Author: Modern Issue

“It’s really humming along.” Asher remarked, turning away from his headline-laden screen.

Even a full week after the burnings, “The Purging of Anacostia” was trending. Screens were pumped full of burning LLS’s, Anacostians fleeing to the stability and safety of the ruins of Georgetown, and red-faced talking-heads screaming about the government’s lack of efficacy in tracking down on the “SVC Master Cell[1].”

“It does seem rather incessant,” Chandra replied before consuming another mouthful of massaman curry, “Raymond, if you would not mind too terribly, I need a bit more bone-marrow.”

“Do you? I don’t know if I’ve got any left!”

“I know it’s an unfortunate situation, but you’re the only one who can do it. We can’t even break your skin.” Nico reminded him.

“I’m aware, but extracting vital parts from my person is more concerning than the pain.” His companions’ expressions remained unchanged, so Raymond accepted his fate, “Anything in the name of Science.”

He picked up a syringe from the nearby counter and plunged it with expert proficiency into his leg, carefully pulling up on the plunger to remove the requested biological material.

“Please make this the last test.” Raymond said, handing the now-full needle to Chandra.

“I wouldn’t bet on it, bud.” Asher laughed.

“I believe I am nearing an answer,” Chandra replied as she placed the syringe containing Raymond’s bio-matter on the table to take another bite of curry, “I have already discovered so much. You are entirely unaffected by NFVS and remain completely normal by historical human standards. This has profound implications for Spirit of Violence theories.”

“Raymond is normal, therefore he’s special,” Asher glibly summarized.

“Precisely. This Spirit of Violence has exempted you. The reasoning for this oversight, or intentional choice, is unclear. My next round of tests may give us some insight.”

“I also think it’s rather unfortunate I’m still ageing while the rest of you get to enjoy the blossom of your youths indefinitely.”

“I wouldn’t be too envious, you do have an international monopoly on violence.” Asher said.

“And what exactly am I going to do with violence? You know I’m a pacifist.”

“Yes, I understand your stance,” Asher continued, “but we have a chance to accomplish everything we’ve ever dreamed…”

Nico burst in, “Asher, we’ve discussed this at extreme length. Using Raymond’s…state…to pursue national dominance and policy goals would go against everything we stand for. We can’t create a world where we’ve grabbed power through violence!”

“Nico, we have to play the cards we’re dealt. Have you looked at the world? Have you seen the horror we inflict on one another even without violence? Our species, left alone, is savage and brutal, incapable of the sophistications needed to craft a better global society. If we, as enlightened members of that species, need to compromise our vaunted moral code to steer our people towards a better life, don’t we have that obligation? It’s absurd to let personal morality stand in the way of the global good.”

“There must be another way. If we participate in the cycle of violence, we’re perpetuating the system we’re purportedly replacing. The method of creation matters to the long term mythos of a society. If we root our foundation in blood, as every human institution has done throughout history, we’ll harvest corruption.”

“Look, I understand we all want moral purity; I understand it feels good to remain untainted, but we aren’t dealing in absolutes here…”

“Asher! Stop!” Raymond cut him off, “I will not. At least not right now. Human society is already so far out of balance and extremist in its reactions, if I reveal myself it’ll do more harm than good. If, and I say this completely hypothetically, but if we ever needed to create the type of government we’ve always talked about, we must be certain we’re doing it at a time where the smallest possible amount of violence is necessary to overthrow the system.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Asher conceded, content he’d moved his cause forward. “For now we’ll hammer away on MI.”

The group turned its attention back to their screens, which were displaying an exhibition match for the newly organized NFVS games[2].

“Raymond, I have to ask you something that’s been bothering me.”

“What’s that?”

“How did you not know you could use violence? I experimented with all sorts of weird things, like those guys jumping off the LLS roof.”

Nico nodded, “Yeah, me too. I’m guessing a huge chunk of our population would’ve died in really silly ways if violence started working again[3].”

“Yes, I thought on that as I experimented on myself,” Chandra added, “It would have been quite embarrassing.”

“Oh…Really?”

“Didn’t you try anything?” Nico asked.

“Well…once I saw those MBs jumping off the LLS…well…I felt like it was just too stereotypical. I…I didn’t want to be like one of…”

“Jesus Christ, Raymond!” Asher shouted as Nico and Chandra shook with laughter, “If you’d been a little less neurotic for once in your life and not worried about how you were perceived maybe the thing with DeMast…”

“Asher!” Nico stopped him.

The subject was dropped, but tensions continued.

Nico intended to broach the subject on a number of occasions, but she held back. Initially she believed her hesitance was out of concern for Raymond’s well-being; that any discussion of the horrifying act would trigger spasms of depression, regret, and revulsion. But as time passed and Raymond seemed both stable and relaxed, Nico dismissed this idea and the source of her concern remained a mystery.

Two weeks after the incident, she found the answer to her question.

The thought assaulted her one night as the couple rested in bed. The weather was unusually warm for mid-September and Nico felt stifled and sweaty under her blankets. She kicked out a leg to let it breathe, but found the air slightly too cold for full exposure. She decided to peel back a layer of sub-par cotton to achieve a temperate equilibrium. As she tested the state of relative comfort achieved as each layer was removed, she was seized by a powerful urge to throw off the restrictive coverings and abandon the bed, house, city, state, and country entirely.

Nico wondered at its origin. She glanced over at Raymond, who had his back turned towards her so that she could only make out the slow, peaceful rise and fall of his body in rhythm with each soft breath. The frenzy within her rose to a panic. Her own breathing became short and labored. She trembled with unmistakable dread.

Nico turned to the ceiling for support, clung to the sheets beneath her, and imagined that letting go would unleash actions outside her conscious control. She feared the genetic legacy of her primordial ancestors, who required instantaneous and unquestioning biological mechanisms to flee the great and vicious beasts populating their primitive environments. But she was an enlightened homo sapien who could make the choice to never allow herself to be controlled by internal impulses she could describe, quantify, and understand. So she embraced her sheets with both hands and analyzed her mind.

Nico spent the next day waiting for a quiet moment with Chandra. She eventually found the doctor at work alone in the makeshift laboratory they’d constructed in the basement of the safe-house. Each of their sanctuaries had a hodge-podge basement lab, however the house on Old Dominion was Chandra’s favorite, and she saved her most delicate experiments for its slightly-less primeval equipment.

Nico descended the rickety wooden stairs into the warmly lit stone cellar. Chandra was bent over a DIY molecular-microscope of her own design.

“Chandra, umm, Chandra.”

Chandra looked up, curious to see Nico waiting for her.

“Hi, Nico.”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Please come join me here, and let us sit,” Chandra suggested, motioning towards the small wooden table flanked by two plastic stools in the center of the room.

“Of course, of course I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“Please do not trouble yourself.”

The two women took seats at the cheap table perpendicular to one another. Nico shivered.

“Are you cold? I did not think the environment to be such, but I apologize if you are feeling a chill.”

“No, it’s not the temperature.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s my mind.”

“Why does your mind bother you?”

“Because I’m having trouble controlling and understanding my impulses.”

“That’s the human challenge, to create personal infrastructure that assists in self-control where reason and willpower alone are not enough.”

“This irrational fear currently feels beyond my ability to cope alone.”

“Why do you label your fear irrational? What is the source of your fear? Perhaps it is well founded.”

“Raymond is the source.”

“Then it is not irrational at all. You are romantically involved with the only force we know of that can inflict harm upon you. This is terrifying.”

“It is irrational! This’s been the power dynamic between women and men forever. I am not unique.”

“You are not unique in the context of the past, but you are unique in the context of the present.”

“I suppose that’s technically accurate.”

“The technicality makes all the difference.”

“Last night I had a panic attack and realized I feel real fear around him.”

“Of course you do. Who would feel any different? He is the only threat to you.”

“That’s the hard part. I’m understanding and acknowledging my fear, and working with it to find the right equilibrium of awareness and comfort. But I don’t think fear is what’s troubling me the most.”

“Where else could your panic originate?”

“I’m a bit embarrassed by this. I don’t know if I should be, but I feel some sort of embarrassment because I don’t think it’s alright to feel this or be driven by this…”

“What embarrassment? You are in a safe environment without judgment.”

“I think I’m finally in love with Raymond.”

“You are embarrassed for being in love?”

“No, no, it’s not the state of being in love that’s embarrassing, but the reasons. I’m terrified because he’s the only danger to me in the entire world. And that idea made me see him in a new light.”

“That could be a self-destructive impulse”

“I know! At first I was disgusted with myself, hence the embarrassment. I’m not attracted to violence or danger or anything like that. I’m repulsed by it. And I know, absolutely, that Raymond would never inflict harm on me or anything else intentionally. He’s talked to me, often, in that well-rehearsed-story way of his, about his inability to kill even insects in his own home because he imagines their living conditions and family and creates elaborate and completely nonsensical scenarios where if he kills an insect that’s slightly inconveniencing him, he’s dooming its children to a life of orphaned hardship and grief for their dead parents while also contributing to the cycle of violence and hatred between man and insect that’s been perpetuated…etc etc.”

“Yes, that sounds like a thought that originated with Raymond. No one could confuse him with a violent or physically intimidating individual.”

“That realization was the initial stimuli, I think. But the real fear, and this is what I’m getting at, my real fear is that he’s the only force in the universe that can hurt me in non-physical ways as well. And that’s why I don’t think it’s the physical violence aspect of him that really triggered my love, just seeing him differently, in this case as a threatening force.”

“That is very possible.”

“But because I love him he has power over me and can destroy me if he chooses. He’s non-violent by choice, but I’m worried about his mental and emotional state. So that’s the real existential dread for me. That’s what I’m struggling with now and I want to know how you manage to be in love without this panic-inducing sensation crying to you, ‘You fool! You’ve given your emotional sovereignty over to a monster!?’”

“I feel it as well. We are all potential monsters towards one another, physically and emotionally. There is nothing binding us other than our own decision-making. And yet we all know of our mind’s flaws and how our reason is subject to the whims of our alchemically-brewed state of consciousness. When we fall in love, we grant the power to injure and even destroy to an independent creature as permeable and malleable as we know we are ourselves. So we hope this other entity, out of luck, or empathy, or just the right combination of chemicals, does not decide to exercise their power.”

“Why take that gamble?”

“At the risk of sounding trite or overly sentimental, do you want to be in love?”

“I want to learn about love and then decide.”

“To collect empirical data you have to experience it for yourself.”

“Is it possible to collect this data without exposing yourself?”

“There is no rationalization or preparation or mental construct that can prevent the person we give that power to from hurting us if they choose. You decide to be in love or decide to eschew love in favor of relative safety.”

“That’s an unfortunate choice.”

“At least it is a choice. However, we are too often distracted by the negative aspects inherent in every choice we make. It leaves us blind to the other side of love.”

“The love side of love?”

“Yes. We also imbue our partners with the power to make us happy and greater than we are capable of becoming alone. The synthesis of two beings in love.”

“We give them power over who we become.”

“The power to influence.”

“And to control?”

“Mutual love is mutual control, is it not?”

“Yes. Or mutual destruction. And I’ve already worn this mask for so many years, it’s comfortable and familiar.”

“But our skepticism has left us worse off. For all our vaunted ‘enlightenment’, what do we have? Knowledge of our superiority? That we are facing existence alone?”

“Chandra, I won’t embrace a fictional existence where I ignore reality to create my own narrative.”

“That is the point though, Nico. It is all fictional.”

“We have reality, the reality we perceive, our mutual reality we agree on.”

“We have our observations, and then we have our narratives.”

“The narratives we create to link our observations to future actions.”

“Our narratives are what lead us and drive us, and they are, without exception, all fictions.”

“Humans need stories to follow.”

“And the stories they follow matter.”

“There’re a hell of a lot of shitty stories out there.”

“A hell of a lot,” Chandra agreed.

The two women contemplated in one another’s presence. Finally Nico asked, “What story should we be following?”

“One we write and follow intentionally, I think.”

“And is that story about love?”

“Love, but more importantly I believe it’s about vulnerability.”

“Vulnerability?”

“Yes. Vulnerability with full knowledge of both love and horror. We continually gird ourselves for the assault we face each day from other humans who carelessly use the power of their words and actions. We are steeled and prepared to resist; however this incessant preparation leaves us taught and rigid with anticipatory trauma. Our armor becomes our weakness.”

“That’s my life.”

“And mine. But the route of vulnerability, the conscious decision to rid ourselves of both the protection and the shackles of our emotional armor, recognizes and embraces the risks of love and peace. Knowing of danger and possible destruction and leaving yourself vulnerable to it is one of the highest expression of sentience.”

“As well as being naïve and foolish.”

“It can be that as well. But it is your choice to make, and you cannot walk both routes. You are terrified because you are suddenly vulnerable. That is your risk and no one can help you or shield you. The only person with any power over this besides you, as long as you remain open to love, is Raymond. And you maintain the powers of happiness and destruction over him should he reciprocate. Do you have trust, hope, and faith in him?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” Nico replied.

“I suppose that what you need to know to decide.”

“You trust Asher? You have faith in him?”

Chandra looked unsure of herself for the first time, “I…I have faith in myself. I have faith that no matter what devastation is brought upon me, my being will endure.”

“Isn’t that hedging your bets? You’re not ‘opening yourself up entirely’ if you maintain the idea that you need to keep a small reserve just in case the worst happens.”

Chandra smiled, “You are right, however just because I am not able to accomplish the fullness of the love I am discussing does not mean I am wrong.”

“We’re blessed with the reasoning to answer our questions and cursed with the knowledge of how complex our Sisyphean task remains.”

“And so we, unlike Sisyphus, plan ahead and spend energy building infrastructure.”

“What do you mean?”

“We must build personal happiness infrastructure. You can intentionally construct a narrative with positive feedback mechanisms using whatever power you have. These life-improvement projects add reinforcing layers of happiness resiliency and help perpetuate the positive feedback loops you create for yourself.”

Nico was still confused, “One more time. What projects?”

Chandra grinned, “Well, besides identifying your mentally healthiest self and the passions you’ve always had and unabashedly improving yourself in pursuit that healthy version of yourself and those passions, there are certain things you need the assistance of an incredibly genetically gifted lab assistant to create…”

“Oh! Oh! Really? You and Asher…?”

“Yes, though I agreed not to reveal this to either Raymond or yourself for the time being.”

“Why? This is wonderful!”

“I believe he thinks if we reveal ourselves to Raymond now, with everything else going on, it might cause undue stress.”

“Undue stress? He really does believe Raymond is made of glass, doesn’t he?”

“I think they spent so long together under a certain dynamic that it is hard for him to take any action he feels might upset what he views as Raymond’s fragile psyche. I believe he also feels fear.”

“He’d be amazed what Raymond can handle.”

“Well we know that, but Asher is more fragile than he considers himself, so his concern for Raymond is a bit of a projection. How we indulge them! They are both fortunate individuals to have such understanding partners, are they not?”

“They should count their blessings.”

The two friends continued their discussion for hours. Eventually ascending for dinner, Nico and Chandra embraced their partners with all the love, terror, happiness, and sorrow they allowed.

That evening during their meal, they overheard the television news use the phrase, “Spirit of Violence Believers,” and Asher hushed the group.

“…a dramatic display of belief and bravery, Mr. Tampala spoke with us at a press conference he held directly following his martyrdom near the Reflecting Pool…”

Raymond, convinced Jake Tampla’s immolation was the catalyst they’d been waiting for, played thirty seconds of Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Gonna Come” before feeling too self-conscious about the racial dynamic of his selection in light of his relative privilege and changed the music to a more palatable-though-unfortunately-stereotypical-but-there-just-wasn’t-enough-time-to-make-a-thoughtful-choice “Times They Are a Changing” by Bob Dylan.

[1] As Chandra, Nico, Asher, Raymond, and Bill the driver were popularly known on social media. Feeling fairly guilty for dragging faithful Bill the driver into her mess, Nico bought him an island and set him to live like a king with his family for the rest of their lives. Bill the driver agreed to this arrangement.

[2] An instantly viral decathlon event hosted by Pink Bull Mobility Oil and Shale LLC. (PBMOS +17.34%). Events: 1. Shotgun Sumo Surprise – In this event participants are given a double-barreled shotgun and attempt to blast one another out of an arena. 2. Wicked Witch Crawl – In this event a house is dropped on participants, who race to crawl out of the rubble. 3. Tiger Terror – In this event participants must retrieve the remains of a goat from inside a packed tiger cage. 4. Wind Tunnel Trouble – In this event participants attempt to ring a bell hanging from a pole in front of an industrial-strength wind turbine. 5. Base Jump Bonanza – In this event participants jump off a 100-meter platform and race to the ground. 6. Peer Spear Mayhem – In this event participants attempt to spear one another with repurposed javelins. 7. Aqua Polo – In this event participants are sealed in a 50m x 50m glass box filled with water and attempt to escape. 8. Poison Eating – In this event participants compete to create and consume the most poisonous concoction. 9. American Football – In this event participants form teams where one side tries to transport an object to the end of a field while the other beats them into giving up the object. 10. Dodgeball, but with real guns – In this event participants play dodgeball, but with real guns.

[3] Harmology literature written at the time speculates 15% of the human population would have perished via falling off tall buildings/objects/planes, 10% trying to catch bullets in their teeth like those TV magicians, 6% by working up the gumption to try out one of those homemade fireworks recipes as seen on the Internet, 3% as victims of violent video game enthusiasts acting out their fantasies, and 1% from the broad category of “Sexually Related Mishaps.” At least 60% of humanity fit into a large “Other” category that ranged from bored housewives boldly working up the courage to drop a toaster into the bathtub for the electric thrill to investment bankers studiously experimented with various ratios of pure, uncut cocaine.

