Games

By Andy Slade

New York City Detective Vic Mason was his own worst enemy, that is, until he found a new one! An evil presence, using A.I., subliminal messaging, and Deep Fake Technology has taken over the online gaming world and Vic and his beautiful Therapist, Lara Deming, are caught in the middle of it. Find out what happens when Lara disappears and Vic is taken captive by a faceless madman as it turns into a battle of wits and psychological gamesmanship.  This story of mystery, suspense and high tension will keep the pages turning with twists and turns until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bennie Rosa
• Release date: Apr 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223534556

Andy Slade

Andy Slade was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, a place where dreams always seem real. He lived in San Francisco, a paradise for dreamers, especially for those who love to write stories. And with many stops along the way, he now lives in New Mexico, where the glowing sun inspires, and the spirit grows. Betrayal is Beautiful is Andy’s first novel. It is set in The Land of Enchantment. Note: Andy Slade creates a path to freedom by never giving up. He guides the reader on a journey like his own. His varied experiences in life, including teaching and driving a NYC taxi among many others, give his stories a unique perspective that always keeps you on the edge of your seat with plot twists and surprises

Book preview

Chapter 1

A solitary figure, tall and lonesome, gazed through the rusted chain link fence. It was late Sunday afternoon, rain drizzling steadily, soft yet persistent, trickling down the brim of his black baseball cap. Vic Mason, known as a New York City Detective on any other day, stood there as just a man, alone, waiting, hoping for a miracle. His large hands reached through the chain links, stretching as far as they would go, unmoving except for the restless flicker of his eyes.

Melanie, his ex-wife, usually took their two daughters to the park around this time. He knew they wouldn’t be there on a rainy day, but he came nonetheless, drawn to the place where they once played. Even the proximity to the park offered some solace. Their last name was now Stanton, a consequence of Melanie’s marriage to Gregory Stanton, a successful lawyer who harbored resentment towards Vic for reasons that cut deep. Melanie still carried affection for Vic, but his drinking had become an insurmountable obstacle.

As the sun fought its way through the clouds, Vic was on the verge of leaving when he caught sight of Melanie and the girls making their way to the park. Gina and Mia, holding onto their mother’s hands, skipped and jumped ahead, their laughter mingling with the subdued patter of raindrops. Melanie froze upon seeing Vic, his sorrow etched plainly on his face, a stark contrast to the man she had once known. Their gaze locked, a silent exchange of longing and regret, before Melanie abruptly turned on her heel, ushering the girls away.

For a moment, Vic considered calling out to them, to his daughters, but he swallowed the impulse. He had caused enough pain already. As Melanie stole one final glance over her shoulder, Vic had vanished, leaving behind the echoes of what could have been.

***

On Sundays, Vic found himself drawn to Washington Square Park in the Village. It became a routine, a strange form of solace amidst the remnants of his fractured life. Watching the old hippies, clinging stubbornly to their fading pasts, offered him a peculiar justification for his own aimless wanderings through his personal wasteland. It wasn't Eliot's Wasteland or Leary's psychedelic manifesto; it was Vic Mason's own reflection of a wasted existence.

Amidst the aging Deadheads reminiscing about their glory days, Vic spotted Miguelito, the young boy known for peddling knockoff watches to nostalgic souls. As Miguelito approached, flashing his trademark smile, Vic tucked his pint into his jacket, his gaze softening as he regarded the boy.

Didn't I tell you to lay off the knockoffs last week? And where are your parents? You're what, twelve? Vic's voice held a mix of concern and weariness as he draped an arm around Miguelito's slender shoulders.

I'm twenty-eight, Miguelito replied with a hint of mischief. Thought I told you to ease up on the drinking, Mase. It's gonna land you in trouble one day.

Been there, Vic admitted with a wry smile.

Exactamente! Oh, excuse me, Mase, my customers await... Miguelito dashed off to attend to a couple proudly sporting Pacers T-shirts, their Midwestern roots evident.

Vic took a swig from his pint, then ambled over to Miguelito, extending his hand with a grin. Here, shake hands with the little Madoff. As their hands met, Vic discreetly slipped a twenty into Miguelito's palm before enveloping him in a brief hug.

