As ink blots are interpreted differently by each viewer, so are the text blots from The RawShock Tales
(#6) The Jammer
John P. Cater
They call me a jammer. It’s a rather ubiquitous tag, simple and innocent sounding, but there are only nine of us in the world that I know of, and we’re all in this city. Tonight, if all goes as planned, there will be eight. Tomorrow there may even be fewer.
No one here speaks of jammers because we are a dark secret group held more closely than CIA or NSA agents. But unlike secret government agents, whose “outing” may cost human lives, our disclosure would cost our employers billions, and this is much more important to them than human lives. You see, all jammers work for a large anonymous conglomerate. We think we know who the members are but nobody’s talking. They tell us what to do and pay us. That’s good enough for almost anybody. And our jobs are legal. That’s the beauty of it; we commit no crimes. We have one simple task: To alter or delay people’s plans.
Our rewards are paid in cash and usually amount to five-hundred to one-thousand dollars per day. Not bad wages, but we all feel the devil is involved, somehow. No, we didn’t sign away our souls but instead took an oath to join a clandestine group, away from public knowledge. I know that if any of us talked, we’d be dead tomorrow with a totally discredited background. A few jammers have already met with “unfortunate” accidents but the ones of us that remain know that our time will soon come. I’m getting tired of waiting.
To the person that finds my body: I came here from mid-America Nebraska a year ago, right out of high school. I tried to find well-paying jobs, but there’s no place for a country boy in these palaces. I’m not thin enough or cool enough to fit in. I was approached last year by a man named Browser who offered me a job as a jammer. The money was great and the job simple: Just find wealthy out-of-state visitors and ram their cars, causing a one to two-week delay leaving town. While they wait for their cars to be repaired they spend thousands, or even millions, more than planned. It works.
The ID and Drivers License in my billfold are accurate and valid. Please notify my parents in Omaha. They know I’m here. The jammer list in my pocket is fairly up to date, as far as I know. You may want to give it to the authorities.
I have had somewhere near three hundred minor accidents over the past year. People just call me accident prone. The conglomerate supplies an old car for me to drive each day and I wreck it. They handle the insurance and police records. All I do is do the damage. But today I made a miscalculation in my controlled wreck and killed a little girl riding in the target’s passenger seat. It’s no longer a game to me now. The stakes have become astronomical. I just can’t take the gamble again. I’m now going out to meet with an “unfortunate” accident. As they say, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”