God's Gonna Cut You Down

"That's little Timmy. He caught his first trout with three and a half years old. That's Sandy. She makes the best cupcakes. She won the local cupcakes competition with her red velvet creation. Oh, that was quite something. And the celebration sex was awesome. The dog is Braxton. Can't hunt a duck for the life of himself. Yet, he can hunt his tail like nobody else. I love them so dearly. I haven't seen them in ten years."

"I still remember the date. Little Timmy came home from daycare with a split lip. That little fucker, Adam's son punched him in the face. I was hurt so badly like nothing in this world could have hurt a man. I walked out of the house straight through the door. I fumbled to push the handle down. With all the energy that I had, I ran the door in before my shaky brain could figure out to do the handle. Sandy came up on me. She yelled at me to stop. When that didn't work, she pulled on me. When I kept dragging her down the street to the day care, her whole body was clutched around my left leg and dragging over the pavement, when that didn't work, she started hitting me. I couldn't feel it. Her punches were like a light morning drizzle. Three blocks down, she cried, 'I love you.' That's when I stopped. That sunk in. It wasn't the words. It was the feeling behind those words. I stopped. I thought for the first time. I realized that I was going to do anything for those people."

Daniel paused in the narration. He was struggling with the emotion. Flashes of anger, love, anguish, longing, and hate chased across his face. He was trying to put them away to focus on the story. Prescott was absolutely quiet. His entire focus was on Daniel. The booth was quiet as the stable was during Jesus' birth.

"I haven't seen them in ten years. Purson is holding a secret over me. I can't leave the city limits. They can't know that I'm here."

"When Purson says that he's gonna cut you down, he's gonna cut you down."

"The only way through this thing is for you to win and for Sea to lose. Purson would have thrown Sea in the Tygart with a millstone tied around her ankles. It was my idea to hire you to make sure that Sea would lose, and she'd get to live. Doesn't anyone see how this game has to be played?"

The tears were gone from Daniel's eyes. There was only dreary pain left in his face. A pain that's been worn for many years, too many years, so that it becomes set deeply and loses all of its immediacy and urge for action.

That night, Prescott waited until the sun had gone down soundly. He walked to Sea's car, knocked on the driver window. After a little resistance, Sea submitted to his encouraging to come with her because the car wasn't a safe place for the night. They walked to his hotel hand in hand. The hotel receptionist carefully watched them walking across the hotel parking lot. After Prescott double locked the door, he jammed a chair under the door handle.

"You can sleep in the bed tonight," said Sea.

Prescott cleared away the comforter. He spread out the Band-Aids, gauze pads, and iodine solution. Sea stripped to her underwear, trim sport panties with blue ribbons and a tight fitting black wife beater shirt. He cleaned the street grime out of her scratches, painted the skin bright red with iodine solution, and carefully applied skin-colored Band-Aids. She did let herself be groomed. In silence, she focused on the sensations on her skin as he treated her.

"Ain't nobody ever did done something like that for me," she said.

They turned down the light to sleep, both exhausted. There was that in between time of being awake and sleeping. The mind is so self-conscious. They could each feel their breathing, almost annoyingly aware of their breathing. The half-light in the room outlined the flat screen TV in pixelated gray. A white line would run up the wall and over the ceiling when a car pulled into the hotel parking lot. It was always the same predictable pattern. All these little half-sensations created a feeling, a heavy feeling, a familiar feeling, a feeling like that is it. A religious man would have said that the Holy Spirit was in the room.

In the morning, Prescott knew exactly what he had to do. All the playing was over. The advice of his Princeton professors told him: "Go to the fundamentals and perfect them." He needed to get as many signals for his traffic prediction model as possible. He had two days of data of traffic patterns at different times of the day. Morning rush hour tended to go one way. Evening rush hour the other way. Early afternoon tended to have people zig through the city on side streets. He could use that to optimize traffic light times.

Then, an evil smirk chased across his lips. He tried to suppress it. Then, he decided that it was fine to let it out. This was a no holds barred fight. He had a camera pointed at Sea's intersection and another at Will's intersection. His algorithm could detect the traffic state on those intersections. When Sea sent him traffic, he could anticipate that and switch his light to allow the traffic to pass straight through. Or he could be malicious. Say that Will's traffic light facing him was green, he could starve that of traffic by turning his traffic light red for Will's direction. And when Will turned his signal red, he'd hammer him with traffic. That dumb fuck Will wouldn't know what hit him.