I’m practically a member of the KKK, maybe not in philosophy, but the result! That’s what matters. The results! There’s no justification for this. Was it self-defense? Clearly not. No lawyer could claim self-defense. My “self” was barely involved, nor was it at risk. He was attacking Nico, so I was defending her. Was that chauvinistic of me? Did I assume she, as a woman, couldn’t handle herself? Maybe I owe her an apology for taking away her power. But…well I knew the attack wouldn’t do anything, so why did I react? And mine did something! So…well I guess that means I didn’t know that his wouldn’t do anything for sure now. I mean, I don’t think it would have, even though mine worked. I couldn’t just assume though, that’s not how civilization works or how we are programmed or…Oh god! I killed him! He was one of the most important thinkers in a generation! But…well how could he ever resort to violence as a method? Maybe he wasn’t resorting to violence, in fact, as violence doesn’t exist anymore. It was just a simulacram of violence. Wait…simulacram? Simulacrum? Am I even using it correctly? I said “simulacra/um of violence, which I think would mean a fake representation of violence, like just a show. Hmm, I will have to look it up. Wait, I have my phone and…oh…I probably shouldn’t check it right now. That would look horrible if I looked like I was mindlessly checking my phone after I just killed someone. I bet they would think I was some sort of psychopath. Oh…do they? I wonder what they’re thinking about me…I think my face needs to look properly consternated, or concerned, or…ahh what’s the word! I really want access to my thesaurus right now. I read somewhere that humans are becoming worse at retaining information because we know we have access to instant information. I can see both sides of that coin…Wait? Am I a psychopath for thinking about this stuff right after I killed someone?  I did resort to violence after all. I don’t think DeMasters was being violent because he couldn’t. He was just using a simula…like a pantomime of violence to express the extreme nature of the situation. I used actual violence. Yes, I didn’t know that it was actual violence at the time, but it’s the result! DeMasters made violent motions knowing violence didn’t exist and didn’t commit violence. I made violent motions knowing violence didn’t exist and committed violence. I think that’s pretty clear. How did I do it though? I was in the car near where Nico was standing, he came forward, and I reacted by pushing him. Why did I assume Nico couldn’t handle it? Is that my dominant class mentality showing? I was defending her; was it because she’s a person I love or was it because she’s a woman I believe belongs to me and another man was encroaching on my territory? I really have no idea. How could I answer that? I would have to repeat the situation with other people I care about of different gender backgrounds and maybe ethnic groups. Hmm…That would be an extremely difficult experiment to construct. A bias probably exists in too many of the variables I can’t control. Maybe ethnicity would skew the results? I would have to use all half-Japanese people. But I don’t know that many half-Japanese people and certainly none I care about as much as…What am I thinking about!? Am I thinking about this to distract myself from focusing on what I’ve done? I need to understand the full implications of my sins. So…okay. Think about only that right…now. The facts. I killed a man. The man I killed was Dr. Francis DeMasters. The act was accidental even though I did make a violent motion. It was not my intention to kill him, obviously. But…well why did I attack in the first place? I was responding to his advance, but I need to answer why I was reacting. I’ve never done anything violent in my entire life! I’m a pacifist! How in the world do I justify those ideals now? Well, I need to accept there is no justification at all for this, except maybe…No! Stop! There is no justification. Okay, yes. It is not intention that matters, it’s the result. Maybe intention can mitigate though? The fact is the man died after I pushed him. He would not be dead if I had not done that. Wait a second, if we’re looking at causation, isn’t it true I wouldn’t have pushed him if he hadn’t advanced violently? Maybe, but that’s a pretty weak defense. You wouldn’t have pushed him if you hadn’t ever met him, or if Nico had ordered food that day in the LLS, or if the United States had lost the Revolutionary War. What if me killing DeMasters is a singular event that occurs in every possible universe? Well that’s just stupid, that would imply some plan or inevitability. That’s true…but it’s fun to think about! Like if there were certain events that…You son of a bitch! You’re doing it again. You just killed a human being and you’re daydreaming about how special you could be in a reality where there was a plan involving your pathetically meaningless life. This is how religious people think! They justify the unjustifiable with magical stories and obtuse moral lessons involving ancient agrarian civilizations in the Middle East. Look, you killed a human being, and not just any human being, one of the most important people alive. But that’s a good question, is my crime worse because Dr. DeMasters was an important person? If we start increasing the value of certain humans, doesn’t it decrease the value of an average person’s life? No, that’s just obfusticating the issue. It’s “obfuscating” not “obfusticating”. Wait…no it isn’t. I’ve heard people say obfustication. I swear I have. You’re an idiot, it’s obfuscating. Oh…oh yeah I remember now. I remember writing it and seeing my spell check underlining it in red with no spelling suggestions and being confused and upon looking it up feeling pretty dumb when I saw the result. Well that’s because you are. You learned and forgot and then fought for your ignorance. You’re an idiot. Anyways, you’re obfuscating the issue and philosophy. Feel morally justified and score all the points you want in your mental masturbation exercise, but in reality if there is some sort of attack and the government is scrambling, they will place the executive leadership and senior officials in secure locations. They aren’t going to run around collecting all the random people they can. That’s not a good use of their time. Alternatively, if we ever have to abandon Earth or something and had a spaceship that could only fit 1,000 people, would you really want the first 1,000 schmucks who showed up or wouldn’t you rather think it’s important to carefully select genetically superior humans to carry on the species? Okay…fine. Sure in those crisis situations sacrifices to practicality must be made, but I think you’re the one obfuscating the point now. I killed a human being, and that is important in absolute terms, not based on who the person is. The repercussions of killing one person might be different from the repercussions for killing another, but the act itself is inherently egalitarian.  When you kill a person…You realize you are creating this dialogue to separate yourself from the reality of the event, don’t you? Well of course, but I killed a person and it’s taking me a moment to process. Oh, well excuse me. What a poor, unfortunate murderer I am. I just committed an unjustifiable crime and I’m begging for pity and “time to process.” That’s fairly pathetic. I’m disgusting. I’m a beast; I’m everything I’ve always despised. I spout off pacifist platitudes and announce that “violence is never justified,” and then I go and commit a violent act in a world where violence no longer even exists! When push comes to shove I’m…Jesus, did I just make a play-on-words about a murder I just perpetrated? God, I’m such a horrible person. However, and here’s the truth of it, I really wish I believed I was even a slightly bad person. By punishing myself through this verbal assault I’m setting myself up for redemption after paying this supposedly heavy mental toll for my crime. If I insult myself enough, passionately enough, justice will’ve been served, even though I don’t believe for one second that I really believe any of the horrible things I’m saying. What did Jung say? Guilt is a poor substitute for real suffering? I feel worse for knowing I don’t believe it, but better when I know I feel worse, but then worse for feeling better for feeling worse. So then all my focus goes to this cycle and I never really feel bad about anything. I’m a lunatic who knows he’s insane but doesn’t actually quite believe it could be true. How do I break out of that cycle? Suicide? How about suicide? Hmm, well the problem is I don’t believe that retribution is an adequate form of justice. A society built on a system of revenge and the idea that if citizen X commits act Y then receives punishment Z…I don’t think that’s a healthy system. Once a crime is committed, how does perpetuating further violence on more human beings serve the civilization’s needs? Of course there needs to be disincentives to committing crimes, but there are diminishing returns on numbers of years served. Instead, I think a system of justice where rehabilitation, restoration, and forgiveness work with the idea that a society benefits more with fewer incarcerated citizens should be the order of the day. And…If I committed suicide it couldn’t just be a petty, personal moment. There are thousands of methods to sacrifice your life in a meaningful way. Ahh well, actually I guess there used to be, but not so much anymore without violence or death as viable options. Damn, martyrdom was always my fallback. But could I kill myself now? If I can use violence, does that mean others can use violence as well? I don’t remember experiencing any amount of discomfort as I pushed DeMasters, but as I’ve never pushed anyone before I’m unaware what the proper level of discomfort should be during the act of pushing a man to his death. If, and this is all just hypothetical musings in the backseat and I shouldn’t take any of these thoughts seriously until I have more information, but if I’m the only person who can use violence and, just for fun right now I’m going to think about this idea, if I’m the only one, well that would mean I, myself, me, I personally have a monopoly on violence. To some that’s the very definition of power. Who said that? I don’t remember right now, I really wish I could look things up without looking like a psychopath to everyone else right now. But I think it’s sort of a shame we don’t retain information anymore. I mean, I understand the benefits as well, but in situations like this when looking at your phone after you’ve killed someone would make you look like a psychopath to your friends, the ability would really help. I’ll just have to get over it and try to remember all the things I need to look up. But if I have a monopoly on violence, and of course this is just for my brain only, no one should know I ever had this thought, but, if I have a monopoly on violence I would be a veritable one-man army. I could go about setting the world to rights! Sometimes people just don’t understand anything other than violence! It’s sad but true, and as much as I wanted to deny that fact in my pacifism I think I just have to face facts. Now, it’s totally unjustifiable what I accidentally did to Dr. DeMasters, completely and totally unjustifiable. But let’s say violence is back…maybe he would have killed Nico? No one knows! I don’t know! And in that scenario if the only possible thing for me to do was to push him like that to stop him, I think I might do it again. Of course the intention was not there to kill him. In pushing him my brain, not once, never a single time said, “Oh, I think I will kill this man now.” So I can’t really, actually be a murderer. It was just an accident, an unjustifiable accident that will surely haunt me forever. But let’s say violence did exist and I let Nico die. Well that would have haunted me forever as well if I’d done nothing. So really, I was placed in a situation where I had a choice between two hauntings and I chose the one where I…okay I didn’t know so I didn’t choose but my actions happened to cause the  death of a person. And, I mean really DeMasters was not in his prime anymore, right? If we are looking at absolute values of individuals where we take into consideration contributions to society, well I would say Nico has way more potential to contribute given her stance on issues in the world right now. DeMasters had given up. And didn’t everyone already think he was dead? So…I mean it’s totally unjustifiable and I really am a horrible person for doing it, but maybe it wasn’t as bad as I first thought. Well, I mean it’s really bad. Like completely unjustifiable and the worst thing I could do. But not like the worst, worst thing I could do because there are maybe worse things I could do, like if I were to hurt society as a whole. Dr. DeMasters had kind of given up, so his contributions and legacy were basically over. Not that that makes it even a tiny bit okay or justifiable. But in a way he was kind of dead already. And now, if through his death I realize I can help the world, if I know I can use violence and set the world to rights, well maybe I can work hard to do everything I can to make up for this terrible accident. The rest of my life would be lived as a tribute to Dr. DeMasters. Everything from this point, especially if I have a monopoly on violence, will be done in his memory. This will be a type of catalyst for the change he always wanted to see in the world but never had the power to enact. It’s just that…I will have to be very careful. Once I walk down the lonely and treacherous road of absolute power I can never turn back. It is a real commitment and sacrifices would be needed, but I definitely know I’m up for the challenge! Not that I’m arrogant, though maybe I am a little, which I don’t mind and even kind of like about myself, but I’m probably the most qualified person in all of humanity to rule the world. I mean, I know that’s a horribly disgusting, megalomaniacal thing to say, but thinking that it’s a horribly disgusting, megalomaniacal thing to say is one of my best qualities! I should try to be honest with myself and admit I really think that, however. No more lies and faux-humility. I know my strengths and I know I’m too neurotic and self-reflective to ever get swept away by willy-nilly decisions and rash judgments in what would be my very mild brand of authoritarianism. It’s more intolerable to pretend I don’t want to lead the world. If I go into this venture, not that it’s going to happen, just role-playing the whole thing really, it’s just a silly and fun thing to think about when I don’t have all the facts, but if I go into this venture with clear goals and a specifically defined path to peace, harmony, and equality, why should I feel guilty for wanting to be in charge of humanity’s direction? But, just hold on before you get too high and mighty in your imagination. Isn’t that how a megalomaniac would justify their desire for glory and power? Yes! It absolutely is. But a real megalomaniac would never be self-aware enough to have this reflective line of thinking. So, I, unlike authoritarian regimes before me, have that built-in layer of neurotic protection that will serve me well if this whole scenario comes to pass. And another thing, we’d already decided we should be in charge? Right? So Asher should have no problem, none of them should have any problem with this. We had a plan to take power and we all agreed to it! This will just…expedite the process. I’m sure the group will be pleased. Even if there is no redemption from this regrettable accident I was involved in, I could at least use the knowledge I gained from the event to make the world better. In fact, if I collapsed under the weight of my responsibility to humanity at this moment, if my sin prevents me from moving forward and helping humanity as much as possible, I’d be left with a larger net negative than if I were to soldier on and try to fix things. This moment should act, as I said previously, as a catalyst, spurring me to action at the risk of personal damnation. I must admit I committed an unforgivable horror, however if I could, through a lifetime of work, somehow reduce the sum total of horrors generally inflicted on humanity, perhaps I could consider my life worthwhile.  No…but wait…no no no! I can’t…I can’t commit any more violence…No! How did I let myself walk that road in my mind!? I’m losing control and this is how dictators are born! It’s all just a contrived justification to abandon who I am and what I believe. And…I’m…I’m a pacifist! I’m a pacifist! I’m a pacifist…

 

Raymond awoke, as he had each morning all week, in the stranglehold of despair. After repeated, time-consuming failures to comfort him, Asher lost patience.

“You wanted to experience something authentic? Well you got it. Stop placing the poor and downtrodden masses on a pedestal; they’re just like everyone else, Raymond. You think the MBs are bad? Well they aren’t horrible because they’re privileged; they’re horrible because they’re normal human beings. The privilege just amplifies how intolerable they are because it projects over a wider range. The crack fiends, the prostitutes, the child laborers and soldiers; the suffering and the oppressed you’re so fond of idealizing are only human beings. You’re delusional if you think these people possess some special knowledge or insight as a result of their suffering. Sorry to break it to you, but they’re just as horrible as the MBs. The only way we’re going to make the world better is by creating a system that can minimize the impact of the horribleness the average human inflicts on everything they touch. So I’m sorry you lost your sacred cow, but you need to move on.”

Raymond noted the change in Asher’s tone. Gone was the joviality and inspiring confidence; supplanted by hard-nosed pragmatic realism. The shift frightened him. Was Asher utilitarian now? If so, Raymond worried what he could justify in pursuit of restructuring humanity in his image. What could be sacrificed in the name of pragmatism and The Greater Good?

Raymond fretted silently over this divergence in Asher’s normal outlook while putting on a brave façade for his harried companions.

Each member of the collective entered a state of hyper-productive activity, and in doing so withdrew emotionally. Chandra set up a lab in the perennially empty Red Roof Inn Grande Ballroom, providing plenty of space to continue the NFVS experiments. Asher regained a measure of his former vigor, albeit with a new fuel feeding his passions. His mind was bent on finding a political system capable of coping with and accounting for humanity’s fatal flaws. Working without sleep for days, he informed the others he was crafting a new treatise that would revolutionize human civilization.  Nico was engrossed in an intensive training regimen to prepare for her upcoming performance at APACT, which would serve as the ribbon cutting for her entire venture.

Nico was more proud of “The Anacostia Ballet Company Presents: An Off-Season Nutcracker” than anything she’d ever created[1]. It was the fulfillment of her long-suppressed aspirations. She’d always done what she thought was the right thing to do, which was usually not the thing she desired for herself. Those desires had been consumed by her commitment to only use her privilege for worthwhile causes. The success of those causes, however, had never truly fulfilled her. Here, with the opening of this theater and revitalization of this neighborhood, her desires and what she understood to be the morally righteous course dovetailed.

Raymond’s depression weighed on Nico as she peered over the precipice of her triumph, but she believed he was strong enough to find his own way if she was with him as support. She told herself that in these volatile times a new cause or project was bound to come along that would jar his psyche out of its torpor.

As part of the promotion campaign for the show, Nico scheduled an interview on a popular morning talk show. She scheduled herself to appear the day before the performance as a final injection of media buzz. The host of the program, noted puff-piece enabler Barbara O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith, was known for her passive demeanor and unique ability to make any authority figure look their best. She was the go-to media personality for public-relations rehabilitation campaigns for recently-sober actors, post-scandal politicians, and contrite, ego-maniacal dictators[2]. This juicy line-up made Wake Up! With Babs! essential viewing for the average office worker.

Nico arrived on set for the live interview early. She made a regular habit of showing up to her television appearances with plenty of time to ease into her surroundings[3].

The pre-television enhancement process began with Nico being shunted from station to station preparing her look to match what a human appearing on television is supposed to look like. Nico thought about Dr. Demasters’ thoughts on the subject of image tailoring, but even a brief glimpse of the man in her mind left her feeling bitter. She’d ignored the sage wisdom of older men telling her what she could or could not do for most of her life, but this felt different. Dr. Demasters was a man she’d grown up reading and respecting. It was of little consequence; Nico thought as a stylist rearranged her hair, she’d change his mind through successful results. Let his inaction be his shame.

Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith emerged from her dressing room to greet Nico five minutes before air time and informed her that the show had started a new segment in which they took questions through calls and tweets from the audience. The host insisted that the segment had proved immensely popular[4]. Nico agreed to the segment, but also made it clear she had no intention of answering personal questions.

Nico and Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith settled into their bright-red half-egg chairs modestly tilted towards one another on the periwinkle carpeting of the set. At the two minute warning, the crew scurried around making their final adjustments to create their intentional projection of reality. The show’s older-than-you’d-think host was coifed in a well-tailored pink pantsuit complete with white gloves, a pearl necklace, and a pink pillbox hat. The outfit could have been considered staunchly conservative if not for the extremely low-cut neckline on the pantsuit, revealing what felt like an oddly high percentage of the woman’s sternum. Nico quietly thought she looked like a caricature artist’s rendering of a nouvelle-vague Phyllis Schlafly. The large digital clock near the camera reached zero and Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith transformed into a television host.

“Good evening, lovely viewers! I am your host Barbara O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith and this is Wake Up! With Babs! Today we’re privileged to have with us Ms. Nico Leftiè, founder of Leftiè’s Luxury Suites for the Temporarily Monetarily Disinclined and sole heir to the Leftie Empire. She joins us to discuss her most recent project, the revitalization of one of the most dangerous urban areas in America, the Anacostia district of Washington D.C. Ms. Leftiè, welcome to the program. I have to start by asking, why did you decide to move forward with this project?”

“Well, Barbara,” Nico said through the filter of her elegant public persona, “As with my LLS initiative, I believe in helping people help themselves. Sometimes however, we need to first demonstrate that help is even possible. It’s our responsibility to remove barriers blocking progress so that people have more opportunities to be the person they want to be and contribute to the world in the way they want to contribute. That’s what this project will do.”

“Oh that sounds simply splendid! It’s so refreshing to see the leaders of our communities taking an interest in charity work that helps the less fortunate! There are those who say your charity projects hurt your quarterly earnings reports. How would you respond to this charge?”

