Graphic Depictions of Harm is the most violent massively multiplayer community ever conceived. You can kill everything in the game, an entire universe of things to murder, and the few things that you can’t kill, you can bring to life with cheat code animation spells and then kill. Intense violence, blood and gore, strong language, GDH has it all, and more. The people who invented that game are definitely going to hell. It’s also the only massively multiplayer game with a serial killer named after it, but only because the company that publishes GDH was the highest bidder in an auction for the rights to name the unidentified killer.

I met Andrew online through the GDH player community. He only ever agreed to meet up with me in real life because I had promised him GDH cheat codes. And he made me sweeten the deal further by also agreeing to buy him lunch at the restaurant of his choice. He wanted the Lower East Side’s most expensive steakhouse, Dishwater’s. I said no problem. Then I looked at their menu online.

Son of a bitch!

Their cheapest entrée was a hundred and fifteen dollars. But I had no right to complain. This would be Andrew’s last meal. Also, paying one hundred and fifteen dollars for an 8-ounce filet mignon would make it easier for me to cut Andrew’s head off, if only a little.

I wasn’t looking forward to the murder.

I’m not a killer, not yet anyway. I’m a hacker, a hacker in desperate need of a new identity. Unfortunately, it’s not like the old days. You can’t just buy a fake passport anymore. The state has really gotten its shit together in the last few years. Nevertheless, the surveillance grid didn’t just appear overnight. It grew slowly, too slowly for most people to notice or care, with one Financial Surveillance Directive here, and one Drone Strike Initiative there, until, finally, the Multi-Spectrum Surveillance Ecosystem program was signed into law. It happened last month, and likely its roll-out started long before then. Now cash is being phased out as a disease-transmission vector. The criminal hacker lifestyle is a thing of the past. And I’ve been too sloppy over the years, made too many little mistakes. Once all the algorithms start talking to one another, I’m fucked. It’s just a matter of time. My only hope is a new identity.

 

Andrew ordered the Ribeye. It looked amazing, but after an appetizer of an entire tuna steak and wedge salad smothered in thousand island dressing, I couldn’t believe he finished his steak too. The appetizer was an entire meal in itself. I was worried I hadn’t brought enough cash, so I only ordered one side, creamed spinach. It was disgusting. I choked down a few bites then spooned the rest into a to-go bag.

As we walked out of the place, Andrew confronted me. “I saw you looking at our waiter’s ass.”

It was true, I had been looking at our waiter’s ass, but it was just a few side glances until I realized he was a dude. He had an ass like a woman. But if Andrew thought I was gay, he wouldn’t invite me up to his place for Graphic Depictions of Harm, so I tried to change the subject by waving my to-go bag in his face.

“Creamed spinach,” I laughed. I was nervous. I must have sounded like an idiot. Creamed spinach!?! Just shut up about the creamed spinach already!

Andrew started walking ahead of me, like he wanted to escape, but I had just paid for his lunch at Dishwater’s. Some weak form of indebtedness kept him from running away, at least at that moment.

“Let’s walk this way,” I said, pointing across E. 30th Street.

“It’s out of the way.”

“Just humor me.”

“My apartment is that way,” said Andrew. He pointed sharply up 3rd.

I tried to goad him. “Are you scared the GDH Killer will get us if we go this way?” Of course, it was a nonsensical think to say. It was the middle of the day in downtown Manhattan. Also, the GDH Killer only kills women, leaving their bodies and taking their heads.

Andrew tightened his jaw. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll take the long way.”

I was relieved. If we had continued up 3rd, we’d have walked right through a tomometric passport gate, which would link me to Andrew in one algorithm or another. I just needed to get us back to his apartment without the surveillance grid logging my presence, then I could cut his head off and the hard part would be over.

As we turned the corner onto 2nd, we passed a construction site that had been turned into a makeshift memorial for the known victims of the GDH Killer, a long row of holo-loop portraits of beautiful women lined the perimeter wall. I stopped to admire one, a stunning redhead with dark eyes.

“She was so pretty,” I said. “It’s so fucked up.” I glance sidelong at Andrew.

“You like the ladies?” said Andrew. He sounded skeptical.

“Dude, of course.” I looked back at the woman’s holo-loop and choked up. “This sick fuck needs to die!”

“How do I know you’re not the killer?” said Andrew.

I laughed like he was joking. I certainly hoped he was joking.

Andrew was walking far ahead of me now. I called to him. “Hey buddy, wait up.” Again, I waved my to-go bag at him. Idiot! Just stop it. Not everyone thinks creamed spinach is funny!

Andrew reached his building and ran up the front landing to the entrance, so I ran to catch up to him. When I reached him, he was still struggling to enter his passcode correctly. He was punching the keys too quickly and repeatedly typing the wrong code.

“Passcode not recognized.”

“Fuck!”

“Passcode not recognized.”

“Goddammit!”

I was standing behind him now. The entry panel had an integrated security cam, recording us together. I made a mental note to data wipe that system later. “So, are we doing this or what?” I said.

Andrew’s hand dropped from the keypad. He turned to me. “I don’t do gay stuff,” he said. “Not anymore.”

I resisted the urge to mention the creamed spinach in my to-go bag. “Andrew, dude, seriously?” I said. “I’m here for the GDH. That’s all.”

He eyed me with suspicion.

“I brought those codes,” I said, patting my chest pocket.

Andrew returned to the keypad and typed calmly, and the entrance to his apartment building clicked open. I was in. But as we climbed the stairs, my bowels began to churn. It was that fucking creamed spinach!

When we entered Andrew’s apartment, I knew my plan was going to work. He had no pictures on his walls, just stains, and he had almost no furniture or decor, just a couch and a video wall. It looked like he didn’t even own a book. It was enough to confirm for me what my digital reconnaissance had already revealed: he had no family, no girlfriends, and no friends that cared enough to go looking for him if he disappeared from their lives. Soon Andrew A. Anderson would be dead, and I would become Andrew A. Anderson. I just needed to cut his head off. But before I could do that, I needed to do something about the creamed spinach microbial proliferation playing out in my lower intestines.

Andrew stood with his hand out. “Codes,” he said.

“Just give me one minute,” I said, and I disappeared into his bathroom.

Andrew followed me, and he beat on the door. “Codes!” he shouted.

“I’ll just be a minute,” I shouted back.

Andrew jiggled the doorknob, but I had locked it as I entered.

“Just one fucking minute! Please!”

I searched for toilet paper from my seat on the toilet. Of course he had no toilet paper. I reached for the cabinet doors beneath the sink next to the toilet, but when I opened them, instead of toilet paper, I found a woman’s head, a stunning redhead with dark eyes.

“Hello, beautiful.”

Andrew beat on the door. “Codes!” he shouted. He jiggled the knob furiously.