The Deep Fake

All characters are over eighteen years old.

Normally I was one of the first people in the office, but I was running a little late that Monday morning. So when I walked through the front door, the receptionist was already behind her desk. I gave her a smile and flashed my usual thumbs-up as I headed back to my cubicle. But instead of returning my greeting, she just stared at me with an odd expression.

Weird, I thought as walked down the hallway. Wonder what's up with her? Maybe she had a bad night or something.

But my thoughts quickly shifted to my schedule for the week as I sat down at my desk and logged on to my computer. Before the welcome screen could appear, however, Mary, our department secretary, was standing at my side, a most un-welcoming expression on her face.

"How could you do that, Peter?" she demanded. "What were you thinking?"

"What are you talking about, Mary? How could I do what?"

"It's in your inbox," she said impatiently. "I think everybody's seen it by now."

I fumbled with the cursor, trying to open my email, but before I could do so my phone began ringing. The display read Geneva Pawley. "I better get this," I said, and picked up. "Peter Graves," I answered.

The unhappy voice of our longtime VP of Human Resources filled my ear. "Peter, Mr. Castle wants to see you in his office."

Oh, shit, why does the big boss want to see me? And why is the VP of HR making the call? "Okay, Geneva, I'll be there just as soon as..."

"No!" she interrupted. "Drop everything. He wants to see you right now."

"Yes, ma'am," I said and hung up. I looked at Mary and tried to make a joke. "I guess I'm in trouble-- I'm on my way to Mr. Castle's office."

She looked like she was about to cry. "If you've cost me my job, I'll never forgive you."

What the hell is that all about? I wondered, as I headed to the executive suite.

Mr. Castle's secretary didn't say a word when I walked in; instead, she glared and waved me straight in.

Castle was staring at his computer monitor, with Pawley looking over his shoulder. When I walked in, he shook his head disdainfully. "Well, Peter, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry but I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"Show him, Ms. Pawley," he ordered, turning the monitor so I could see. To my amazement, his web browser was open to a popular porn site. The idea that the ever-so-proper Marcus Castle could be watching porn shocked me. What is going on? I asked myself.

Then Ms. Pawley clicked on a miniature too small for me to see clearly, and a video began to play. As I stared in disbelief, I saw a white man lying on a bed with his head between the legs of a pretty young black woman. There was no doubt what he was doing: her sighs and moans filled the room.

I watched a few more seconds and then looked at the scowling pair. "Why are we looking at this?" I asked in confusion.

Castle gestured impatiently to Ms. Pawley. "Skip ahead to the end," he ordered.

When the video resumed, the action was rapidly moving toward a climax -- literally. The man was now pumping into the woman for all he was worth, and her moaning had transitioned into passionate cries. The two people on screen apparently reached their peaks at almost the same moment. Then, with a gasp and groan, the man collapsed on top of the semi-conscious woman.

I was just about to ask again what all this was about when the unthinkable happened. The man lifted up and, turning to the camera, grinned and flashed a big thumbs-up. There was no mistaking the man's face -- it was me!

I staggered back and sat down heavily in an office chair, unable to comprehend what I'd just seen. "That isn't me!" I choked out, pointing at the display. "Where did you get that?"

The HR VP snorted. "It appears you sent the link to that obscene little vignette to half the people in the building. As to your denial, if it isn't you, you sure seemed to recognize yourself just now."

"But, but, I've never done anything like that. Besides, I have no idea who that woman is."

"So she was just a casual pick-up?" Pawley shot back.

"No, I mean I don't know her. I mean I've never seen her before."

Pawley smirked at me. "From what I just saw, it looks like you got to know her pretty well."

Before I could think of a rejoinder, Castle stood up and waved his hands. "Enough!" he said loudly. He pointed at me. "We're not going to debate this any further. You can deny all you want, but I don't think you're going to convince me or anyone else in this building that you're not the man in that pornography."