Nico smiled charmingly, “These rumors are flat-out wrong in the same way they were wrong when the same people predicted a net loss after the LLS campaign. Our investments continue to excel, despite the dire warnings of the doomsayers. If they spent half the time they spend fear mongering and shorting stocks creating their own projects, we might not be in the economic mess we’re in today.”

“Oh my! Strong words from Nico Leftiè! Before we turn the questioning over to our lovely viewers, I want to ask about your love life. You’ve always been notoriously secretive, but you’ve also been linked to a few famous names over the years. We’ve heard scattered rumors of some mystery man you’ve been seen with over the past few months. Who is this handsome new beau?”

Nico, shocked the banal host was violating a basic tenant of her non-confrontational program, struggled to maintain her assumed composure, “I’m not particularly interested in discussing my private life. But thank you for asking. Now if we could turn back to the Anacostia project…”

“Not even a hint?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is a relevant subject, let’s move on, shall we?”

Looking to her producers, who were apoplectic at her ad-lib probing, Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith changed tact, “Oh well. Let’s go to the phones then! We’re getting a lot of interest in your project, Ms. Leftiè. Here’s Joe from Denver with a question on investing. Joe, you’re on the air! Go ahead!”

A crackling, tinny voice filled the studio, “Hello? Should I talk now?”

“Yes Joe,” the hostess replied, “You’re talking to us now. Please ask your question.”

“Okay, thanks. Ms. Leftiè, I understand you invest in worthy projects around the world. I currently run a small knife sales company based out of Denver and we’re looking to expand our sales area down to Colorado Springs and Pueblo. All we need is around $100,000 to set up a basic…”

“Joe, do you have a question?” Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith asked in a noticeably harsher tone.

“Yeah, hold on, sweetheart. Anyways, we just need $100,000 for movement costs and an increased…” The phone abruptly cut off

“Rats! We seem to have lost Joe there. While we try to get him back we’ll move on to the next caller! This is Diane from Massachusetts with a question about investment.”

Nico looked peevishly from the serene hostess to the panicked producers, now curled into fetal positions just off camera.

After four mysteriously disconnected calls discussing exciting investment opportunities, the hostess finally announced, “Our next caller is Christian from right here in D.C. with a question on your dance career and future plans, Christian?”

“I’m here, Barbara.” A pleasant voice responded and Nico smiled with relief.

Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith continued, “Please go ahead with your question.”

“Happily,” the voice responded, “Ms. Leftiè, how are you?”

“I suppose I’m doing fine, how are you?”

“Very well, thank you. It’s nice to talk to you again, by the way.”

“Again? I’m very sorry, but I don’t remember meeting anyone named Christian recently. I apologize. Where did we meet?” Nico spoke with a growing unease as she looked at the leering face across from her.

“Yes, Christian, where did you meet Ms. Leftiè? Please tell us,” Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith trilled.

“I’m surprised you don’t remember your humble waiter from Busboys and Poets. It was such an eventful meal.”

Nico stood up in shock, but quickly regained her senses and retook her seat. In the calmest voice her terrified mind could muster, she responded, “Yes, I’ve eaten at Busboys multiple times. It’s a great spot. I’m sorry I didn’t remember you. Now, unfortunately I have to be going to…”

Christian cut in, “You’re right; you’ve eaten there, which is nice to know. But even more interesting is who you were there with. Now if I remember correctly on that specific occasion you were in the company of my former coworker, Raymond Clock.”

Nico maintained a stoic, inscrutable countenance. Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith did not follow suit, but rather exclaimed in a faux-shocked, high-decibel tone, “Oh my! Is that known SVC terrorist, Raymond Clock?”

“The very same! When I knew him he was serving at Busboys. Something always seemed a bit odd about him, but I had no idea of the true depths of his perversion.”

“That’s enough! I’ll not sit here and listen to this nonsense. I came here to discuss an important project with the potential to help develop our most in-need communities, not gossip about someone I barely knew with some random people!”

“Ms. Leftiè!” the WASP-y host was hyperventilating with sudden outrage, her face contorting into the universal grotesque of vehement moral certitude, “The SVC threat is real! And we here at Wake Up! With Babs! have confirmation from another source who saw you in the company of both Raymond Clock AND Asher Rose, illicit lover of THE Chandra Sen.” When she used Chandra’s name, the host spat on the periwinkle carpeting.

With surreal calm, Nico looked to the producers and said, “I need you to remedy this situation right now.”

The frantic men cut the feed and tossed up a rerun of Mrs. O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith interviewing a pack of ocelots.

“You’re fired.” Nico informed the disturbingly gleeful Barbara O’MalleyConnerSmithermanSmith.

With that, Nico stormed out of the building with half-a-dozen network executives executing an impotent mobile kowtow behind her.

She entered her car in a fury, but after the door closed her mind turned inward.

As her driver navigated the complicated, meandering route to the first safe house/vehicle transfer site, Nico’s consciousness berated itself for its naiveté.  She’d been so focused on the success of her project she’d lost sight of other events swirling around her.

This had always been her weakness, she admitted to herself in the backseat. Whenever she pursued a project her mind was so intensely bent towards the triumph of completion that she disregarded parts of the unique contexts she found herself within. Nico justified her exclusionary mindset with a truth; her projects had the end goal of systemic change, however eventual or gradual that change might be. The scale of the work, coupled with its social development roots, allowed her to feel satisfied that she was doing everything in her power to fulfill her obligations to humanity.

“Now, but now, what does this mean?” her mind asked. If DeMasters was correct, and if exposure led to the devastation of Anacostia by the anti-SVC hordes, she’d failed and, in fact, acted as a destructive force within the march of human progress.

Nico had made a mistake. She’d been warned by a demonstrably intelligent person, a person she respected, and chose to ignore the advice. The blame lay with her, and she must accept the consequences.

However, Nico thought as her vehicle sat idling in midday D.C. traffic, if she took this defeat as the end of her career and retreated from her attempts to improve the world, she’d be an even greater failure. While it was her initial impulse to give up on the world, withdrawing in wounded and aggrieved bitterness, she couldn’t accept this as the best course of action. Even if each of her projects failed spectacularly, she couldn’t justify ceasing their creation. Instead of failure serving as a stimulus for the cessation of activity, she thought to herself happily, her failures should act as a stimulus to try harder. Mistakes only increased her debt to society.

This is where DeMasters is wrong, Nico thought. Failing and giving up on your society as hopeless was foolish. Society may be hopeless, but it was their society and they, each and every human being, had an absolute and unquestionable obligation to improve it as much as was within their power.

It was late evening by the time Nico stumbled into this line of thinking. Her car had just reached Anacostia, having had to shake two or three tails and endure an assault by an angry motorist who decided to discharge a firearm into her windows rather than file a formal complaint as the professional car’s bumper sticker recommended.

Nico first noticed the glow of the fire as she was crossing the river. Smoke undulated across the orange sunset in graceful plumes, each column building on another as they soared and dissipated into the atmosphere. As the car crept further into the ravaged district, the sky was filled with the ashes of her work eddying around and through the blown out windows of the car. Their pace slowed to a crawl as they picked their way through the torch wielding mobs and flaming rubble.

Nico remained hidden, huddled under blankets in the backseat and quivering with a fear she told herself emanated from a concern the mob would further inconvenience her unflappable driver by igniting the vehicle. As Nico rested face up, covering everything but her sight, she witnessed the crimson flames licking the remnants of the sign outside the APACT, emblazoned with the fading words “Anacostia Ballet Presents.” She felt a moment of weakness watching the fires consume her dreams and acknowledged a resurgent desire to quit this disquieting state of caring about society.

“No, I’m not finished, and I never will be.” Nico whispered to herself.

“What’s that, Ma’am?” Her driver called back.

“Nothing, Bill. Just talking to myself. Are we almost there? I can’t tell from here.”

“Yes Ma’am, we’re here,” Bill replied, bringing the vehicle to a gentle stop, “But it looks like they got the Inn as well.”

“I see, well let’s pull around back, into the side alley there,” Nico pointed, sitting up and instructing him calmly,

“Yes Ma’am,” Bill replied again as he slid the vehicle into the opaque air of the smoke-filled alley.

High-powered beams of light hit the billowing wall of gas and disappeared into its density barely four feet from their source. The encased machine crept through the suffocating, shifting blackness, eventually finding the corner of the building where Nico ordered Bill to stop. She ran out of the car and into the burning building. There was no sign of Nooroozeleff, Jackqualenya, or any others from the sparse staff in the flame-filled lobby. The stairs, though alight, seemed stable enough to bear her weight. She vaulted up their length and rushed down the hallway to the two rooms the group occupied. Bursting through the roaring flames, Nico called Raymond’s name.

Stepping out next to her from inside a coat closet near the entrance, Asher replied placidly, “It took you long enough. Your shirt’s on fire.”

Seeing the truth of his words, Nico promptly stopped, dropped, and rolled. Unfortunately, the inferno cure-all proved ineffective on this occasion as the surface on which she was dropping and rolling was also on fire.

“Nico? What are you doing? Let’s go!” Raymond called, following Chandra and Asher out from the cramped, choking space.

The entire group, their clothing aflame, fled from the building to extinguish the remnants of their tattered and charred outerwear on the non-blazing concrete.

“Sorry, I was trying to be as discrete as possible in my route home, but I guess it didn’t really matter…” Nico apologized for her tardiness. “Why in heaven’s name were you all in that closet?”

“We were in a bit of a panic after your interview. The mobs came too quickly.” Chandra explained.

“Didn’t you have your go-bags packed? We could have just met at the safe house! I just came back here to see…”

Asher replied in annoyance, “Of course Chandra and I had our bags packed. It seems our friend Raymond, however, thought we were safe and eschewed that particular area of preparation.”

“Hey, look, I already apologized at least a dozen times back in the closet, I just thought…”

Laughing wearily, Asher cut him off, “Whatever, I’m joking and it doesn’t matter anyways. We need to go.”

They stumbled over to the idling luxury vehicle and loaded it with their charred luggage. Happy to be actively fleeing rather than passively hiding, the group set off. However the car had not moved more than five feet before a figure emerged from the obscurations, caught in their headlights like a protruding rock maliciously intent on scuttling their ship.

“Excuse us,” Bill the driver called through the shattered windshield.

“No. You are not excused,” A deep, trembling baritone called back.

Recognizing the voice, Raymond leapt out of the vehicle, “Dr. DeMasters! You need to come with us to our safe house! We need to get out of here!”

“I won’t be going anywhere and neither will you,” DeMasters answered coldly, moving closer to the vehicle, his features increasingly visible and amplified into bizarre, shifting proportions by the chaotic lighting.

“I…But we need to get out of here!” Raymond repeated in confusion, “I understand you’re most likely extremely upset and disagree with the course of action we decided to take, but we can debate that point later! We have to go before they find us!”

DeMasters roared back, “Sometimes I wish violence still existed so I could rip you apart myself. You’re filth! You’re do-gooder filth destroying lives without regrets, justifying your mistakes, and then moving on to the next ‘worthwhile’ project. You don’t care the people you left behind are real. Real, breathing, living people who you’ve destroyed with your mistakes and experiments. You don’t understand that when you miscalculate on this scale, people suffer. This isn’t just some philosophical discussion in a classroom. But you don’t care, because all you’re really after is a way to justify an increase in the size of your own ego.”

Nico stepped out of the vehicle, “Now, look, I understand we made a mistake, but if we stop trying now…”

“You!” Dr. Francis DeMasters screamed, overcome with a blood rage, overwhelming his senses as he lunged forward; reverting to mankind’s natural state.

Raymond, who, intellectually, knew nothing could come from this; whose brain understood, mechanically, that Dr. DeMasters could not inflict any sort of violence on Nico whatsoever, and who, even in a world in which violence existed, decried its use and proclaimed himself a devout pacifist, responded with his own primordial instinct and moved to intercept the rampaging social justice warrior.

“No!” Raymond called as he repelled DeMasters’ assault, shoving the intellectual backwards. Surprised by the unexpected force slamming into his chest, the great thinker stumbled backwards, off balance, tripped over the curb, and split open his skull as it accelerated with gravity and encountered the pavement.

Raymond stared at his work. He looked back to Nico, who appeared terrified. Asher and Chandra now left the vehicle, with Chandra moving over to the fallen form of DeMasters.

“He is dead,” Chandra pronounced.

“He’s dead? He is dead? Raymond…how is he dead?” Asher asked, looking around in confusion.

“I…how did that happen? I don’t understand. It shouldn’t…but…how?” Raymond was collapsing.

Chandra seized the situation, “There’s no time. Get his body to the trunk and let’s go.”

“…Yes. Yes. Okay.” Asher, still shaking, dragged the limp body containing the pre-eminent mind of their time to the back of the vehicle and tossed it in the trunk with their burnt luggage.

They loaded back into the car and departed for their designated safe-house in silence.

Raymond sat in the back of the car, driven by Nico’s loyal executive assistant, as it left behind the frenzied crowds and swelling fires. Raymond’s mind raced through justifications, but one thought dominated his mind; he’d done something irrefutably real.

[1] Though the performance explored the human experience with visceral, existential fear, it would be advertised as an out of season performance of The Nutcracker. With assistance from her team of world-renowned choreographers, Nico had carefully constructed her masterpiece; a work that would usher in an au courant dance movement that reflected the heartbeat of the world. The performance would begin with three spotlights centered on a closed, heavy blue velvet curtain. Then, fifteen minutes of deafening analog industrial-electronic drone music pumped out of the new, custom-made Transmission Audio Ultimate speaker system. The music would suddenly stop and Nico, dressed in a skin-tight skin-tone lycra suit that stretched from the peak of her skull to the termination of her toes, would step from behind the curtain and face the audience. She’d freeze in place for two minutes of silence, at which point a piercing, pre-recorded scream would play through the new, custom-made Transmission Audio Ultimate speaker system. The screech would act as a signal to the lycra-ensconced Nico to leap from the stage into the center aisle of the theater. From there, she would sprint out the back doors of the hall where the tech crew would be waiting to slam all entrances closed and lock them as soon as she was through. Once the exits were secured, the lights would go out and the audience would be subjected to three hours of increasingly loud harsh noise compilations in complete darkness. Cell phone collection points set up in the name of “respect for the arts” outside the hall before the show would ensure each guest who elected to participate would be as helpless and hopeless as possible. At the end of three hours of what the creative team hoped would be increasing panic and desperation, the music would stop, the lights would come on, and Nico would step out to take what was sure to be an astounding ovation from the transformed patrons.

[2] With violence and terror no longer an option to keep their populations in check, this last class had been an especially popular breed of guest over the past six months.

[3] Also putting her mind at ease on this occasion was the fact that she owned a significant stake in the building and everything in it.

[4] The focus groups responded more positively to the random, disjointed, often inappropriate or awkward questions asked by their peers than the prepared and researched questions asked by the professional host.

Much to the collective’s surprise and disappointment, the world did not descend into chaos. Asher had misjudged humanity. Rather than reverting back to Pre-GCD madness, humanity now had a villain to demonize. The group was labeled “Spirit of Violence Crazies” by a hostile press, something Nico had little control over without risking the possibility of revealing her involvement. The beleaguered association decided to usurp the phrase by calling themselves “Spirit of Violence Believers,” taking advantage of the growing popularity of the label. While Asher admitted it wasn’t much, he believed it might help mildly muddy the issue in the minds of an uneducated public.

Raymond still didn’t actually believe in the Spirit of Violence, but he knew it was for the greater good when he publicly expressed solidarity; a united front in the face of mass hysteria. What he lacked in belief he made up for in his passion for change. He focused his creative energy on writing columns on future governmental and social structures in a world shaped by Chandra Sen’s monumental discoveries. Acting as a singular bastion for dissent, Modern Issue continued to pump out articles arguing the SVB case.

Though hacking attempts were frequent, their high-capacity servers and enhanced protection proved more than capable of handling any digital incursions. Anticipating a certain level of blowback prior to Chandra’s testimony, Asher hired an elite Russian hacker named Sergei777[1], an acquaintance from Moscow, to provide additional layers of security. Thanks to the valiant efforts of the technophilic Russian, Modern Issue remained active and intact.

While Chandra, Asher, and Raymond were all named and shamed “SVCs”, Nico’s affiliation with the movement remained a secret, allowing her to continue with her rapidly advancing Anacostia redevelopment venture. Her association with SVB ideals was a great liability for the young heiress, and she stressed the extreme importance of confidentiality to the entire group. They each solemnly swore to take every precaution to protect her identity. This presented a number of problems for Nico and Raymond’s relationship, but the idea that they were putting the greater good in front of their own desires filled them with immense personal pride.

Construction was now moving swiftly thanks to Nico’s decision to hire every firm in the metro area to complete the project by its September 1^st public unveiling. Temporary housing for the displaced residents of Anacostia consisted of tasteful tower blocks. It was to these towers that Nico had convinced the vast majority of the district’s population to relocate. By promising luxury apartments and lofts at dramatically reduced rent prices, she ensured consent was abundant.  But Nico’s passion remained the APACT, which would serve as the cultural anchor for the revitalized community when complete.

During the same period, Raymond was too busy to acknowledge the neurosis encroaching on his happiness. With Asher’s output further reduced by his anger at humanity’s response to Chandra’s revelation, the preponderance of work fell on Raymond’s shoulders. For the first time in their friendship, Raymond found himself consoling and counseling Asher while doing his work for him.

This blunder was Asher’s first consequential mistake. Chandra’s testimony and the subsequent announcements to the media had been penned entirely by Asher. Upon reflection, however, Mr. Rose realized he’d made huge mistake. Asher determined they should have let the information slip as an anonymous government leak rather than massive public press releases and op-eds in support of the Spirit of Violence theory[2].

Asher cried to Raymond that this was the method he should have used and his mistake had been, once again, overestimating the intelligence of the masses. Raymond empathized as best he could, telling Asher he knew how it felt to make a mistake of such a magnitude and that he’d also experienced the spiraling state of second-guessing that infected the brain in a bad decision’s aftermath.

“But,” Raymond continued to Asher, “At least one good thing came out of this boondoggle; we’ll never take humanity’s capacity for poor reasoning and decision making for granted again.”

Framing it as having increased their collective erudition did cheer Asher slightly; though he continued to struggle with content production. He questioned everything he wrote and felt a necessity to run ideas by others before publishing.

