Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

ANTON BERLIQUE

I popped a Mentos in my mouth and rattled it. Moved it around with my tongue, the sweetness dissipating, the mintiness exploding and the hard candy softening into chewable. I was at a red light in my Honda Odyssey. My hands were at 10 and 2. I had not left the wheel in search of the breath freshener and all-time favourite lolly.

Barry had opened the glove box where a Mentos packet had been stuffed into.

He said, "don't tell me to do that ever again."

"What did you expect me to do?" I asked. "Wet weather is tough to drive in."

"Is it not a red light?"

It turned green as soon as he mentioned it. "You know what I meant."

It had been a year since the downfall of Bechtel and all corporations belonging to Rupert Murdoch. I killed him and got away after he rolled a two. After that, I managed to bring down various other corrupt conglomerates across the country.

Now I was in Philadelphia, going after NASA. Yes, the space agency concerned with rocket ships and planetary scouting. Through some research, I found that their satellites collect data on every single person and sell information for money.

They practically launder money under the guise of information.

I had been invited to Irene Richards' house for dinner. To expose NASA, I had to join them, so I credited myself as one of the best surveyors in San Fran which isn't entirely pretentious, and I got the position of designing the launchpad.

Irene is working on a rocket satellite that will be crew-operated and consist of astronauts who will be laundering the money for NASA inconspicuously. By gathering each satellite's information as a beacon, they will return to Earth within a day and pass on the data to even more corrupt figures.

I planned to make the launchpad faulty and the rocket ship to be detonated upon engineering difficulties, but I would be blamed for that. So I had to convince Irene to do it for me. And if words turned out not to be applicable with her resistance, then Barry would.

Or "The Dicer" as the press is now calling him. Me. It's confusing. "An immorally moral vigilante" they're calling us. I couldn't have said it better, bearing in mind the winding path of death we leave in our wake. Some are innocent, some are dishonest, all work for power.

An empire of falsity, riddled with fake news and troubling acts of control. Authority. Ceasing to exist. Society depends on this empire. It carries it on its shoulders. Making the world worse while thinking it is better because of their narcissistic, egotistic opinions on the depressive landslide that is society.

And I'm not just talking about NASA or some fast food company, I'm talking about the empire. That overrides, overwrites, overtakes the government. Working in the shadows as a shadow. A mere whisper at a rock concert. But a tiny whisper can carry on throughout the crowd - silence them into thinking silence is normal. Well it isn't. The most cowardly thing to do is to stay quiet in a world where our voice matters the most. Fuck empires.

"Could you be any slower? I need to go to the latrine." All I could see were headlights on the street, from oncoming cars. The rainfall was picking up, showering our window even when the wipers were on max speed.

"What in the hell", I said, "is a latrine?" I could barely see the road signs so Barry switched on the GPS as I pulled over.

"What do you think it is?" Barry asked. "I'm gripping my balls over here and you don't know what I'm talking about?"

"The toilet?"

"Buddy, you're a genius." I reached behind, keeping my eyes on the loading screen of the GPS, and felt for the Domino's Pizza box but accidentally grabbed Barry's duffel bag. I looked back and snatched the box more easily. There was only one slice left of their Mega Meatlovers. I made sure the Mentos in my mouth dissolved before I took a bite.

A car behind overtook us even though we were parked and honked his way down the street, lost to the thickness of the grim weather. I jumped out of the car, leaving the door open.

Immediately the rain beat down hard on my hair and wet it so that it became flat against my forehead. Cold droplets drew crooked lines down my back.

"Yeah - fuck you too motherfucker!" I answered his honks and sat down to eat. I closed the door, my drenched clothes infecting the dashboard and seat with rainwater.

Barry muttered under his breath, "What was that about?"

"Great, now my pizza's ruined. Here you can have the rest."

"I need to take a piss remember?"

"Well then fucking throw it out!" I shouted. "I don't give a shit what you do it with - just get it outta my sight."

"Continue for 50 metres and then turn left." The GPS spoke in her soothing voice that trembled under the deranged rhythm of the rain. Barry took the pizza slice from my hand, turned the windows down a smidge and pushed it through. Its weight made a splash in the flooded gutters.

I continued to drive but came to a stop not long after, at an overturned vehicle by the side of the road. Flames encapsulated by the rain, in that it only burnt within the vehicle, manifested an orange glow which spread in fluctuating spikes across the ground. It was the same car that had honked at us coincidentally.

The woman inside crawled out of the front seat - over shards of glass - a horrific shriek omitted from her gaping mouth. Her entire body was on fire, her skin crackled into distinct embers.

Before people witnessed the scene from their dripping windows; from their warm homes, we fled to avoid being noticed or incorporated into the accident.

"You were right," Barry said, "wet weather must be really difficult to drive through."