He shook his white-haired head almost sadly. "Peter, you've been a good employee, someone I held high expectations for. I cannot imagine why you would think this was a good thing to do, nor can I conceive of why you would send it to your colleagues and associates. But whatever the case, you surely must know there is no way you can continue working for this company. If nothing else, such a monumental display of poor judgment is enough reason to discharge you."

He turned to his HR VP. "Ms. Pawley, in light of Mr. Graves' service to date, I'm not going to fire him for cause. He is to receive the usual benefits of a normal separation." He turned and pointed at me. "But make no mistake about it: effective immediately you are no longer an employee of this corporation. I want you to leave the building immediately, without speaking to anyone else. Do you understand?"

"Sir, I..."

"My generosity regarding the terms of your separation is not unlimited, Peter. Do you understand?"

I bowed my head. "Yes sir."

"Ms. Pawley, please escort Mr. Graves out of the building."

She came over and crossed her arms, waiting until I stood. As we reached the door, I turned back toward Mr. Castle, but he wouldn't look at me.

When Ms. Pawley and I reached the lobby, I glanced at the cute receptionist. She had that same expression on her face, but this time I knew why. I turned and pushed through the front door, into a world that looked dramatically different from the one I'd seen earlier.

I drove home on autopilot, barely conscious of traffic, streets or even direction. My mind kept flitting like some flying insect from one question to the next, never finding any answers. It was not until I pulled into my subdivision that I remembered I'd soon have to face Estelle and explain why I was no longer employed. That prospect grew even more daunting when I remembered I had no explanation for everything else that had happened this morning. My best chance, I decided, was to hope that she'd heard nothing and gently explain the hoax that had been pulled on me.

The angry tears running down Estelle's cheeks and the outraged expression on her face blew that hopeful little fantasy away like a smoke-signal in a high wind.

"How could you do such a thing?" she shrilled as I entered the house. "My friends have been calling all morning -- everyone has seen what you've done."

"Sweetheart, I'm just as confused and..."

She didn't want to hear it. "It's bad enough that you broke your marriage vows. But to boast about it, to put your infidelity online where everyone could see it, to humiliate me -- how could you?" Then she dissolved into more tears.

"Estelle, that wasn't me. You've got to believe me."

"Oh, of course, it wasn't you," she scoffed sarcastically. "It must have been your evil twin or someone else who looks exactly like you and acts exactly like you. How could I have been fooled like that?"

She twirled her IPad around so I could see the offending image where she'd halted the video. There I was, grinning like an idiot and flashing my thumbs-up to the camera. She used her fingers to zoom in on my face. "And look at that," she went on, "your doppelganger even went to the trouble of getting a scar on his eyebrow just like you have."

Instinctively I reached up to rub the mark from that bike accident years ago.

Now her voice turned cold and bitter. "Don't try to gaslight me, Peter Graves. You cheated on me with some slut and then posted it online so you could brag about your conquest. You've been unfaithful, you've publicly humiliated me, and you have the nerve to lie about it?"

She stood up, folded her arms across her chest and began to pace back and forth. "If you think I'm going to forgive and forget something like this, you have another think coming. I've already contacted an attorney; you can expect to be served with divorce papers in the next day or so. In the meantime, I'm going to my sister's. While I'm gone, you can pack your things and get out of here. I want you gone by the time I come home this evening."

"But where should I go?" I asked stupidly.

"Why don't you go stay with your little slut?" she asked bitterly.

I knew better than to argue. "So that's it -- I don't even get a chance to defend myself?"

She stared at me. "Alright, go ahead. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I, well, Stella... honestly I can't explain any of this. I swear I didn't cheat on you -- I've never seen that woman before in my life. Even if I had done something like that -- which I didn't -- why in the world would I record the evidence? And why in the world would I send the proof of my infidelity to everyone else? Can't you see there's something wrong with this whole thing?"

She was clearly unpersuaded. "You know what, I have no idea why you'd do all those things. Maybe you wanted a video record of your affair so you could beat off to it when you're alone. Maybe you wanted to impress your buddies that you can still get it on with some hot young thing. Maybe there's another reason I haven't thought of. But none of that matters. You said it yourself: for whatever reason you posted the proof of your cheating on a sleazy porn site where anyone and everyone can see it. I don't care what went on in your twisted mind, I just know that I don't want to have anything more to do with you."