Taking another gulp from his paper bag-covered pint, Vic meandered away, dismissing Miguelito's attempt to return the hug. The young boy's eyes betrayed a hint of sadness as he watched Vic navigate through the throngs of tourists, weaving and stumbling amidst the transient crowd.

***

Detective Vic Mason lay in his hospital bed, grappling with the fragmented memories of that fateful Sunday night at The Bottle Royale, a gaming bar nestled in The Village on Eighth Street. Amidst the haze of recollection, he could faintly recall Corso, the bartender whose presence often served as both comfort and admonishment, uttering words that drifted in and out of his consciousness.

Go home, Mase. You’ve had enough, Corso's voice echoed, a stern yet familiar refrain.

The only thing I’ve had enough of is you, Vic retorted, his words laced with defiance and a tinge of self-deprecation.

That's not you, Mase. Come on, Corso's tone softened, an attempt to break through the fog of Vic's inebriation.

Mase looked down at his drink and turned the glass around slowly.

I like video games. I play better when I drink. And ... I...

I like you, Mase, but not when you get like this.

I don’t need a fucking shrink, I need a drink... See, I’m a fucking poet and I don’t even know it. Mase laughed at himself and tried to lift his glass, but it tipped over. I’m likable, ain’t I?

You’re not my type, besides, you’ve got bad breath, Corso grinned, attempting to lighten the mood.

Well, I love you, Curso, or Corso, or whatever the hell your name is.

Corso reached over the bar, his hand coming to rest on Mase’s one, and patted it softly.

Look, it’s like this Mase. Either go home, or we’ll send you home. Get it?

He remembered Corso putting his fat Italian hand on his hand, the one with the spinning drink, and him patting it like a big sister. Then he tried to push Mase’s hand down on the bar and...

You wanna be a one-armed bartender? Said the wasted Detective.

He found out later that the small crowd in the bar was getting fed up with Mase the drunk, leaving the bar almost empty.

Look man...I’m sick of you and your fagg... way. You just shut the fu up or I...

The figure at the bar, shrouded in a cloak of patience, tapped Mase's shoulder. Mase gripped the edge of the mahogany bar, his world spinning as he turned to face the enigmatic stranger.1v1?"

Mase blinked, struggling to grasp the reality of the moment. Wha...?

Above them, the monitors that once illuminated the bar's atmosphere with the glow of digital competition now lay dormant, their screens blank, mirroring the desolation below.

Corso, his expression a mix of disdain and weariness, continued his methodical task of wiping down the gleaming bar, each stroke of the cloth punctuating the silent tension.

1v1?

Wha...?

Twenty bucks, one game. Your choice, the stranger proposed, his tone tinged with a hint of challenge.

Wha the fu...

Undeterred, the stranger introduced himself as blackToast, while Mase offered a flippant gamer-tag, who gives a fuck. The game commenced, a fleeting moment of distraction amidst the chaos of Mase's existence.

In the haze of intoxication, distinctions blurred between reality and the game, between hustlers and fellow lost souls. Mase found himself ensnared in a vortex of violence, dragged into the unforgiving streets by Bruh's unyielding grip.

Amidst the clatter of trash cans and the cacophony of feral cries, Mase's consciousness flickered, a fleeting ember amidst the darkness. Bruh, a towering figure of brute force, claimed his dues, extracting both currency and retribution with ruthless efficiency.

Now, as Mase teetered on the precipice of consciousness, his memories fragmented, obscured by the swirling tempest of his mind. In the aftermath, attempts to piece together the events proved futile, lost amidst the turbulent currents of his intoxicated psyche.

But amid the fog of his scattered recollections, one image remained vivid—the raccoon, its beady eyes gleaming as it rummaged through the refuse. A podcast snippet echoed in his mind, a chilling tale of a rabid raccoon ensnaring its victim for hours, injecting fear of contagion into his muddled thoughts. Was he the carrier of the rabies, or the unsuspecting prey?

The distant wail of a siren pierced through the haze, followed by the arrival of two uniformed officers—Troy Levin and Kyle Mansfield, whose apathy was palpable. They prodded him with the indifference of men weary from the monotony of their duties.

