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In the spirit of the successful USA Network series Burn Notice and Royal Pains comes a new series concept… well, actually, it’s an old concept… specifically, it’s the same concept as Burn Notice and Royal Pains, given a new setting, new characters, a new profession and a new catchy name that suggests the profession and situation of the main character. Soon to be a major television series, unless it only comes out as a free e-book on my site.
What the hey, I had time to kill.
Copyright 2009 Steve Jordan. All rights reserved.For more material by Steve Jordan, please visit .
Pilot: Pirates of the Californian
By Steve Jordan
1: Good Morning
It was developing to be a good morning. I’d stopped at the Starbucks on the way to the client site, and Christie was in that morning, which meant I could just saunter in, cool as hell, and say “Hit me,” and she’d know I meant my usual “grande double-shot skim milk espresso with room, in my personal cup.” I love a day that starts off where I don’t have to say all that, especially before I’ve actually had one.
Then I got to the client site, where I didn’t have to kill a half-hour for the IT guys to show up and let me into the computer rooms. IT guys are pretty good about being late for work, since most of them are either working late fixing computer problems, out drinking themselves blind after they get out of a full day’s computer problems, or gaming ‘til 4 in the morning with other IT guys trying to blast the memory of yesterday’s computer problems away. Amazingly, Emmett showed up on time—hey, even IT guys sometimes get torched in the first round of GTA—and he let me right in.
Finally, I was relieved to discover that no one had messed with my scripts after I left last night. IT guys love to mess with scripts when they think they know something about ‘em. Of course, that can be disasterous when they don’t have the big picture, so you try to add something to the scripts designed to scare ‘em off when they see it… either a nasty-weird piece of code, or a hidden instruction that makes their computer do something scary when they try to run it. Usually when that happens, they have the presence of mind to restore the old code, resave it, and get the hell out. This morning, the save timestamp indicated no one had been in there, which meant I didn’t need to backtrack half a day of work to figure out what they’d messed with.
So I settled into work, finishing up the scripts needed to integrate their database of products and services with outside web services that needed access to them. The client was behind the times in their systems, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. I’d handled them before. And my scripts were good.
“Morning, M.D.,” I heard as the door to the computer room opened. I nodded and waved, trying not to take my eyes off the line of code I was fixing. I liked Kenny, he was a nice guy, and easy to get along with. He was new to IT, the poor sucker. He actually wanted to be the head of IT at this company… that’s how young and idealistic newbies can be. But somehow, he didn’t see what running a major company’s IT department was doing to his boss, Mr. Gravewort. Gravewort used to be a handsome, bright-eyed IT newbie, until he’d been given the department when his boss retired (at the ripe old age of 39). Now Gravewort is a terminally grumpy, short-attention-spanned, sleepless zombie with B.O. and dandruff, drinking himself headlong at his first heart attack. I think he’s 33. How IT newbies didn’t see that future for themselves, I never understood… some kind of profession blindness, probably caused by too many Red Bulls before 10am.
“How’s everything looking for today?” Kenny asked.
“Pretty good,” I said, finishing the last touches on the code I’d started yesterday. “Once we test and confirm the handshake, we can move on to actual migration.”
“Migration. Aces!” Kenny said, and headed for his desk, where he kept his stash of Red Bulls. While I heard the tab rip back, I got on the phone to my office.
“Bill, it’s M.D.. Do me a favor and ping my client’s server, so I—”
“Schitzeiss.”
I paused. No one used my full last name. Not even Bill. Unless there was something wrong.
“What are you still doing on that job, man? Go get lunch or something.”
“Dude,” I said, “it’s ten-thirty.”
“Get outta there, man,” Bill said. “The old man’s getting his ass chewed out by one of your clients. They went down to a denial of service attack last night. They’re blaming you.”
“So what?” I said. “It’s not like I screwed anything up. DOS attacks are external, they’re outside of our ability to stop.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bill said. “I can hear ‘em through the door. You’re being fired as we speak.”
