It All Goes According to Plan- by Adam Unger

  “Isn’t life in the private sector amazing?”

  “If by ‘private sector’ you mean ‘ripping off credit card companies, banks, and corporations like the one we’re scheduled to hit’ then yeah, it’s pretty great.” Darren often had this conversation with his “business” partner, Jett, but they usually weren’t in an awkward bathroom scenario. It was unsettling, really, even though he had known the man since graduating high school. But damn if he could ever keep his mouth shut.

 “So let’s go over the battle plan, eh captain?” Jett said as he pulled down his zipper.

 “Really? Right in a McDonald’s bathroom?” replied Darren.

 “Oh, I’m Darren! I’m such a kid! I can’t handle awkward bathroom scenarios!” Jett mocked childishly. “And besides, no one’s in here with us.” Darren sighed as he unzipped.

 “Well, these guys are total money-gropers…err…grubbers,” Darren uttered. “As long as we keep coming back to the profits on our latest ‘design’, those bastards will choke on every penny earned.”

 “Money grubbers, eh? Kinda like you and me, huh partner?” Jett added as he finished up. Darren decided not to reply. He didn’t see himself as a criminal, per se, as much as he did a…vigilante. That’s it. A dashing, well-spoken, awkward-in-bathrooms vigilante. He imagined standing on the rooftop of the corporation he just put into bankruptcy. He imagined himself pouring the last drop of gasoline onto the despicable structure. He imagined the satisfied smile on his face as he threw down the match, and jumping off into the sea of purifying fire. Jett’s voice snapped Darren back to reality.

 “And so that’s how my grandmother died. Hey…HEY!” Jett shouted as he snapped his fingers.

 “Gah! Oh, what? Yes, that sounds hilarious, but we need to focus.” Darren retorted, pulling up his zipper. The sound of a flushing urinal heralded the duo’s stroll from the bathroom. Their slick black suits were worn like armor, and their tongues as sharp as swords. Jett stopped by the counter of the restaurant, and once he had been handed his cheeseburger, the duo set off.

 “Okay, now let’s refocus on the specifics.” Darren stated as he stepped into the passenger’s side of the black Cadillac.

 “And just when I’ve already started biting into 500-calorie heaven.” Jett teased, saddling down into the driver’s seat.

 “The mark is a high-end technology mogul by the name of Randall Rayes. His company has been framed for all kinds of crap: human rights violations, poor working conditions, less-than-livable salaries, basically your easy-to-hate bad guy qualities.” Darren stated.

 “Don’t act so heroic,” Jett said, biting into another cheeseburger, “we do the job, take over the company for our client, and then drive away with fifty grand.”

Darren sighed as the luxury car pulled out of the parking lot, making its way onto the highway. Darren found it uneasy to be staying in one city for this much time for a job, but he wasn’t about to argue with the money. Fifty grand would make anybody happy, right?

 “God, this is what I hate the most about the city.” Jett complained. Ahead was a ragged, elderly man and two others in similar condition trespassing under a large bridge. One was holding up a barely-intelligible sign on a piece of cardboard, while the other was making himself busy shouting at the passing cars. As for the first one, he occupied himself by coming up personally to car windows, harassing for money and other necessities.

 “Look at this asshole!” Jett screamed. The cars were moving quite slowly, with many unsure of how to about themselves. As for Darren, he tried to turn his head away. Deep down, this was his least favorite part of the cities too. He felt like mouse in a snake’s den, if the snake couldn’t afford home insurance. He had many strategies for dealing with these situations: staring ahead, turning his head, plugging his fingers into his ears and making loud noises, acceptable social behaviors of the sort. Darren looked for solutions as his eyes scanned the underside of the bridge. It was the usual graffiti: profanities, gang signs, and some creative genius had even tried to draw a…banana.

 “How much longer till we can get out of here?” Darren quivered.

 “Most of these guys are just passing by, albeit very cautiously, so I’ll get us past these degenerates real easily. Don’t worry, partner.” Jett said as he patted Darren on the back. At this moment, time slowed to a crawl as Darren’s heart pounded. The old man, the harassing, detestable, innocent old man arrived at their car window. Jett didn’t put down the window, no words were exchange. But there was a conversation, at least it felt that way to Darren. As the car drove away, Darren made the tragic mistake of opening his heart up to the man’s eyes. Deep brown, his iris was a portal to Darren’s conscience. Or at least, whatever a man of his taste could have. Finally out of view, Darren felt relieved, but in deep thought before speaking.

 “Hey man, who exactly are we helping with this job?”

 “Well, Barbie, lets list it off. We’re helping ourselves by making fifty grand. And Mr. Donovan is also being helped by taking over this company once we frame Randall. You remember the system. We’re freaking criminal masterminds, you dig?” Jett snidely replied.

 “And we’re the best in the business, I know that.”

 “Then shut up and continue with the plan,” said Jett. Darren felt…encouraged by Jett’s words. They felt right, like he was just doing as instructed and could not be held liable. Besides, if the CEO of a multinational corporation with charges of human rights violations could hoard his money, why couldn’t he?

 “Alright, fine. We’ll get Randall to invest in our ‘company’, and then the rest is just as usual,” said Darren.

 “So who are we going to tie the money to this time?” replied Jett.

 “Hmmm…I was thinking either another South American drug cartel, or we can switch it up and go with the Russian mob.”

 “Those guys have gangs?”

 “Yeah, they’re those funny-looking fellas with the thing for track suits.”

