? Augustus Boyle asks when the dealer’s calmed down and is sobbing pitifully, scanning the empty frontier.

“You with Santos? I didn’t do shit. I didn’t go after no one. I’m staying on my corner! I didn’t know! I didn’t know!”

No, Augustus Boyle says.

“Fuck man. You been around? I’m not trying to…”

A kid, weeks back. Killed himself. Got it from you.

“Fuck man. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

Augusuts Boyle tells him not to move. He tries to run even though he’s tied up. Augustus Boyle calmly goes to the driver’s seat and fumbles for something. He returns as the dealer is crawling on the ground. “Oh shit, here we go,” the idiot thinks.

When the dealer hears the gun click, he stops and turns over.

“Please! Please! I just sell what they give me. I didn’t know it was bad.”

It wasn’t. His choice. A pause. Finally, he says, You’re owed for that.

“Please! Please…” the dealer trails off. “Like in the movies,” the idiot thinks. “Hmmm…I guess sometimes movies are realistic.”

Once the crying softens, Augustus Boyle speaks again.

This is all I’m gonna do, he says. You make it back, fine. This idiot, he says gesturing to the idiot, he’s not part of this. He wasn’t here. You didn’t see him. He’s a hostage. Just like you. Before I set you free.

“Don’t leave me out here. Please.”

Augustus Boyle gestures for the idiot to get in the car. The idiot makes a face but complies. As Augustus Boyle gets in, the dealer’s tone changes.

“Fuck you! Motherfucker! Bitch!”

Augustus Boyle starts the engine. Reality arrives, and the dealer is contrite again. “Please! Don’t leave!” They set off. The idiot hopes Augustus Boyle will smile. The idiot knows what’s coming next is the ending. School’s starting.

**

“Wassup world! We all here! Brad, let’s take a selfie! Haha! Maybe later, bro! Jenny! JennyPenny! Let’s dance. No, not now? Haha! JennyPenny – you got me good! Hey fam! The wolf is loose tonight. I’m here with my beautiful, beautiful class! Yo, you hear it here first – we gon change the world! Tonight tho, we just chilling! Yo fam, watch dis: this wolf is gonna get this party going! Heather, get in here girl! Haha! Good one! No, you’re so cringe!”

Donkey’s face leaves the frame. The camera weaves through the party, a sea of pixel faces and red cups. Bass thunders in the background. Donkey’s heavy breathing betrays his happy-go-lucky persona. He’s desperate, thirsty, acts like he knows everyone.

“Check this out!”

The camera flickers. A group of kids are around a table playing some game. Donkey reenters the frame, stepping up on the table and dancing with confidence that exceeds skill.

“What the fuck, bro?”

“We’re playing a game!”

“Yeah! Let’s dance!” Donkey screams into the camera. “We so crazy.” He jumps up and down until the table legs give out and Donkey lands on his ass.

The stream ends.

When it resumes, Donkey is chugging from a red solo cup. His arms are around Brad and JennyPenny who are grinning mischievously. “These my best friends! We changin’ the world!”

It cuts out.

Now Donkey’s in the frame doing a silly dance, looking very smug. And drunk. The music, you can barely hear over the laughter of the party, all of it focused on Donkey.

Donkey’s slurring in the next clip. He looks like he’s been asleep. His shirt is off.

“Dance!”

“Yeah, fucking dance, bitch!”  

“What a fucking loser,” JennyPenny can be heard saying from behind the camera.

“Who invited him?”

“It was a fucking joke but damn. You’re welcome.”

“Oh my god, Heather. You’re a fucking evil genius.”

“Post that in the chat?”

“He’s out. Hand me that bottle.”

*

“Zombie suffering” is the phrase I coin to describe the sensation Augustus Boyle describes of intense anguish in hindsight when you realize too late that the change you gradually noticed in your loved one is the product of them having been maimed – in this case, wronged, taunted, shamed, assaulted – and that you’re woefully unprepared as things enter the final stretch, in this case, Donkey’s life.

