Everyone and No One, a true crime podcast, hosted by Ian Tuason. Episode 2.
In the spring of 2022, the 44 Division of the Toronto Police Service discovered the burnt remains of Rachel Amina Darwish, Daniel Brewer, and Mitig Biskane, in southern Ontario, Canada. The only clues offering an explanation for the three deaths were found in an anonymous blog written by an unknown individual.
The following content was taken from the blog website, everyoneandnoone.org
Posted on March 17
A Cranberries album played softly in the background of the dimly lit bar. I sat at a small table along the wall, glancing at every new person that entered.
I checked the time—9:18pm. Still no sign of her.
I looked down at my last DM to her, showing that it was seen. Her last post from days before was still the same—an orange sunset with the caption “Happy”.
This was a good thing, I tried to convince myself. I wouldn’t even know what to do if I saw her. I just wanted to see her, I guess. See her in real life.
I drummed the table with my fingernails. I should go home, I thought. Go back online. I could be anyone online. Like Rob, or Rommel, or Ronnie.
The next Cranberries song started to play.
I could be Kevin, Khaled, Keon…
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” a deep voice said beside me.
I turned to see a guy sitting alone two tables down. He was thin but not skinny. He sat up straight with a certain sturdiness, as if he wouldn't budge if pushed. His face looked as young as eighteen or nineteen, but the confidence in his voice gave up his age—probably late twenties.
“Sorry?” I said.
“This song. The singer.”
“The Cranberries girl.”
“Yeah,” he looked away. “Her music though. It’s like she’s still here, you know?”
I nodded.
“Did you know her last tweet before she died was ‘bye bye Gio’?” he said.
“No,” I perked up in my seat. “Who’s Gio?”
“Her cat,” he said.
We looked at each other and chuckled.
“I’m William,” he leaned over the vacant table between us and shook my hand. “You a regular here?”
“My first time.”
“Mine, too,” he downed his drink, whiskey or bourbon, from the looks of it. “Where’s that waiter?” he postured up and looked around. “What you drinkin’?”
“Rum and Coke.”
He flagged down the server and yelled an order over the loud music.
“This one’s on me,” he grinned at me and the server scurried away. “So, talk to me, fam. Tell me about yourself. What you do?”
“You mean for work?”
“Sure.”
“I trade crypto,” I raised my voice as the music swelled.
“Ha!” he shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”
“You into crypto?”
“Of course.”
“You flip?”
“Nah. I create on it, fam,” he said. “It still blows my mind. Makin’ somethin’ that’s totally immutable.”
“You making gains?”
“Naw,” he looked away. “It’s just where everything’s goin’, you know? We’re all stuck in this borin’ ass world, this fuckin’ repetitive cycle. Now we’re searchin’ inwards. And what we’re findin’ is each other. We are the night…”
My back straightened. “Wait. Psychedelics Anonymous?”
“PA #2787,” he nodded, stone-faced.
“PA #2945,” I said, and we just looked at each other as if we weren’t even surprised. As if the odds weren’t one in millions.
The server returned with two drinks and handed me one.
“Cheers to that, fam,” he raised his glass.
“Cheers.”
I watched him move—every slight movement, like the way he brought his glass to his mouth, was drenched in a kind of swagger, as if he could seduce someone in his sleep.
“So, what do you do then?” I said, intrigued.
Suddenly, he rose up erect, reached his arms to the ceiling and shouted, “O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into dew!”
I shrunk into my seat, looking around to check if anyone was staring.
“Hamlet,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I’m an actor. I was also Iago. Romeo. And a whole bunch of others,” he sat back down.
I lowered my gaze and drew in a sip from my full glass, ice cubes touching my lip.
"You're from a small town, aren't you?" William said.
"Nope, born and raised in Toronto," I said.
"Really?"
"Yup."
"You give off small town vibes," William smirked.
"Small town vibes?" I squinted.
"Yeah, you know?"
I leaned back, nestling one hand under my armpit and the other stationing my glass on a napkin.
"I'm from a small town. Was a shit hole. So I left."
I nodded in agreement, thinking it was the normal thing to do.
"Thank Jesus for actin' though," he said and then turned to me. "Got to travel the world because of actin’. You travel a lot?"
"Not really," I said.
"Oh man, you're missin' out. You got to go to Ibiza. Athens. And Manila! The fuckin' smell of those places. The sounds. It really wakes you up, man. It's some beautiful shit out there."
William started surveying the room, as if measuring the place up to his standards. I suddenly felt self-conscious.
"This is nice, isn't it? This moment when you meet someone new, you know?" William shot me a smile.
I felt awkward and looked away, sipping my drink.
"You know what's sad?" he continued. "That eventually, we'll forget this—we'll forget this moment right here. Fuck, every moment in our lives eventually. Like all these moments we're livin' everyday are all gonna be lost forever, like they never happened. Every fuckin' moment in our lives will be forgotten, even this one."
"I think I’ll remember this," I said.
"You say this now, but think ten years from now. Think thirty years, or fifty. No way. There ain't no fuckin' way you'll remember me sittin' right here and you right there in fifty years."
