"NOOOOO," Agent XX screamed as her forehead banged into the tabletop. Hysterical weeping echoed into the livingroom to her running husband as he entered the kitchen to see what was wrong.
"Honey? Are you okay? What’s going on?" Mr. XY rubbed his wife’s shoulders trying to console her.
Agent XX lifted the daily newspaper up to her husband. Her finger tapped at the bold print of the front page headline:
ANOTHER VICTIM CLAIMED BY A MYSTERIOUS AILMENT!
Police officials are still baffled by a string of bizarre circumstances happening within the writing community. Their latest victim, whose name is being withheld until the family has been contacted, was found in his home Friday evening in a comatose state. The writer had white foam bubbling from his mouth and a glazed expression on his smiling face while sitting in his chair by the computer. Although the 54th victim this month, the police are still no closer in finding the cause or a suspect in all these cases. The only clue they have appears to rest on the victim’s computer monitor: a giant orange box with a white letter B at the center. If anyone has additional information, they are asked to contact their local authorities . . .
Mr. XY placed the newspaper down. "I’m sorry, dear. Was this writer a client? We could send some flowers?"
Sniffling, Agent XX raised her wet face off the table. "No, the writer wasn’t a client. But he could have been!" Suddenly Agent XX wrapped her arms around her body, her head whipping about suspiciously. "I have to put a stop to this. We can’t keep losing these writers. I won’t let THEM take anyone else."
"Them?" Mr. XY asked, confused.
Overexcited, Agent XX’s breathing sped up as her palms reached out and gripped the table edge tightly. "Yes! They are the evil taking away these aspiring authors’ minds. Neglected manuscripts are collecting dust on desks as these helpless people are wasting time making posts on their . . ." she trailed off and shuddered in dread.
"The evil? Um, honey, are you sure you’re okay? Maybe I need to take you on a long vacation to a sunny beach where we can be alone together."
"No, we will still find THEM hanging around in coffee shops and hotel rooms. Any place that has an internet connection; they will be lurking there. THE DAMN BLOGGER DEMONS," she shrieked and clutched the side of her head as if in pain.
Mr. XY tugged at one ear trying to get his hearing back. "Blogger demons? Do I have to go to the store and buy a can of Raid?"
"Bug spray won’t stop them. We need something more . . . electrifying. Maybe like a shock to the writer every time they are about to log into their Blogger accounts. Something to get them focused back on their work." A glimmer of an idea sparkled in Agent XX’s eyes. She rubbed hands together in eagerness. "Yes, that will work. You’re good at wiring. We could find some way to hook up an electrical generator so that it will send a burst of current into these writers’ keyboards whenever they are about to click on the ‘New Post’ button. About 500,000 volts should do the trick."
Mr. XY’s face winced. He stared at his wife with growing concern. "Honey. Even if I could hook up a powerful generator without frying every electrical circuit in the house, 500,000 volts would more than likely kill a person."
"Better a quick painful death than a slow mind-numbing one."
"Uh huh," Mr. XY murmured as he helped his wife up to her feet. "Honey, why don’t you go upstairs and take a long soothing bubble bath. It will make you feel better."
"Yes. A bath would feel nice . . . so nice." A serene grin rested on her lips as Agent XX strolled from the kitchen and up the stairs. "I could write up our alibis to the police when they question us about the strange power outages."
"You do that, dear. I’m just going to putter around the house for a little while," Mr. XY called up the staircase. He listened carefully for the sound of rushing water splashing into the bathroom tub, then he ran over to the computer. A click of the mouse banished away the screen saver as his eyes fastened on the glowing monitor. His head leaned in close while a stream of drool slid off the slight indent of his lower lip as it hung suspended over the keyboard. Reflected in the drop of warm liquid was the tiny image of an orange box and the white letter B.