With that he started to write source code furiously. The laptop was on his knees. His butt was in the depth of the foldout chair. His mind got absorbed by programming. He had to think of variable names. He had to think of error conditions. He had to hunt down obscure compile errors. His mind was so completely consumed that he was free, so utterly free of worry and stress. All he could feel in his belly was definite victory building. Over two hundred years of the most brilliant minds in the world had poured the best training into Prescott at Princeton. Will and Purson were going to come to heel like dogs!

Prescott hit enter to start the final release compile. He high fived Daniel confidently. Daniel had been watching over Prescott's shoulder and nodded with reverence. "Compile succeeded." Daniel pushed the new software into the traffic control utility box. The light gave a double flash of the green light to indicate that the new program had taken over the brain of the traffic light. "I'm summoning a demon," thought Prescott to himself, thinking of the traffic light being under his ghoulish control.

Pretty quickly, Will's traffic light started piling up with cars. That's when Prescott took note. The lights turned off on Will's intersection. Will started kicking on the traffic control box like a maniac. Will would hit the keys on his keyboard really hard. The lights came back on. The pattern kept repeating over and over. Prescott started taking notes of the traffic light configuration and amount of waiting cars. There was a pattern. The ninth car from Prescott's direction would trigger the light's to go off. Will probably had a buffer overflow bug in his code.

That could be exploited! Prescott added a nasty little subroutine to his algorithm that would try to get exactly nine cars to stand at Will's intersection. Prescott's heart beat hard when he was about to hit enter to send the update over the wire. Daniel grabbed Prescott's shoulder hard, "You go tell those fuckers to fuck off!" With that, the new algorithm went live.

Oh, it worked like a charm. Every five minutes Will's traffic light crashed. Will had to hurry to reboot the system. That kept him firefighting instead of hunting down the bug. The cars started piling up. Of course if there were too many on Prescott's side of Will's intersection, Prescott's light would stop sending cars there until there were again exactly nine cars. And ballooma, Will's light would crash again.

"Haha, do you hear that cacophony of car horns?" triumphed Prescott.

"That's no good. You are in deep shit son," replied Daniel matter of fact.

"Why? We want him to lose," said Prescott confused.

"You are the one who is doing the losing. See, he turned the traffic light going in your direction to red. The cars are backed up as far as the eye sees. Eventually, they make right turns out of frustration. He is starving you off traffic. Most of your traffic comes from the main road. He cut off almost half of your traffic income," explained Daniel.

"Wouldn't he hurt himself, too?" asked Prescott.

"Nope, they have to drive through his intersection. But they can drive around yours on the side street. You can cut him off, too. Though, you'll mutually destruct each other. Sea's going to win. And you don't want that if you truly love her," said Daniel sternly.

Prescott kept cleaning up little inefficiencies in his algorithm. The traffic passed his intersection cleanly, almost always getting a green signal. Yet, Daniel's tick marks only trickled on the clipboard, while Will's intersection was a mad raving car horn orchestra. A gloomy mood befell the two men.

"She won't come with me to Princeton?"

"Nope, she's dead set on taking over Pathway."

In the afternoon, Prescott's work was down to busy work like writing comments in the code and fixing typos in method names. The president's black limo pulled up at the intersection. The driver with the suit, tie, and driver cap got out, walked around the back to open the passenger door for Prescott. When Daniel tried to get in, the driver stopped him. When Daniel said that he needed to get back anyway, the driver pushed his hand against Daniel to clearly restrain Daniel from getting in. The driver slammed the door and locked the door with his remote entry key. He walked around the back of the limo and took off.

In the Pathway parking lot, the limo driver parked across five parking spots, got out of the car and hand-walked Prescott into the office, down the hallway, and made sure that Prescott would sit down in front of Purson. Purson, the big man, who filled out the swivel chair, was in a jolly mood with a swirl of whisky in a rock bottom glass. Purson reveled in the flavor of the whisky to let Prescott squirm a little more. That Viking axe loomed like an ominous sign behind Purson.