Hey. Hey. Wake up, Levin nudged with the toe of his shoe.

Roll him over bro, Said Mansfield.

You roll him over. I just polished my shoes this morning and this guy’s a fucking mess.

Reluctantly, Mansfield obeyed, revealing Mase's disheveled form. It's Mase, he muttered, a hint of resignation tainting his words.

Again?

Yup.

Is he breathing?

I can’t tell for sure. He kinda looks dead to me, but you know ...

How many times is it this month?

At least a half dozen...maybe more, Said Mansfield.

The green and white ambulance from Lenox Health Greenwich Village had just arrived and as they shut off the siren and stopped, Mansfield looked up, tilted his cap up on the back of his head and stepped back to allow the EMTs to bring in their stretcher and life-saving gear.  He was still out of it but heard one of the EMTs laugh when they bent over him.

Guess you didn’t need us after all. Look like he’s gone.

Really? Said Levin.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, hold on. Nope, nope. He’s still with us. He’s breathing. Son of a bitch! exclaimed the stocky EMT with the gold nose ring. He’s in pretty bad shape. Tony, get me a cervical collar and head immobilizer.

Levin attempted to muster a semblance of concern as they gingerly hoisted Mase onto the stretcher.

He gonna make it? Levin inquired, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

The EMT's response was a noncommittal shrug, casting a shadow of doubt over Mase's fate.

Meanwhile, Corso lingered near the alley's entrance, a silent sentinel to the unfolding scene. As Levin and Mansfield retreated to their patrol car, Corso's gaze bore into them, seeking answers that remained elusive.

Corso, just tell us what happened, said Mansfield.

Corso sighed, a weariness etched into his features. Well, it was like this. Mase had a few too many, and I tried to cut him off, but he wouldn’t have any of it. He was getting mouthy, you know how he gets. Then, this big black dude strolls up and challenges him to a game of War Zone. I've seen that guy before, and I'm pretty sure he hustles gamers for a living. Anyway, they bet twenty, and Mase loses, of course.

You pressing charges?

Charges?

Yes, charges. Yes or no?

No, hell no.

Works for me, said Levin.

The cops left and sat in their unit as they looked at each other like life was a waste of time and doing anything right was an exercise is stupidity.

Cap’s gonna be pissed! Levin grumbled.

He’s always pissed.

Yeah, but we’d better call him right now. I know for sure he’s going to want to know anything about his golden boy.

Mansfield dialed Captain Vrain's personal number, navigating the delicate balance of loyalty and self-preservation.

Vrain's directive was succinct: keep quiet and let him handle it. Sucking up and staying silent were Levin and Mansfield's forte, their only redeeming qualities in an unforgiving world.

Chapter 2

Melany Stanton peered through the ICU window, her heart heavy with worry etched across her features. The sight that greeted her was scarcely recognizable—her ex-husband, Vic, lay amidst a maze of tubes, his face marred by a gaping wound above his left eye, and his skull encased in a protective bandage. It was a scene she couldn't fathom, a stark reminder of the fragility of life.

In a fleeting moment of consciousness, Vic's bloodshot eye flickered open, meeting Melany's gaze. With trembling effort, he raised his hand, adorned with an IV line, a silent acknowledgment of her presence.

The nurse attending to him, her arm adorned with a vibrant dragon tattoo, checked his vitals with practiced efficiency. Vic's attempt to speak was met with a wry remark from the nurse before he succumbed to the embrace of sleep once more, leaving Melany to grapple with the weight of her emotions.

Am I in a hospital? asked Mase.

It ain’t the Waldorf, honey.  the nurse quipped, her tone a blend of humor and pragmatism.

He was asleep before she answered him as she shrugged a ‘that was a waste of time’ at the door as she left. Mase opened his eye again for a second. He had just enough strength to point at Melany with his trembling index finger. That was all he could do before he closed his eye and floated back to unconsciousness.

Melany's lips curved into a tentative smile as she met Mase's gaze, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. But the smile waned as Mase drifted once more into the depths of unconsciousness, leaving her to grapple with the tumult of her thoughts.