After hitting a low point in terms of readership prior to Chandra’s testimony, Modern Issue, as the sole voice championing the SVB cause, saw an uptick in traffic. Though the majority of their new devotees were part of the conspiracy theory and cult circuit[3], a number of prominent business leaders, philosophers, and scientists quietly voiced their support. This support was minimal, however, particularly after a leading journalist penned a pro-SVB opinion piece in a major newspaper and the paper’s offices and writer’s home were subsequently razed.

Fortunately, Modern Issue’s own headquarters was known only to a few key government personnel and their loyal hired goons with security clearances. The Red Roof Inn was so far unscathed, much to the surprise of the collective. They’d anticipated the need to relocate immediately following the hearing, but had, so far, not heard so much as an ominous creak of the floorboards. Nico warned Nooroozeleff of the situation and assured him she would pay five times the value of any damages his business suffered.

Each member kept a go-bag in the event they needed to beat a hasty retreat, and Asher requested one of Nico’s temporary housing quarters to serve as a safe house. Nico flatly denied this request out of fear the tower would be the next target. Instead, the group purchased a few small, undistinguished houses scattered across Arlington and Alexandria. Their luck continued, however, and no one appeared to burn them out.

Beyond desperately producing content for Modern Issue while attempting to repair Asher’s bruised ego, Raymond maintained his weekly meetings with Dr. DeMasters. These meetings were increasingly focused on the topic Nico’s redevelopment plans, which highly concerned DeMasters.

The former civil rights activist acted as a counterbalance in Raymond’s life. Whenever the group made a decision, Raymond ran the idea through DeMasters and gauged his response. The naked ambitions of Raymond’s collective felt trite as it broke on the rocks of DeMasters’ intellect.

This troubled Raymond. Though he disagreed with Dr. DeMasters’ decision to abandon the world to the wolves, the man’s reasoning for doing so was sound. It was reasonable to assume, especially in light of Raymond’s recent experiences, that mankind was incapable of making intelligent, collective, long-term decisions. DeMasters held that only an absolute, enlightened dictator could solve humanity’s problems. However, as he’d spent his life fighting for freedom and civil liberties, DeMasters was adamantly opposed to dictatorship. When he’d agreed to join the collective’s proposed administration[4], it was with the assurance that they would only take power through influencing a democratic election.

The world needed to change, but humanity was incapable of changing on its own. DeMasters refused to support coercing the public into a desired behavioral pattern as he believed this would reduce humanity to chattel. These conflicting ideals forced DeMasters to resign his philosophy to nihilism, a stance Raymond rejected but understood.

The only remnant of activism remaining within DeMasters was his desire to protect those in his immediate surroundings; the people in Anacostia he’d mentally adopted as his brothers and sisters in suffering and inanity. These people were now at risk due to Nico’s meddling.

By mid-August, three weeks after Chandra’s testimony, the Anacostia Revitalization Project was nearing completion, society’s hatred of SVCs reached a fever pitch, and Demasters’ discontentment peaked.

At the conclusion of their previous meeting, Dr. DeMasters requested Raymond bring Nico along to the shabby apartment atop Francis Sublime’s Computer Exchange Warehouse. When Raymond relayed DeMasters’ invitation, she was hesitant, being fully aware of the man’s objections to her project. Raymond, however, insisted they’d only talk about ideas, and surmised they might come up with some novel strategies for implementation. Acknowledging how much she valued DeMasters’ opinion, she eventually agreed to come.

Nico chiseled out a two hour block in her schedule for an early dinner, shifting a meeting with her choreography team to the right. Raymond went ahead of her to the apartment to prevent suspicion that he and Nico Leftiè were traveling together. She arrived on time, twenty minutes after Raymond, at Francis DeMasters’s sparsely furnished abode. Walking towards the two men already engaged in conversation, Nico noted the gaps in the ill-fitting wooden floorboards and the shiver of the ceiling beams as tenants on the floor above performed their daily routine. She could make this better, she thought as she reached the conversing men and DeMasters handed her a bowl of cup noodles.

“They’re shrimp flavored,” he said unnecessarily. The bold, crimson block lettering emblazoned on the side of her bowl clearly stated the character of the sodium within.

“Thank you, Dr. DeMasters. I hope you’re not offended if I don’t eat. I’m currently in the midst of a strict training regimen for my performance at APACT.” Nico said as she placed her bowl on a nearby counter.

“You’re performance requires fasting?” DeMasters inquired as he motioned for the assemblage to take their seats on the lumpy, derelict furniture populating the room.

Sitting, Nico explained, “Well, in the dance world the shape of the body is of vital importance. Each movement and motion is dependent on the lines and forms my body takes. So crafting your body into a precisely desired shape is crucial for success.”

“That sounds like a clever excuse to accept body image abuse and eating disorders,” DeMasters said, “Isn’t each performance unique? Doesn’t each performer bring a distinct presence to the stage? Conforming the body to a defined aesthetic standard detracts from the character of the performance.”

“In some cases I can see your point, but fine art has always required…” Nico began.

DeMasters cut her off, “Nothing. Nothing in Art requires anything. I would rather see healthy, whole human beings express their feelings and ideas through a creative and talented performance than cookie-cutter automatons adhering to the narrow definition of ‘Art’ promoted by an inbred sect of historical elites. Though who can blame them; they’re desperate to use their cloak of ‘high culture’ to mask the lack of creativity and innovation rampant within their cloistered caste, high in their unassailable towers of aesthetic privilege. From their vantage point, they look down on other forms of art and culture with disdain, occasionally taking well-funded colonial trips outside their hallowed walls to commandeer the talents and motifs of some exotic external wildlife to prove they’re revolutionizing ‘Art.’ When African Art is merely art made by people from the continent of Africa, it’s primitive and compartmentalized. But when African Art is claimed by these erudite souls serving the lord of high aesthetic sensibilities and incorporated into their designs, it becomes extraordinary and world class. ‘A brilliant amalgamation,’ fusing their sacred ‘Art’ with themes of exoticism. As the arbiters of appropriate taste, of course they know how to wield African Art better than plebian African creators. ‘Thanks for the ideas, savages; now we don’t need you.’ It’s the same story that’s been told countless times since the first men looked at one another’s skin and decided one had a superior pigmentation. “

Following the lecture, the room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Nico spoke after waiting with frustration for an ambivalent Raymond to respond, “I see your point. But did you really ask me here today to talk about the obvious faults found in the art world and how it impacts my body image?”

“No, just making small talk while I finish my noodles,” DeMasters joked as he drained his bowl, “I asked you here today to beg you to stop your revitalization project. Stop right now and leave Anacostia.”

Both Nico and Raymond were shocked. It was Raymond who recovered his voice first, “Dr. DeMasters! What do you mean? The project is practically finished. How could we stop something that’s already done?”

“Just leave. Anacostia is used to half-finished, abandoned buildings. We’ll manage. What we’re not used to is imported culture and unwanted media attention.”

Nico shook herself free from her stunned expression. She knew this argument and was prepared, “Dr. DeMasters, I understand you’re sensitive to the idea of gentrification and cultural imperialism, but I’ve gone through a very rigorous and thorough process to guarantee the excesses of gentrification do not affect this district. I own almost every piece of property and I’m the one who decides the rent prices and businesses I allow. I’m preparing to make the citizens of Anacostia the entrepreneurs of each and every business.”

DeMasters countered, “And I understand the precautions you believe you took. But that does not change the fact that you’re still importing an outside culture that’ll dominate and destroy the local culture of Anacostia.

“What local culture?” Nico fought back passionately, “Any local culture Anacostia had was already destroyed by a lack of capital, the gutting of every local business, and the systematic repression inflicted on this community. How does the local culture survive when one out of every three males expects to go to jail? How does it survive when an entrepreneur can’t secure a bank loan because no bank lends to this zip code? I’m not replacing the culture; I’m revitalizing and empowering the citizens with the capacity to choose the direction of their own life.”

“Well aren’t you just the beautiful savior of us poor black folk then,” DeMasters mocked.

“No, I’m not a savior, but I’m committed to helping. And if that means accepting your scorn and the label of imperialistic bitch with a savior complex, than I’m perfectly willing to accept it. But I believe the people of this district will be better off for my contributions.”

“Not if you bring the anti-SVC forces down on their heads!” DeMasters growled at her, exposing his true objections to her presence.

Nico was halted mid-utterance. Raymond responded in her stead, “Dr. DeMasters, no one knows Nico is an SVB. And she really isn’t even; she’s just like me. We just support Asher and Chandra.”

DeMasters continued, directing his comments towards Nico, “No one knows for now, but what would happen to this grand project of yours if they did? You’ve put your name and label all over Anacostia. As you said, ‘You will revitalize and empower the citizens’. You. This is the Nico Leftiè district now. It will be the first thing that burns if you’re outed.”

Nico looked pensive, considering DeMasters’ words, so Raymond continued, “Well we’ve been exceedingly careful to distance ourselves. We’re not together publicly, we travel separately, and whenever I assist her with her project, I only work with her closest staff, other SVBs, and people she trusts. There’s no reason to believe she’ll be outed.“

“You’re naïve. Haven’t you been paying attention to what’s going on in this nation? Exposed SVBs are being thrown into the street and publicly lynched, figuratively. Their entire lives are destroyed by these rampaging mobs. It’s an insatiable frenzy that’ll continue to consume until there’s no one left to destroy. People are angry and confused and they can’t use personal violence to vent. Once they run out of the most obvious targets they’ll begin searching. You’ll be found.”

Raymond remained optimistic, “Chandra’s the ‘Reverend Mother of Violence,’ or whatever that silly label is, and we haven’t been found yet. She’s the most obvious target, but no one has betrayed us. We’ll find a way to turn this situation around.”

“It’s just a matter of time,” DeMasters warned.

Nico finally broke her silence, “I can’t think like that; why would we think like that? I’m sorry you failed in trying to achieve your vision, Dr. DeMasters, but not everything fails. We’re doing everything possible to protect ourselves from identification, and I believe it will be enough.”

DeMasters grew angry, his volume rising, “It’s not just your project or yourself you’re risking! You’re putting every person who lives here are risk! People who never asked you to come in and meddle will be punished, losing what little they have, because of your arrogance.”

“I think I’m finished talked about this. Thank you for expressing your concerns, Dr. Demasters. Any further questions can be directed to my secretary or relayed through Raymond.”

Nico walked out, leaving Raymond alone with his hero.

“You have to convince her to leave, Raymond. You can’t risk all these people,” DeMasters implored him.

“I…I can’t,” Raymond said, “I don’t know if you’re right. I understand and agree with you…I think. But I also think Nico’s project is good and important. If it’s successful we can use it as a pattern to redevelop…”

“Get out. If you can’t see the harm you’re doing you need to get out of my home. You’ve proven you only pay lip service to those ideals you blabber about. You’re just another white man.” DeMasters turned his back on Raymond.

Unsteadily at first, Raymond left the apartment feeling as if his soul had been ripped from his body.

Blind to direction, Raymond stumbled through the steaming summer alleys. It’d been months since Raymond last wandered alone, absorbed in his own thoughts. Modern Issue and their collective schemes had kept him busy, and the need for secrecy in his relationship had prevented him from participating in his beloved after dinner strolls with Nico.

Anacostia was unrecognizable. The dilapidated, rotting structures had been replaced by new-wave art deco influenced buildings. “Nostalgia for the future” as Nico had described the architectural motif. Raymond observed the stark modernity of the edifices latticed with enough frills and ornamentation to embarrass William Van Alen. He remembered the crumbling buildings and barren retail landscape from just a few months prior. Maybe this was better. When he acknowledged he felt a certain charm in the authenticity of the dilapidation, thinking so made him feel like an intolerable tourist. Progress comes from all directions and an incalculable variety of sources. He told himself he shouldn’t discount Nico’s plan due to aesthetic qualms or his stereotypically imperialistic desires to see “The Natives” in their natural habitat. DeMasters, as much as Raymond loved and respected the man, was wrong. He’d given up hope of progress and settled into his own obscurity. He’d lost his vision, and therefore only saw Nico as a threat to his personal indolence.

Raymond rounded a corner in his justifications and found himself in undeveloped territory. This was a street waiting to be destroyed and made anew.

Experienced in the context of the sheen varnishing the rest of the district, the houses here felt more human. Flickering streetlamps illuminated cracks and crags scarring the buildings, giving them each a grotesque uniqueness that leered out towards Raymond as he ambled by. They were the hands of Metropolis to the mind Nico had created. “Was he the heart?” Raymond asked himself, immediately feeling pretentious and foolish. He reminded himself he was looking at run down crack-dens that would soon be demolished to make way for something reasonable people could inhabit.

Passing one of the peeling structures, Raymond noticed a light coming from within. Momentarily forgetting how inhibition felt, Raymond left the sidewalk to investigate. He’d always fancied himself an urban explorer limited by the realities of race, crime rates, and his own neuroses. But removing the prospect of violence from the equation freed him and expanded his exploration potential. Raymond would see something he knew to be authentic.

As he ascended, he happily noted the broken steps of the stoop and fractured concrete archway. The door was open. Of course it was, Raymond thought, why would it be locked? The rest of the world buys locks to keep these types of places out. What do these decaying corners of humanity try to keep out?

Walking into the darkened entrance, he was met with the stench of urine and mildew. The air was choking, forcing him to breathe in measured bursts. He struck a balance between his brain’s need for oxygen and his senses revolt against breathing the foul air. His diminished oxygen intake left him slightly light-headed and confused, adding to the surreal feeling engulfing him. He was watching himself watch himself creep forward, aware of his own awareness; his out-of-body experience observed by an in-body perception. This made him hyper-conscious of each movement and thought, reacting and adjusting to the real-time judgments he knew he was making about himself.

The floorboards, reminding him of DeMasters’ small room, creaked, threatening to break and plummet his body into the unlit terror he’d find below. He supposed it was of some comfort to know he couldn’t be hurt and die, but he wondered if he could become trapped. That sounded even worse. He shuddered and advanced as quietly as the tenuous wood allowed.

Raymond wondered why anyone would still choose to live in this filthy hovel given Nico’s offer to accommodate the entirety of the district in her well-furnished temporary towers. But he figured the murkier side of life always sought appropriate surroundings to conduct its business. Though, Raymond thought bleakly, these places contained only trivially tragic instances of personal destruction.

The real horror in life is decided over expensive conference tables or thousand-dollar-meals. That type of destruction is too systematized to ever be considered as classically tragic as the broken down souls haunting civilization’s varied ruins.

He supposed these universally told morality tales served an important purpose. Humans need the destruction of others in order to define their own happiness. It’s like how the economies of supposedly developed societies are built on outsourced exploitation; they tell themselves someone has to suffer so someone else can survive, and they do survive so well. The definition of survive they’ve come to accept as a minimum standard lacks the important qualifier “to survive at a higher comfort level than someone else.”

An individual can be helped or despised or mourned, but humanity is incapable of doing the same for itself for the simple fact that it’s incapable of considering itself a consolidated entity. It’s all just tribes and levels of separation. When human beings decide they’re individualized entities, it allows for the contextualization of their personal suffering in the shadow of the suffering experienced by someone they consider an “other.”

Instead of taking restorative steps to address communal suffering as a shared experience and shared responsibility, this act of cognitive delineation graciously affords the privileged a modicum of happiness and relief. The separation acts as a veil to create illusory relational happiness, and contentment becomes impossible without this comparative context. So the sweat shop worker not only serves as a drone to mass produce to meet the consumption requirements of the wealthy, but also exists as a benchmark from which a civilized nation can define its relative happiness.

Raymond’s mind was wrenched back to perceive his present surroundings by the hiss of whispered voices slinking down to him from the second floor.

“Thou cans’t be sure, Constantine. Mine eyes hath seeneth a law enforcement official,” an unknown voice hissed in a nasally tenor.

“And Thou art a coward. I shall findeth the causeth of thy trepidation mine own self,” a second voice, one Raymond assumed belonged to Constantine, replied tersely.

Feeling a flicker of fear, but instantly angry with myself for allowing this irrational and probably racist impulse, Raymond stood at the base of the dry, wooden staircase. Footsteps approached the top of the structure and began to descend.

Constantine saw Raymond through the darkness at the halfway point and yelled in a startled voice, “Whoeth arteth thoueth?”

Raymond responded in a way he hoped sounded respectful, polite, non-judgmental, casual, and friendly, “Hello again! Do you remember me? I believe we met a few months ago in a store. I’m Raymond. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Constantine looked suspicious, “Art thou a member of the band of folk purchasingeth the whole of this hereth Anacostia?”

Raymond briefly oscillated on the proper response to this question. On one side, his brain told him he had to distance himself from Nico and couldn’t take the chance of their relationship becoming known. Alternatively, lying to this man would be disrespectful and condescending. Dr. DeMasters’ words rang in his head; he’d just be another white man trying to take advantage of the ignorance he assumed this poor black man possessed. Alternatively to that, however, were his thoughts as to whether it was racist for him to view this conversation in terms of race in the first place. Wasn’t he just a human being talking to another human being? If he didn’t lie to the man, it would actually be more racist and more condescending because he was treating Constantine differently than he’d treat a white person. But at the same time, if he did try to view this as just a human-to-human interaction, he’d be ignoring the long history of repression and subjugation black people had suffered.

Raymond was rescued from his dilemma by Constantine’s memory, “Now I remembereth thou and thy ilk. Twas your lily soul in the company ofeth two wealthy Orientals. The She-Oriental iseth the one changingeth our humble Anacostia, iseth she not? She hath sought to purchaseth my abode…but I shall not sell as long aseth I draweth breath!”

Raymond sensed a sensitive issue; something this man took pride in taking a stand on. He proceeded with curious caution, “That is understandable. You shared this home with your partner, didn’t you?”

Constantine looked at Raymond in disgust, “Doeth not attempteth to empathize with mine self! Thine manipulations will not availeth thy objective. Thou canst leave andeth telleth thy mistress my position remains unchanged,” he turned to ascend the stairs.

Raymond, panicking as he realized how this visit must appear to Constantine, hurriedly offered his apologies, “No! No! I’m sorry! I’m not here representing her. I’ve nothing to do with that project. I was just walking and wandered in here. I wanted to see…”

Constantine stopped, “Dost thou haveth money?”

Raymond grabbed his wallet, “I…I’ve got like $50.”

“Handeth it over andeth thou canst ascend and partaketh.”

