The day after Blake and co send Mr. Henry Cassidy the second message passes with them waiting for a reply from him, but again, nothing turns up. Then at night, Blake and Joanna are sat in the couch watching Ent News, and as usual, Blake has his pen and notebook, and his laptop is set on the coffee table, with the God's Plan blog page on screen. The man can't complain. He never thought being unemployed would be so good. Of course, he's busy running the blog, but the job is good bit of fun, all he’s to do is sit on his ass, watching TV; his favorite work-out. Now, on TV, the Ent News caption reads, “Paul Simpson arrested for sexual assault.” Paul Simpson is an A-list popstar, that’s also played major roles in a few blockbuster flicks. And he's gone and groped a co-star on the set of his ongoing movie production. It was a kissing scene, and Paul, being a person of ill conduct, doesn't care much for boundaries. He let his sordid urges get the better of him, and grabbed, squeezed, and fondled things not in the script. Of course, this isn’t the first time Paul Simpson has groped on set. The other times were with video vixens on his music video shoots. Those vixens were loose and tolerant, most of them indulging him. And he got used to the habit, and hardly saw it a problem. But now he's gone and done it with Phoebe Anderson, an A-list diva of a movie star with extremely high self esteem. No way in hell she's gonna let it slide. Paul was begging, crying, lamenting that the devil got the better of him. Some of the cast and crew pleaded on Paul's behalf … but nope, she wouldn't be the girl that gets groped, and the bastard gets away with it. She called 911, giving them the full details, even some unsolicited ones, of where and what Paul Simpson grabbed and squeezed. Paul Simpson had never been so sorry. It's like he had an epiphany, only, it was too little, too late. The cops showed up, and no one could find Paul. He wasn't in his trailer, and his car had vanished. The cops had to inquire as to his home address, or hotel, or whatever accommodation he may also be using in the city, and Paul’s home address was provided, and the cops radioed their colleagues in the area, who rushed to the house and found Mr. Simpson desperately packing a suit case, planning to skip town. Paul bowed his head, submitting himself to the cops. And now, the Ent News footage is of Paul Simpson being led out of his home in handcuffs, and put in a squad car. Blake thinks about the unusual fact that within the last three days, four major celebrities have been arrested on felony charges. He thinks it couldn’t have come at a better time. The incidents will do great good to the God's Plan blog. “It's like a shocking celebrity felony wave,” says Blake.
“I know, right?” says Joanna, “and it's just what we need with the blog.”
“You bet your ass.”
The front door opens, and Olly limps in, bruised, dirty, disheveled, tired and weak. “What happened to you?” Blake asks, wide-eyed. Joanna looks, springing up, worried.
“I'm fine,” says the limping Olly, “I’m fine.”
Joanna sighs relief. “What happened?!”
“Some downright crazy shit,” says Olly, solemn.
“This should be good,” says Blake.
“Some crazy psycho took a dump in the bus and started smearing it on everyone.”
“What?” Blake and Jo can't help but smile.
Now I tell you, Olly isn't fooling around. He isn’t shitting. In fact he himself had been very nearly shat upon. Today, after finishing his shift tutoring at juvie, He had to take the jolly good bus from Zonal Avenue to Aliso Village. It was all good and fine until all of a sudden, the bus gets thrown into a frenzy when some man took an unbelievably quick dump on his seat, takes two handfuls of it, and starts throwing and smearing it on the lips of other passengers who scream out their lungs, running out of their seats. Some try and hold the man down, but he just smears more in their faces, and is determined to keep on the menace. The bus driver panics, and the bus starts to weave. The ‘shit man’ now finds Olly particularly attractive and charges toward him. Olly panics, throwing himself out the window of the speeding bus.
“I nearly got souped by a trailer truck,” Olly narrates to Blake and Joanna, “but it was worth it.” Indeed, Olly very nearly lost his life, and his recognizable body form. On throwing himself out of the window of the speeding bus, and tumbling on the tarmac, he was met by a speeding jumbo trailer truck that honked deafeningly as it's giant wheels missed him by only a hair's breadth. He just laid there, limp. He then started to get up, weak, struggling, but he hunched over, hurling on the tarmac.
Blake, on hearing the story, chuckles, “You sure you didn't just get molested? I mean, you were at juvie.”
They giggle, and Olly stops abruptly, clutching onto the side of his ribs, wincing. Joanna rushes, supporting him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’ve been through hell, guys.”
“Have you gotten looked at at the hospital? You may have broken something.”
“I’m fine, sis. It's really more the psychological trauma of someone doing everything they can to cover your face in their feces. I never panicked so much in my goddamned life… I can still smell it.”
Joanna recoils from holding the man, “Are you sure he didn't get you … somewhere?” She peers behind him, keeping her distance.