Lost in the labyrinth of memories, Melany's reverie was shattered by a gentle tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turned to find Captain Richard Vrain standing before her, his presence a stark reminder of the reality unfolding around them.

Still love him, don’t you? Vrain's voice cut through the solemn atmosphere of the hospital room.

Love doesn’t really end, does it?

I know.

He hugged her gently. He could see the awful fear in her eyes that Mase might not make it. It’s an awful thing, fear.

I'm sorry to call you so late, Vrain began, his tone tinged with regret. But you're the only one any of us knew was important enough to be here. He doesn't really have anyone else.

I’m glad you called me, Melany murmured, her voice tinged with exhaustion. I should be here. What happened?

The usual, Vrain sighed, his gaze heavy with the weight of familiarity. Drank too much, mouthed off too much, got his ass kicked big time. You know.

Melany nodded.

You know, Mel, Vrain continued, Mase is important to me like no one else in the department. He's the young brother I never had but wished I had. So, I've kind of adopted him. Kind of like a stray dog that sleeps at your front door hoping you'll open it.

Melany offered a gentle squeeze of reassurance, her touch a silent acknowledgment of their shared bond. You and Mase were always fighting for the underdog, no matter how hopeless, she murmured, a weary smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

I hope this is a wake-up call, because he needs one.

Melany's expression flickered with uncertainty, a silent acknowledgment of the precariousness of Mase's situation. Sensing her unease, Vrain shifted the conversation.

So, how’s married life? Everything working out OK?

Melany offered a forced smile, her thoughts lingering on her husband and their shared responsibilities. Oh, sure. Greg's a great guy, and a perfect dad for the girls. Told him Vic was in the hospital, which didn’t go down well, but...

How long have you been married now? Vrain pressed, attempting to maintain a semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos.

However, Melany's attention remained fixed on Mase, her concern palpable. What are the doctors saying, Dick? I mean, what are they seeing right now? He looks pretty bad.

Vrain's expression darkened, mirroring Melany's growing apprehension. Actually, it's what they're not saying that worries me the most.

And what does that mean?

Their gazes drifted towards Mase, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily upon them.

Well, that’s just it. I don’t know because every time I ask them about his condition, they keep saying it's too early to tell, Vrain admitted, his voice tinged with frustration.

Too early to tell?

Exactly.

It seemed like hours had passed as they both looked through the window at Mase. Nothing more was said until Vrain took a deep breath.

I’ve got to leave now, he murmured, his voice tinged with regret. I've told the doctors to call me if there are any changes, good or bad, and I'd come right over. I'll let you know if anything happens.

Thanks Dick. I appreciate that more than you know.

Vrain walked quietly away through the silent door. She could hear his footsteps start out loud and fade to silence. Once again, it was just her and Mase. She tried not to think that it might be the last time.

As the minutes stretched into the early hours of the morning, the ICU grew eerily quiet, the bustling activity of the day fading into the background. Melany's gaze remained fixed on Mase, her heart heavy with uncertainty.

Then, without warning, the heart monitor flatlined. Panic surged through Melany as she raced to the nursing station, where she found a lone nurse engrossed in her phone, oblivious to the blaring alarm.

Hey, look at that, look! She pointed to the monitor on the desk. Don’t you see that? Look!

Melany pulled the earbuds out of her head and pulled her hair towards the screen. He’s dying in there. Can’t you see, you stupid bitch? He’s dying in there.

Take your hands off of me. He’s fine. It’s that stupid machine. It does that all the time. Look, I’ll show you, honey. Come with me.

They both walked into Mase’s room and the nurse smacked the machine a couple of times and it came back to life. Mase’s heart was still beating.

Look, honey, I can understand your worry. Really, I can, the nurse reassured, her voice tinged with empathy. But next time, go a little easier on us nurses. We're just tryin' to make a living like anyone else. OK?

Can I kiss him? He looks so tired.

Sorry, not allowed. But... She pretended to look around if someone was looking. But... She glanced around furtively before adding, But go ahead anyway. It won't matter.

Thanks.

She walked down the lonely corridor. And the nurse said, He’s tough. He’ll make it. That kind always does.