"Maybe you're right," I said.
"Just think about all the days you lived already, like thousands, right? Now think about the millions of little moments in all those days. You can't remember all of them, even if you tried. Here, let's challenge ourselves. Think of a phrase.”
“A phrase?”
“Yeah, somethin’ you have to remember.”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, I’ll give you one. You ready?
“Sure.”
William started shooting off a series of random words, pausing between each word, and I nodded at each pause.
“Now, say it back to me,” he said.
I give him each word rapid fire with ease.
“Okay, okay! I’m impressed,” he raised his brow. "Now, in ten years, I'm gonna email you, and say 'Hey, what's the phrase?' And you won't remember it—trust me. You won't even remember this conversation."
“Okay,” I nod.
“You don’t think I’ll actually do it, do you?”
“No, I believe you.”
“No, you don’t, I can tell,” he smirks. “Here, email me now so I have yours,” he points at my phone on the table. I flipped it over and tapped the screen.
“Okay, what’s your email?”
“The number twelve, b-o-o-k-o-f-i, at gmail,” he said, slowly.
“Sent,” I said. “That’s your last name?”
“Naw, it’s supposed to be ‘Book of I’,” he takes a big gulp from his drink.
“Why twelve?”
“It’s from the bible,” he said, proudly. “Jacob had twelve sons. Twelve tribes of Israel. Jesus had twelve disciples that spread his word to hundreds more, then millions more. The dude went viral!” he laughed. “Now, he lives forever. His words don’t belong to him no more. They belong to everyone now.”
William wore colors that stood out—a yellow t-shirt and red jeans. He dressed in a way that would draw attention from a crowd—a way that I would never dress.
"You look tired, man," he said.
"I have trouble sleeping," I said.
"Shit, you look dead. We should go somewhere else."
"No thanks," I said.
His smile was welcoming, and I found myself wanting to follow him.
"C'mon, don't make me force you."
"No, thanks," I grinned.
He smiled back—a charming smile. How could I resist?
Posted on March 17
(second post)
“Oh no, a black ghost!” two teenage boys at the end of the subway car laughed at the woman in a burqa. She pretended not to hear them. The teens dressed like twins, both in tight tees and skinny jeans, fake diamonds on their earlobes. The train was almost empty, except for me, William, the two teens and the women.
I wanted to shoot them a dirty look, but was afraid they’d see me and say something. William was transfixed on the tunnel lights, shooting across the window like lasers.
“What you hiding under there?” one of them mocked.
I looked at the woman and felt angry for her. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable, baring the bullshit of spoiled brats whose parents probably paid for their phones and designer clothes—the same parents, I imagined, that they cussed out at home.
I wanted to say something. William turned and noticed me staring at them. Then looked at them, too. They were loud and brass and spoke in a mocking accent.
“Thank you! Come again,” they laughed.
“Fuck them,” I whispered under my breath, and William, hearing me, stood up.
“Yo!” William shouted over the screeching of the subway wheels. The teens looked at us, surprised. “Don’t say another fuckin’ word,” William’s face turned red.
The teens looked at each other for support. I looked at William who was clenching his teeth, his stare unwavering. He was thin, but he stood six feet tall with menacingly broad shoulders.
“What?” said one of the boys.
“I said shut the fuck up or I’ll shut it for you,” a vein pulsed on his temple. There are some men that remind me that, despite thousands of years of evolution, every man is still only a few genes away from being a gorilla in the wild. These men stare with their chests heaving and their eyes looking like a storm brewing. William, the way he was staring, would make even men like these slink nonchalantly into a corner and pretend to be extremely preoccupied with their phone.
The boys turned to each other, huddling and whispering. William was still staring, and the boys began to glance back at us every now and then. Maybe they were planning on hurting us, I thought, but I didn’t believe that. I got the feeling they were just scared. They were scared of William and that was that.
William sat back down and patted me on my knee, as if he took care of something, and that I shouldn’t concern myself anymore. And I didn’t. I had no more concerns and no more ill thoughts of the teens or anything else. At that brief moment, I felt proud to be sitting beside him. I felt like I was worth something more than I was, just for being his friend.
Posted on March 17
(third post)
The night club was packed. Strangers pressed against each other, trying to walk through the crowd. Rays of colored lights from the ceiling cut through the dry ice smoke and sweat-damp air.
"The trick is to look for a pair—like us," said William, leaning against the bar. The bartender, showing off cleavage, brought us two open bottles of Stella and two shots of something yellowish. "Go, take it," said William.
I raised the shot glass up to my nose—it was cheap tequila. I gulped it down and the burning in my throat faded to warmth in my stomach.
"Cheers," said William. We clinked our beer bottles and scanned the crowd.
Two women approached us, a blonde and a brunette, both of them glancing at William. They both looked slightly too old to be in the club, but still attractive in their tight outfits.
"Hey, what's your names?" William yelled over the loud dance music.
"Bailey," the blonde shook William's hand. "This is Jessica." She pointed at her friend.
"Have a shot with us," said William.
William flagged down the bartender and ordered something. Jessica caught me checking her out.