“Yeah,” Blake smiles, “Get back outside, throw out all your clothes, and hose yourself down.”
“He didn’t get me, guys,” says Olly.
“Well thank God you're safe,” says Joanna.
“Yeah, sis. I'm gonna go freshen up.” He heads for his bedroom, limping.
“You need any help?” Joanna asks.
“No, thanks, sis.” He keeps on the limp, “I'm just a little shaken, is all.”
“Kay kay,” says Joanna.
“My deepest condolences, man,” says Blake.
“Thanks, man, I hope such never befalls you when I'm not there to see.”
“Understandable,” says Blake, smiling and nodding. Olly disappears into his room.
Joanna joins Blake back on the couch. “Taking the bus these days is like signing up to be abused or molested.”
“Nah,” says Blake, “the bus is fun; it's like the club; everyone clustering together, appreciating each other. It's just coincidence you’ve had a bad streak with them, is all.”
“Spoken like one of they who get on the bus without really having anywhere to go, but innocent people to grope.”
“No one is innocent,” he places a hand on Jo's boob.
“Yeah, you're right,” She bumps him in the crotch.
“Nice,” he says, smiling, “See? this is what the bus is about; quid pro quo.”
“Right,” says Joanna.
A while later, Olly, all clean and fresh, limps back into the living room. “There’s my ultimate survivor,” says Blake. Olly takes a seat. “So tell us,” Blake continues, “what does Mr. Cassidy say? Has he replied?”
“Oh he's replied alright,” Olly picks up his phone, “the son of a bitch,” he adds.
“That can't be good,” says Joanna, “What’s he say?”
“He says,” Olly reads from his phone, “ ‘Oh, so you're one of the people running the God's Plan blog. That enigma of a thing is run by just any hard-for-cash, gambling-addicted lunatic that happens to be very articulate with their insanity. Now listen to me you son of a junkie bitch, if you ever contact me again, I'll have my people find you, and end your miserable life, you stupid fuck.’ ”
The message puts Blake especially, into depression. And there's every cause for it. Mr. Henry Cassidy, if only he could be brought into cooperation to get Ent Network to start giving sport updates, God's Plan TV will be the greatest gold mine the world's ever known---or not known; keeping it a secret would be indispensably vital---And not that the money’d be made from something being contributed to society, nope; It would be made from people also not contributing anything at all to society, nothing! People hoping to guess right, and be paid for it by people who failed to guess right, losing that money, and not gaining anything. That is what the world's become; No one wants to make an effort, thinking about what they can contribute to society, they’d rather hope on the chance of guessing right, and getting paid, not thinking about whether there really is a deterministic, easy way to never lack anything, nothing at all, and not yield the bitter repercussions of speculation. So, now in the world, people speculate enough that if God's Plan TV can be adapted to be able to feed from them, it would be the single largest money maker in the world. In fact, it will eventually acquire every penny in the sport betting world, shutting the whole thing down for good. And then, Blake and co will have to adapt it to some other speculation like the stock market or something---Imagine Ent, a network dedicated to celebrity lifestyle, and fashion, having to give stock market updates. That would be one hell of a spin. But, when there's a fortune to be made, it sure as hell could be arranged---So, Blake and co have enough reason to lament Mr. Cassidy’s noncooperation. And also, Blake was really looking forward to Mr. Cassidy hiring him as the host that does the proposed sport segment on Ent News, or for any other on-screen job that would be fitting. So, he can also lament on that end as well. “What’s wrong with this goddamned man? Was he high on Coke when he was reading the message? Why doesn't he get it? I told him it'll cost him absolutely nothing.”
“Oh, honey,” Joanna puts a consoling hand on Blake, “He’ll come around, I know he will.”
“Yeah,” says Olly, “he’ll come around, he has no choice, and neither do we; We have to start making plans to put Mr. Cassidy’s head in the right place; it's come to that. He has to see for himself, exactly what we're offering him here.”
“We’re gonna have to kidnap him,” says Blake, solemn.
Joanna sighs, herself solemn. “I’m afraid it's come to this… Olly, you find out everything we need to know about the man, his movements, whether he has security, whether he carries a gun, whether he likes guns, his daily schedule, his hobbies.”
“Right,” says Olly, “But how are we gonna do this? Can we really bring him here? I mean, this is an apartment building … in the center of town.”
“We’re gonna have to come up with a rock-solid plan.”
“I got it!” says Blake, “We’re gonna need a van, a gun-”
“We have a gun,” says Joanna.
“What?” says Blake, he and Olly staring Jo in the face. “How d'you mean?”
“What d'you mean, how do I mean? I have a gun. In this house. Always have. For protection.”
“What?!,” says Blake and Olly. “Where? How come I didn't know about this?” adds Blake.
“Yeah, me too,” says Olly.
