The Service

“What I’m asking is,” Arnie Brandenburg says nervously, “how can this come back to bite me in the ass? Is the session recorded and stored? Is there any chance my wife might find out? See a charge or something?”

“No sir,” the young salesman replies, smoothing his blue silk tie against his perfectly flat abdomen. “We simply don’t allow anything like that to happen to our clients. Not ever. Not even once. Think about it, we wouldn’t be in business long if we couldn’t guarantee total confidentiality.”

  Bubbles belch up the water tank that stands next to a plastic plant in one corner of the small vinyl cubicle, one of dozens set in rows, each humming with muffled conversation. Voices discuss platinum packages. Rewards club discount codes. And murders, of course. 

 Most other first-world countries outlawed this kind of shit years ago. Arnie is here despite this because, he thinks, not us. Not the good ol’ US of A. We thrive on this. Murder is a business here, an industry. Always has been. At least we’re honest about it. 

When Arnie first arrived at the service he overheard a sobbing, middle-aged woman say:  

“I wanted to suffocate my husband with a plastic bag. It has to be a plastic bag or it won’t fucking work for me. You people PROMISED one-hundred-percent authenticity and satisfaction!”

The acne-riddled teenager sitting across from her erupted into a slobbering display of apologies and promises. He’d make sure it was a plastic bag next time she booked a session. Discounted, of course, because of the inconvenience she’d endured. Then he asked if she would prefer a thick garden bag, like the kind they used to use for picking up leaves, or would a regular shopping bag be ok?

Arnie loves his wife, very much in fact. He’d never really harm her. It’s just a thought that’s persisted in his head for twenty-five years, turned into a kind of obsession. 

One day Arnie came across an article online and realized that apparently it’s a thing and there were lots of people like him. He didn’t have to feel bad or ashamed about it anymore. He could just use the service. 

The service is a simulation, the hyper realistic simulated experience of murdering a loved one of your choosing. Plastic bags were considered ok. But no guns, that’s a strict rule. Guns are a big no-no, considered uncouth. 

It’s supposed to be therapeutic. That’s their official position on the service. Acting out violent antisocial fantasies in a safe place, harming no one–no one real anyway–in a kind of digital dreamworld. No consequences, Arnie thought. The power of being a God. And they had reasonable payment plans. 

The idea is you undergo the simulation experience in order to work out resentments and are therefore able to carry on a happier, less-stressed life. It’s supposed to actually work wonders on fraught relationships. Many couples use it together. It’s just a simulation, Arnie reminds himself. A game. What the hell could be wrong with a game?

There are all kinds of books and movies about the service, both for and against. It’s fair to say that decent folk generally frown upon it. But as far as Arnie can tell, even those that outwardly criticize the service use it in private. 

Arnie can’t remember the last time he used a real plastic bag (Houston went fully green a decade ago) and he can’t remember first wondering what it would feel like to kill his wife. There’s a twinge of guilt in Arnie’s gut. This whole thing is ridiculous. But where’s the harm? It’s therapy. It won’t be with a bag though, of that he’s certain. What then? his bare hands? Could he really do that? Wrap them around her–his own wife’s– throat? Arnie realizes awkwardly he should have worked this all out beforehand. He’d be expected to know these kinds of details. 

“What’s most popular? I mean, what do people usually do?”

“Well, of course I can’t go into any of the numbers, but…stabbing is big,” the young salesman says with a wink. 

“I’ll do a stabbing then. I’ll stab her.”

“Excellent choice sir. If you go with our Premium Package you can have up to twenty-seven stabs. You can space them out. You have half an hour to stab twenty-seven times, however you’d like. There’s also a fully-stocked mini-bar and a television available in the simulation. It’s just like a hotel room. Of course, for a small upgrade, you can change locations. Murder her in an alley, or a parking lot. Wherever you want. This experience is about helping you heal. Trust me, it works. Afterwards people describe a kind of calm descending on them. Some say it lasts for days. Weeks, even.” 

“Have you ever done it?” Arnie asks this handsome man with perfect black skin, immaculately groomed with that professional salesman smile Artie had learned the hard way not to trust. 

“The service?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Me? You mean, have I used it personally?” the salesman said, his cheeks coloring and his false smile twitching nervously. Finally, he sighed, then looked at Arnie with a serious, no-bullshit expression. “Well, no. I haven’t. But then again, my husband and I haven’t been together very long. We’re still in that glowing, lovey-dovey phase. He really is pretty great. A total goofball, but I’m just nuts about him. I wouldn’t want to stab him, even in a simulation. But I’m sure the day will come that I do, and on that day I’m gonna come here and slash the motherfucker up. I won’t think twice.”

Both men laughed. 

Arnie felt sure he’d made the right choice.