"So what do you girls do?" said William.
"We're both nurses."
"I heard all nurses are good in bed, is that true?"
I was embarrassed for a split second until the girls laughed.
"I'm an actor," he said. "He’s my manager," William pointed at me.
"Cool," they said in unison, nodding with approval.
The shots came, and we each toasted our little glasses.
"You know, you're as cute as a cupcake," William said as he grabbed Bailey by the hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. Jessica looked away and played with her hair.
"You're cute, for a short girl," I said, turning into the cocky jerk personality that I used for one of my fake Instagram profiles.
"You don't like short girls?" she twirled a strand of hair with her finger.
"Listen, let's have another shot, something light," I waved down the bartender.
"I don't usually drink this much," she said.
"You'll like this shot," I said. The bartender put her hand on my forearm. "Two lemon drops, please," I said.
I saw William by a speaker on the dance floor, making out with Bailey.
"Hey, look," I nudged Jessica.
She squinted into the crowd then laughed. "Slut!"
The shots came and we drank them quickly. She let out a cute woohoo after slamming the shot glass on the bar.
"Come," I dragged her to the dance floor. As we moved through the crowd, I looked back and saw her smiling, and I felt comfortable. I stopped and faced her. We stood in a sort of slow dance, swaying side to side. Reggaeton blasted through the crowd and one drunken guy kept bumping into me. We teased each other with our eyes, and I felt a strange excitement that I've never felt in my life. My hand ran down her back and settled just above her ass. I smelled mint gum mixed with alcohol on her breath, and pleasure rubbed over me like lotion.
After last call, the hordes of rowdy drunk people from nearby clubs and bars clambered into the Chinese restaurant. William and Bailey were lost in their own little world across the table from me and Jessica. William's arm stretched over the back of Bailey's chair and he whispered something into her ear. White plastic sheets covered the tables and the smell of grease and garlic mingled in the air among yells and drunken chatter.
Some douche bag from the next table started talking to Jessica, as if I wasn't even there—as if I was nothing—as if I wouldn't, or couldn't, crush his face into my knuckles and watch him bleed onto his chicken fried rice.
"Turn the fuck around," I said. These were William's words coming out of my mouth.
"Huh?" he said. I glared at him.
"Bailey?" Jessica said, looking at Bailey with wide eyes asking for help.
"What you doing with this simp?" the douche bag said to Jessica.
I stood up as if my legs were commanding my body, and my anger commanded my legs. He stood up, too. He was a good inch or two taller than me.
"Yo, easy, he's drunk," said his friend who put his arm between us.
"Fuck you!" William threw an empty glass at his friend—it hit him in the chest but didn't break.
Suddenly, I felt a burning pain in my lip and fell backwards, pushing our table back and dropping ass-first onto the floor. All of the douche bag's friends jumped up, and William swung his chair at them in wide arcs. One of them grabbed the chair and William backed up against a fish tank full of lobsters.
"Come on!" yelled William as the team of douche bags pounced on him. William fell to the ground and curled up into a ball as they stomped down on his back.
I tried to stand but was kicked back down. The screams from servers in Cantonese accents intensified. "Stop!" one yelled.
I picked up a fork from the ground and jabbed it towards the douche bag's leg. He jolted back and I sprung to my feet. The servers and some bystanders broke up the fight, and I picked up William. I pushed him out of the restaurant as a server yelled, "You leave now!"
Outside, a streetcar rumbled by and I heard William laughing beside me. He didn't even look like he had been in a fight. There were no marks on his face or blood on his clothes. He strutted down the sidewalk ahead of me. I double stepped to catch up with him. William seemed in a hurry—not to leave, but to move onto something else. He didn't stop laughing, which made me laugh.
"Stop," I grabbed his shoulder. We jumped under the awning of a closed herbal store and caught our breaths. My bottom lip was pulsing. I pressed my finger on it to check for blood but there was none.
"Where's the girls?" said William.
"I don't know. I didn't see them when we left."
"They're not out here," William looked around while rubbing his ribs with a grimace. "Ah, fuck 'em."
Looking at William, rubbing his side and grinning like a mad man, I thought about how I never met anyone like him. It was intoxicating just to be around him.
We both lit a smoke and stood by the curb. Our Uber arrived sooner than expected, and we threw our smokes away after only a couple of drags. For the entire ride, William and I didn't say a word. We each stared out our windows to watch the city sidewalks whiz by. I studied the fumbling, drunk idiots walking downtown in early hours. A twenty-something guy sits on the curb with his head between his knees, his buddy patting his back. Two girls held up another girl between them—her skirt folded up, revealing her blue thong. A forth friend following from behind attempted to fix it. I smelled the alcohol on my breath, perfume on my clothes, felt the pulsing in my lip, and I felt alive.
I opened Tinder to reply to Le 25. I wrote:
Dinner it is. Which day is good for you?
This ends Episode 2 of Everyone and No One, a true crime podcast, hosted by Ian Tuason. To be continued next Tuesday in Episode 3, anywhere you get your podcasts. This has been a DimensionGate production.
