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Apparently werewolves were going to be the height of entertainment for a while. And wasn’t that a shame, because werewolves weren’t even that fun. Even the fallout with Bigby hadn’t been as satisfying as Wilford had wanted it to be. AFN had a bit of a reshuffle up top after Bigby was dragged away in a muzzle, but it was nothing even worth following.
Not personally, anyway. The website room worked a bit of overtime, but the shelf life was barely more than a week after they broke it. Wilford shouldn’t have let his boredom get in his way. He should have drawn it out and had more fun with it, but he’d been getting itchy. He needed to hurt someone before he managed to hurt himself.
Next time. He’d do it right next time. Which meant finding a next target. Unfortunately, he was met with nothing but dead ends as he poked around databases and servers he wasn’t supposed to be poking around in. Either everyone was behaving, or more likely, everyone was getting better at hiding their bad behaviour with word getting out that someone would actually be looking.
As he bumbled around back doors and shoddy security, he found a few barely-hidden login databases, but that wasn’t the sort of thing he was interested in. Even manufacturing a story about millions of stolen passwords wouldn’t have a satisfying payoff, no matter how mad the scramble to fix the issue would be. It might be something to keep an eye on, but if Eyefind couldn’t be bothered to even occasionally check that all of their user information was out in the open, they probably wouldn’t be very bothered over it all being stolen.
He was almost glad when his phone started buzzing from a text message. It gave him an excuse to give up, at least for a while. At first, he thought Billy had somehow gained remote perception, since all he’d sent was a single link to a CashForDreams listing. As soon as he clicked on it, Wilford saw right through Billy’s game. It was a weak play, even for him.
“Seriously?” he asked as he read the missing dog post. He looked up at where Buster was making a determined effort to lick a hole through the wall, and then back down at the picture on his phone. He wasn’t even going to pretend it wasn’t the same ugly dog. Apparently the dog had always been skinny as hell, except now it was taller and had fewer teeth.
Billy had to have known Wilford wasn’t going to drive all the way out to Red County to give it back, reward or no. Because it still wasn’t about the money; it was about idiots thinking they could use him for their own amusement.
Also, anybody who called their dog Lord Waffles of Buttersworth didn’t deserve to have a dog.
“I’d have run away too,” he said, locking his phone and deliberately not responding to Billy.
Buster cared about none of this. He continued to lick the same spot on the wall, as he’d been doing for the last three hours.
At the studio the next morning, Wilford mentioned none of this to Billy. He watched Billy and Nichola share exasperated glances, being as obvious as two human beings could possibly be. It was sickening, and Wilford wanted to see none of it. With Buster at his heels, dragging the baseball bat that was apparently his now, he retreated to his dressing room to continue his search for a worthwhile story.
Wilford couldn’t help but feel like he’d done this before. In fact he knew he had. It was that persistent feeling of déjà vu that told him none of this was new. He’d find himself reaching for something before he knew he wanted it, or knowing answers to questions he shouldn’t have known when people barged in on him throughout the day.
He almost felt stupid when he finally realised what was going on. It was actually a novel feeling to be on this side of it for once.
But why here? Why now? That’s what he couldn’t figure out. By the end of the day, everybody else in the studio seemed just as off-centre as Wilford, so it wasn’t any of them. They weren’t that good at lying. It must have been someone in the neighbouring studio, but they were a daytime talk show. What reason did anyone over there have to keep save scumming?
Wilford looked up several seconds before his door opened and Billy stepped inside uninvited. Even though he knew it was coming, Wilford tried to convey through an angry glare that knocking was appreciated. Stopped in the doorway, Billy gave Wilford a wary glance before slowly bringing a folder to Wilford’s desk.
“Give me that,” Wilford said, snatching it away.
He didn’t know what to expect inside the folder, but he knew he already knew what it was. The grainy photographs he found somehow weren’t surprising at all. He’d seen them before. He’d seen that face before.
For some reason, he seemed to think the owner of that face was dead.
‘Hit by a bus’ and ‘swag’ sprang to the forefront of his thoughts. Why the hell would that association be made to these photographs.
Wilford was sick of Freddy Fazbear’s. He wanted to put that story on the shelf and forget about it until something big happened. He didn’t care about some ghost breaking in at night.
Why did Wilford think this man was dead?
“Who is this?” he asked finally.
Billy shrugged. “We don’t know. But Kevin thought since it’s from Fazbear’s, you might be interested.”
“I’m fucking done with Fazbear’s,” Wilford said.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the photographs. He couldn’t have possibly cared less about Fazbear’s, but the dead man had all of his attention.