“I didn't think to mention it,” says Joanna, “I mean it's no big deal. It's not like it’s somewhere anyone can just find it.”
“You may not issues with having a gun in your home,” says Blake, “but I do, and it's my home, just as much as it's yours. So when we’re done with Mr. Cassidy, we're getting rid of the gun. Guns bring evil, Jo. I told you what it did to my folks.” Indeed, Blake's parents, Eddy and Patty Wilson are gun lovers, and Blake, back when he was a little boy, used to think that guns were okay. His parents could boast of a Desert Eagle .50 pistol, and a Bushmaster M4 Type Carbine semi-automatic rifle, each. And every once in a while, little Blake'll play with 'em. They brag about, and preach guns: The kind of people to tell you straight; “Guns don't kill people, people do.” Or in fact, “guns only kill people that deserve to go.” Then, one Sunday morning when they decided not to take the guns to church for it was a rainy morning, and the congregation will probably not have the usual gun fair at the front yard of the church after the service. So, on getting home from church, little Blake and his parents were defenseless against the two bandits that assumed blind spots around the entrance of the house. These bandits were on the prowl for guns especially, and knew the Wilsons to possess a few. So, they cased them for days, and when the time was right, advanced with the ambush. The Wilsons arrived home, parking the car in the driveway, then making their way to the front door, humming hymns, and reminiscing what a beautiful service it was in church this morning. And on getting to the front door, the bandits rushed out on them from either corner of the façade, pistols trained. The Wilsons' eyes went wide, flabbergasted by their fate this beautiful Sunday noon. The bandits played it cool, telling the Wilsons to be cool and quiet, then pistol-whipping Mrs. Wilson hard in the nose, when she hesitates to take out the house keys and open the goddamned door. Edward could only remain terrified, jittering, and little Blake knew enough about pistols to know that he better not try anything stupid. The Wilsons were conducted into their own home, and ordered to reveal the guns. They complied very quickly, revealing the pistols and rifles, and the bandits took possession. Then, the bandits began contemplating something, talking to each other very quickly and silently for quite a while. Then, one bandit held Patty and little Blake aside, and the other ordered Mr. Wilson to drop his pants and bend over. Surprising enough, Mr. Wilson complied way more easily than expected, and the bandit began having his way with him. And it's not that his wife and son were made to watch … but they couldn't take their eyes of the scene.
And ever since that incident, Blake has been pro gun-control, never entertaining the idea of owning any kind of gun, and even choosing his friends accordingly. And here now, oops, his girlfriend of five years has turned out to be a gun lover.
“That being said,” says Joanna, “we now have to put it to a vote; All in favor of keeping the gun for protection…” She raises a hand, but it's just her. She eyes Olly, reproaching.
“Sorry, sis, guns freak me out. It's one of those things I wish they could disinvent.”
“So,” says Blake, not keeping his voice down, “the results are in. We're getting rid of the gun. After we’re done with Cassidy of course.”
“Shhhut the hell up!” whispers Joanna, “Don’t make it sound like we're killing anybody, man.”
Olly giggles, “Yeah, man, we know you may not be used to doing things low key, but this is the kinda stuff that just can't be otherwise. We don't know who could be listening, or even watching,” he motions to Blake’s open laptop on the coffee table, with the webcam pointed on them, shutting it.
Blake himself giggles. “Me?” he tries to keep his voice down this time, “Really? I'm the blabbermouth mouth in this house? You were the ones just shouting about how we're gonna kidnap the man-”
“For Christ sakes, man,” says Olly, “you’re the only one that keeps using that word, shut the hell up!”
“Right,” Blake agrees, “So we're gonna need a van, some sedative, and zip ties. That's easy-come with the blog money. We’re gonna park the van next to the man's car in the lot at his office, or if that proves too difficult, we can tail him, and park next to him, wherever he parks, like to get doughnuts or something, and when he comes to get back in the car, we nab him, peeling out, sedating and restraining him. Of course, we can't bring him here, we're gonna have a safe house arranged somewhere, and God's Plan TV's gonna be video linked to the safe house. Bam! No need to thank me.”
“ ‘We’re gonna park next to him and nab him,’ ” Joanna mocks. “Please. Oh, why don't we just speed up to his own speeding car and drag him out the window? That'll be way easier. Your plan's gonna get us thrown in jail faster than anyone else in the world could know what God's Plan TV is.”
“ ‘Zip ties,’ ” Olly giggles, “ ‘sedative.’ What are you trying to do, get the man in bed?”
“Well, I don't hear any a'you coming up with anything better.”
“We will,” says Jo, “but there's work to do first. Let’s find out everything there is to know about the man first, so we know the best way to abduct him.”
“Right,” says Blake, “Olly, that's your department.”
“Way ahead’a you,” says Olly, leaving for his room.