It started when he was a boy. The voices were foreign, but he interpreted them nonetheless. They told him that he was special, and that he would do great things. Johan announced this to his parents one night at dinner, expecting them to be proud that he’d been chosen. Instead, his father sent him to therapy. His mother’s solution was to not care, to let him eat and do whatever he wanted. He weighed 180 pounds by the time he was twelve. A fat, pink-faced boy with long blond hair and mole-rat teeth. He played video games and scoffed empty calories and uploaded tutorials to YouTube: how to beat this boss, how to get past this level, how to unlock this cheat. His channel was a hit. He used his father’s money to amp the production value. A kid in Pale Bone, Nevada—older than Johan, a Venezuelan immigrant living in his uncle’s basement—produced music, graphics, and sound effects for a modest fee. Johan had met him playing Call of Duty online, and it turned out the kid was a genius. “I can make anything,” he’d said to Johan, and it was true. If he’d stayed in South America, he might have earned a scholarship to a prestigious college, and maybe gone on to become an astrophysicist or chemical engineer. As it was, he fixed appliances for his uncle Omar and developed computer viruses for fun.

His name was Ramón Sojo Aparicio. He and Johan would go on to form a long and profitable relationship.

Johan and his family lived in a huge house in the Palisades, although his father was rarely present. Aksel Fly’s customers included Microsoft, Apple, and IBM. He spent most of his time flying between his offices in Los Angeles and Santa Clara. Johan’s mother, Lesley, was ineffectual. She painted her nails and did Zumba and threw money at him. Buy this, buy that, get out of my sight. Johan knew she was repulsed by him.

Johan was fifteen the first time he tried amphetamines. He’d been poolside, sunning his broad belly, when Francisco, the groundskeeper’s son, approached with his idiot amigo.

“Bola de manteca,” Francisco said. He was nineteen years old, pigeon-chested, thin wrists, but large hands. His friend—cut from the same cloth—laughed.

Johan squinted in the sunlight. “What does that mean?”

“Means you are a fat little fuck.” Francisco grinned, his mouth full of gaps. “Like a ball of butter. Like a piggy. Wheee-wheee.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Johan snapped. Color climbed into his face. His belly blushed. “I’ll get your ass fired. I’ll get you fucking deported, you fucking cholo piece of shit.”

“Hey, calm down, little piggy. Calm the fuck down.”

“Don’t call me piggy.”