Raymond was confused but too embarrassed and desperate to distance himself from Constantine’s previous interpretation of Raymond’s character to refuse. He handed the bills to the gaunt hand and followed him up the stairs.

Down a fetid hallway with rotting plaster walls into a room barely lit by the yellow gleam of streetlamps seeping in from the only non-boarded-up window and a small desk lamp with a base shaped like the twisting form of a hula dancer, Constantine led Raymond. Sprawled on the floor was a small, wrinkled, dark-skinned gentleman with frayed and frazzled wiry grey hair. This new man looked at Raymond in fright and, still on the ground, backed himself into the darkest corner of the room.

“Who hath thou brought, Constantine? Whoeth iseth this man?”

“Calmeth thy manner, Solomon. He hath paid his way andeth will joineth our indulgence.”

“Though hath takeneth yonder snowflake’s payment? Whateth if he be police?”

“I hath knowledge of the man,” Constantine insisted dismissively while grabbing a soiled plastic bag containing a small number of white cubes resting near Solomon, “Dost thou knoweth thy way?”

Raymond’s eyes grew wide when he saw the bag of crack cocaine. He berated himself for filling the role of naïve dilettante. If he was seen as an outsider at this juncture he’d never be allowed to connect to these men in any meaningful way. If Raymond wished to fully immerse himself in this experience, it wouldn’t be enough to talk to these cracked-out fellows from his own perspective; he needed to make them feel that he was one of them. They needed to believe he understood their lives and that he wasn’t just some white, imperialistic tourist. He was a human being who fully empathized with their personal suffering.

But Raymond really did not want to do crack. The most extreme drug he’d allowed himself was marijuana a few times in college. Though he enjoyed the experience immensely, he was also aware of the prohibitions on drug use within the proper society that jealously guarded the gates of power. He’d made the conscious choice to abstain from using substances altering his perception of the world. While Raymond appreciated the perspective a different chemical composition might give him on life, he felt an intense desire to remain clearly cognizant in his original frame of reference. He simply could not justify the personal indulgence of chemical bliss when child soldiers were being pressed into the service of genocidal warlords in the Democratic People’s Banana Republic Presents the People’s Choice Nation of Haiti[5].

Turning down offers for harder drugs had been fairly easy in the past; he’d justify missing the life experience by telling himself he was having a much more unique moment by hanging out with heroin addicts while not actually doing heroin himself. Who else could say that? Raymond would think. His short lapse in judgment during his dark days waiting for Nico and his decision to take lithium had only served to strengthen his position on the issue.

But this was not the same as turning down the trust fund brigade when they offered their drug of choice; these were real people and this was a genuine experience. If he were to turn Constantine down, they’d see Raymond as the stereotypically conservative, inexperienced white amateur Raymond feared being labeled above all else. In their eyes he dreaded being viewed as another moon-eyed, know-nothing imperialist dabbling in the idea of “slumming it.” Raymond was horrified at the thought, but still really, really didn’t want to do crack.

Thinking quickly, Raymond stumbled into a solution, “Oh…oh shit. I…I know I paid, but I really shouldn’t. You know…my family had a bad problem with the stuff…my sister she…” he trailed off deliberately.

Constantine looked at him skeptically, “Thou are’t from a family of addicts?”

Raymond continued “It got really bad and my parents kicked my sister out before she…It got really bad for a while…I don’t think I should.”

Lowering the bag, Constantine looked at Raymond sympathetically, “If thou art cleaneth, thou should’st stayeth so. Mayhaps thyself twoulst benefit mosteth by exuenting from mine presence. I haveth not the will nor desire to stoppeth mine own habit.”

“Oh, actually I think this is a good test for me. It strengthens my resolve. I want to be able to endure being around the stuff without giving in.”

“If thou insisteth. Solomon and myself wereth in the middleth of preparations foreth a new session beforeth thy intrusion. Telleth us thy tale as we partake.”

Raymond grimaced, but did not deny their request. And so while Constantine and Solomon smoked and hit their short bursts of highs, pacing around the room, sometimes making small, strange noises before sitting down again and twitching as they settled into an uneasy rest, Raymond told them a mostly fake story of his life.

He patched together a tragic narrative using details and knowledge he had gleaned from a variety of books, films, documentaries, and news reports detailing the effects of cocaine and the unfortunate events that often accompanied its use. To these facts, he attached long-suppressed memories of a home he’d left in anger and shame. On more than one occasion, Raymond wasn’t sure if he was lying.

While he was lying, his mind grappled with the implications of his decision. In deceiving these men, was he acting like a condescending imperialist by believing he could deceive the simple, child-like natives? Though the specter of this thought haunted him, his belief in connecting with all human beings on their own terms superseded this particular concern on this particular occasion. Throughout his tale, Raymond made sure to cast what he believed were longing glances at their billowing crack pipes before pretending to force himself to look away.  By the time he was describing the month he spent turning tricks in Phoenix, Raymond had settled on feeling guilty for misleading the men. He justified the guilt as a pragmatic necessary evil with the conviction that it was the only way to gain their acceptance, allowing him to learn their true nature as they revealed to him this hidden side of life he‘d never experienced before.

When Raymond felt satisfied with the conclusion of his story, he looked to his companions for their approval.

“Thou hast had some experiences,” Constantine spoke in a jittery stutter.

“That’s just life though, you know?” Raymond nodded sagaciously, “So, what sort of stuff got you here?”

“Twas a simpleth series of hardships,” Constantine began, “Ineth Anacostia, one is ofteneth born and suffereth through life untileth death. Tis no moreth thaneth thateth. Mine predilection foreth thiseth substance offerethest a moment ofeth ecstasy and freedom ineth thateth world. Howevereth, the choice doth inflict a greatereth intensity of suffering ineth the end. Mayhaps mine dichotomy iseth false, buteth it seemeth we chooseth between middling, extended suffering and the extremes foundeth within thiseth pipe.”

Raymond lapped up each syllable with an insatiable lust for their authentic and unadulterated realism. This moment, this was real. This was life. This is what real life looked and felt and sounded like. All his theories and philosophies and deeper meanings went right out the window. They meant nothing here in this room with these real human beings. A state of nirvana began to settle on Raymond’s psyche as he sat there in Constantine’s crack den. He nearly considered himself a genuine person.

Solomon stirred and bleated harshly, “Shut thy gob, Constantine thy slob. Whyest art thou placing airs uponeth thy manner? Do not leteth yonder slattern confuseth thee, oh ye of little melanin, tis the man’s lust for cock that driveth him.”

“Quiteth thyself, cur. Thy cockmanship far outstrips mine own. Slattern? I name thee strumpet, a whore too loose foreth the inner sanctum of Babylon.”

Raymond was shaken from his rapture by their puerile debate. He attempted to steer the subject back to matters of import, “Solomon, what are your thoughts on the use of mind altering substances to deal with the horrors of existence?”

“Mine thoughts pertaineth entirely to the realm of sucking your cock andeth your payment ofeth $100 for the pleasure. Ifeth no arrangement iseth desirable for thee, thou canneth go fucketh thyself back with thy lightly colored brethren.”

“Thy blackmouthed blackguard! Whyest dost thou speaketh toeth yonder innocent snowflake with such a tone. Can’st thou not see the man shall payeth for high talk?” Constantine turned once more to Raymond, “Never thee worry, good sir, if thou be of a mindeth to continue afashion, I shall happily oblige. Twill be a bit more cash, however. T’wouldn’t be mine first talk job, I assure thee.”

Raymond shrunk within himself, “No1 I wasn’t here for anything like that! I…I came here to…I don’t know! But you’re real people!”

Constantine smiled at him seductively, revealing his mouth of darkened teeth, “We canneth be anything thou desire foreth the right amount.”

Standing now, Raymond trembled, pleading for them to understand his intentions, “I swear to you I’m only here to learn and experience! This is a part of life…I’ve known but never felt in person! I just wanted to see and understand…”

Constantine made a grab for Raymonds genitals, “Everyone wanteth it in their owneth manner. Payeth and thy desire shall be fulfilled.”

“I can’t…You…how do we understand?” Raymond cried as he turned and fled from the house.

Hours of wandering later found him home explaining his situation to Asher and Chandra. Asher laughed in delight and Chandra appeared confused. Raymond detached himself and watched his body laugh with Asher and heard his words agree with how absurd he was. He saw his form bid them goodnight and retire to his room. Joining once more with his own physicality, his consciousness lay awake, seething.

[1] This was Sergei777’s full legal name. His parents, Yuri32 and Ivana91, had been master hackers and had wished for their child to follow in their digital footsteps. Though accounting and dividends had always been Sergei777’s true passion, he was forced to take over the family business following Yuri32’s botched hack into the Foreign Intelligence Service’s database in search of information on the frequent pederastic orgies members of the Duma supervised and provided their own children as tribute during to sate the ever-expanding appetite of the Russian administration. After allegedly finding tapes of an alleged sexual encounter between the Russian president and prime minister’s infant son, Yuri32 and Ivana91 were allegedly killed by alleged government thugs, leaving young Sergei777 as a vengeful hacker orphan.

[2] A government leak would have made the news feel like a conspiracy and cover-up. Subsequent government denials would only further undermine the trust the people placed in the administration. Modern Issue could then deliver a stunning exposé on the government’s lies and record an interview with the courageous whistle blowing scientist working on the NFVS project, positioning themselves as champions of the people’s truth. That’s what Asher assumed would have happened, anyways.

[3] One of the strangest new converts was a man named Jake Tampala who, much to Raymond’s amusement and Chandra’s annoyance, began his own blog proclaiming Chandra Sen “The Reverend Mother of Violence;” God’s divine researcher manifested on Earth. The blog was attacked mercilessly, but Mr. Tampala’s faith endured and his martyr-like perseverance earned his denomination of SVB a significant following. He began sending frequent messages to Modern Issue’s email the day after Dr. Sen’s congressional outing. Asher had never replied or informed Chandra of this new admirer’s attempts to engage his savior.

[4] Prior to the realization that the collective’s proposed administration was not going to happen.

[5] Raymond was unsure if “People” was in the name twice, only before “Banana,” or only before “Choice.”

Summer had descended on DC and the days were saturated with humidity and exhaustion. The air conditioning of the Red Roof Inn was on the fritz, plunging their rooms into an abysmal and suffocating heat that battered their bodies with relentless waves of stagnant air. Asher and Raymond could no longer work long hours within the confines of their rooms, and as Anacostia lacked a café culture to support their needs, the pair was forced to furtively slip into suburban coffee chains whenever they posted. Nico was found sweating at various construction sites around the district or cooling herself in her architect’s offices downtown. Though Chandra had spent a considerable portion of her life lacking climate control in the slums of Dhaka, she was now acclimatized to comfort. Her escape was her pleasantly cool laboratory where, to Asher’s great displeasure, she was now spending the majority of her nights.

But Chandra was furious. Working with Dr. Slovache was proving exceptionally difficult, particularly when his ludicrous hypotheses were corroborated by her rigorous experimentation. His unorthodox methods, which included staging fights between burly men and injecting the world’s deadliest diseases into human test subjects, were producing clear and respectable results. The tests were also exceedingly media friendly, allowing the surprisingly camera savvy Slovache to bill himself as America’s preeminent scientific mind. His teleconferenced guest appearances on news outlets invariably produced an outbreak of widely shared quotes and too-fantastic-to-be-real video clips. Chandra’s own experiments, by contrast, were far too technical and lacking in shirtless men pummeling one another to capture the public’s imagination or explain over a talking head accusing her of “playing God”. Her stints in mass media, often arranged by Asher, were consistently characterized by two aspects; her obvious scientific brilliance, and the obvious confusion her obvious scientific brilliance inflicted on the program’s host.  This earned her a public reputation for standoffish elitism and arrogance.

The usual bile-filled internet commentariat developed a special sort of hatred for Dr. Sen. As an attractive minority woman who was clearly more intelligent than everyone around her and didn’t attempt to hide it, the wrath she faced from the resentful masses was fierce. It seemed open season for racist and sexist remarks on any article that mentioned her name even in passing. Though Chandra was far too busy to spend any time reading the vileness spewed across the fiber-optic landscape, the concerned looks from the other scientists at the NFVS project did occasionally disturb her concentration.

Her curiosity eventually got the better of her and she read an article on a conservative news source detailing her most recent interview. The article itself was insulting, with coded usage of “frigid” and “feisty” as descriptors of her demeanor, and the strange inclusion of her marital status in a column where the topic was an interview on her new method of mapping electron distribution in alkali metals. But the comment section was what truly seared her spirit. The white-hot hatred espoused by people who, as far as Chandra knew, she’d never met or done anything particularly nasty to, was startling. How could a person hate someone they’d only seen a handful of times in media reports?

But hate they did. The most common word used to describe her, “Bitch”, was disappointingly uncreative. “Terrorist” was equally mundane. She’d grown accustomed to western media portraying anyone with her skin color as threatening. “Terrorist Bitch” was a bit better; at least it showed a neuronal spark. As she waded through comment after comment attacking her, reply after reply agreeing with or cheering on the hatred, she began to feel a weight sag within her. Though she’d initially felt some amusement over the time and energy these poor souls put into hating her for whatever petty reason they’d contrived, reading thousands of anonymous voices calling for someone to “rape the monkey with a splintered cross” or to “do what her barbarian family should have done and stone her to death” soon found Chandra trembling alone at her desk. After a moment of wondering at the base nature of humanity, she turned off her computer and went back to work.

Chandra’s growing negative public profile eventually consummated in the bluster of a porkish, red-faced conservative television host who interrupted her while she was calmly trying to break down the role quarks played in preventing an atom’s transmission of violence to demand she scale back her “uppity tone” while she was a guest in his country and on his program. When Chandra spoke to him harshly over his outrageously sexist tone and racist declaration, the host defended himself by claiming nothing he’d said was remotely racist or sexist and that she was being an overly sensitive enforcer of Politically Correct fascism. He then ambushed her with a question on a sexual assault case she’d filed against a professor during her days at Yale.

“You accused this man of sexually assaulting you, but the allegation was never proven. However, you continued to hound and attack this man as part of your prestigious university’s “institutionalized misogyny” in an op-ed you penned for your campus paper. Even after the university convened a panel and dropped the case, you took part in a rally against men. Are you a radical feminist? And don’t you feel the need to apologize to this man, whose name you dragged through the mud with allegations that were proven false?”

Rather than respond, the good Dr. Sen promptly walked off the set and refused to participate in any further interviews with “these dark-age cretins,” as she lamented to a righteously enraged Asher on their trip back to Anacostia. Any future mention of Dr. Sen within popular culture was always prefaced with the video and a description of her final, controversial interview. The swine-infused host used the media’s temporary focus on the event to make the rounds on sympathetic talk shows to defend his position and promote his new book, How We Defend Us: The Growing Threat of Multiculturalism in the Age of Non-Violence.

Now that the public was reassured that important people were making important progress on this important situation, Modern Issue’s influence saw a marked decline in daily readership. Their promotion of Dr. Sen, in conjunction with their daily discussion of controversial topics, began to turn readers off due to the site’s “negative vibes.” Their name was suddenly synonymous with troublemaking and boat-rocking. Conservative pundits began smearing their liberal colleagues as “Modern Issue readers” to signify their target was disruptive to the good order of their newly stable society. The liberal talking heads defined so responded by vehemently denying their association with the fringe publication. Now was a time for stability and business as usual, institutional editorials proclaimed, failing to cite Asher’s original articles for the creation of the idea. The media’s mantra was clear: dissenting voices were unwelcome and unwanted.

Modern Issue’s new place in the political lexicon frustrated both Asher and Raymond, though not enough to change the content of their posts. Chandra urged Asher to abandon his public defense of her qualities, insisting she was happy to stay out of the spotlight and simply utilize the limitless resources provided to the NFVS project to conduct personal research. But Asher steadfastly refused to comply, believing that pragmatism was not an adequate course of action in this particular situation. There were certain positions, he stated, that could not be compromised. Therefore, between Asher’s increasing vitriol and Raymond’s constant stream of contentious columns, Modern Issue returned to the periphery of the public’s consciousness.

Chandra’s guilt at being a contributing factor in Modern Issue’s decline, along with the incorporation of the accumulation of the population’s directed hatred into her psyche, increased her tension at work. Though she privately considered Dr. Slovache an idiot, she maintained an amiable working relationship with the eccentric scientist by adopting a pliant and submissive façade that bowed to his nonsensical whims with the goal of getting him to leave her office as quickly as possible. This front was severely debilitated as her personal turmoil took a toll on her energy. His intrusions into her workspace begging her to explain basic scientific principles hindered her progress and tested her patience. On more than one occasion she barely stopped herself from mercilessly berating his abilities and driving him from her sight. Only the joy she experienced in relation to her work’s rapid advancement, despite Dr. Slovache’s occasional incursions, allowed Chandra to endure the incompetence of her superior.

Dr. Sen’s support staff continued to shock her with their usefulness. During her exile, she’d adapted to running a lab by herself; performing every task in every experiment with tedious precision. With competent assistants, however, Chandra found she had more time to develop theories. Though it was initially difficult to trust in the abilities of the other scientists, her subordinates gradually proved their general aptitude. Some of her colleagues even went as far as mildly impressing her when asked to employ advanced laboratory techniques. She was further surprised when a few of the more experienced members of her staff proved capable of offering intelligent suggestions and feedback on the course of their current project. Chandra, for the first time, began to enjoy working with a team of people who, while not exactly her peers, had something to offer her beyond the limited capacity she’d come to expect from other human beings. Her most advanced research however, which she defined as anything that would lead a reasonable person to conclude the supernatural nature of violence, was kept closely guarded at her private workstation.

Though outside her field of expertise, Chandra had begun an inquiry into the biological effects of NFVS. After weeks of testing samples for levels of violence during the process of mitosis, she’d reached a startling conclusion; human cells were now, for lack of a better term, immortal. The full implications for the human process of aging was uncovered when Chandra witnessed the complete reparation of a human cell within twenty replications. By the twentieth cycle, the health of the genetic code and length of the telomeres taken from an eighty-year old subject had returned to peak levels of efficiency, similar to something one might expect in a healthy twenty-three year old. Upon further testing from every scientific angle she could imagine, Dr. Sen concluded that human beings could still be born and grow older, but as they approached the age of optimal cell health, somewhere around twenty-three-years-old, the cell’s would reach an equilibrium and future replications would merely produce equally healthy copies. The lack of available violence meant human cells could only improve and never degrade. Her research also implied that human beings older than twenty-three would see their corporeal form gradually return to the zenith of physical health as their cells replicated. In the coming years, Chandra foresaw an unprecedented and catastrophic population explosion among the human race unless dramatic measures were taken.

