Jake Thanatos

The camera never covered the keyboard, just the look on Jake's face while he was typing. Over his head were superimposed his messages and Kelvin's replies, as if in a comic book about psychics. "I've had enough."

"Well, then you're the only one. The rest of American can't get enough. Am I right, people?" The folks at home clicked wildly, and the applause meter unrolled across the bottom of the screen.

"It's not worth it. Humans aren't meant to live this way." His pulse and blood pressure were elevated, his breathing rough, all duly noted in a tidy column on the left.

"You're the one who wanted to be famous, Jake. You could never leave it behind now. We made you a star. Think of your fans."

"Maybe I'll just turn myself in. I could be a star from behind bars. How would that be for ratings?"

The Jake-cam swung away from the monitor and focused on the tumbler of rye at Jake's side. It swung into the air and disappeared, bringing a new spike to his blood alcohol reading. An instant poll flashed: Does Jake drink too much or too little? Sponsored by Canadian Club, no membership required. Results coming next time he takes a leak.

"Don't be silly. You really think you can dodge the death penalty now? After you've so shamelessly capitalized on your crimes?"

"Fuck you, Kelvin. If I'm going to die anyway, what's to stop me from just cutting this thing out of my neck," and here a Bowie knife appeared at the bugle in his carotid artery, "just out of spite?" His vital signs suggested that he just might do it, and Mr. and Mrs. America leaned forward in their seats.

"Because you need this as much as we do. You know in your heart that you crave the kill more than you crave death."

"Is that for a commercial? That should really grab 'em on that Monday Night Football spot. Who writes this shit for you?"

"It's been nice talking to you, Jake."

"Tonight's blood be on your hands, Kelvin," Jake typed, hating himself for delivering another audience-pleaser. At the same time, he welcomed a moment of relative privacy, knowing that most people would spend the next several minutes high-fiving each other and replaying the segment.

Jake closed the laptop and shut his eyes, leaving the producers to make do with replays and commentary. Sloppy from the whisky, he shed a few tears as he indulged yet again the tender fantasy of a place no transponder could reach. He always imagined it as a green island in a blue sea, for some reason seen from above. He let himself go a little dizzy, then shook himself and felt the first sting of adrenaline in his heart. Right on cue, a techno beat began throbbing lowly on the soundtrack—available for the next thirty minutes on a Killin' Spree Special, three bucks off. A chart of the national power grid would have shown surges from coast to coast as sets notified their owners with automated alerts. "Honey? Wake up, it's about to happen!"

Pulse and adrenaline through the roof, yet brainwaves flattening. A hundred million eyes prowl the dark corridor, descend to the street, stalk the passersby until a likely choice appears: solitary, sidewalks empty, blonde, in heels. The viewers see it almost before Jake does. Another instant poll: Who would you rather face in a dark alley: Jake Thanatos or Jack the Ripper? If Jake were watching, he'd blush at the answers, but he's got more important things to do.

The over-under on Blondie is seven minutes. A street this nondescript usually takes the cops about five to figure out. Will this be the time Jake goes too far? Will he go down in a hail of bullets, or run afoul of prey packing its own heat? Jake can't deny that the fear of getting caught has brought something new to the experience, perhaps almost enough to replace what was lost when something so private, so personal, became so public.