Someone got into my computer. 

Suddenly a screen appeared blocking my page and would not go away. I searched Applications and threw things out. I dragged things to the trash. They reappeared. Force Quit didn’t force anything to quit. The intruder would not die.

The screen offered to clean my computer and make it run so much more efficiently. Finally I did what I know I shouldn’t do: I made contact with them. I found a phone number and called. 

The voice at the other end was foreign but not specific, and not the least apologetic. I was angry, he was calm, reasonable even. Why was I upset. My computer showed problems and he could fix them. It was simple. I should just run the program. It would take no time. I told him to transfer me to his legal counsel but I am not sure he knew what that meant. We were at a stand-off. He had my computer and wasn’t going to give it up. He had put my life on hold. He wasn’t the least intimidated by being caught. It/I was kidnapped. So I got on a plane and flew to Singapore (where I had reason to believe he was calling from), and showed up at his door. I knocked and when it opened it revealed a wall of computers with people hunched over the keyboards. I had brought my 34 ounce Hillerich and Bradsby Louisville Slugger, made of Northern White Ash. I’ve had it since the 6th grade, when it was too heavy to really swing. It wasn’t now. So I swung. I swung with everything I had, like Mickey Mantle used to, batting right-handed, stepping into the pitch each time. Screens exploded, sparks flew, people screamed, people ran.

When I was done I said, “You want to clean computers? Start with yours.” I handed him a broom.

Damn, it was satisfying.