Ignoring my protestations, she grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. "Remember," she instructed, "I want you gone when I get back this evening." Then she stamped out, slamming the door on our ten-year marriage.

In a daze I went and packed a couple of bags with clothes, computer and toiletries. Then I drove to the first motel I came to and rented a room. In my new living quarters, I sat down on the bed and held my head in my hands. I've always been a well-organized person, and I knew I needed to plan out my next steps. The only problem was I couldn't even figure out the first step to take. Finally, I flopped back on the bed and, mentally and emotionally exhausted, somehow fell asleep.

An hour later I awoke, groggy and still beset by the ruins of my life. But somehow my mind must have kept working because I knew what I had to do. Step one was to go to the Post Office to rent a box. I knew I'd need a new mailing address and it sure wasn't going to be the Bates Motel or wherever I was.

Armed with my P.O. box number, my next step was to get my finances in order. I contacted the bank to set up a separate account, then moved half our funds into the new one. The woman I talked to must have been through this before -- she had a number of helpful suggestions. Then I called our broker and made similar arrangements.

After that, I called Ms. Pawley. When I told her what had happened, she was sympathetic enough to put me in touch with a guy in the benefits department who helped me with those details.

Finally, I went hunting for a lawyer. The woman who'd drawn up our wills didn't handle divorces, but she was able to refer me to another attorney in the firm who did. I asked the first attorney to start drawing up a new will for me; then I scheduled a meeting with her family law colleague for the day after tomorrow. The new arbiter of my fate, at least for a while, would be Reyna Menudos, Esq.

With my mental checklist completed, at least for the moment, I realized that I was starving, so I left the motel. The first place I spotted was a Greek restaurant, where I went in and ordered a gyro. While I was eating, the part of my mind that had been switched off began to send out distress signals.

How did this happen to me? Who was that woman? Who posted that video to the porn site? Who sent out the emails? Why would someone want to ruin my life so completely? All those questions and more began hot-rodding through my brain. I didn't have a single answer to any of them, and I had no idea how tackle them. All I managed to do was give myself indigestion.

When I got back to my new temporary abode, I pulled out my laptop and logged on to the company email system. Fortunately, the InfoSys department hadn't closed my account yet. As head of Network Security, I made a mental note to gig them about that. Then I remembered that I'd been fired and it was their problem, not mine.

The good news about having access was that I was quickly able to find the link to "my" video on the porn site. I called it up and watched it all the way through for the first time.

The room had all the characteristics of a low-budget motel not unlike the one I was in: mass-produced end tables on either side of the bed, generic art hanging over the headboard, a non-descript bedspread on the sheets. In short, there was nothing to help me guess where the video had been shot.

It was also clear that this was not a professional production. The lighting was poor: just the lamps in the room. When the camera moved, it was jerky and abrupt. There was no soundtrack.

The naked young woman, who looked to be in her early 20s, was lounging comfortably on the bed, obviously a willing participant. Then the camera was picked up and moved. When it stabilized again, it had apparently been placed on a table near the foot of the bed. The back of the man who was filming the scene came into view. He climbed on the bed between the girl's legs. With the camera in that position, I couldn't see his face. In terms of production values, the video was a stinker.

The action itself wasn't all that titillating either. The man ate the woman out energetically for about five minutes, bringing her to an orgasm. Then he crawled up between her legs in a kneeling position, draped her legs over his shoulders and proceeded to pound her for the next five minutes until they both climaxed. Again, thanks to the poor camera angle there wasn't that much to see.

What did make the video noteworthy was the audio. Perhaps the male was remarkably adept at oral sex or the female was unusually aroused and sensitive. Either way, the sounds she made and the way her body writhed in response were a definite turn-on.

And her response didn't let up when the man began to plow the young woman. In fact she responded with even more moans, gasps and whimpers, soon followed by orgasmic yells and screams that surely must have been heard by everyone else in the motel. It didn't sound to me like she was faking it. "Damn," I murmured to myself, "whoever he is, he really fucked the hell out of her."

