0's and 1's: Bk2- Web of Conceit - 2. Chapter 1

0’s and 1’s Book 2

Web of Conceit

Chapter 1

(November 25th 2016, Hunter Douglas)

I’ve failed them all. I couldn’t save Ryan when he was drowning in sorrow. I couldn’t save Jeremy from the foes I knew were lurking in the shadows. I couldn’t stop Mason Cameron from killing so many innocent people: Angelo, who had died from internal bleeding before he reached the hospital, Trooper Mercer, who had the misfortune to be assigned to my protective detail, nor the other 6 students murdered in cold blood. Mason’s rampage only stopped when he was shot 6 times by the police. Yet, his ghost is still haunting me as I’ve spent most of my free time at this hospital, leaving Benji in charge of our investigative network.

There’s a lull in the Deep Web. Chatter has quieted. The web crawlers have found no new messages from C.I.S.S or indications of new attacks. Mason’s attack seemed to have caught them as off guard as it did his victims. Benji and I researched the origins of Mason’s guns, which were out of state and purchased under his father’s name. The money for the guns was paid for by 3^rd party microfinancing companies with crypto-currency, which left little in virtual trace records. Whoever was behind Mason Cameron, they were far more covert in actions than C.I.S.S and wanted to remain silent puppet masters. None of those details matter to me though, because I cannot think about anything except who is in front of me.

Kevin has been lying here in a hospital bed for weeks. He bravely took several bullets for me during Mason’s massacre and suffered severe injuries to his nervous system. At his worst point a few days into observation, he had bled into his lungs from one of the wounds. If I could, I wanted to donate my own organs to him. We are after all both AB-, one of the many things we shared…

I’ve had a long time to think about the past. I know Kevin did what he did out of love, Benji flat out told me during the 1^st night of my vigil. I knew Benji and Kevin had sex, but I also knew they were not each other’s types: Benji was into older college aged guys, and Kevin was far more into the mental ability of a guy than his looks. We both came out to each other first, we were best friends and partners for years, but neither of us made that first move to become more. I had fallen in love with Ryan only months after I came out to Kevin, but there’s no denying what I had with Ryan was love. Yet, Kevin was always there, being my complementary-half with gift ideas for Ryan, planning day trips, and even getting us a box of condoms. Kevin never wanted anything from me or Ryan, but I never asked him if I could do something for him. If he never wakes up, I might never have a chance again.

I wish I could have opened my heart to him, like he did with me. Even after Ryan’s suicide, he never stopped supporting me. Yet, my mind was always fixed on Ryan. While Ryan lived, I loved him with all my heart and selfishly could not show anyone the same level of affection. After Ryan’s death, I was consumed with grief and a search for justice, not allowing anyone to replace Ryan’s importance to me.

However, before I really knew Ryan or loved him, there was Kevin. Part of me remembers passing dreams and hopes of being “with him”. We both talked about experimenting with stuff we read about online. Why did I never give him a chance? That question had only one answer. I was afraid to give.

I sat in the chair closest to the hospital Bed and began recalling what had happened.

“So yesterday was Thanksgiving, you know the day when people could eat a lot and not feel guilty. Benji came over for dinner, he brought some kind of soup dumplings, but guess what, there was no soup unless you bit into it. Then you’re choking on hot broth. I got drenched with my first bite, but the taste was very good. If you were there it would have been perf…”

I held back my words, hesitating, but then realizing I should tell Kevin how I really felt.

“Kevin, we’ve been friends for a long time. I’ve known you even before Ryan. You were there when I needed you and I…wish I’d known what you felt.”

Tears began to build up as I spoke like a dam had broken. I had to tell him everything in my heart now.

“Look, I am selfish person. If it weren’t for my need to seek justice, you wouldn’t be where you are now. I loved Ryan a lot and I never saw you or what you were doing for me in that way. When we just started to explore, I thought about you that way, but I was afraid to lose you like the way you are. What we have, it’s not just physical attraction or even emotional attachment. What we had and still have I hope is…more.”

I don’t know what I was trying to tell him, or what I wanted to say. It’s not a rejection of his love; I would never do that to him nor did I not want to be with him. If it was to say, I loved him more somehow, then am I really seeking justice for Ryan or trying to make amends for my own self-denial? It’s neurotic, but I doubt myself for everything that has happened.

Not noticing how much time had passed as I sat in silence, or that I was no longer alone, I was caught off guard by a gentle middle aged man. He wore a simple suit, slacks, and a tie. However, what I saw in his hands was what set me off.

In as much composure as I could muster told him, “We do not need your prayers or consolation. As you can see, we’re not believers.”

