if i’m not complaining, i’m not happy

The well-dressed man walked as though purposefully, but without known destination, through a convention center concourse that would soon be teeming with people, the clap of each step of his Johnston and Murphy soles against the polished stone floor echoing but for a brief instant before being replaced by a new one every second as he strode hurriedly. A subtle furrowing of his brow, difficult to detect, was all that betrayed the panic informing his confident gait’s sense of urgency, as he reminded himself that he needed to remain in motion. By pausing too long, he ran the risk of drawing attention to himself, or worse yet, being recognized later once the search for suspects and persons of interest gained focus and witnesses would be placing faces at the scene immediately following the crime.

He finally happened upon it, after a moment’s worry when it had not been in the exact place he was told beforehand. Careful not to arouse suspicion, he fed a crisp twenty-dollar bill into the machine and began rapidly entering pseudonyms, fabricated occupations, and fake fax and telephone numbers into the specified fields on the glowing monitor. Soon he would have 20 freshly printed (and wholly counterfeited) business cards with which to conceal his identity. Confident at last that the final piece of preparation outlined in his elaborate plan had been completed to satisfaction, this man without a country opened a ceiling hatch and ascended a ladder into the building’s rafters to begin assembling the equipment to enable the broadcast feed from the blocky beige videocameras he would soon be covertly installing in the women’s bathrooms.


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March 2011
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