I was about to tell Bill he was crazy, when the door to the computer room banged open loud enough to make Kenny spill his Red Bull. I turned around, and even my professional blood lost a few degrees of temperature when I saw Mr. Gravewort in the doorway, glaring at me.
“You!” he said, stomping across the room at me.
“Call you back,” I said to Bill.
“Don’t bother,” Bill said. “I like my job.” And he hung up before I did. Leaving me to face Gravewort.
“I just heard you fried a client’s servers,” Gravewort growled at me.
I shook my head. “Not me. It was a denial of service attack. That’s an outside attack, not an internal error. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Like hell!” Gravewort snapped. “I just got word you’ve been fired by your agency for gross negligence.”
“That’s nuts,” I replied. “They can’t fire me over that.”
“They just did! Time for you to leave, buddy!”
“Hey, hold on!” I suddenly realized I was about to be shafted, and got up out of my seat, bringing myself up to Gravewort’s height. “I’m almost finished with your database, here. Once it’s done, you and me both will be smelling like roses.” Which, in his case, was something to aspire to. In my case, it was just another notch on my already-impressive resume. Mind you, it would be a very big, pretty notch, and I wanted it. “All I need is a few minutes to—”
“I don’t have a contract with you,” Gravewort growled. “I have a contract with your former agency. And they just told me, if I don’t want to be sued, to throw you out of here.”
At that moment, the door to the computer room opened, and two of the client’s security guards elbowed their way in. I say “elbowed,” not because there was anyone in their way, but because they were so big they practically had to widen the doorframe enough to let themselves inside. They stood there, glaring at me, and I looked at Gravewort, in complete disbelief that I was being treated like this.
“Believe it,” Gravewort said, as if he’d read the last paragraph of my thoughts. “Get out of here, loser.”
2: State of Denial
They actually gave me the bum’s rush out of there… one of the guards shoved me so hard as we hit the front door, that I almost stumbled and dropped my gear bag… and falling on my head and having the bag crack my skull open would’ve cost less in hospital bills than it would cost to replace most of the stuff inside there. “And stay out!” he shouted, like I was in some s movie.
Inside, I was cussing up, down, sideways and diagonally. But outside, I was cool. The first thing I did was to call my office, to straighten those bozos out. That is, I tried to call. They wouldn’t take my call… in fact, the voicemails didn’t even connect. At that point, I noticed I had a message on my cell, so I accessed my mailbox to see what it was. It was a text message, from my agency, which read:
“You are fired. If we ever see you within a mile of our offices, we will have you arrested. If you speak to any of our clients, we will call Homeland Security. Consider yourself lucky we’re not suing you, you thieving hacker bastard.”
Wow. And I didn’t even know you could get all that into a cellphone text message.
Boy, was I confused. What the hell happened? My boss knew a DOS attack wasn’t my fault… he couldn’t possibly blame me. One of our clients must have been pissed… but how or why they managed to put the fear of God into my boss like this, was beyond me. I didn’t think any of them had that kind of pull. It was a weird situation.
But ultimately, it didn’t matter. I was one of the best webmasters in town. I could think of a half a dozen companies right off that would jump at the chance of hiring me. So I got out my cellphone and started making calls, as I walked casually in the direction of Starbucks.
“Sorry, Schitzeiss. Can’t use you.”
“We don’t need anybody.”
“Sorry, we got no openings.”
“No way. And don’t call me back.”
By the time I got to Starbucks, I was bewildered. What, did someone manage to blacklist me? How could they not want me? I shuffled up to the counter and mumbled, “Hit me.”
“What?”
I looked up. And around. No Christie in sight. “Oh. Uh… give me a grande double-shot skim milk espresso with room, in my personal cup.” I handed the cup over a second later, as in my shocked state I had almost missed the fact that I had just told them to fill it.
