Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-08-23 11:00 am
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-08-23 11:00 am
There must have been a million Jack somethings in the country
It had been long enough. Wilford didn’t act right away, because an impulsive reaction wouldn’t have the right impact. Jim needed to suffer. He needed to understand that Wilford is not a person that can just be walked all over. Fuck with him, and he would fuck right back.
Once he decided enough time had passed, to hopefully make Jim forget that Wilford might have been angry, it took him another few weeks to get everything just right. First, he had to find Jim, and that was going to be the hardest part. But between what he’d told Wilford, and what Walter had said, he at least had somewhere to start. He wasn’t looking for Jim Moriarty. He was looking for Jack something or other. There must have been a million Jack somethings in the country, but Wilford wasn’t looking just anywhere in the country. Jim would probably go where he was already familiar with the area, to cut down on the time it took him to establish himself. Which narrowed the field significantly. It still left him with hundreds of people to search through, but hundreds was better than potential millions.
It took him a few days, since he had a job, and other things to do with his life besides stalking someone. But SAG records for someone called Jack Mahone eventually surfaced. And wouldn’t you know, the headshots showed a very punchable face. Jim would be the kind of bastard cocky enough to think he could hide in plain sight like that.
With a name, Wilford was able to finally get to work. Internet security in 2005 was such a joke. People still thought hackers only cared about banks and the military. A couple of false police reports here, slipping a fake news article into the archives there. Pretty soon, a sordid narrative of bloody murder and even bloodier revenge was woven into Jim’s fake history - albeit, indirectly. After all, real estate agents lie about brutal murders to sell houses all the time. Slap some new paint on the walls, re-do the floors. The tenant will never know that four people were chainsawed to death in their kitchen.
Unless, of course, someone else finds out. Someone, maybe, with a fleet of open-top vans and a loudspeaker. Oh, dear, Jim. You should have asked more questions when you moved in.
And that was that. Wilford wouldn’t know if it worked until he saw Jim next, but for some reason the two of them seemed to have been avoiding one another lately. Whatever. He’d know as soon as Jim burst into the bar, swearing up a storm in Wilford’s direction. But for now, he had other things to do.
Like getting cornered by an intern, apparently.
“I heard you’re looking for a date tonight,” she said, sounding absolutely certain that he was.
“Am I?” Wilford asked. He was planning on escaping and pretending to be sick to avoid having to go to that damn gala. “What else have you heard?”
“That there’s dinner and drinks in it for you,” the intern said.
She was young — freshly out of college by the looks of her, and already trying to get out of intern hell. She had ambition; he had to give her that.
“You get one hour,” he said, holding out his hand. He wasn’t going to be stuck in that room full of people he hated a second longer than he had to. “Give me your phone.”
“Why?” She pulled her phone out anyway and tentatively handed it over. Wilford opened her text messages and punched in his own phone number.
“Your address,” he said, handing it back. “Be ready at seven.”
He walked away after that, eager to get the hell out before anyone else tried to corner him into being his plus one. Before he even got to the elevator, his phone chimed with a new message, making him wonder how this had become a thing he’d started doing.
Once he decided enough time had passed, to hopefully make Jim forget that Wilford might have been angry, it took him another few weeks to get everything just right. First, he had to find Jim, and that was going to be the hardest part. But between what he’d told Wilford, and what Walter had said, he at least had somewhere to start. He wasn’t looking for Jim Moriarty. He was looking for Jack something or other. There must have been a million Jack somethings in the country, but Wilford wasn’t looking just anywhere in the country. Jim would probably go where he was already familiar with the area, to cut down on the time it took him to establish himself. Which narrowed the field significantly. It still left him with hundreds of people to search through, but hundreds was better than potential millions.
It took him a few days, since he had a job, and other things to do with his life besides stalking someone. But SAG records for someone called Jack Mahone eventually surfaced. And wouldn’t you know, the headshots showed a very punchable face. Jim would be the kind of bastard cocky enough to think he could hide in plain sight like that.
With a name, Wilford was able to finally get to work. Internet security in 2005 was such a joke. People still thought hackers only cared about banks and the military. A couple of false police reports here, slipping a fake news article into the archives there. Pretty soon, a sordid narrative of bloody murder and even bloodier revenge was woven into Jim’s fake history - albeit, indirectly. After all, real estate agents lie about brutal murders to sell houses all the time. Slap some new paint on the walls, re-do the floors. The tenant will never know that four people were chainsawed to death in their kitchen.
Unless, of course, someone else finds out. Someone, maybe, with a fleet of open-top vans and a loudspeaker. Oh, dear, Jim. You should have asked more questions when you moved in.
And that was that. Wilford wouldn’t know if it worked until he saw Jim next, but for some reason the two of them seemed to have been avoiding one another lately. Whatever. He’d know as soon as Jim burst into the bar, swearing up a storm in Wilford’s direction. But for now, he had other things to do.
Like getting cornered by an intern, apparently.
“I heard you’re looking for a date tonight,” she said, sounding absolutely certain that he was.
“Am I?” Wilford asked. He was planning on escaping and pretending to be sick to avoid having to go to that damn gala. “What else have you heard?”
“That there’s dinner and drinks in it for you,” the intern said.
She was young — freshly out of college by the looks of her, and already trying to get out of intern hell. She had ambition; he had to give her that.
“You get one hour,” he said, holding out his hand. He wasn’t going to be stuck in that room full of people he hated a second longer than he had to. “Give me your phone.”
“Why?” She pulled her phone out anyway and tentatively handed it over. Wilford opened her text messages and punched in his own phone number.
“Your address,” he said, handing it back. “Be ready at seven.”
He walked away after that, eager to get the hell out before anyone else tried to corner him into being his plus one. Before he even got to the elevator, his phone chimed with a new message, making him wonder how this had become a thing he’d started doing.