WE BEGAN SMALL, BY FREEING foxes from fur farms. From research laboratories, monkeys that ran loose. Any poultry ranch we passed we snapped locks and let beasts fly. All across the US we zig-zagged. Called the beat-up bus we drove in home.

Silas the Great said we needed to do more.

We hammered spikes into trees to keep them from getting sawed down. Any Hummer we spotted we arsoned. Over the phone and over the mail we sent in death threats by the dozen. And when we found tractors sleeping on corporate fields, we pulled out our gas canisters. Fire ruled those years.

Silas said we had to go even bigger. Kill the CEOs of these organizations. Even the president!

Our first assassination didn’t go as planned. Trapped then dropped into black sites all over. My rich family flew down a lawyer who convinced the authorities I’d been brainwashed by Silas. In some sense, there was truth to this, all of us had been brainwashed. But because I was fifteen, my case particularly resonated with the courts. I’d been coerced, as simple as that.    

I grew into a fine man. Went to a fine college. Landed a perfectly fine job. Because I was a minor, my name had been kept from the press, everything sealed by the judge. I was grateful for this, the opportunity for a normal life. Five years into the magazine and I was profiling a petroleum CEO with political aspirations. By now, I’d forgotten all about my previous principles, had even become vaguely apolitical. The CEO was eccentric. Spoke at length about the alien species we’d descended from. At his luxury West Village townhouse, he showed me the shark head he’d hauled from his place in the Hamptons. There was also the carcass of a mountain lion he’d found roadside he wanted to taxidermy. Every floor stank. He grabbed the mountain lion’s paw and waved at me.

It’s weird, he said, I know.

I don’t find it weird, I said—in truth, I didn’t, I was drawn to him.

From his balcony he smoked. He had a horrifying voice I found most pleasing, something to do with the muscles that involuntarily spasmed in his throat. Like Darth Vader, only worse. I asked what he’d do if he didn’t get on the ticket. I’ll just try again in four years, he said. And then again, and again.

I admired his determination. And on the phone, I spoke of him brightly. My parents said I was crazy, and should they be worried? Is this Silas all over again?

He couldn’t be more different than Silas, I said. Did I mention he practically controls the fossil fuel industry? He murders animals. And don’t get me started on his voice, it’s the stuff of nightmares.

Also, I said, he’s a Republican.

There’s nothing wrong with that, they said. You’ll understand when you get older.

My editor made me rewrite my profile until it was properly scathing—I don’t get it, my editor said, you actually liked this guy?—and once it was in print, I called the CEO. It wasn’t my fault, I said. Won’t you still see me?

Why?

I love you, isn’t that obvious? I said—I was on the street, canvassing for him in the peak of summer, phone pressed tight to my sweaty face.

You have worms in your brain, he said.

I think we should meet for dinner, I said.

A moment passed before he said sure, fine, that he had something exquisite and exotic for us to eat.

At his apartment, he dropped a white cloth over my face. Do you know about the ortolan? he asked. It’s a bird. A song-bird.

I thought about all the birds I’d freed as a youth, a strange ripple in my mind.

You eat it whole, he said. Bones, beak, everything.

What’s the cloth for? Do you find me so repugnant?

You start with the feet. He said this in his rattling voice before the room filled with a crunching sound—he was chewing! Between my palms I considered the small songbird. I told myself it was no worse than an egg, or a drumstick, or a rotisserie chicken. Besides, those old values of mine no longer applied. I balanced its feet between my fingers, sliding them into my mouth until I’d slotted the songbird whole, and I bit down.

Between chews, I imagined what the bird's call was like and pictured it as harsh as the man’s. He pulled the cloth from my face. Did you love that or what?

It tasted like brandy, I said.

They are drowned in Armagnac, he said. That is how they are killed. Isn’t that magnificent? You know, I’ve learned a lot about you recently. When you’re a billionaire, there’s nothing you can’t find.

I no longer believe in all that, I said. I’ve grown up.

Yes, he said, I can see that.

This was a test?

We use the cloth to hide our shame from God, he said.

Do you feel shame? I get the sense you feel very little shame in life.

I love tradition, he said. Pomp and circumstance. Ceremonies!

He slipped his palm into mine and led me upstairs.

I take it you don’t plan on assassinating me, he said. Can I show you something? Did you know your friend Silas is still in a black site? He hasn’t had a visitor since you were fifteen. The CEO flicked the remote until footage from a cell filled the giant screen. Nothing but a bed and a toilet. Silas, to the side, knees crushed to chest.

Does this make you feel anything? the CEO asked.

I thought of those years with Silas. A small part of me had never felt so free, so loved.

Do you plan on assassinating me now? the CEO asked. Do you know how many tons of oil I export a day? Do you have any idea what my carbon footprint is? Do you know that when the Earth becomes unlivable in exactly forty-seven years, I’ll be perfectly fine in my bunker one-hundred feet below ground? Not like I care, I probably won’t even be alive then. Do you want to assassinate me now? He slid a small pistol in my direction.

Does this get you off? I asked.

You have no idea.

Do you want to get shot?

You’re driving me crazy! Look at how you handle that gun. He gave you target practice, didn’t he? I have chills now that you’re aiming it at me. Do you know I rarely feel this way? This is the hardest I’ve been in years! Maybe aim for the arm. I would like to survive. I think that will be most gratifying. Talk about ceremonies! Would you like a cloth over your head? To cover the shame? We can pretend it’s Russian roulette. I’ve never seen such control. You’ve aimed it at my face. What does that mean? How thrilling! But what does that mean? Let me sing you a song. I know my voice is ugly. But, for a second, won’t you pretend I’m no worse than a songbird?

I reached for the cloth. Worried the edges with my finger. Considered the gun’s weight in my other hand. I dropped the cloth over my head and heard the man sing. •





Joshua Vigil is a writer and educator living in New York. His writing has appeared in the Cleveland Review of Books, Joyland, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. His story collection, Bastardland, is out now.

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