The man with conciliatory expression responded in thick accented English.

“I am Bishop Alexandre Souza, special envoy of the Holy Seed. I heard of the tragedies that befell you and only wish to offer assistance. “

Without really considering his words, I blurted out, “You came to gloat”.

He ignored my comment.

“I remember you. Hunter Douglas if I am not mistaken. I heard of the loss of your lover, Ryan Thatcher and I am deeply sorry for your past losses. We never know what we have until it’s gone.”

I was beyond angry at that point.

“Fuck you. Have you ever loved anyone in your life? Have you ever known a guy who is psychologically tortured to death by people all around him? Have you ever known a guy who would basically pick you up from your own shit?”

He nodded, “I once loved a young man more than anything in the world. When he died, my life was empty and without purpose until I entered the service of the Church. I chose to never love another man again as I did him, because in my heart, no man was worth loving.”

I knew that there were gay men in the Catholic Church, not just the pedophile priests mainstream media likes to villify. I remember reading an LGBT history book on how for centuries actual gay men and lesbian women hid themselves away in the Catholic Church, in order to avoid social stigma of homosexuality. People conflate the issues together due to sexual bias, but in reality they are separate and distinct. However to me, a gay priest is just another way of being a closet-case, or worse, an accomplice of homophobic culture.

His words made me angrier. Maybe it was me channeling Kevin.

“You’re a fucking traitor to gays everywhere and yourself. Instead of moving on with your life and being the same man that your boyfriend died knowing, you chose the easy way out by ignoring that part of you. You filled your heart with faith in something bigger, but didn’t consider that maybe us smaller human beings, who share the same passions, matter too. You found religion to give you meaning, but that same religion does not accept what you loved. Life isn’t just about your own personal happiness and fulfillment. We don’t live under one set of rules, one belief. Whether or not God is real, it’s the height of hubris to believe that. You should cherish love and live to expand it with nothing held back.”

Bishop Souza said nothing after that and just left his card on the adjacent drawer, then left somberly. After a few minutes more of silence, I heard a faint noise, barely audible. I took Kevin’s hands and felt his fingers curl in reaction.

I put my ear up to his mouth.,

“Tell me more”, he whispered.

(Roxanne “Rocky” Dixon, Brooklyn, New York, January 16, 2017)

Truth is the ultimate balancer of all; ignorance is the weapon of choice for some to rise above their fellow human beings. Whether it was my black slave ancestors, homemaker wives and mothers, or the current religious segregation for gay and lesbians couples, ignorance allowed those with money and power to rule with impunity. Yet, despite all their power and all their colorful language, history has shown that it is the truth that shall succeed. Fredrick Douglas once wrote, “Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will”, but who is the first to make the demand if not the voice of the downtrodden?

That is why I became a modern online journalist. I am not doing this for myself or for some imaginary idea of politicians and pundits. I blog, I YouTube, and I published in whatever format I can find, because I matter and so does everyone else like me. My 2 partners share the same passions as me, even though we do not hold the same political or social perspective. It’s not bad considering we’re all 16 years old.

Our brand of journalism is different. Unlike the current mainstream journalists, who focus on the big events and big news stories from police officers shooting minorities, criminal illegal immigrants, or political scandals, we focus on the stories that matter to us and our community. We dig into stories of hazing, the “actual” ground level opioid crisis rather than statistics, and show the hidden “profiling” going on within society, not just against black Americans, but also Asians, Latinos, gay, lesbians, transgender, nerds, and jocks alike. America is a society that doesn’t like to focus on the details, because people from the “middle” think it is too big or complicated for them to understand. That’s complete Bullshit.

Anyway, Erica Garcia and Mary Langford are my two partners in both journalistic and romantic pursuits. They know about my feelings for them, they have feelings for me, and also they have feelings for each other. We’ve been best friends since Kindergarten and began experimenting our relationships openly together. I’m thoroughly a New Yorker, born to a teenage welfare receiving black mother who, despite the statistics, picked herself up, becoming a chef and owning a catering business. Erica was born in Arizona, her mother was an illegal immigrant snuck across the border in search of a better life. She eventually landed a dishwasher job and is now my mom’s sous-chef. Mary was born in Albany to your traditional wealthy WASP, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, family. They own several blocks of real estate, including the restaurant where our moms work.

Erica and I identify as lesbians, while Mary has kept her options open by claiming “bisexual” or “queer” identity to friends and family. To be honest, Mary is probably the most sexually adventurous of the 3 of us. Her thing is that she doesn’t want to be labelled into a group, being who she is and what she is matters more for her. Sometimes it is very endearing to love someone who will defend their ground no matter what, and other times it is an annoying exercise in stubbornness, especially with joint articles.