The barista looked at the cup, which I had put my own decorations on. In big letters, running from bottom to top, was the legend that he read aloud: “M.D. Schitz.” Yes, I did that on purpose. What kind of a cool name was Michael Darien Schitzeiss, right? I was a hot programmer, and I wasn’t ashamed of it. Normally, I thought it was pretty cool and ballsy. But right now, with everyone in the place staring at me, I just felt it was kinda silly. But he took the cup at last, and started the drink.
I stepped over to the cashier, and gave him my Starbucks card. The guy swiped it. He looked at his cashier, and he swiped it again. “Card’s empty,” he said.
I blinked. “There must be something on it. I just used it this morning.”
“Well, you used it up,” the guy said. “That’ll be four twenty-nine.”
Grumbling, I paid cash for the drink. Then I retired to a table in the corner, and got busy.
When you’re a webmaster, there aren’t many things you can’t do from wherever you are. If you have a laptop and a wireless connection, you can access everything you have at once. I maintained accounts with four job boards, which I immediately updated with my available status. Then I tried to access my clients’ websites, to see which one was down for the count from a DOS attack. Strangely, all of them were up… not even running slow.
Then I checked my e-mail accounts. A good webmaster always has multiple accounts, one at work, a personal account, a commercial account—usually good as a spam-magnet—and occasionally a few accounts designated for specialty uses, like heavy traffic from web forums or media sites. My work e-mail did not connect… they had deleted it that fast. There was nothing new in my personal and forum accounts, but my commercial account was full of spam job offers for every fast-food place and convenience store in town. Someone was trying to tell me something.
And while I was checking, I received an e-mail in my personal box.
“You will never work in this town again.”
Okay, now I was getting weirded out. Everything was happening fast, too fast for me to react to. It really felt like everyone in town was against me, and paranoid or not, that’s a lousy feeling to have. I was also reflecting on the fact that I needed to work, and had no intention of working at McDonalds. I needed to think of something. But I was out of my element, because I’d never had trouble getting work… I’d never been unemployed. What do you do when you’re unemployed? Did they still make you stand in line, like at the DMV, to get a check that wouldn’t pay the rent at the Y?
Was there still a Y?
At a complete loss, I finally remembered someone who had gone through unemployment and tough times, and could probably help me out to figure out my next move. I dialed my cellphone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Pete. It’s Mike.”
“Hey! What’s happenin’, little brother?”
San Diego was hot.
That was the first thought that came to me when I stepped off the plane. Actually, it was the first new thought I’d had as I stepped off the plane… up until now, I had been having the same first thought for most of the day, even before I got on the plane:
“How did I let my brother talk me into flying out here?”
I’d told him what happened, and I heard him whistle like he does when something sounds implausible. Then he’d said, “You better get some space. Take a sabbatical. Get out of town.”
“Man, I just can’t leave town.”
“Bro, you live in Baltimore. Of course you can leave town. I know… come out here for a visit! San Diego’s great this time of year! I’ll fix you up with a few local honeys, and your problems will just melt away!”
“Can’t afford to fly out there.”
“Sure you can. Southwest is cheap. I even got some frequent flyer miles I’ll let you have.”
“Where did you get frequent flyer miles from?”
“From Gail. It was part of the settlement.”
“Well, why didn’t you ever use them?”
“Bro… who’d want to leave San Diego?”
The next thing I knew, I was flying to San Diego. Then transferring. Then flying. Then transferring. And finally flying in and landing in this little airport near the coast. I had to ask to make sure I was actually done hopping planes… then I collected my bag and gear, and headed for the pickup areas.
It didn’t take but a minute after I walked out of the terminal, before a Honda Fit pulled up in front of me. The passenger side window came down, and my brother stuck his head out, from the driver’s side, without undoing his seatbelt. Okay, I’m exaggerating a bit, but where I come from, a Saturn Vue is considered a sub-compact.
“Hey, Mike! You made it!”