I went through the whole thing again, frequently pausing the action hoping to get a better look at the guy. Try as I might, I could see nothing to make me think it was somebody else. I could spot no mark, scar, tattoo or deformity -- nothing that would prove it wasn't me.

Finally I focused on the end of the video, where the guy turned to the camera. It was a disorienting experience: my habitual thumbs-up gesture, my grin, my face, and even my scar. As much as I wanted to deny it, it sure looked like my face.

For just a moment, doubt gripped my mind. Could that really be me? Could I have done all that under the influence of drugs or hypnosis or some other weird shit and then forgotten about it?

Then sanity prevailed. The guy in the video sure didn't look drugged. Moreover, there was absolutely no indication anyone else was present. That meant he had likely planned the whole thing from the start: rent the room, get the girl, video the sex and then upload the product to the porn site. It sure looked like both the guy and the gal had done exactly what they intended to do, of their own free will.

The video was catalogued in the Interracial section, and entitled simply "Ten Minutes of Ecstasy." I couldn't argue with that, but it didn't offer any clues.

I told myself to put all my questions aside. I was going to need professional help to solve this.

After a sleepless night in the unfamiliar surroundings, I spent the following day on my next big priority: starting the search for a new job. My salary and benefits continuation weren't going to last long, so I needed to get my ass in gear.

It didn't take long for my ass to resume dragging. I knew most of the major companies in town, and network security was a priority for all of them. Unfortunately, it appeared that the news of my dismissal and the circumstances around it were now common knowledge. No one would say anything, but it was easy to tell that "my" exploits had made me persona non grata in the community I knew.

Once I'd exhausted my contacts, turning to the job search engines was an obvious next step. I put my name and resume on every one I'd ever heard of, as well as a couple of new ones I found. Now I was "out there," but how long it would take to get a nibble was anybody's guess. I could only hope that some of my online applications might turn up something. Otherwise, I may have to leave town to find a job, I thought unenthusiastically.

I'd just finished my last submission when there was a knock at my motel room door. At first I was startled because I wasn't expecting visitors, but then I got a hunch. When I opened the door, the woman standing there began, "Good afternoon, Sir, are you..."

I cut her off before she could finish. "You're a process server, aren't you?"

She was caught off guard and hesitated. After a second or two she nodded and tried to start again, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction. "You found me, I'm Peter Graves" --- I reached out and plucked the legal envelope out of her hands -- "and now I've been served."

Obviously never having confronted a response like this, she stood there uncertainly for a moment. Then she pulled her phone out of her purse, no doubt intending to take my photo. But I closed the door before she could, and I heard her walk away, muttering to herself. It wasn't much of a victory, but I felt a little better for not playing her game.

My immediate reaction was resentment toward Estelle, but she'd told me she was going to do this, so I couldn't say I was surprised. Besides, I had to admit, if I'd found pictures of her being unfaithful, I'd be the one having her served. "But, dammit, it wasn't me!" I exclaimed to the empty room. I shook my head in dejection. "Yeah, and exactly zero other people believe that." How was I going to prove my innocence?

Putting that quandary aside, I pulled out the notice and looked it over. Everything looked pretty routine to me, but I knew better than to make that determination myself. I congratulated myself on having already found an attorney. Let her handle the legal details.

The next day, my complacency lasted only a few minutes after I walked into my new attorney's office. Reyna Menudos was a no-nonsense woman in her early forties, I guessed, wearing a dark skirt and matching jacket. She took the summons and scanned it quickly. Then she put it down and peered at me carefully. "Very well, Mr. Graves, tell my why you and your wife are divorcing."

I launched into my tale of woe: the incriminating video, the mistaken identity and my current situation. She listened without interrupting until I had finished, then steepled her fingers and leaned forward. "It sounds to me like you don't really want this divorce."

"No, I don't. And I wouldn't even be here today if it weren't for that damned video. What I want is to find out who did this to me, regain my reputation and take legal action against the people who set me up."