Without saying anything, Purson took an empty glass from the caddy and filled it with water from a carafe. He pushed the glass in front of Prescott. Prescott sneered with his face. Purson opened a big, deep drawer in his desk. He pulled out a beer glass that was filled with a yellow, slightly foamy liquid. "That's my piss," said Purson unceremoniously. He pushed the glass in front of Prescott. Fair enough, Prescott could smell the authenticity of the item. Purson got another clear glass from the caddy .He lifted a red gasoline container with a long snout from behind the desk. He filled the third glass a quarter. Sure enough, the fumes of gasoline filled the room. "Makes you nauseous, doesn't it?"

"How long is it going to take for you to break down and help yourself? I have a bet with my psychologist that you won't even last ten minutes. I have a good box of Cubans at stake," said Purson with a rhetorical question. Prescott silently listened with a pale face.

"I'm a gonna let you in on a secret. Pathway is the traffic light software that runs in 95% of all traffic lights in America. We didn't get there with a better product. Our supply chain is shit. We sell our product at a loss. That's how we put all the competitors out of business."

"Why would we do that? I'll tell you. We are not in the traffic light business. Ads? No, that's what you Princeton boys always think. Put an ad on your fridge and give the fridge away for free. Ads is not the answer."

"See every traffic light comes with at least four cameras. The cameras aren't turned on. Yet, each district has the option of paying a little extra to use computer vision to optimize traffic signaling. It improves traffic throughput by 20%. They don't know the cameras are already running. There are 300,000 traffic light intersection. That puts us at around 1.2 million cameras all over America. The Eye of Sauron in Lord Of The Rings is the prototype for our business plan."

"We have a giant data center to process all those images real-time. We have archives going back five years. I want to show you something," finished Purson narrating.

Purson turned his computer screen, so that Prescott could see. Purson entered "Prescott Smith" in Facebook. Purson clicked around a bit around in Prescotts profile until he found a family picture. He copied the family picture to clipboard and opened it in MS Paint. From there, he cut Prescott's father out. He saved the face of Prescott's father. Prescott uploaded the file to a Pathway internal web site.

A minute later, a detailed ledger with intersection names and dates appeared. Purson scrolled down and pointed on Thursday, January 13th 2011. Purson tapped the screen a second time and looked victorious. Then, he clicked on the link. A little QuickTime video opened. Prescott's father was driving the gray Charger through an intersection with snow slush in Washington DC.

The next video clip showed a Seven-Eleven store near an intersection. The Charger pulled into a parking spot. There was slick, grimy ice in front of the store Prescott's father wore a beige coat and leather shoes. He was wearing smooth leather gloves. His hair was shiny, and the gray looked regal. The picture didn't seem to move for a minute. Only the timestamp rolled forward.

Then, Prescott's father came out with the store clerk. She was an extremely fat woman. Her butt was so big that a basketball would blush. Her hair was curled. The jewelry on her sausage fingers was big bling. Her face looked very dumb. They walked behind the green, open city dumpster. He pressed her against the wall. Heavy vapor clouds rose from their mouths. The action grew harsh and jerky. He turned to walk away. He flung something small on the ground.

"Why?" thought Prescott. His mother was intelligent. His mother went to Pilates class five times a week. She went from one kale juice diet to the next. Her body was in vibrant shape. His mom had done humanitarian missions in Africa. His mom's parents were from old money. Why would his dad turn his back on such a woman? That clerk was the stuff of nightmares for any man who wasn't a eunuch.

"Do you want me to send your mom a copy?" asked Purson. "We could watch live what her reaction is. I got her phone number right here."

"Whoever is president of Pathway will be the true ruler of America once our systems are fully operational. Do you see why you are trying to throw the wrench into the wrong gear?" pressed Purson.

"Don't send that video to my mom. She tried to kill herself. She has a history of suicidal problems. Don't do it," begged Prescott.

"Don't be such a buzzkill," said Purson. He started to enjoy his role.

Without further ado, Purson alt-tab switched back to MS Paint. He cut out the face of Prescott's mom. He uploaded it to the internal Pathway web site. Purson opened the life stream. Prescott's mom was loading groceries into her white Toyota Prius. The car was in the parking lot decently close to a traffic light. She seemed to stop to look at her phone. A devilish smile went across Purson's face. Prescott's mom looked confused at the first video of Prescott's father driving across the intersection.

"I'll do it," pressed Prescott out of his lips.

