Control C

Control, C. Control V. That has been my life for about 10 years. Copying and pasting the works of great men and women. Call me scum, loser, or even fraud. It doesn't matter to me. Why try to compete with genius when it's staring at you in the face. Don't you care about getting caught? What about plagiarism laws?

Trust me when I say I am on a whole another level of stealth. I am the ninja god of this world. I sprinkle in about 35-40 percent of personality to hide the faults. I go even further in jumbling up some of the sentences and connect them in such a way that flows naturally.

And about plagiarism laws? They can suck my fat hairy balls. The powerful set rules so that their credibility stays intact. If you don't want your shit being copied, there are plenty of ways you can do it. Did you know that a majority of screenplays don't have copyrights? This isn't because everyone is so busy making movies but because no one really wants to pay for it. It's a social rule that writers shouldn't steal from each other. To me, that just a light suggestion and means nothing. Your opinion doesn't mean anything to me.

Laugh, hate, disrespect me all you want, but hey, I'm the one with the six figures in my bank account. I take on new meaning on the word copywriter.

Which reminds me it should be about... 7:30 pm. I should probably get something to eat, then get back to it.

I stood up from my office desk and wade through the piles of garbages (I just haven't had time to take them out). I reach my fridge and pop it open. The cool air seeps out, and it feels good on soggy toes.

Empty.

I am not surprised. It usually is empty since I have no desire to cook. I typically have a bunch of microwaveable food and snacks. The only thing I see is a jar of Mayonnaise (I guess it wasn't totally empty).

I grabbed my leather jacket and grumbled down to grab my shoes. Which were missing, again. Sometimes, I just wish I could summon the things I lost, like my socks, watch, shoes, girlfriend, and maybe my chiseled high school body. Gawd, I was handsome.

I grabbed a shoe from two different pairs and headed out of the door.

The winter breeze was quite strong and didn't feel as good as the fridge. I guess it's January again. Halbridge City, Washington. I love and hate this city. I love how tall and large the skyscrapers are. Reaching for the sky without a care in the world. Free from the disdain and peering glares of other people wishing to have what they have.

I glance over to my right. Miss Joyce and her niece (Anna) were climbing up the stairs to the second floor. Their apartment sits right next to mine, and another reason I love the city. She is a shining star in the dark, bleak world. Her body is everything a man could wish for; plump breasts and a perfect DISNEY D U M P T R U C K (must be in the genes). Her niece ain't bad looking either, twelve and growing in all the right places. But any good man knows that wine tastes better when you wait, and I have all the time in the world (jailbait is a serious thing, and I have no plans to go to jail).

"Joy, he's staring at us again while feeling himself up," said Anna, and I quickly put my hands back in my pockets.

"No, I wasn't," I shout back.

"Anna, how many times have I told you. Don't make eye contact," she whispered to her. I knew she didn't like me, but my extensive research into the opposite sex told me that just one night with me will turn her around. I had found a newfound love for breaking in stubborn women. Though I never had any experience with women or even sex but porn taught me all I needed to know).

They quickly shuffle into their apartment, leaving me alone in the cold, but not before Anna shoots a look. She sticks out her tongue pulls down on the skin below her left eye.

I smacked my lips, and she shivered and rushed inside—the door slamming behind me.

"Cheeky brat," I said, heading for the stairs. It's not bad living my life, most people don't know what I do, and even fewer people know what I look like.

I don't know when I had my eureka moment about stealing works from other people. I just knew it, even from a young age.

My mother and father were ordinary, lower-class people. Working those pain-breaking manual labours. If anyone tells you that there's not a class system in America, they've lied to you.

I stopped by the Seven-Eleven just across the street and headed inside. A group of high schoolers were hanging outside smoking. Reminded me of my old school days. Every night was like that. Hanging out and enjoying the summer night breeze. No cares in the world. Everything is simpler when you are young.