As Melany made her way down the lonely corridor, the nurse's words echoed in her mind. He's tough. He'll make it. That kind always does. It was a flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty that shrouded her thoughts.

With each step, Melany wrestled with the conflicting impulses to stay and to leave. The elevator doors beckoned, but her feet remained rooted to the spot, as if tethered by an invisible force.

Finally, with a heavy heart, Melany stepped into the elevator, her movements slow and deliberate. The doors closed behind her, sealing her fate alongside Mase's.

Outside, the security guard waited patiently, his weathered face betraying a depth of understanding that transcended words.

He was an old man, but he read her face like he’d known her all his life.

Have a good evening Ma’am and don’t worry. The doctors here will take good care of your man. They will. I promise you.

#

#

#

#

Chapter 3

"I’ve got to get the fuck out of this place," Mase muttered to himself as a burly nurse removed his bedpan.

You’re the girl of my dreams. Do you know that?

Oh, absolutely. It’s true love. Said the nurse as she left, holding the bed pan.

Bright sunlight streamed through the window, casting the ICU equipment in a harsh spotlight. It felt like being in the center of a failed science experiment, Mase thought, as he glanced at the tubes and monitors surrounding him.

Nurse Frankenstein returned, her expression devoid of emotion as she checked the monitors with practiced efficiency.

You need to get some rest, Mr. Mason., she stated matter-of-factly. So, what else can I do for you before I let you rest? Doctor's orders.

How about you run away with me, have my children, and we live in a fantasy world together? Just you and me.

Nurse Frankenstein shook  her head with a faint smirk, shutting the blinds as she prepared to leave. You're not my type.

Such a pity...

She waved him off and disappeared.

As the sedative took effect, Mase's mind drifted. There was a tube in him somewhere, providing the necessary medication. It wasn't Scotch, his old companion, but it offered a different kind of solace. Scotch had been his anchor, but now, drained and weary, he found himself adrift in a sea of exhaustion.

***

Pop? When’s Mom comin’ home? I’m hungry.

Soon, boy, soon. Saturdays are always busy at the market. She's always late on Saturdays, Mac replied, his voice tinged with weariness from the long day.

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by a loud knocking at the apartment door. Mac exchanged a glance with Mase before opening the door to a patrol officer inquiring about Moira Mason.

What’s going on, officer?

She passed out at work and they took her to the hospital.

Both Mack and Victor left immediately to the hospital to see the woman who ran everything in the house and ruled her palace with dignity and grace, the woman they both adored and couldn’t live without.

Moira had insisted the doctors keep her condition private, adamant about handling it on her own terms. Despite their protests, she remained resolute, citing financial constraints as the reason for her departure from the hospital.

Mac and Mase escorted Moira home, but it was evident she was not well. Mac insisted she rest while he tended to dinner and household chores, with Mase offering his assistance, though his thoughts lingered on his father's worried expression. There were questions unasked, answers sought, but in the silence that enveloped them, the unspoken hung heavy in the air.

***

Then Mase roused from his daze, only to find his best friend, Chuckie Carlo, perched in a chair beside his hospital bed. He shut his eyes, prompting a swift response from Chuckie.

Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going to sleep now. I’ve been sitting here on my ass for forty-five minutes. Not happening. No way.

You’re always sitting on your ass, Chuck. What's the big deal? Mase retorted, mustering a wry smile.

Well, at least I’m not  lounging around pretending I'm on my deathbed.

Funny, you little shit.

Alright, enough of this. When are you busting out of here and getting back to the grind? Had enough of this hospital drama already? Chuckie prodded.

Believe me. I’m sick of it. But...

A brief silence fell between the childhood friends as they exchanged glances. Chuckie had been the first to join the force, followed by Mase. Fate had them end up in the same precinct, a stroke of luck. Chuckie, with his knack for technology, complemented Mase's detective skills perfectly. Despite their differences, they balanced each other out, Chuckie reigning in Mase's recklessness, while Mase acted as a shield for his smaller, more vulnerable friend. Their shared history lingered in the air as they gazed at each other until Chuckie broke the silence.

"Remember when you got busted for jumping from roof to roof on Rivington