As Dr. Sen was finalizing the notes from her private research to present to Nico, Asher, and Raymond so the group could decide on the best course of action to account for this shocking new information, Dr. Slovache strolled into her office unannounced. He was nearly next to her before she noticed his wheezing presence.

Existing near Hubert Slovache’s physical form was decidedly unpleasant. He seemed to ooze an aura that soaked the nearby recipient with the feeling that a shower was the most vital action they could take in the next half-hour. The jowls weighing down his sagging features were folded an incalculable number of times and always shiny with perspiration. Two strands of hair lay psychotically across the otherwise smooth dome of his cranium, linking each unkempt tuft of greying auburn hair like a stereotypical rope bridge unimaginative action movies set in distant jungles use to heighten tension. When observing these narrow threads of hope, one couldn’t help but imagine the curator carefully arranging their placement each morning in a delusional attempt to reclaim ground lost long ago to age and the scourge of male-pattern baldness. With so much of his body protected from soap by other parts of his body, Slovache also carried an array of unspeakable odors, infecting and tainting every surrounding surface.

His recent acumen in media relations, incomprehensible to those who knew Dr. Slovache personally, was due in great measure to his insistence on being interviewed via satellite from his office after ample preparation and a miraculous transformation involving a finely-crafted, all-natural, diminished male follicle assistance apparatus and the heroic efforts of his personal assistant/make-up magician. The smell was avoided and his limited charm could shine through the layers of caked beauty masking his flaccid countenance.

Unfortunately for Chandra, her interaction with Hubert Slovache on this occasion was sans satellite and the smell couldn’t be avoided. It was always a surprise which genre of rot he’d bring along. It constantly changed and rarely repeated. Chandra wasn’t previously aware there were so many different olfactory variations in the sensation of spoilage. At least the open sewers in Dhaka were consistent; an odor you could grow accustomed to and count on welcoming you home after a long journey to less pungent portions of the city. The constant cycling in Slovache’s stench meant adaptation was impossible; and every day brought new rank suffering.

Today her nostrils filled with the unmistakable smell of over-ripe durian. She was amazed that a man who prided himself on sticking to “All-American” fare, no matter what part of the world his search for mythological truth brought him to, could be blessed with the ability to acquire such internationally diverse aromas.

Chandra suppressed a gag and looked up, “Oh, Dr. Slovache, I did not hear you come in. I am just finishing for today,” she said as she attempted to stash her notes.

“Dr. Sen,” Slovache rasped in his guttural grumble of a voice, “How is your research into NFVS’s effect on the ageing progressing?”

“Oh!” Chandra started. She’d forgotten she’d mentioned the research to a curdled cottage-cheese scented Slovache one day in desperation to remove him from the range of her nostrils, “It is going well, but there are complications. It is a very difficult process. I have to measure the varying length of the telomeres in cells and compare that to the frequency of mitosis, but we are slogging on.”

“Well I’m sure you’re doing the best you can. I’d be happy to assist, but I just can’t find the time to get down here too often. We’ve got the quarterfinal bouts coming up, you know. Speaking of, were you interested in placing bets? Just between you and me, my money’s on Abrahams. Murrey has a mean right hook, but as it doesn’t really do anything on the violent side anymore, the fights are wars of attrition now. Abrahams has the patience to sit there and wait it out.”

Eyes watering, Chandra declined, “No…no I think not. I have never been a fan of bloodsport. I should be getting home I think.”

Chandra stood up to leave, grabbing the file to take back to Anacostia. Either she stood up too fast or Slovache’s durian flavoring proved too much for her. She awoke moments later having crumpled back into her chair, papers scattered across the floor.

“Oh dear! Are you alright? Feeling a little under the weather? Maybe you should take some time off? I know the press can be rough sometimes, and that last interview was awfully unfair,” Slovache said in the kindest tone he believed he could manage. He bent to gather the fallen sheets of paper.

Chandra was recovering her senses and panicking, “I am sorry; I am not sure what happened. Please do not trouble yourself, Dr. Slovache. I can pick those up.”

But it was too late. Slovache had seen the title of her report, “Immortality induced when cells lack the necessary Spirit of Violence? What does this mean Dr. Sen? The Spirit of Violence?”

“Just a theory, Dr. Slovache, just a theory,” Chandra attempted to assuage his curiosity.

“Please fill me in. It sounds fascinating.”

Half-terrified and half-relieved she was forced to reveal her work, Chandra related the details of her studies. While it was clear Dr. Slovache couldn’t follow the data, he jumped at the idea of a supernatural force.

When she finished, Slovache was giddy, “We must tell people!”

Chandra balked, “Well, sir, I am afraid the data is not quite ready yet. I still need to run a few more…”

“I’m convinced! I’m head of this project and I think we should all refocus our efforts on your research.”

“But…sir…the implications…if this got out now…”

“The truth is what the public deserves! I’ve spent my whole career trying to bring the truth to light. I’ll not compromise now!”

Chandra berated herself silently for her olfactory sensitivity, but she was tired of being attacked while uncovering the secrets of NFVS. She strove to help her species, but she’d been painted as a villain. Sharing her data felt like unburdening her soul during confessional, but here her priest was an inquisitor, and his zealotry condemned her to persecution. Chandra was momentarily abandoned by her robust mental faculties and dutifully followed a manic Dr. Slovache to the atrium.

After gathering their staff for a general meeting, Dr. Slovache presented, in his limited capacity, Chandra’s new research. His conclusion was met with pronounced silence.

“You mean, we won’t age?” a curious intern asked in the stillness.

“That’s right, once we reach the age of…what is it? 23?” Slovache looked at Chandra, who nodded, “We’ll no longer physically age.”

“So…if violence can’t kill us, diseases can’t kill us…and now we don’t age, how do we die?” an elderly biologist asked.

Slovache looked at Chandra, urging her to respond. Mechanically, Chandra stated, “At this point, I do not see death as a functional possibility. However it may be that we have not exhausted every possible avenue.”

“What you’re saying is…it’s possible humans are now immortal?” another young intern ventured.

“That is possible,” Chandra conceded.

“So I think that just about proves it!” Slovache spoke triumphantly, “There is a force at work here from beyond the physical realm. We’re now dealing with spiritual matters, people. The esteemed Dr. Sen has shown us the way.”

“I’m simply presenting my findings,” Chandra stated.

“These are more than findings, Dr. Sen, this is a new doctrine! You’ve introduced us to the way of the Spirit of Violence! We must understand our spiritual nature if we’re to understand violence,” Slovache said in a voice that’d taken the tenor of a Sunday sermon.

“…This is just Science,” Chandra said, annoyed her biological extrapolations were having a greater impact than her well-plotted physics data sets, “If you want to talk about supernatural evidence, we have to talk about the unknown force acting on our atoms, not your idea of a ‘Spirit’”

The room began to murmur, with most veteran scientists scoffing at the notion of a spiritual force at work in the violence issue.

“Why’re we talking about ghosts and goblins? We’re a serious and vital research facility. We’re here to use real Science to understand,” a pudgy physicist called out in anger.

“We’re wasting time! Let’s review your findings, Dr. Sen. That’s what real scientists do,” the elderly biologist stated, shooting Slovache a poisoned glance around the word ‘real’.

“Stop! I’m the lead researcher here! And Dr. Sen’s findings have convinced me!” Slovache shouted in a frothy zeal. His carefully placed strands of hair were displaced by the force of his movements and swung down from the crown of his head, where they hung precariously over his face, stretching from his temple all the way down to his collar.

“You haven’t even tested her data!” a lanky botanist yelled.

“I don’t need to! I have faith in Dr. Sen, and there can be no other explanation!” Slovache responded, his face and jowls reddening with rage.

“Wait a moment…” attempted Chandra.

“This is insane. This is not science. I’ll not be part of such an absurd project!” the physicist retorted as he stomped out.

“Don’t worry! We don’t require any of you! If you refuse to take this leap of faith by accepting hard scientific evidence, you have no place on this project!” His tenuous strands of hair flapped and flopped from the side of his head as his spittle laced diatribe attacked the assemblage.

The entirety of the scientific team, save for two interns, left muttering mutinously. The interns cautiously approached a seething Dr. Slovache.

“Excuse me, sir. If we stay can we get promoted and paid like real scientists?” one of the women asked timidly.

“No! You’re interns!” Slovache yelled back.

“Oh, well then fuck you, asshole,” she spat as both followed the exodus.

Slovache turned to Chandra, “Good. Now we can get some actual work done. We need to prepare this for my upcoming monthly congressional progress report.”

“Dr. Slovache, I don’t know if we should unveil this quite yet. The public’s reaction…”

“Baloney! With your data we’ve got all the evidence we need,” Slovache dismissed her, then paused, considering her point a second time, “Actually, I think it’d be best if you take the lead on this, Dr. Sen. I want you to present the testimony.”

“But Dr. Slovache! You are the lead researcher! This is your project! Congress expects the testimony to come from you.”

“Yes…well…I think because you discovered it, you should have the honor of presenting it to the world! You deserve it!” Slovache said, nervously observing her reaction.

“Very well then. I will begin preparations tomorrow,” Chandra responded stiffly, understanding her situation.

After this unfortunate detour, Dr. Sen gathered her summarized data once again and left for the day.

Back at the Red Roof Inn, an exhausted Chandra walked met with a cheery Nico, Asher, and Raymond. Since Nico’s shift in tactics, a decision that initially infuriated Asher, there’d been a marked improvement in the group’s overall morale. This climb in spirit came despite the recent decline in the popularity of Modern Issue[1].

Nico and Raymond, to all outward appearances, seemed an idyllic, blissfully happy young couple. When not busy working on their own projects, they were occupied with teasing and debating one another on all manner of issues with a gaiety usually reserved for fictionalized cinema romances. Their happiness and enthusiasm were infectious, making each return to the succor of the motel refuge a rejuvenating experience after Chandra’s strain with the media and at work.

“I have what might be considered a bit of news,” she announced as the group turned to greet her return.

“Welcome back! I’m always a fan of news,” Raymond answered her.

Chandra proceeded to relate the recent laboratorial happenings to her shocked congregation.

“Slovache wants you to testify?” Nico questioned, “But why?”

Asher appeared pensive, “I think he realized the potential political fallout and doesn’t want to be the face of the theory. Chandra has a pretty questionable reputation on the Hill, so he figures she can bear the brunt of the criticism.”

“That is my thinking as well,” Chandra agreed, “I do not believe the public is ready for this concept. I…I am sorry to you all…”

“Oh no! Please Chandra, don’t be. We understand how you must have felt. It had to happen eventually. We’ll all deal with this together,” Nico comforted her.

“Raymond was probably going to slip up and spill the beans sooner or later, so it’s better it happened like this,” Asher joked.

“Hey! I’ve been exceedingly careful with our beans, thank you. But yeah Chandra, I’m glad you did it! Any change is exciting change! Besides, you wanted to go public with this months ago, didn’t you?”

“I did. But after witnessing the reactions of my colleagues, people who have been exposed to a great deal of research that might lead to these conclusions; I am highly concerned.”

“How’re we going to handle this?” Raymond asked.

They each weighed various options. After an extended period of group contemplation, it was Asher who spoke, “Let’s just present the full, unadulterated theory and let the chips fall where they may.”

The other three looked at one another with concern. “Doesn’t that seem a bit reckless, Asher? And this is me asking.” Raymond said.

“Would not such a shock plunge society back into chaos?” Chandra wondered.

“Probably, But so what?” Asher said casually, smiling at them placidly.

“Asher! What’s wrong with you!?” Raymond was aghast at his friend’s uncharacteristic demeanor.

“Look, we’ve been charting a pragmatic course this entire time, and it’s gotten us nowhere. We bungled the Slovache thing and Modern Issue is on life-support In terms of influence. A little chaos might throw us back into the mix, especially when the catalyst is coming from our happy little band.”

“Is this about personal power, Asher?” Nico asked. The room was strangely tense.

“No. It’s not about your power or my power,” Asher responded tersely, “It’s about what’s good for the world. Raymond’s been rattling off columns about the positives of enlightened dictatorship, and I think he’s right.”

“But that’s just theory, Asher! Who’d be qualified to rule?” Raymond was upset at the thought of his theories being put into practice.

“Who better than us?” Asher asked the three rigid faces following his words, “I’m not saying we should be a bunch of power mad wanna-be dictators; I’m saying the perspective and balance of power we have in this group would serve the world well if it were applied to the global policymaking process.”

“You want to use my theory to destabilize the world, and then use Raymond’s theory after we chart a path to power?” Chandra asked skeptically.

“Your theory is valid, correct?” Asher asked intently.

“Yes…but…”

“Then all we’re doing is telling people the truth. Whatever happens after that is human nature.”

“But you know what will happen!” Nico protested.

“Probably, but why should we keep this from the public? Nobody can be hurt anyways, at least not physically, right? The stakes and risks are significantly lower.”

“I…guess,” Raymond allowed.

“Don’t you want to try out one of your theories for real? On the national stage?” Asher pushed Raymond.

“I suppose I do…but…”

“I’m not doing this for myself! We can make a better world, but only if we work together.”

“I’m not sure about this, Asher. Humanity is unpredictable when it comes to spirituality,” Nico warned.

“What’s gonna happen? The Crusades?” laughed Asher, “An inquisition? There’s no violence anymore. The only way to control people is through ideas. And there’s no one in the world with better ideas than us.”

They each agreed with him, but not one of them had even admitted this thought to themselves, let alone another human being. They felt violated; as if Asher had broken the cardinal rule of their existence. Their entire lives had been a balance between their absolute belief in their personal superiority and their unwavering commitment to egalitarianism. With this levy breached, they were terrified where their impulses would lead them.

“If we’re going down this road we have to take real steps to make sure we’re working for the good of our species. The glory of our personal egos can’t cloud that.” Nico insisted.

“Of course! Besides, how’d we feel glorified anyways? It’s not like we care about the opinions of the peasantry.”

Uncomfortable silence.

“I’m joking! Jesus! You know we’re all committed to the general welfare of humanity. Power is pointless. The real rush comes from knowing we’re advancing our species by seeing policies we created work effectively on the macro level.”

“My god, I was worried,” Raymond sighed in relief, “I thought we’d lost you to megalomania.”

“I don’t think we need worry about that,” Asher grinned at them, “I really don’t see how people get so hopped up on the idea of power and control. If you consider yourself better than the people you’ve designated as your rightful subjects, how is it stimulating to wield power over them? Wouldn’t it just feel like the natural order?”

“People derive pleasure from absolute power scenarios. Children enjoy the power they possess when destroying an ant colony, regardless of how the ants feel about this use of power. Impunity from repercussions when committing such an act on creatures considered powerless is what enhances their enjoyment,” Chandra responded.

“I suppose that could be true. I think it’s a shallow and unfulfilling impulse. Isn’t it more satisfying to exist amongst respected peers?”

The group continued their pleasant debate on the nature of power having unanimously, though uneasily, decided to seize it.

They spent the days leading up to Chandra’s testimony positioning their ideas. Asher and Raymond published and prepared a litany of articles extolling Dr. Sen’s countless virtues. Nico secured the acquisition of numerous media outlets the group could steer to subtly promote their interests after the revelations of Chandra Sen rocked society. Raymond also brought Dr. DeMasters into their scheme, insisting his perspective was a crucial missing ingredient. DeMasters was highly ambivalent as to their bid for power, but the thought of passing uncompromised reforms once they held sway was too tempting a proposition to oppose.

On the day of the testimony, having prepared as well as possible, the troupe escorted Chandra to the hearing on the Hill.

While the others waited outside the classified hearing, Chanda assumed her place in front of the panel of politicians. The room was crowded with security personnel and aides[2].

The committee chairperson, Senator Stovall (R-OK), welcomed Chandra with his contrived rustic mannerism, “We’re grateful you could fill in for Dr. Slovache today and are sure you’ll do your best.”

Chandra looked annoyed but maintained her professionalism, “Thank you for having me, it is a pleasure to be here and I do apologize for the absence of Dr. Slovache. Our revered head researcher felt I was the most qualified individual to testify today. It was my research that led to our most recent discovery.”

The Senator smiled condescendingly, “Yes, I’m sure. Please proceed with your progress report.”

Chandra detailed the specifics of her research in highly technical language. The committee was lost after her first sentence and frequently interrupted her to ask for “less science-y” terms. Chandra endeavored to oblige, but found difficulty in attempting to simplify her advanced research into the single-syllable rhetoric the committee required. By the time she reached her findings, the entire panel was thoroughly exasperated. However, when she launched into the portion of her conclusion Asher had written for the occasion, the panel’s mood became downright cantankerous. Upon the use of the phrase “Spirit of Violence,” near pandemonium broke out within the chamber.

“Stop! What in the world are you saying?” demanded a furious Senator Stovall, “What’s this pagan nonsense you’re spouting off?”

“I am simply relating to the panel the conclusions and findings of my research. The Spirit of Violence is a scientifically verifiable force related to…”

“We’ll not continue this blasphemy in the hallowed halls of Congress!” Stovall shouted, “You’re removed from this project!”

“Very well.  We have our data. And we have already released this to the press.”

Stovall was stunned, “Your research is classified! You‘ve committed treason!”

“Treason?”

“You’ve betrayed the interests of this nation!”

“This nation has betrayed the interests of our species, but I do not call you traitors. You are ignorant cowards and fools.”

“Arrest her!”

Personnel from the Secret Service and Federal Bureau of Investigations descended on Chandra, who languorously thwarted their adamant efforts to seize her by walking out of their ineffective grasp as a frothing Stovall screamed, “Seize that terrorist bitch!” The hapless agents desperately wished to comply with their orders but were powerless without access to violence. Asher and Raymond quickly joined Chandra as she strode out of the chamber and the three of them ran to a waiting vehicle. Nico slipped out a separate entrance to avoid public association.

They spent the next few hours ensuring they’d lost their tails, finally returning to Anacostia in high and hopeful spirits, ready to begin their ascent.