Augustus Boyle saw it all too late. Yes, Donkey had been annoying, desperate. I probably would’ve picked on him, Augustus Boyle admits. But just because you can… Why is it, he asks, that people don’t leave meanness on the table? You all talk so much about being nice but still say the same shit. Why is the opportunity to be cruel so treasured when it’s so common.

“Boredom. I don’t know,” I say. “I guess that’s why I’m here.” Because it feels good, he says. It’s just another commodity for y’all.

JennyPenny sent the videos, but it took a village to make the memes. She and Heather arranged the watch parties. Brad had been master of ceremonies once Donkey passed out. Their fingerprints across dms, pms, ims, videos, chats, threads, pings, streams, beams. JennyPenny’s family had “lawyered up.” Their words said defiantly.

Ø

As per their agreement, the idiot takes his car at this stretch. Augustus Boyle drops the idiot off at his rental and waits for him to follow. They drive to the high school. The idiot watches Augustus Boyle watch the students enter the school. When Heather is dropped off, the idiot watches Augustus Boyle watch her as she watches for her parents to drive off and one of the boys, that filthy animal, approaches and they walk to his car. Augustus Boyle’s been watching for some time. He starts the engine and makes a U-turn. The idiot glances at his phone. He unlocks it, checks the time, summons the keypad.

“Don’t dial 911,” he thinks. “Don’t even key it in. Not yet. That’s how accidents happen.”

The idiot starts up and follows until he finds the Augustus Boyle’s car lurking on the outskirts of student parking. Augustus Boyle sees Heather giggle as she gets in. The unwitting convoy drives a few streets over and parks on a quiet residential. Augustus Boyle checks for the idiot in the mirror. Once the beasts start their morning vape, Augustus Boyle opens his car door. He looks over to the idiot. The idiot stares.

When the beast hears the knock on the car window, he’s startled. They swat at the air, and Heather gestures to roll it down. Once the window’s half open, a glimmer of recognition slides across their faces. “Mr. B—”

Augustus Boyle fires into the beast’s face. Heather screams and then Augustus Boyle’s revenge enters and exits her skull. With a spring in his step, he strolls back to his car, looks at the idiot one last time, gets in, and drives off.

Augustus Boyle expects him to call the police. By the time they arrive, Augustus Boyle will have walked into American History period one, strolled over to JennyPenny’s desk, and shot her in the face. And then Augustus Boyle would cease to exist and the vessel that remained would either finish itself off or resign itself to the state.

…

I hadn’t yet dialed when I heard the sirens. I started the car and set off. Shots sounded from the direction of the campus. More of them than I’d been told to expect. Once I’d reached the nearest non-suspicious strip mall parking lot, I dialed.

“I’d like to report an incident on Oliver North Rd. and Brush Canyon. There’s been a shooting in a ca—”

“All units are currently responding to that area, sir. Thank you for notifying us.”

“Wait, I’m sorry.”

“Sir, are you currently in the vicinity? Please leave. Do not obstruct emergency services.”

“Wait, what do you think is going on?”

“Sir, we have a high volume of emergency calls coming in. Please keep this line open and stay out of the vicinity.”

The call dropped. I went into the news app. “Breaking News: Shooting at George W. Bush High School. Suspect barricaded in cafeteria.”

I wondered if Augustus Boyle laughed at the irony, even if he didn’t smile anymore. Augustus Boyle had wanted it known that it was a village who’d done his baby wrong, but the village, it turned out, had been busy. JennyPenny wasn’t even in class when the mass shooter, an angry kid everyone called Donnie Dildo Toes, had barged into her classroom. He wasn’t just looking for her, but he was looking for her as well. Donnie Dildo Toes caused fatalities and injuries in the “expected range”. I stayed in town to offer thoughts and prayers at various vigils. I was invited to some of the funerals. Among the weapons found on the shooter’s body was the same type of pistol, the cheapest one at the local, used by Augustus Boyle. The clerk called it a customer favorite.

