Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Runner (Vikkstar123)

No matter where I go, all of their eyes follow. I'm not doing anything. I've never done anything. I'm sitting here in the hangar waiting for my delayed flight back home after PAX South, and it just now dawns on me that being here in the southern States right now probably wasn't a good idea. No one will sit within ten seats of me on any side and they pretend not to be looking when I feel their eyes boring into me and I glance up. Their heads turn to stare at me as they walk past and I see three security guards hovering around the entranceway into the main part of the airport. They're all waiting for me to do something so they can point their fingers and say 'I told you so.'

They have the wrong man for that job.

I'm not a terrorist.

Since when did darker skin and a foreign accent equal suicide bomber? I have had my bags checked three times now and they still keep glaring at me from their corners and their chairs, like a homemade explosive is magically going to appear when I wave my wand. Just because I'm from the UK doesn't mean I went to bloody Hogwarts. I didn't know this level of human ignorance was physically possible but leave it to America to prove me wrong once again. I reach into my backpack to pull out my laptop to work on some of the editing I had sworn I would finish before I fell asleep last night. Cards Against Humanity always manages to lighten the mood. I make sure not to look up at the guard on the right as he starts creeping toward me. The last thing I need to do is provoke them and give them a reason to detain me.

The dull, repetitive sounds of the airport are drowned out by the sound of JJ's absurd screaming as he reads a Matt Damon card, followed by several calls for him to please shut the fuck up. I refuse to look up when I see a muscular guy in a starched blue shirt sit down behind me and very obviously turn to watch what I'm doing on my screen. They can look. They can listen in, if they want. I have nothing to hide because I'm not the monster they all think I am. All of the Guantanamo Bay cards in the virtual card game suddenly seem ten times funnier to me, although it is a hysterical kind of laughter, the kind where you're afraid of what will happen to you if you don't laugh. I almost wish I had the guts to wear a hidden camera so that everyone could see how shitty this actually feels – to them, it's all just a joke, a meme, a prank. It's just a prank, bro. They don't really mean it. I'm being too sensitive. I'm 'playing the race card.'

But they do mean it. They mean it very much. It isn't that they're bad people; they just believe in their heart of hearts that anyone who doesn't look like them is inherently evil and out to get them. What a horrible way to live. I'm terrified to think of how my life would be if I tried to apply for a temp card like Lachlan did, or god forbid, if I applied for citizenship. They would probably put me on house arrest for five years before they let me into the country. At this rate, I might not even be able to attend PAX South next year.

The guy creeping behind me shifts very violently and pulls his little radio out to report on my imaginary misdeeds. I ignore him as best I can, and I catch myself wondering if they've found some way to look inside my head. Since when has being an incurable pessimist been a crime? If they've started passing laws against it, pretty soon Rob and Nooch won't be allowed into the country, either, and Mitch might be well on his way to being deported. I switch over to editing a Minecraft video so that the guard won't accidentally see a terrorist-Vik card and get any bright ideas. I make sure to skip past the premade thumbnail so he won't see my username and start doing an in-depth background check on me online. Perhaps having the same username for both YouTube accounts wasn't the best plan of action. I can smell the nicotine on his clothes as he leans closer, and for once in my life, I wish that I would lose my temper. I wish I could stick up for myself more. This is absolute shit.

One, two, three hours pass and I've finished editing seven Minecraft videos so that I'll have a generous stockpile I can use for Insomnia, or whenever something comes up and I won't have time to record. I want to fall asleep, but the thought of accidentally sleeping through my flight call and having to sit here for even longer is too horrifying. I'll sleep on the plane. I'm running out of things to do now, since GTA and Cards Against Humanity aren't PG enough to edit in an American airport with armed security guards watching your every move from over your shoulder and on every camera. I can't imagine what would happen if the one perched behind me with his feet up saw my in-game character shoot someone or run them over with a car. They would probably use his shiny black tie to hang me from the plane's turbines. I open up a game of generic minesweeper and start to play, getting ridiculously wrapped up in the ancient game.

After an eternity, the clock on the bottom right hand corner finally strikes four o'clock and I shut my laptop down and unplug the power cord from the port in the side of the armrest, carefully coiling it up and stashing it inside the inner compartment of my computer bag. I plug my headphones into my phone and turn on some beats to keep myself entertained. I check around me to make sure I didn't leave anything behind, collecting all of the bits of trash I've accumulated over time. I throw the remains of my pitiful dinner away and head toward the bathroom signs when I feel something hit me in the back and feel my headphones being ripped off.

" – stop when I tell you to stop, you hear me?!"

"Sorry?"

"Don't you give me attitude, kid. Put the bags on the floor and put your hands up. Don't move." The bulky guard on the left grabs my hands and cuffs them behind my back while the two dressed in bulletproof vests and police helmets slowly start unpacking my bags for me, tossing everything aside on the floor. I have never had so many people examine my underwear in one day. Everyone in the airport turns to stare but nobody steps in to help. The cuff-happy guard pats me down and digs my wallet, phone, keys, tickets, and gum out of my pockets and opens up everything. He checks the battery compartment of my phone, tries to pull each of my keys apart, and examines every note in my wallet before he stuffs everything back in haphazardly.

"Looks good. Says his name is 'Vikram Barn' this time."

" 'This time'? Sir, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, ya don't. Sure, ya don't. I bet yer parents're real proud." The guard behind me grabs the items from my pockets while the other two throw the contents of my luggage into black garbage bags for them to sort through again later, and they start dragging me toward the hidden security room behind the custodial closet. I've seen too many of them come out of this door to not know what it is. The guard behind me pushes me roughly past a row of chairs, and my shin connects with the sharp edge of the bench and I stumble and land sideways on my knee.

"He's tryin' to run!"

"No! No, I'm not!" I get back up as quickly as I can and look up to see four black pistols pointed directly at my head. I would put my hands up, but they're still cuffed behind my back. Every bone in my body is screaming for me to run, but I know that that will only give them the motive they need to pull their triggers. I stand as still as I can, staring past all of them at the silver postmodern swirls melded to the wall by the Starbucks. I just bought my food from there. I was just sitting at that table there, waiting for them to make my iced green tea. I didn't think that stale cheese danish would be my last meal. I was a fool to think I'd ever be here again; I shouldn't have been here this time. "I-I'm not running."

"Yes, you are." He smiles as he pulls the trigger, and I hear two more shots after everything goes black.

Why didn't the last gun fire?