[1] Asher dismissed the downward trend in readership, believing the next inevitable crisis would see their numbers rise once more.

[2] The Hill had recently implemented its “Take an Intern, Leave an Intern” program to great fanfare and general acclaim. Whenever an aide required additional assistance, they could call the Hill Intern Pool (HIP), which would miraculously deliver a new intern. Ostensibly the program was supposed to allow interns an opportunity to see all sides of Congress by loaning them out to various offices, which would return them so they could be loaned again. In reality, offices only took interns, never left, and congressional intern staffs had swelled well into the hundreds. No one knew where the HIP kept finding fresh, qualified bodies* for the Hill’s infinite and delicate purposes, but everyone was too busy with work to check.

*HIP found these interns fairly easily by hiring thousands of previously rejected applicants who’d been equally qualified in every way other than their family connections.

After her hectoring from Dr. Francis DeMasters, the need to change the abhorrent living conditions in her new neighborhood filled Nico with purpose. With no source of fresh food, no bohemian coffee shops, no underground theaters, and no safely edgy bodegas, she felt the population of Anacostia lacked opportunities and fuel to express its true identity and culture. The blight of gentrification, however, was ever on her mind, filling her with revulsion at the prospect of unintended consequences. If these cultural bastions were to spring to life, the subsequent cost of living increases would make the newly revitalized district unlivable for the very people she was trying to help. Her first order of business was to circumvent this issue by purchasing the whole of Anacostia.

Initially, this was not particularly difficult. Land was cheap and owners were happy to sell for the inflated price Nico was offering. But as word got around that a new slumlord was systematically buying every scrap of property, building owners became difficult, with some demanding outrageous sums for run-down piles of rubble barely fit to house the rats living beneath their rotting floorboards[1]. But she paid it. Money was trivial compared to her vision.

Her board of directors was apoplectic. They harangued her for irresponsibility, claiming she would ruin herself if she continued. But as they’d made the same claim when she briefed them on the LLS, Nico merely humored the room of worried, wrinkled white men out of pity. From her room at the Red Roof Inn, she held daily teleconferences with her accountants and lawyers, but the news was always the same; her wise investment choices were soaring, leaving enough petty cash to run the entire LLS system at a loss for fifty years with money left to buy D.C. twice over. The board’s case was groundless, but to demonstrate she was a good sport she increased each of their shares by .1%. Nico assumed this gesture resolved the matter and moved on.

The lynchpin in her plan was the erection of a new Anacostia Performing Arts Center and Theater (APACT) to her extremely specific specifications. When the neighborhood began to buzz with culture, she’d use APACT to test her ideas for dance projects on a micro level, before she introduced them to the world. By experimenting in this low risk environment, she’d refine her ideas before she took the great personal risk of exposing her artistic sensibilities to haute culture. She envisioned future discussion of the Anacostia “scene,” a time and place that would surely become synonymous with boundless creativity and a renewal of the human imagination.

Nico felt the inclusion of experimental art projects would deeply enhance the lives of the residents of Anacostia. The more radical the project, the more rapidly their appreciation for the art world would grow. If she was conservative and merely introduced them to Classical, Baroque, and Impressionistic movements, she felt their palate would only grow at a moderate pace. By applying the theory of convergence, Nico knew she could stimulate rapid growth of artistic sensibilities through the use of radical contemporary movements. Her post-modern dance non-performances would be a central pillar in the education of the future aesthetic elites of Anacostia.

Her scheme moved forward, and the final lot was purchased in mid-April. While Nico was busy buying land, Asher was assisting Chandra in establishing herself as the preeminent thinker on the investigation into Non-Functional Violence Syndrome, or NFVS[2].

Over the same period, Raymond’s time was split between helping Asher write for Modern Issue, accompanying and assisting Nico in her real-estate venture, and frequent lunches with Dr. DeMasters, who was surprisingly tolerant of the exuberant Raymond. He’d often return to Nico gushing[3] about a new theory on racial identity, novel strategies for community engagements, or interesting anecdotes from DeMasters’s colorful past. Though occasionally nettled by his obsession with DeMasters, Nico found Raymond’s passion and adept strategies for community engagements useful when incorporated into her own project.

The closer Nico drew to Raymond, the harder it was to intentionally treat him poorly. She caught herself slipping into tender utterances or caressing him with delicate looks, reassuming her painted-on identity by pummeling his ego only after she realized her mistake. These radical variances were as difficult for her as they were for Raymond. She kept them up, however, as they seemed to be working exactly as Asher predicted. Raymond appeared enamored with her without his usual hyper-analysis of how or why he felt that way.

Nico was now unsure how or when she’d transition out of the charade. How long must this continue, she wondered, and when would Raymond be ready to love her without nuance? In part, she was perturbed her mind even manifested these questions. They made her feel subservient to Raymond; like he held power over her. To this she reminded herself she was as in control of this situation as she was for any project. This was her work. Her real desire for Raymond did not give him power over her.

Nico’s frequent inconsistencies in her treatment of Raymond attracted the notice of a curious Chandra, who approached Nico about the matter on an afternoon that found the two alone at the Red Roof Inn.

“Nico, I have a question, and I hope I am not making myself into a nuisance,” Chandra said apprehensively, knocking on the doorframe of Nico’s open room.

“Never, Chandra! I’m happy to have a chance to speak privately for once. Please, ask away!”

“Well, it is about Raymond,” Chandra said, taking a seat across from Nico.

“Oh…What about him?”

“I have noticed that your relationship seems rather erratic. You appear to care for him very much one moment, and then you become, if I may, imperious and condescending the next. Am I mistaken in this observation?”

“Have you spoken to Asher about this?”

“Oh no! I would never! I would not wish to speak of you behind your back!”

“Ahh, well, he’d explain the situation. I know it seems strange, but it’s something I’ve got to do. Unfortunately for my own sanity it’s the only way Raymond works.”

“I do not understand what you mean by this. You must treat Raymond with disdain? To what end?”

“I think you’ve noticed by now that Raymond’s a very…peculiar man?”

“Well…Yes, I have noticed his unique nature. Though I think we are, each of us, quite particular in our own ways.”

“True, but Raymond’s particularness is particularly bothersome for someone who might want to be close to him.”

“How so? He seems a lovely and thoughtful person. He strikes me as a unique and valuable person, but one who misunderstands what this means about his place in the world.”

“That’s just the problem. He’s too thoughtful and too neurotic to ever let himself feel something without building a mountain of justifications to accompany it. You’ve got to trick him into feeling something without having him realize he’s feeling it.”

“That is absurd!” laughed Chandra before collecting herself, “I apologize, I did not mean to imply…”

“No, of course you’re right. It’s absurd. But if I want to be with him so the he can achieve his full potential, it’s what I have to do.”

“Why would you wish to adapt yourself to him? Why can he not compromise and meet you halfway? It seems unfair to both of you.”

“Asher knows him best and this was his plan. Besides, I enjoy projects. It’s just one more thing to work on. But…I must admit, and I’m sure you’ve noticed, the strain of this particular venture is wearing on me.”

“Asher may know him well, but perhaps that makes him blind to what Raymond really needs. I know it is not my place, but I do not think you will ever create a happy or healthy relationship using Asher’s method. Raymond must change to be happy. Catering to his neurosis will simply entrench him further.”

“So then…you think we’re wrong? What else could I do?”

“Talk to him about this. Have an honest conversation with Raymond in which you tell him that if he wants to be with you, he must improve himself. Then tell him what he should do to improve.”

“But how? Don’t you think that’ll just increase his neurosis?”

“I think you need to give Raymond more credit. He is neurotic, but he seems strong as well. He must be if he was able to survive so many years of constant harassment from his own thoughts. Furthermore, I do not believe you are the type of person who is attracted to weak willed individuals. Am I correct?”

“I…yes. I think you are.”

“I think we are the same. We are both attracted to men who offer us what the rest of the world cannot; the potential for challenge and perhaps even an equal. I do not believe you would feel attracted to a man as weak as how you describe Raymond.”

“This is…is this true?” an increasingly excited Nico stammered, “So you think I can talk to him and he can become better through his own will?”

“Give him a direction and support and I think so.”

“Thank you, Chandra. You give me hope.”

“Of course, Nico. I think it would be wonderful to see you both happy. But please do not thank me until it works.”

Nico hugged Chandra, for her kindness and her insight, and slid back into her seat with a newly forged sense of intimacy between the two of them. They spent the remainder of the afternoon laughing and telling one another tales from their rich lives, discussing Chandra’s work on NFVS and Nico’s community restoration project, and debating various philosophies of aesthetics, an area in which they both possessed a keen interest.

Asher and Raymond returned in the evening to find Chandra and Nico smoking pot[4] and pondering the legacy of Duchamp. This newly created faction within their group caused low to middling level of consternation for the two men, who’d become accustomed to the frigid relationship between the two women. This thawing shifted the balance of power within their collective and made the fate of future decisions unclear.

Nico spent the next few days ruminating on Chandra’s idea while she contacted architects, city planners, health food logisticians, her personal choreographers, and direct trade sources for coffee beans. Making the decision to follow Chandra’s advice, Nico felt she had to execute on this new initiative immediately, before she was inundated with community meetings, building plans, and contracts for new commercial tenants.

On a night in which Chandra was working late with Asher at the lab, Nico collected Raymond from the desk where he was furiously scribbling notes for an article on the value of enlightened dictatorship in a world with no violence, and sat him down for a talk.

They sat facing one another on the cheap plastic chairs populating the suites. The controlled temperature of their room was always too warm and stuffy or too cool and dry. Today it was warm, adding to the feeling of claustrophobic cloistering within the modest room. Nico placed her hand on Raymond’s, who was sitting stiffly with his arms resting on his thighs.

“Raymond, I want to be with you.”

Raymond furrowed his brow; this was not what he’d imagined. He’d assumed she disagreed with his premise that without violence, the major risk to their own people posed by dictatorial governments vanished, making them the most efficient and effective form of government. He recovered adequately from his surprise to respond, “That is good.”

“I’m glad you think so. But we also have a problem, and that’s what we need to talk about.”

“There’s a problem? But…I’m sorry for not knowing right away. I think about our relationship a lot and…”

“I know you do, and that’s part of our problem,” she sighed, “I’m going to level with you, Raymond. I knew Asher from my past. We met when I was living in Paris for a few months after I graduated and…we were together briefly…”

“Really? Well, to be honest actually I already knew.”

“You…what!? You knew!?”

“Yeah, I mean, just from how quickly things became tense between the two of you it was kind of obvious you guys knew one another previously. That…and I heard you talking about me when we were having breakfast the morning violence stopped.”

“Why didn’t you say something!? I feel like an idiot!”

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about it! I just…well I was really touched you guys cared about me so much and didn’t want to mess up your carefully mapped out plans. It was kind of fun!”

“You…so you knew we were talking about you?”

“Yeah! Actually sometimes I made excuses to go out and run errands to leave the two of you alone because I liked to think about you talking about me. Sorry…I know that’s impossibly self-absorbed.”

“I guess you’re a better actor than either of us.”

“Oh no, you were both so convincing. Maybe if I hadn’t overheard that first conversation I wouldn’t have known. You’re so good at it though!”

“I…thanks.”

“One thing I didn’t know is that you and Asher had been together romantically. That’s definitely something I didn’t pick up on.”

“I’m sorry for lying to you for so long, and I promise I have no feelings other than respect for Asher.”

“Oh, it’s totally alright. I think I’ve always been platonically in love with him, so I can’t blame anyone else for feeling the same way, though I’m sure with slightly sexier thoughts. Did you know we tried to have sex once? We thought we were in love,” he began to laugh, remembering the experience, “It wasn’t very pleasant, which I guess was unfortunate because he’s a very attractive man and I would’ve been very lucky.”

“What!? You and Asher tried to have sex?”

“Sure, in college. It seemed like the thing to do. We figured we enjoyed one another’s company, so why not give it a go? But we’re both obstinately straight. Anyways, sorry for the tangent, you just reminded me of that. So why the secrecy? It’s no big deal, obviously. Asher would’ve known that I wouldn’t care.”

“Well, it wasn’t that we thought you’d be upset by our past connection, it was part of our…plan.”

“What sort of devilish machinations did the two of you cook up?”

“You’re a very difficult person, Raymond.”

“Undeniably.”

“Taking into account what you told me about yourself as well as the way Asher talked about you, it seemed that if I approached our relationship from what I guess we’d call a ‘normal’ angle, you couldn’t have handled it.”

Nico was sweating. The warmth of the room and tautness of her emotion were proving a taxing combination.

“That seems like a pretty fair assessment. I recognize that I’ve sabotaged the majority of my relationships.”

“So knowing that, what Asher and I devised was a stratagem to ensure you fell in love with me before you let your neurosis get the better of you.”

“Wow! That’s really nice of you guys! You actually did that? You talked about me with Asher to that extent? Jesus, I feel like a mental patient!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel…”

“Oh! No! No, No, No! I’m completely ecstatic! I can’t believe your feelings were so strong that you went through all that trouble! Thank you, Nico.”

Raymond leaned over to kiss Nico, who shooed him away.

“Well, I’m not done yet,”

“Alright then, but hurry. That bed seems criminally neglected.”

“To continue, I’ve been using the strategy of purposefully treating you poorly while remaining supportive emotionally and physically to keep you off balance and allow time for your raw emotions to develop organically.”

“Ahh, that does explain a few things. Organically, huh? Was that what all those colorful Squidge visits were about?

“Mr. Squidge’s offers? No, those were just tests. I wanted to be sure of who you were before our first date.”

“Jesus, Nico! So I guess I passed?”

“No, not really. You were supposed to negotiate with Mr. Squidge in order to secure an opportunity to see me. You just refused his offers outright like an idiot, so I assumed you weren’t interested. After the third visit I concluded you didn’t have feelings for me and gave up. But after a week or two I was thinking there might be something more to it, especially after Mr. Squidge told me how absurdly proud of yourself you seemed. Then I remembered Asher also went to Trotsky and had mentioned his odd friend Raymond who he’d crucified white children with, so I reached out and he explained how you work.”

“What a strange world. How chance plays into our lives constantly amazes me.”

“It’s odd, I agree. But after Asher explained, the whole thing made more sense. And I guess you could say I was hooked.”

“Naturally. Neurosis is the world’s greatest aphrodisiac.”

“I thought propaganda was the greatest aphrodisiac?”

“Well…I guess there are lots of nice aphrodisiacs. So you were saying how attracted you were to me?”

“Yes, I suppose. So I called you about that date with clear instructions from Asher. And you know the rest. Now, however, I think I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? What do you mean? Have I done something? I…”

“Calm down! I didn’t mean being with you. Remember what I said at the beginning of this conversation? The mistake I’m talking about is in the strategy I’ve been using.”

“Really? Why?”

“First off, being abusive towards you has taken a toll on me. Have you noticed me being intermittently nicer?”

“No, Not really.”

“You’re truly a master observer. Well, both Asher and Chandra have noticed, particularly Chandra.”

“Oh! I feel so enigmatic!”

“Yeah, well she took the opportunity when you and Asher were out doing those interviews to talk to me.”

“Is that why you guys were so chummy when we came back? Asher and I were both a little disturbed by that.”

“Why? What’s so disturbing about Chandra and me developing a bond independent of our male companions?”

“Oh, I mean nothing is wrong with it! Of course not! We were just surprised by such a dramatic change in your relationship.”

“Sure. Sounds suspiciously like you were concerned the female portion of our collective might speak in a unified voice instead of remaining as the divided toadies of our strong, male leaders.”

“No! I swear that wasn’t it! I even brought that up to Asher, but we debated it for a while and decided…”

“Good god! I was joking Raymond. While I’m sure I could’ve kept that up for an hour, and as much as I love watching you get worked up, that isn’t the point. Basically what Chandra told me changed my whole outlook on us.”

“And what was that?”

“It seems she has a higher opinion of you than either Asher or myself.”

“Really? I thought she thought I was an idiot!”

“I know, I was surprised too. But for whatever reason, she does. Her exact words were ‘He’s unique and valuable, but only if he lets himself be.’”

“Well that’s a nice way to be described. I want to be unique and valuable…”

“So do we. And she also thinks you can handle a normal relationship, but only if you change,” Nico said, looking into his crystalline eyes urging him to understand.

“Change? I mean, I’m all about self-improvement, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good. That’s along the lines of what I’m talking about. It seems that with my other strategy, I was killing myself trying to adapt to you. But you know you aren’t a happy or healthy person.”

“Well…I wouldn’t go that far…”

“You aren’t. Come on Raymond, do you really feel happy with who you are and how you feel about the world right now?”

“I…I guess you’re right…” he said slowly, ”I want to be happy, but I think I’ve become so comfortable with feeling unhappy that happiness actually feels less…easy, or comfortable. But, I think I want to be happy. I don’t want to feel content with my own suffering. I…I don’t know how though. If I ever feel content…I don’t know how to justify feeling content. There is so much wrong in the world…how can we ever justify being happy with anything? Especially as a white male I…”

“Raymond, look at me.”

“I…I think you help me feel less crazy. So does Asher, but I suppose you’re right, and I’m not happy.”

“Right, and so why would I adapt to that world? We can work on this together, but you need to change; you need to adapt to my world. If we can do that I think we have a good chance of experiencing some pretty legitimate happiness. Do you see Asher and Chandra? Asher has never been happy either, like you and for similar reasons. But with her, he feels justifiably content. We can have that too, Raymond.”

“I know we can, Nico. I’m so completely aware you’re everything I’ve ever desired to experience in another human being. But…I don’t know how. I want to be happy, but how?”

“As I said, we’ll do this together. I can help you. There are some very clear steps to take, you just have to be willing to commit to the effort.”

“I am, I promise I am!” Raymond swore to her, his voice rising “If you help me, I know I can be better.”

“I know you can!” Nico spoke happily, tears glimmering in her eyes, “And we can build a healthy life together!”

“So then, what do I have to do?”

“We’ll start that tomorrow, for now I just needed to know if you’re willing to change. You’ll feel so much better for it, I promise! But presently, I think you were right about that bed.”

Nico lay across Raymond’s chest resting happily. Raymond lay awake staring at the cracked plaster ceiling, drifting through his ever-shifting thoughts.

[1] Let alone the children orphaned by a recent bad batch of Alligator-Face aka Swiss Cheese aka Jesus Juice aka JJs, the hot new synthetic drug that made the user feel like a messiah* and look like an Alligator**.