Prescott's hand gripped the water glass with determination. He poured the water down his throat. He grabbed the piss glass. Ugh, the familiar bile and repulsing taste of stale piss. The nose felt like it was exploding. He grabbed the gasoline glass. The vapors alone gave him a nauseating dizziness. The gasoline burned his mouth and throat. The stomach revolted as the gasoline burned chemical holes into the stomach lining. The tiny lump of a stomach contracted spit, bile, and gasoline poured out of Prescott's mouth and spread over Purson's desk. The convulsions came in waves. Prescott's fingers clutched as he helplessly sunk to the floor.

Daniel burst into the office without knocking. He grabbed Prescott off the floor. Purson reached for the phone and dialed 911. Daniel eyed Purson. Daniel had known what Purson was up to. Purson had an obliging look, like Purson knew that he couldn't draw out the 911 call any longer without being caught. Prescott lifelessly languished in Daniel's arms and pumped his stomach involuntarily with his eyes rolled back. The alarm of an ambulance came rapidly close as everything went black around Prescott.

When Prescott came to, he felt groggy. He felt clean sheets on his skin. He felt something warm and cuddly on his left side. He felt a jab in his right arm. Oh, that was the syringe from the drip. Sea was the cuddly mess on his left side. She was carefully caressing his hair and holding him. She was lying next to him. Her eyes were hazel. There was something so intimate about having her face so close to his.

"Prescott, I stopped him from poisoning you. I talked him out of killing you. I told him that it would raise less questions if he committed you to an insane asylum. Just tell the good doctor that you tried to kill yourself. With your history of drinking that teacher's urine, it'll go down really well. You stupid, Princeton boy. All the smarts of Princeton hasn't taught you any street smarts. That's the best that I could do for you. Say bye to Sea. You won't ever see her again," said Daniel.

The nurse came in. Under the watchful eye of the psychiatrist with his checkered vest and tie, the nurse pulled the protesting Sea away from him. Sea's fists struggled high in the air. The nurse was bigger and used to wrestling patients. The slow procession dragged to the door.

"Why won't I see Sea again? She could visit me!" stammered Prescott.

Daniel shook his head with sad sorrow. Prescott could feel the sting in his heart. Sea was going to die. He rose up to leave the bed. The psychiatrist pressed Prescott down by the shoulders. Still weak from the gasoline poisoning and purging, Prescott sunk back and cried bitter tears. He muttered under his breath, "I'm gonna cut him down."

"Prescott, did you try to kill yourself today?" asked the psychiatrist.

"Yes," said Prescott was stony solemnness.

"Prescott, do you think that you are a danger to yourself?" continued the psychiatrist.

"Yes," said Prescott with a hard and pale face.

"Prescott, I have to commit you. Do you understand?" finished the psychiatrist.

"Yes," said Prescott with icy tension.

"I'm going to walk outside for a minute and write the order," said the psychiatrist.

Prescott sat up. He pulled the syringe out of his arm. He got out of the bed and made the first few steps barefoot. The hospital gown was undone in the back and showed the center of his butt cheeks. Daniel looked with an open mouth. Prescott pushed the door open. He disappeared from Daniel's view. There was the think sound of a metal tray falling to the ground. The steps continued getting thinner.

Prescott made it out of the hospital without being stopped. The hospital staff was so slow and occupied with themselves that they didn't noticed. Prescott ran down to the Pathway office. He stormed down the hallway to Purson's office. He barged into the office. The office was empty. He grabbed the Viking axe. Holding the Viking axe on the long end of the handle, he ran out.

He ran down to the railroad tracks. The hospital gone was flying around him. The big, green tree crowns stood silently around. The birds chirped. And the angry Princeton lad with a Viking axe ran down the railroad tracks. He ran down until he hit the Tygart Valley River. He ran through the deep grass. Rocks hurt his feet. He ignored them. He ran upstream until he came to the Leading Creek tributary.

The company limo was parked high up on the river bank. The trunk was propped open. Purson was watching from the cliff with leather gloved hands and an immaculate suit. Beneath him, in the deep spot of the confluence was a spot in the water that was churning and bubbling. Prescott ran up to Purson. The dazed Purson recognized his Viking blade. When Prescott drove the battle axe down in a wide swing into Purson's calve, Purson acquired a deeper level of knowing of his axe as it sliced through the calve muscle and cracked the shinbone.