Because of how things ended up, the story took a different direction. I tried to tell Donkey’s story, but the trades only wanted write-ups of what it was like to be in a tragedy town. More than anything, my writing was praised while Augustus Boyle’s name barely made it to print. Donkey, both that name and the original, were maybe mentioned in passing after the editors were done.

At a loss, I went to visit what was left of the Boyle family. Tippi Boyle was alone now: her child dead, her husband disappeared presumed dead, nothing but curious, nosy relatives and in-laws desperate for the attention that comes with a media circus mass murder school shooting.

“Come in,” she said when I knocked on the door. I thanked her for meeting me.

“I recognize you from his messages,” she told me over coffee in the foyer. There were family photos all through the house. I thought they’d be packed away.

“The police came round. I told them he just disappeared one day, and that was that. Just like my baby,” she said. I expected her to tear up but she was calm.

There isn’t that much left to ask. The night after Donnie Dildo Toes’ “rampage” (the local paper’s words), an unknown individual snuck into JennyPenny’s house at night. By then, of course, videos of what Donnie Dildo Toes had done and been put through were making their viral way. Her parents and younger sister heard a gunshot. She was lying in bed with her face shot through. The bullet was from the same make of gun as the one Donnie Dildo Toes had used, but because it never turned up, the mystery lingered. Within a week, there were rumors that it was suicide or that Donnie Dildo Toes had an accomplice. An urban legend was born.

“It was a horrible thing, but…,” she says, running her finger along my chest.

“Are you surprised they haven’t suspected him?”

“Nothing surprises me anymore.”

I sometimes wonder if Augustus Boyle hated me, or if, as I assumed, I was just part of a world he had no place in anymore. I don’t think he wants me particularly dead, but I do think about what it’d be like if I opened my door one day and he was there, looking at me with that mix of intense anger and utter calm. A person who is forced to live as a storm and go through the world with a tempest swirling round them is scarcely a person. Hell, I’ll say it: it’s unfair.

I also think about the dealer. I don’t begrudge Augustus Boyle that bit of torture. To come home and find your child like that. It’s worth some revenge. I wonder if the dealer would ever come after me. If he’d make it back and one day recognize my photo. I’d love to get a drink with him, pick his brain.

“What about the dealer? How’d he know which one?”

“The who? Oh, you know, I’m not sure he did. All the same, maybe.”

“Wow,” I say, “revenge is a cold dish.”

“I don’t think it was revenge for him,” she says as she makes eye contact across the coffee table. Then what was it?

“Restoring balance? Maybe. That’s all he’d really say. He wouldn’t have me involved.” She reaches for my hand. I accept her invitation. It’s the least I can do.

When we’ve finished upstairs in bed and she’s absentmindedly running a finger around my nipple, I hear Augustus Boyle’s voice: “It’s about consequences”. He’d said it in our early chats, the ones he’d initiated after seeing my socials comments but before he insisted I shadow him as he prepped. “This is what happens when you open that door that allows people to destroy people and still be called people.” When Augustus had reached out, his plans had been set.

“Some things become invisible when you look at them,” she says warmly. “I like to think about him like that. I’m not mad at him, if that’s what you’re wondering.” It’s after she’s come again and ushered me out the door and closed it between us that I think I should leave town.

And I think about how there’s only so much a person can do about people, how we can feel that we’re good and wish well and hold hands and still have power, with our hands, to destroy the person next to us but not to help them. But when I think about Augustus Boyle thinking about Donkey, I remember how Augustus Boyle thought about all those invisible hands filming. He mentioned how you used to have to coerce or force people to surveil each other, and I told an anecdote about my work and I could see Augustus Boyle wince. He’d given up emotions at this point, but he stared at my hands and said something that made me feel guilty, and I try not to go gonzo anymore, but it’s true that my hands are your hands.

– BJ Thoray

Author’s Note: Peering into the bitter heart of America, this a story asks if revenge can ever be empathy.