 “Oh yeah, definitely Russians then,” Jett said. To Darren, it first felt like someone who no longer had to fight a gambling addiction, or take care of the kids, or worry about the dangers of the latest internet trend. Like a normal person. After several more minutes of moral reconciliation, the Cadillac pulled into the parking lot of Rayes Technological LLC. Darren observed the building with a burning sense of…something. He saw the highest office, its occupants isolated in a realm of wealth and inaction. With confidence and crossed-fingers, the duo made their way inside. The marble flooring gave way to the metallic walls and stairs. The secretary was a pretty young brunette, sharp enough to ask the duo for their IDs. The duo, confidently yet anxiously, pressed their IDs a little too close to the woman’s face. She observed them suspiciously.

 “You’re name is…Jeremy Irons?”

 “Yes ma’am, like my father, and his father before him,” replied Darren. The secretary put his ID down, as Darren expected. Darren, the wise man, chose a washed-up, faded celebrity for his ID. But Jett…got a little greedy.

 “Sir…I have a concern about your ID,” the secretary said.

 “And that would be…?” replied Jett.

 “It’s just…your name is Joe Fatone.” Jett felt a sweat droplet fall from his forehead, a rare occurrence. Most secretaries were none the wiser to any of his IDs, but this woman was surprisingly astute. It’s almost as if…some people are as smart as he is. Jett passed that thought off as an impossibility, either due to him being correct, or his clinical narcissism. So, he resorted to doing the best possible thing that came into his mind.

He cried. Loudly.

The secretary looked astonished, and quite guilty. Now she began sweating, all eyes were looking at her like she just pushed a kindergartener. Jett had even pretended to call his mom.

 “…And…and then she made fun of my name…” Jett went on. Clearly feeling as if she made a genuine mistake, the secretary took hold of Jett’s shoulder.

 “Listen…listen…I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” the secretary said.

 “Really?” Jett replied as he wiped his eyes.

 “Really. Now, if you’ll come with me, you have an important meeting to get to, huh big guy?”

The young secretary escorted them up the flight of spiraled stairs, as Darren and Jett both held in laughter. She guided them past the portraits of various, adamant-looking CEOs and executives. The portraits judged them with unblinking eyes, their demeanors could stand even one of Darren’s best quips. The gray walls spread about only the finest taste of blandness, providing good humor to only the most stuck-up of patrons. And then he felt it. A stinging spreading sensation that moved throughout his body like a virus. It sent a sinister surge to his legs, making him want to move them up and down. And then he realized what he had felt. He had to pee, again.

“Damn it,” he thought to himself. He had trained for everything: when to steer the conversation away, how to evade a police chase, how to frame a priest for murder. But this, this dire sensation of urination would bring him to his knees.

 “Mr. Rayes is just through that door with his advisors,” said the secretary. The loud sound of her obnoxious high heels heralded her departure to the lower floor.

 “Now, are ready to take money from a frail old man and give it to ourselves?” Jett asked rhetorically.

 “Hey, um, buddy,” said Darren. “I kind of…have to urinate.” A moment passed by without reaction. Then, like a predatory beast, Jett’s hands sprung from his side and tackled Darren’s shoulders, forcing him against a wall.

 “Are you serious? We just got done at McDonald’s!”

 “Listen, I know, but-.”

 “-No. I DON’T think you know. We have FIFTY GRAND riding on this. Do you hear me? Fifty grand! That’s enough to pay off for what happened in Nebraska!”

 “Don’t go bringing up Nebraska-.”

 “-I most certainly WILL bring up Nebraska.” Jett sighed. “You know what? Fine.” Jett viciously grabbed Darren’s arm and began to walk him downstairs. Darren resisted and spoke against Jett.

 “No, no, no. You will NOT take me to the latrine like a toddler. I’m a grown-ass man. I’ll take care of myself.” Jett sighed and nodded his head.

 “Fine. We’ll pull this scam off. But don’t be dancing around in there like a ballerina, got it?” Darren nodded in agreement. At once, the two gentlemen swung open the doors. Jett walked in with confidence and swagger, while Darren resisted doing the potty dance. A large, rectangular table was occupied by all members of society’s well-to-do and respected. At the farthest end, a leather chair was occupied by a disgruntled old man, with a full head of gray hair that shined like a mirror. His hands were folded together, his demeanor wasn’t vicious, rather mocking. Randall, the typical, easy-to-hate bad guy. The man clearly expected a show, and Darren would deliver.

 “Ah, my two prospective business partners arrive,” Randall began, “I trust you two will not waste my time.”

 “Waste? Why did he have to say ‘waste’?” Darren thought. His heart picked up speed, his legs quivered subtly, but his demeanor held strong. Jett began his segment strong, with an introduction to their “company” and what it could offer to the greedy mogul. Darren followed up with a business plan, and how to make best use of their partnership. Many nods of approval popped up during the presentation, and even the old hag himself seemed pleased. With a firm handshake, the mogul made the biggest mistake of his life.

Darren and Jett looked on with great delight as Randall was dragged off by the FBI. They were even more delighted when their client, Mr. Donovan, handed them the fifty thousand-dollar check. Three months later, on a crisp autumn evening, Darren and Jett arrived at their apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. To their surprise, the police had made themselves well acquainted on the futon in the apartment, with a warrant for their arrest. The money had been retraced for the Rayes scandal, apparently the Russian mob weren’t the brightest bunch. So Jett resorted to doing the best possible thing that came into his mind.

He cried. Loudly.