Geek Mafia

Geek Mafia
By Rick Dakan
www.rickdakan.com
Copyright Rick Dakan, 2006
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To
view a copy of this license, visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco,
California, 94105, USA.
CHAPTER 1
Paul Reynolds crisscrossed his sketchbook with furious strokes, filling
the pages with images of the vengeance he would take on his former
coworkers at Fear and Loading Games. He'd founded the company
three years back and, just a few hours ago, his partners and erstwhile
friends had fired him without cause or warning. He concentrated hard
as his pen brought to life demonic figures from one of the best-selling
comics he'd created, scythe wielding cyber-men called Myrmidons who
tore into surprised computer programmers with fangs and claws.
Elsewhere on the page, computers assembled themselves into 21st
century Golems, rising up against traitorous CEO's and producers to
crush them to bloody pulp as they cowered beneath their desks. Sitting
at the bar in Señor Goldstein's Mexican Restaurant in San Jose,
California, Paul's own artwork engaged him for the first time in months,
maybe years. Under other circumstances, that would have made him
happy. But today's circumstances allowed only two emotions: despair
and a burning desire for revenge. Not wanting to succumb to the former,
and not quite wanting to find a gun and go back to the office, he instead
drew.

He had turned to a fresh page and begun to sketch his most elaborate
revenge-scheme yet when a woman walked into his line of vision.
There were four or five other women in the restaurant already (most of
them employees), but this one stood out. This one would've stood out
anywhere. Her hair, cut short and spiky, was dyed a magenta so bright
it nearly glowed. She wore a tight black t-shirt, baggy olive drab shorts
that hung on shapely hips, and heavy black boots with two inch thick
soles. She had a faded black messenger bag slung across her chest, the
strap pressing between her breasts. If Paul had to guess, she wasn't
wearing a bra. She definitely wasn't your average Silicon Valley techie
on an early lunch break, and certainly not a restaurant employee.
Grateful for the distraction, Paul focused on the newcomer, chilling his
anger for a moment with a swift sip of margarita and melted ice. He ran
a hand through his fine brown hair, brushed a few wrinkles out of his
Green Lantern t-shirt, and sucked in his bit of beer belly before he
turned back to the sketchbook and kept drawing. He didn't care what
his pen pushed onto the page as long as he looked busy. As far as Paul
was concerned, a sad man sitting at a bar before noon was not someone
that striking young women with ruby hair engaged in random
conversation. However, as past experience in many a coffee house and
dive bar had taught him, a scruffy artist sketching away when normal
folks should be working often attracted all kinds of interesting attention.
And so, he sketched.
"I'm here to speak with the manager," the woman said to the bartender.
"Yeah, he's here." the bartender replied and skulked off to find the boss.
The girl leaned forward onto the bar, drumming a random beat on the
wood with her knuckles while she looked around the room. Paul, who'd
been watching out of the corner of his eye, took the noise as an excuse
to glance over at her. She was looking right back at him, smiling.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," he replied. He gave a smile, but inside he was suddenly
embarrassed by the attention. He didn't want to hit on girls. He wanted

to get drunk and figure out if there was any way he could avoid his
looming fate. But he hadn't dated anyone in over a year, and some
urges - and some women - refused to be ignored.
"What're you working on there?" she asked.
"Oh, just doodling you know," he said as he looked down at the page.
He'd sketched the outline of a hydra-like monster with five heads and
ten tentacles. Four of the heads were laughing as the tentacles strangled
the fifth. "I'm a...I'm a comic book artist."
Was that true? Was he no longer a videogame designer then, just like
that?
"Really? Very cool."
"Thanks"
"But tell me something," she said as she came over and claimed the bar
stool next to his. She smelled like soap and shampoo, clean and fresh.
"Are you really a comic book artist or are you, like, a comic book artist
in waiting?"
"What?"
"You know, you meet guys all the time in bars or Starbucks or
wherever who carry around their