Wilford knew his name. He just couldn’t remember what it was, or why he knew it in the first place. Or, most importantly, why he wasn’t dead.
Not personally, anyway. The website room worked a bit of overtime, but the shelf life was barely more than a week after they broke it. Wilford shouldn’t have let his boredom get in his way. He should have drawn it out and had more fun with it, but he’d been getting itchy. He needed to hurt someone before he managed to hurt himself.
Next time. He’d do it right next time. Which meant finding a next target. Unfortunately, he was met with nothing but dead ends as he poked around databases and servers he wasn’t supposed to be poking around in. Either everyone was behaving, or more likely, everyone was getting better at hiding their bad behaviour with word getting out that someone would actually be looking.
As he bumbled around back doors and shoddy security, he found a few barely-hidden login databases, but that wasn’t the sort of thing he was interested in. Even manufacturing a story about millions of stolen passwords wouldn’t have a satisfying payoff, no matter how mad the scramble to fix the issue would be. It might be something to keep an eye on, but if Eyefind couldn’t be bothered to even occasionally check that all of their user information was out in the open, they probably wouldn’t be very bothered over it all being stolen.
He was almost glad when his phone started buzzing from a text message. It gave him an excuse to give up, at least for a while. At first, he thought Billy had somehow gained remote perception, since all he’d sent was a single link to a CashForDreams listing. As soon as he clicked on it, Wilford saw right through Billy’s game. It was a weak play, even for him.
“Seriously?” he asked as he read the missing dog post. He looked up at where Buster was making a determined effort to lick a hole through the wall, and then back down at the picture on his phone. He wasn’t even going to pretend it wasn’t the same ugly dog. Apparently the dog had always been skinny as hell, except now it was taller and had fewer teeth.
Billy had to have known Wilford wasn’t going to drive all the way out to Red County to give it back, reward or no. Because it still wasn’t about the money; it was about idiots thinking they could use him for their own amusement.
Also, anybody who called their dog Lord Waffles of Buttersworth didn’t deserve to have a dog.
“I’d have run away too,” he said, locking his phone and deliberately not responding to Billy.
Buster cared about none of this. He continued to lick the same spot on the wall, as he’d been doing for the last three hours.
At the studio the next morning, Wilford mentioned none of this to Billy. He watched Billy and Nichola share exasperated glances, being as obvious as two human beings could possibly be. It was sickening, and Wilford wanted to see none of it. With Buster at his heels, dragging the baseball bat that was apparently his now, he retreated to his dressing room to continue his search for a worthwhile story.
Wilford couldn’t help but feel like he’d done this before. In fact he knew he had. It was that persistent feeling of déjà vu that told him none of this was new. He’d find himself reaching for something before he knew he wanted it, or knowing answers to questions he shouldn’t have known when people barged in on him throughout the day.
He almost felt stupid when he finally realised what was going on. It was actually a novel feeling to be on this side of it for once.
But why here? Why now? That’s what he couldn’t figure out. By the end of the day, everybody else in the studio seemed just as off-centre as Wilford, so it wasn’t any of them. They weren’t that good at lying. It must have been someone in the neighbouring studio, but they were a daytime talk show. What reason did anyone over there have to keep save scumming?
Wilford looked up several seconds before his door opened and Billy stepped inside uninvited. Even though he knew it was coming, Wilford tried to convey through an angry glare that knocking was appreciated. Stopped in the doorway, Billy gave Wilford a wary glance before slowly bringing a folder to Wilford’s desk.
“Give me that,” Wilford said, snatching it away.
He didn’t know what to expect inside the folder, but he knew he already knew what it was. The grainy photographs he found somehow weren’t surprising at all. He’d seen them before. He’d seen that face before.
For some reason, he seemed to think the owner of that face was dead.
‘Hit by a bus’ and ‘swag’ sprang to the forefront of his thoughts. Why the hell would that association be made to these photographs.
Wilford was sick of Freddy Fazbear’s. He wanted to put that story on the shelf and forget about it until something big happened. He didn’t care about some ghost breaking in at night.
Why did Wilford think this man was dead?
“Who is this?” he asked finally.
Billy shrugged. “We don’t know. But Kevin thought since it’s from Fazbear’s, you might be interested.”
“I’m fucking done with Fazbear’s,” Wilford said.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the photographs. He couldn’t have possibly cared less about Fazbear’s, but the dead man had all of his attention.
Wilford knew his name. He just couldn’t remember what it was, or why he knew it in the first place. Or, most importantly, why he wasn’t dead.
