Happy
Is it really theft if you're taking money from banks?
You don't even have to try that hard. If you're open to parties, you'll quickly meet someone who knows someone who knows someone. Sometimes I felt like my father's country only had two first names and two last names. The old bastard had even outlived my mother.
When a parent dies, you're required to keep certain documents. So I kept them. I made up a few stories and took my father's name. It helped that I looked remarkably like him. After a few months of acting, I acquired my second identity.
Two people need more loans than one in this broken world.
My mother wouldn't have approved.
But she always said:
"Be happy."
Money makes being social even more useful. At those networking events, I could practically taste the criminal energy in the room. Those people only cared about money.
Ironically, all I needed was more money to obtain even more identities. The more you have, the easier it becomes to get new ones. Even if you're standing at a checkout counter flipping through fifteen credit cards, as long as you use one of them, nobody asks questions.
"Par carte de crédit, s'il vous plaît."
"Con carta di credito, per favore."
"क्रेडिट कार्ड से, कृपया।"
There's something special about traveling the world with seventy-nine identities. You just can't afford to be forgetful.
One of those identities was still my father. Out of a sense of revenge, I occasionally used his credit card at local brothels and coffee shops.
"Ik wil graag met creditcard betalen."
Does a life like that become worthless when the handcuffs finally click after fifteen years?
I don't know.
The punishment didn't even interest me. I told them nothing. Not a single word about how I had obtained the identities. They already had enough evidence. I didn't need to make things easier for people who might have the same idea someday.
Those weeks felt like years already.
When they dragged me out of my cell, I finally realized the uproar I had caused in my home country. Journalists from the biggest newspapers had barely managed to find space in the hallway. I'd seen the footage of criminals hiding behind folders. When they escorted me down the corridor, I grinned at the journalists.
None of them looked at me.
They just kept taking pictures.
I was led into the courtroom and shoved onto the defendant's bench. The judge had a double chin larger than his face. That system puppet began reading the charges. It took a while. He read every name and then asked what my real name was.
"What is your name?" I replied.
"I am the honorable Judge Jones, and I won't ask again."
"Honorable? Really? How many personalities did you have in college to sleep with women?"
"Silence! State your name!"
"Je ne veux pas."
Judge Jones glanced at a court clerk.
"What was the name again?"
I couldn't stop laughing. Eventually, some of the journalists started laughing too. I tried to make my laughter sound as psychotic as possible. Someone would probably draw a sketch from it.
Then I caught my breath.
"Judge. I must confess. I'm guilty of murder."
"You're not here for murder. State your name."
"Oh. So murder doesn't matter. In this corrupt country, any tax evader would probably get more years than me. Even though I've committed murder."
"You need to start with your name."
"No big deal. It was only my wife. The one I had a child with."
I kept glancing toward the journalists. A murmur spread through the room. Judge Jones hammered his gavel against the desk like a small child demanding attention.
"What did you do?" he asked when he finally stopped.
I turned my entire body toward the journalists.
"My dear Judge Jones, I am David Graf. And twenty years ago, I slaughtered my wife. My son was upstairs in his bedroom. I told everyone it was an accident. Just like the police did. And people like YOU are the reason I've remained free."
"Mr. Graf, you're on trial for credit card fraud. Why would you incriminate yourself without a lawyer?"
I turned back to the judge.
"Because I want to be locked up. You lying judges don't hear children screaming anymore."
I pointed toward the audience.
"But these people do."
The judge shook his head and the hearing was suspended. They dragged me out of the courtroom. I looked one last time at the faces on the bench.
"Your job is to protect children! You don't do that! Lock me up!"
When they reopened the twenty-year-old murder case of my mother, they finally proved what I had witnessed all those years ago but never wanted to admit.
My father, David Graf, had murdered my mother.
I cried tears of joy when I held the arrest warrant bearing my father's name.
I could afford a life of endless luxury.
What does death in a prison cell matter after that?
