Page 14 of Maxim
I’ve known Micky most of my life. While my friends and I were dancing in clubs, getting drunk, and dating boys, Micky was playing World of Warcraft and trolling people online. He’s not a bad guy; he just lacks social skills.
I’m probably the only female he talks to in real life. Other than his mother, who happens to be my aunt.
“Brought you some pepperoni pizza,” I announce.
His nostrils flare with interest as he steps aside to let me in. Blackout blinds cover the windows but there’s enough ambient light from the bank of monitors to show me a path through to the kitchen area.
I ignore the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. His mother can deal with that mess when she makes her weekly Pilgrimage of Doom.
“What do you want?” Did I mention Micky’s lack of social skills?
“I need some help.”
Micky opens the pizza box and pauses while he counts the pepperoni discs. If there’s an even number, he won’t touch the pizza. Luckily for him, I removed one before I came here. I’m used to his little quirks.
He dives in once he’s finished counting. For several minutes, I get to listen to my cousin eating pizza and trying not to grimace when melted cheese slides down his chin and sticks to his tee.
Along with a lack of social skills, Micky has the table manners of a chimpanzee.
Once he’s finished eating three slices - three is his lucky number - he closes the box, wipes his hands on a paper napkin, and turns to look at me.
Micky is a good-looking guy. Or he would be if he paid more attention to his appearance. Despite rarely leaving his basement apartment, he isn’t grossly overweight. His dark hair is long and he has deep brown eyes, courtesy of our Italian heritage.
I feel sad sometimes that Micky’s life is so insular, but he’s happy. He has online friends of a sort and his mother takes care of the practical things for him, like making sure he eats and showers occasionally.
“Help with what?” Micky stares at me without blinking. It’s disconcerting.
“I need information on someone. A guy who’s popped up in my investigation on the mayor.”
Micky nods and turns to his keyboard. I watch as his fingers dance over the keyboard. Windows open and close, code appears and disappears. I have no clue what programs he uses, but the guy’s a genius. “Name.”
“Anatoly Uriov.” I spell it out and he taps a few keys.
“It may take a while,” he tells me. Messages pop up on the screen, small chat windows, but I’m too far away to read them.
“Want me to go?”
He shakes his head, still watching the screen. Micky is three years older than me but it sometimes feels like he’s my kid brother. I love him to bits. Always have done, even though he’s never affectionate or seems to give a shit about anyone other than his mom.
When we were at school, some of the other kids used to taunt him for being different, as kids do. He had a hard time, even though he was far and away the smartest kid in school.
It used to break my heart when I saw him sitting alone every day. But over time, I realized he preferred being alone.
He didn’t want or need friends like I did. He was perfectly content reading math textbooks.
And he sure as shit didn’t care what his peers thought.
Now, away from the rigid framework of the education system, he’s even happier. I have no fucking clue what he gets up online to but I know he earns money from doing it. Hopefully, it’s not illegal, but who knows?
Something pings on the screen and Micky leans forward.
“Mafia,” Micky delivers in a deadpan voice like he’s telling me Uriov drives a BMW and lives in suburbia.
“I need more than that, Micky!”
He ignores me while tapping away on his keyboard. Chat windows ping. Information appears. Several more minutes pass before he speaks.
“Uriov is head of a mafia group operating out of Tiarnia. He runs a site that streams violent content. Pay per view.”