“I made it,” I agreed, and opened the passenger door, slipped my bags behind the passenger seat, and slid in after them. Pete looked healthy. He had always been handsome, and kept in good shape; now, other than just a trace of grey in his hair, he still looked fit and tan. Sort of like a real-world Bruce Campbell (in his Brisco County days). Interestingly enough, on a good day I could pass for a real-world Billy Campbell (in his Rocketeer days), which made us some pretty hot Schitzeiss when we were out on the prowl.
“Good to see you, bro,” Pete said when I closed the door. “How you holdin’ up?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I said. “Outside of the fact that I’ve been blacklisted in my own home town for no good reason.”
Pete shook his head. “Capitalism sucks, all right. But now you’re here,” he said, putting the car in gear, “and you can unwind a bit, get your head together, and start anew!”
“You’ve been out here too long,” I said. “You’re starting to sound like a California hippy.” I eyed the inside of the car. “Starting to look like one, too.” Though I had to admit, it did look like San Diego was agreeing with my brother.
“Well,” Pete said, “it sounds like you could use a bit of a change too, after what happened. Speaking of which, I guess you didn’t figure out any more about the blacklist thing?”
“Sure didn’t,” I admitted. “It’s like I accidentally stepped on the toes of a mobster, or Dick Cheney, or something.”
“Watch that,” Pete said jokingly. “We don’t use that kind of language in these parts.”
“Anyway,” I continued, “it’s like a conspiracy. I didn’t do anything wrong, and everybody who is in the business knows that! Why this ton of bricks was dropped on my head, I don’t know.”
“Probably someone covering up their own mistakes by blaming you,” Pete said. And I could well believe that. “But if they’re that good at railroading you,” he continued, “it might not make any difference. You’re someone’s fall guy. Best to just get clear of the fallout, and go play in someone else’s yard for awhile.”
“Oh, you’re a big help,” I muttered.
“I am helping you!” Pete protested. “I’m keeping you from beating your head against a wall for no good reason! You’re better off getting a clean break, and starting somewhere else. Like here!”
“San Diego?” I said dubiously, not knowing a thing about the place… since my brother had moved here, I’d never been. “I don’t know…”
“Trust me, you’ll love it here,” Pete said. “It’s great weather all year ‘round. I’ll show you the beaches, they rock. And hot and cold runnin’ babes, everywhere! Man, you can’t go wrong in a place like this!”
“You didn’t do so hot,” I pointed out.
Pete looked at me like I was crazy. “Dude, I got divorced. Not shot. And believe me, there are no better places for a single guy to be than here!”
“Okay,” I admitted, “I can’t argue about the view.”
Pete smiled as he handed me a cold beer. “Huh? Huh? What’d I tell you?”
We were on his apartment balcony, four floors up. Immediately below us was the complex pool, and even in the middle of the day, there were a few honeys hanging out there, mostly lounging by the poolside in their Brazilian bikinis. Beyond, there was a clear view to the bay, a park, which I found out later was Centennial Park, and the beach beside it. Pete’s place was on Coronado Island facing east, so you could actually see the San Diego skyline across the water from there, which, since I didn’t know San Diego, was about the last view I would have expected to see from dry land.
The beach on our side of the bay was small, but incredibly beautiful. From there, I could see even more honeys hanging out (in every sense of the word) on the beach, and walking about on the sidewalks in flimsy sarongs over their bathing suits that barely made it legal for them to go out in public.
I turned away from the balcony and took a suck at the beer, and considered the apartment. It was a big place, a two-bedroom unit, with the bedrooms on the opposite sides of the unit for privacy. The kind of place where people love to entertain, or vacation, or just get away to have sex close to, but not actually on, the beach.
“How did you get this again?” I asked Pete.
“Gail,” he answered. “The settlement has this place paid for until the end of the year. Great digs, huh?” he swept his arms out to encompass the place, and I noticed now that it was a bit sparsely-furnished, as if most of the furniture had gone with Gail… wherever she was.
“Yeah… capitalism sucks,” I said. “And what are you gonna do at the end of the year? Are you even working?”
“...
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