The Seven-Eleven was warm, and I headed straight to the junk food section. I could've grabbed a microwaveable, but it could satisfy me a bit longer if I stock up on junk food. It's not nearly as fulfilling, but I've been needing to go on a diet.

I grabbed a couple potato chip bags headed towards the front.

"Finally crawled out of your den for food, huh, James," said Tony grabbing my bags checking them out. He is the only clerk that I like, the only person that I like. He understands my point of view and is my only apprentice.

"Good to see you too, Tony. How's the work" I said.

"I am not having as much success as you. A couple of papers got flagged. That will be 17.35."

I nodded and pulled out my debit card, and paid.

"Come on, just tell me what program you're using, and I could work together with you," Tony said.

I had taken him under my wing because he reminded me of myself (not to mention I was about five to six beers in). He was just about done graduating with general studies. He had no idea what to do next (a wasted four years, in my opinion). I had taught him a couple of my tricks, making sure to keep my ace up my sleeve, which was a program I told him that I had created to ease my work for the past decade. It was all my tricks and tips in one. Which wasn't a lie entirely. I did have a program, but it wasn't on my computer. It had all my tips and tricks and what I didn't tell him was that it was all in my head.

Now here I was with an apprentice too dumb to efficiently use the tips I bestowed upon him, and now I'm standing in front of a grave I've dug for myself.

"I'll think—"

"Give me a chance," he pleaded.

"Fine, when you get off work, head up to my apartment."

"Yes."

"It's—"

"I know where it is," he said and called up the next customer.

I headed out of the store feeling nervous, which I hadn't felt in a long time. Since a college professor (who thought he was smarter than the job he had at a community college) tracked me down to my apartment and threatened to shut me down.

How did he know where I lived? I never told him, and I never brought him there. It was concerning, but the cold winter grabbed my attention, and I started back. Then I paused.

The fact that Tony knew where I lived disturbed me more like a thought you threw away but came back because now you were curious.

I stood on the edge of the curb as people walked by and crossed the street. I was now worried. I hadn't lived the best life, and my body was nowhere near as fit as I once was. If Tony learned that there was no program and it was all in my head. How sure was I that he wasn't going to take drastic measures? He knew how much I was making, well, not exactly how much I was making, but he knew it was six figures. Alcohol really does loosen the tongue.

I stepped onto the crosswalk. My head still swirling with thoughts on how I could protect myself. I was so engrossed I didn't hear the truck's horn or the screams from the teenagers or even the screech of a woman when the truck's bumper swept me off my feet. It was cold and hot, pain shot through me, and the world spun all around me. I was on my back, or I thought I was on my back. Either way, I was on the floor, my legs mangled in two directions, and my body twisted. I was a fat bloody mess, and now I was a fat dying, bloody mess. The pain made me vomit blood which just got caught in my throat, choking me like a druggy. I couldn't feel my legs, but I felt the pain. Imagine a meat tenderizer smashing some fresh beef. Now imagine a baseball bat smashing the fresh beef, now a fridge and now a truck. I bet that put everything in perspective. I spurted and gagged, and yet no one moved. Everyone watching me, some with their phones out like they're watching a Netflix drama.

Maybe it was for the best, I thought. I didn't have to worry about Tony, Miss Joyce or her bratty niece. I was getting tired of my work and was thinking about taking a long break. It was all just unfortunate, I thought as my eyes began to close. Just unfortunate.

Then I saw her, Lana, a girlfriend from a better time.

"Lana," I said, stepping towards her. My legs were working, and I didn't feel any pain. I didn't feel any clothes either. I glanced down and found myself naked but shrouded at the same time.

"Is that what I look like to you," said Lana taking a seat on a white chair next to a white table. She grabs some cookies from a plate and starts munching away. I didn't notice the table there before.

"What are you talking about, Lana? Where am I?"

"You're dead," she said and smiled. "Welcome to the afterlife."