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“That’s ONLY Kurt Cobain,” my older sister answered, her voice dripping with scorn. But by that time I was already distracted by the sudden overwhelming realization that the other person on the screen (Cobain’s wife, I later learned) was incredibly hot.
And four days later the lead singer of Nirvana had a bullet in his brain.
After that, these flashes of insight kept happening, although not with any kind of predictability. I’d see someone, and get a strong feeling that they’d be dead soon. Sometimes, it would be someone I saw on the street, sometimes on TV or the movie screen. At first I tried telling my parents about it - that sure didn’t last long. It was bad when they thought I was lying, but horrible when they started to think I wasn’t.
Once I got the feeling about my algebra teacher. I faked flu symptoms for a week; I couldn’t face her every day knowing what was coming but not when or how. Or why. Mrs. Davidson was a favorite teacher. She had a heart attack that Friday. She was 43.
But that sick feeling was nothing compared to the time I got my “death sense” in the middle of a makeout session with Stacy Miller. Stacy’s car got hit by drunk driver the next weekend. After that, I kept to myself. A lot.
I spent a lot of the time I wasn’t out having fun, on the computer. This was early in the Internet, so there weren’t as many pictures (less chance of me seeing a lot of faces), but there were a lot of usenet groups. Eventually I learned about dead pools. Not the Marvel character - actual betting pools on when a certain celebrity was going to die.
Morbid? You bet. But for a second sibling with a meager allowance, college coming up soon, and a unique…talent…well, a big light bulb might as well have appeared above my head, is all I’m saying.
I started leafing through the magazines at the checkout counters, and in a couple of days had my first bet placed, for five bucks. Six months later I was banned from most of the pools and had to start making fake account names. Turns out nobody likes it when you’re never wrong. I thought I was covering my tracks pretty good though.
I was wrong.
Summer after senior year, the summer I’m supposed to be having fun, getting ready to go off to college, I get this PGP-encrypted email. When I opened it up, it looked like another dead pool, only I didn’t recognize any of the names on it. A lot of them looked Russian, to me, anyway. Okay, so somebody wants me to pick some Russian celebrity who’s gonna die. I wrote back. "I don’t know any of those guys. You got any faces to go with the names?“
In a few minutes, I get a picture for every name on the list, and there’s a number too…are those the payouts? These numbers are huge!
I scrolled down the mail, and halfway through one of them set off my death sense. Before I got to the end, another one. I mailed in my picks, and forgot it.
And then six days later, there’s another PGP email, but this one says a lot more.
Incredible work. The boss compliments you.Wtf?
Your fee is in the account listed below.
Change the password.
There were two links in the email. One link lead to a news article about someone dying of food poisoning. The other was about a guy killed in some prison fight. Both of them were suspected of having ties to the freaking Russian Mafia. There were pictures. Both of them the guys I picked.
I checked the bank account, and learned that I was sitting on thousands. More than my 18-year-old self knew what to do with, and it scared me. But, what had I done, really? I mean, betting in dead pools isn’t illegal. So, I changed the account password.
By the time I started college, I figured out what was going on. Whoever was sending these emails thought that they were hiring me for hit jobs. They must have thought that I was really picky or something! I’d get some names and faces once in a while, and if I got a tingle off one of them, somebody chokes on a chicken sandwich, then I got a payday, otherwise I’d just say, nah, not working this month. Really, the hard part was figuring out how to enjoy having money without attracting attention. I decided that pre-law and just might be a good plan for me.
What I’m saying here is, I had a pretty good freshman year. I mean, yeah, I still didn’t socialize much, but by this time I was mostly okay with that, and the death was kind of…removed.
Then one final email arrived from my mysterious benefactor.
Lay low. There’s a contract on you.A contract. On me. No, this couldn’t be real. In a daze, I shuffled to the bathroom and flicked on the light, caught my reflection in the mirror. And screamed.
Mom, Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to tell you all this when I was younger. I want you to know that I’m going to try to fight it. I’ve bought a fake ID, a gun, a fast car, and emptied that account. I kept some money, enough for a week of running. You should get a wire with the rest soon.
I checked all your pictures. You and Sis are all okay. For at least seven days. Love you.