Today, ironically being Martin Luther King Day, I was doing a piece on how the local high school sports team were getting a kickback from a certain NCAA division 1 college for “nudging” an athlete in their direction. This same division 1 college has several complaints from NAACP for racially charged comments and Lambda legal also recorded incidents where gay athletes were hazed into dropping out of teams. The athlete that they were trying to railroad was a friend of mine. He’s gay and mulatto, and had asked me to do some more research into what the program coordinator was trying to get him into. After finding out about all of this, he tried to turn down the offer. Nasty rumors began to spread about him being “ungrateful” and how his high school couldn’t afford new equipment with sponsors pulling. That’s all crap, but in today’s world of rumor mongering and social media spreading things, ignorance and pressure tactics are common. Those of us with knowledge of the truth have to speak out and present it; anyway we can.

“No! No! No! Rocky, we’re trying to write something everyone can read and learn about this shady dealing!” Mary aggressively asserted as she showed me numerous highlights of the article I wrote.

“It looks fine to me,” I said defensively

“Me too,” Erica added

“Yeah, if we were writing for Black Lives Matter newsletter!” Mary countered.

“Oh, not this again,” Erica blurted knowing my reaction would be swift in rebuking Mary.

“Black Lives Matters is no less legitimate a political organization because it caters to the plight of African Americans.”

“No, but in that same logic nor are several dozen white nationalist organizations promoting white equality, an end to affirmative action giving minorities scholarships, or their ideal of rule by majority since whites are still the majority in this country.”

“That’s not fair, you’re comparing Black Lives Matter to things like the KKK.”

“No, I am comparing Black Lives Matters to White Nationalists. The KKK can best be compared to Black Panthers, who were a group of domestic terrorists like the KKK. Basically, when you promote race rather than substance, it’s what you get.”

“Black Lives Matter protests with non-violence; White Nationalists bring in their AR-15’s to their rallies.”

“They’re only practicing their 2^nd amendment rights, black lives matter can do the same.”

Erica broke the impasse.

“No they can’t. If a group of armed non-white people were protesting, the police would just switch to live rounds. If guns really were a demonstration of civil rights, then why are most guns in the hands of white Americans? You would think having a balancer like a gun would make civil right rallies more effective for Blacks, Latinos, LGBT, and anyone else.”

Mary paused, and then answered.

“Guns are a separate issue; maybe the right isn’t equally observed there. However, my point stands. Rocky shouldn’t be promoting this as a “black” issue or calling the team coordinator “a racist homophobic thug who is lynching an aspiring black gay athlete. There are more issues at play here. The school is getting kickbacks violating their charter, the sports coordinator is violating state/federal law, and the college is using its clout to defer a previous scandal with a current one. Yes, they chose the athlete, because he’s black and gay, which everyone should know. However, we do not need to force our own opinions down their throats.”

Conceding her fair point, I redrafted the article, but I didn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she was right about what I had written. Technically she’s right, but behind what the bastard did and what this college was attempting to do, it is driven by racism and homophobia. Toning down the language is necessary to maintain the integrity of the reporting, but the truth is so obvious and clear, conceding my views would violate my own integrity. Mary hasn’t seen what life is like from our side, being manipulated purely for what you are is just a few steps away from being considered property.

After the article was posted on our award winning website, an achievement that we are very proud of, the 3 of us began reading our anonymous dropbox. A year ago, we had a great break from an RTI computer web applications professor. She saw some of our articles and simple YouTube productions, and offered to help with design improvements. In a few weeks, we had updated webpage with HTML5 compatibility and a secure dropbox, similar to the one used by the UK news media “The Guardian”, for anyone willing to come forward with information on anything. The dropbox filters for viruses and fake phishing messages, so we had 90% usable information.

An odd message was left in the secure drop box with several pdf documents and pictures:

“Good Day. If you would like to learn more about the recent attacks against Hunter Douglas, please activate a Tor browser and search for the CR code provided.”

Erica, Mary, and I reviewed the PDF’s and pictures. I reacted in amazement.

“This is unbelievable. There’s a complete listing of psychological profiles here.”

Erica added to my shock,

“There’s also a web of transport, showing how that the recent advanced HIV strain reached the United States from Africa through a channel of non-profit organizations.”

Mary shook her head in disbelief and asked the question we all had.

“What does this all mean?”

Making the decision unilaterally while Erica and Mary were dumbfounded by the implications, I clicked on my Tor Browser and scanned the CR code.

“We’ll find out together.”