*Which messiah was always, remarkably, dependent on the personal religion of each individual user. The clergy had no explanation for this phenomenon.
** Zoologists issued a strongly worded letter correcting the misleading name. Through careful examination, the scientists had determined it made people look more like Crocodiles.

[2] This phrase had emerged after an intense debate between the four permanent residents of the Anacostia Red Roof Inn. Chandra felt it was time to come forth with her theory on the spiritual nature of the non-violent epidemic and believed labeling the issue as “syndrome” was a misnomer that implied a physical source. In a rare departure from their typically resolute bloc, Asher joined Raymond and Nico in disagreeing, stating that the presentation of her spiritual theory must be approached with caution. He believed it should only be revealed when the evidence was both irrefutable and held the possibility of being broken down into non-technical talking points. If they presented the theory before they were prepared, he argued, the impact on society could be disastrous. Chandra grudgingly deferred to the political and social considerations of their argument and officially labeled the subject of her research NFVS.

[3] Nico enjoyed letting Raymond rant for long intervals as it gave her a break from playing her assumed character. She gained a great deal more from watching him enjoy listening to himself talk about his ideas than the actual content of the ideas themselves.

[4] Sour Diesel, coincidentally a favorite of both women.

In the weeks that followed, Modern Issue’s traffic increased tremendously. In response, the MI team upgraded their infrastructure and redoubled their efforts.

The jump in visitor numbers to the site, they surmised, could be attributed to the serious and unstable times in which they were living. Serious and unstable times necessitated the ascendance of serious and stable leaders. MI’s reputation as the only online news source without a section devoted to spotting celebrity cellulite positioned Asher and Raymond as the type of luminary voices the cowering masses craved.

Though they’d received numerous requests to appear as guests on cable news television programs, the plucky writers decided confining their thoughts to the written word would only enhance their staid credibility. And so the two men were publicly debated, flogged, defended, plagiarized, appreciated, berated, and worshiped without ever appearing in public or revealing the highly guarded secret location of MI HQ.

As for the writing itself, Asher did the majority of the heavy lifting, with Raymond serving to challenge and refine. Whenever Raymond did personally pen an article, it was often the most hotly contested item of the news cycle. The preponderance of public opinion usually expressed outrage, leaving a few key academic defenders to tout the article’s misinterpreted brilliance. Subjects for these commentaries ranged from discussions on the implementation of a new, definitely not-racist poll test for the modern era that would allow a democratic country to give higher or lower voting values to ‘educated votes’ vs. ‘uneducated votes,’ to calls for the complete dismantling of the defense and intelligence communities, with the saved funds transferred directly to education and social welfare programs. The two MI editors shared an alphabetically determined byline on every article published, whether it was the sober, thoroughly vetted pieces produced by Asher, or the incendiary screeds conceived by Raymond. Though Raymond’s positions often frustrated Asher’s pragmatic sensibilities with their lack of grounded realism, he couldn’t deny their traffic-generating capabilities.

While Asher spent a sizeable portion of his time writing in his room, Nico and Raymond spent their time exploring Anacostia and developing plans for their future.

After years of intensely social travels and adventures, Asher appreciated this new solitude. At every other point in his life he’d been driven by his mania to seek out unique situations and brilliant individuals. Asher’s deeply rooted conviction was that somehow, if he gained enough knowledge and learned the right combination of secrets about the world from its diverse inhabitants, he, Asher Rose, could fix humanity.

Asher also accepted that he was better at everything than everyone else, though he also understood it was extremely important that his fellow man accept this idea subconsciously without ever consciously acknowledging the truth. He spent exorbitant amounts of his seemingly unlimited energy striking this balance.

Unlike Raymond, who shared Asher’s passion for new experiences but had always struggled to attain his ideal in-group, Asher seemed to suffer from an over-abundance of lovable companions. Asher’s pool of acquired and cherished intimates was daunting. In every new location he seemed to bump into the pre-eminent thinkers of the region through pure happenstance; his luck in meeting ‘the right sort of person’ was unmatched. The effect his presence had on those around him, which tended to draw out the finest passion and creativity a person had to offer, also contributed to his vast and intensely interesting network of confidantes. Asher’s dissatisfaction came from loving each of these special individuals deeply and thoroughly while also experiencing the acute itching within his soul to never rest until he’d figured out how to fix his species. When that irritation bore deeper, an inflamed passion for his cause overwhelmed his love for those around him and forced him to move on, breaking him in two each time. A piece of Asher’s love remained behind whenever he left a place, scattering his soul across the surface of the Earth and causing him to forever feel the pull of each one of his many lives.  The anguish he endured as he left each portion of his love behind he accepted as a necessary sacrifice to his ultimate goal, and he sustained himself with visions of a future he’d shape. Down to his core, Asher knew he was to be the one who’d discover how to save humanity from itself.

The weeks of global chaos following the cessation of functional violence served as a platform for Asher to publicly espouse a number of ideas he’d collected during his travels. While his end goal was a radical departure from current societal norms, he felt that smaller, pragmatic steps would allow for a less disruptive transformative process and mitigate the negative impact and reaction this change would inflict upon and illicit from the demographic losing the most power. To this effect, he identified that the single most important task was to first reestablish an approximation of order. For this he bent the slant of his verbiage to encourage his fellow citizens to calm down.

Asher’s main thrust in his “Great Calming Down Campaign” (GCD) was that a submission to the authority of historical elites would give humanity adequate time to regroup and understand the full implications of a reality without violence. Chaos, he argued, was not the time for a radical change in government operations. The current state of affairs was not conducive to the substantial preparations necessary for civilization to adapt to its new paradigm. Therefore returning to the status quo, for the time being, was essential.

Governments seized this message and trumpeted it to their citizens. After weeks of both subliminal and explicit barrages of GCD messaging, riotous populations slowly scaled back, heeling to the sides of their traditional masters. Unfortunately for Asher, any public recognition of his contribution would have undermined the hard-won authority carved out by the reestablished establishment wielding his words. But he knew that they knew, and for now that was enough.

Barely a week after society stabilized, Asher received a private email from an important advisor to an important world leader seeking his help.

Dear Mr. Rose,

I know you know that I know what you have done for your nation. I know you understand why we cannot formally acknowledge your hand in the process, but let me assure you that the administration knows it is indebted to your important contribution. If you wish to continue serving your country in the same capacity, we need your voice once more. I have insisted on the need for an increase in the nation’s scientific research budget to find the cause behind this situation. Other advisers disagree, however, insisting a time of doubt must be met with an increase in defense spending. They believe our best hope lies in adapting our fighting forces to new modes of non-violent combat. The President seems to be leaning towards this course of action due to intelligence reports of the Chinese and Russians investing heavily in their own non-violent warfare programs. If you believe in the continued greatness of this nation, I implore you to lend your highly public voice to this debate in favor of scientific development. I await your reply and wish you the best regardless of your decision.

Humbly and Sincerely,

ZMF

The email threw Asher into a frenzy. It held the stink of corruption and served as an impeachment of his journalistic integrity. Though he’d been debating this very same issue and had come down on the side of scientific research, this new development humbly and sincerely mucked up the works.

He now had to weigh the merits of writing about the prescription he believed would serve the nation best against the risk of being exposed as the administration’s lackey. Even if that wasn’t technically true, even the hint could be used against him as blackmail. Hours of contemplation led nowhere, so he decided to do what he always used to do at Trotsky when he couldn’t make up his mind; consult Raymond.

While he was waiting for his friend to return from an outing with Nico, he received another email.

Mr. Rose,

You know who I am so I’ll keep this brief. I acknowledge that we’ve had differences in the past, but this moment in history transcends the divide between our political beliefs. I will do you the service of acknowledging that your voice carries weight. It’s your duty, as a member of this great nation, to use that voice for a matter of national security. Right now the leader of this glorious country is in danger of making a grave error by abandoning our armed forces to support a pipe dream. Now more than ever we require the bulwark of our military to reinforce and reassure the frightened citizens of our beautiful land that their government is still here protecting them from all threats. I agree that we need to invest in science, but science that takes place under the supervision of our department and for the purpose of finding a way to circumvent the new restrictions limiting the capabilities of our forces. Make no mistake; America’s enemies are doing just that with no hesitation as we speak. Join the cause and do your part. Your nation needs you.

Very respectfully,

ROBERT L. BLOMBELL

SECRETARY OF DEFENSE

THE PENTAGON

 

***This is private communication. Failure to keep it as such would be considered a breach of the National Paramount Need for Secrecy Act (NPNSA). The consequences would be in line with the provisions defined within that legislation***

Asher finished reading and sat back with a broad smile of relief.  “Thank god!” he thought. With this email he could expose governmental corruption and support his original plan in a single article. Of course, Blombell would deny the correspondence, but even the idea that he sent a letter attempting to influence and threaten Asher would destroy the Military First Bloc, allowing the liberal caucus to ram through substantial reductions in defense spending in order to substantially increase allotments for scientific spending. It was perfect.

When Raymond and Nico returned, Asher explained the recent developments.

“Are you serious?! That’s fantastic!” Raymond exclaimed before Asher finished reading Blombell’s email, “The guy’s done!”

After Nico admonished him for interrupting and Asher told them the rest of his idea, Raymond continued, “That’s great! I totally support this decision!”

“Of course you do,” Nico said. “Asher, isn’t this going to invite retribution? That sounded like a fairly stern warning.”

“Sure, but what could they possibly do to us, realistically?” Asher replied casually. “I guess they could break our stuff, but it’s not like they can threaten us personally. Worst case scenario is we move the operation to Europe. I know some people there who could help us…”

“We all know some people in Europe who could help us!” Nico objected. “That’s not the point!

“I don’t know any people in Europe who could help us…”

Nico ignored him, “I can’t do that! I’m in the middle of a project here and it’s just starting to come together! I’m not about to abandon it to follow you guys in exile to Europe!”

Asher and Raymond were surprised by her unexpected vehemence, “Nico, that’s not what’s going to happen. Don’t you think this is important too?” Raymond asked carefully.

“Yes! Of course it’s important! But it can’t interfere with my work.”

“Well alright then, if things get too hot here, I’ll go alone. You and Raymond stay to do…wait, what’re you doing anyway?” Asher said, regretfully aware that he’d been so absorbed in his own machinations that he had no idea what Nico was doing.

“A local development project that’s going to breathe life into this neighborhood!” Raymond said.

“What sort of redevelopment?”

“We’re going to gentrify the area without gentrifying the area,” Nico said.

Asher appeared nonplussed, “I have no idea what that means.”

“You’ll see when it’s ready,” she answered, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

As she strode out, she looked over her shoulder and called, “Raymond? Would you care to join me?”

“Yeah, of course I would. But only when you aren’t using me as a pawn against Asher,” he replied.

Nico turned and glanced at him in surprise. She then looked to Asher and slowly walked back into the room, taking a moment to reflect before sighing, “I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m sorry. I was being childish. I respect what you’re doing Asher, I just feel like it’s overshadowing my own project.”

“I understand, and I didn’t mean for that to happen. We’ve both got important goals. I don’t want one to take precedence over the other. Thanks for talking about it instead of holding a grudge,” Asher replied.

“It’s not about holding a grudge, it’s about making sure you don’t stampede over other people’s goals with your ego.”

“My ego is…yes I understand.”

“As long as you both understand and accept.”

“I do.”

“Well good, then everything’s fine.”

Raymond laughed nervously, “Jesus, not following you might’ve been the hardest thing I’ve done in my whole life!”

“It doesn’t exactly have stiff competition,” Asher replied, “So is this alright with you, Nico? I’ll support the scientific agenda and only use the honorable Secretary Blombell’s email if it looks like the legislation is about to fail.”

“Perfect. Besides, I think exposing corruption within the government might destabilize the fragile peace you fought for. Your whole argument was to trust the authorities, right?”

“Oh…shit! You’re right!” Asher realized, astounded, “How did I miss that?”

“Don’t worry about it. Not even you can think of everything. Now I really am off to bed. Raymond, last chance.”

“Coming!” he shouted, bolting out after her.

Asher laughed and turned to his derelict computer to write his new policy position.

The blowback from their official stance was tepid and manageable. In total, the group only endured two raids by ineffectively armed-to-the-teeth thugs, who, for all their brutishness and threats, only managed to smash the hard drive of a single computer[1].

Thanks to support from Modern Issue, the Scientific Redistribution Act easily cleared the House and Senate, cutting the defense budget by nearly 1/64^th. The massive influx of new funding stimulated a flurry of interest as to who the administration would name to head the team researching ineffective violence. With the United States’ direction clear, international rivals followed in kind, increasing their own science budgets and establishing their own teams of top researchers. The stakes were high; the first nation to discover the answer to humanity’s violence problem would hold a monopoly on power. The strictest levels of security were established to guard the secrecy of the research, hindered only modestly by an inability to shoot trespassers on sight.

Candidates for the position of lead researcher were suggested and dismissed daily. As no scientist had any pre-existing empirical knowledge of the subject, and no one was quite sure which discipline the problem belonged to, potentials from every field were considered. After much debate, Nico, Asher, and Raymond agreed on the public endorsement of a brilliant epidemiologist from Bangladesh named Dr. Chandra Sen, whom Asher had met while working with the World Health Organization in Dakar. Though relatively unknown outside the international disease circuit, Dr. Sen was something of an anomaly. She held a doctorate in both epidemiology and quantum mechanics, which she’d managed to acquire from Princeton by the age of twenty-four in spectacular fashion.

In what’d turned into an academic urban legend, Dr. Sen is said to have defended her two theses on the same day. As the story goes, after completing her quantum mechanics defense, a demonstration that’d reduced an elderly physics professor in attendance to a state of catatonic shock[2], she rushed from the room and across the Princeton campus to the biology department, arriving in time to begin her celebrated epidemiology defense 15 minutes later.

After graduation, Dr. Sen was hired as an unpaid intern by the World Health Organization, which sent her as part of a quick reaction force to Senegal to investigate a deadly Rubella outbreak. Within two weeks of the team’s arrival, Dr. Sen had not only eliminated Rubella, but had, in her free time, developed a machine that could locate any virus in any biological host, send microscopic mechanisms into the body, and cleanse the infected cells while also destroying the virus itself. She proudly described her invention as “the ultimate weapon in germ warfare.” This new machine, she explained to her superiors, could be attuned to seek out any viral strain and boasted of the cheap, recyclable materials used in the process, which meant the machine could deploy quickly and effectively anywhere in the world.

Her seniors, heavy investors in major pharmaceutical companies, responded by asking if anyone else knew about the machine. When she answered yes, they had her followed, terrified that curing every virus-based disease would make their jobs redundant and crash the Big Pharm market. A week after her proposal, her hotel room and lab were broken into, her machines destroyed, and schematics stolen. Fortunately for Dr. Sen, she’d met Asher Rose two days prior and was sleeping with him at the time of the break-in, saving her from falling into the alleged clutches of the alleged World Health Organization toughs. Asher comforted the disillusioned doctor as best he could and, through his extensive network of contacts, found her an ideal location to hide while continuing her work[3].

With her life no longer in danger due to the recently validated impotence of hired muscle, Asher felt confident he could call Chandra out of her protected location and help establish her as an important voice in the scientific community.

Dr. Sen arrived from her undisclosed location appearing no worse for wear despite her trying ordeal. Though the trip had been moderately inconvenienced when her plane was blown up at 32,000 feet somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, the rescue craft had collected the majority of the somewhat irked passengers scattered across the fifty-square mile search area within a few short days and delivered Chandra to D.C. only a week-and-a-half behind schedule.

Asher and Raymond met her in the airport lobby where, at the sight of Asher, Chandra broke into a smile and a sprint. The sprint, though primarily a testament to the joy Dr. Sen felt at seeing Mr. Rose again, also served the utilitarian purpose of helping her escape the clutches of a pair of burly Big Pharm brutes who’d been waiting to welcome her to D.C. with a burlap sack. As she rushed into Asher’s embrace, the ruffians retreated, momentarily stymied.

“Asher! I am extremely pleased to see you!” Chandra said. She spoke with a barely detectable accent, a formal tone and diction that clipped the end of each word and added an air of efficiency to her demeanor even in casual conversation.

With concealed admiration, Asher noted her exile had conferred an extra note of gravity to her already staid countenance, through which Chandra projected a stunning, fiery, and undeniable intellect, barely contained beneath her sepia-touched skin. She was definitively professional, with the harsh lines of her dark suit jacket and pants contributing to her already intimidating presence. Asher did wonder how she’d come across the pristinely tailored and pressed outfit after falling from a burning airplane and drifting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a week, but he refrained from asking and chose to simply be impressed by her ingenuity.

“I’m happy to see you as well, Chandra,” Asher replied, “You look well.”

“They blew up your plane!” Raymond exclaimed.

“I suppose they did,” Chandra agreed, “My apologies, but I do not believe I know your name.”

“Oops, that’s my fault,” Asher apologized, “Chandra, this is Raymond Clock. I’m sure I mentioned him to you at one point or another.”

“Oh! The famous Mr. Clock who crucified children with you at your university! I found that anecdote endlessly entertaining,” Chandra said, smiling and cordially shaking Raymond’s hand.

“We should get you back to our headquarters,” Raymond said, enjoying the dramatic cloak-and-dagger of his words, “I’m sure those nice men will be back with more guys and more bags. Not that you, or we, really have anything to worry about anymore.”

“Yes, it is fascinating actually,” Dr. Sen began, “I was working on some theories while floating on my luggage.”

She relayed her ideas to them on the journey home, during which they changed cars four times, drove in two circles around the city, and entered three separate homes in three separate neighborhoods, walking in the front door and out the back where they slipped into a new vehicle waiting in the garage. They finally arrived in Anacostia near midnight, exhausted not by their rigorous journey, but by the intense debate raging within the party.

Dr. Sen’s theory was at the center of their disagreement. She held that violence was not a physical function, as it was assumed, but rather a spiritual one. During her exile, while operating her makeshift particle accelerator, she’d identified an unknown and unexplainable force working on quantum particles during moments of destruction. She’d not discussed this force with anyone, believing it required further study before the shocking revelation was brought before her peers. This discovery defied every conceivable explanation within the realm of known science, leading her to the conclusion that she’d discovered something supernatural, “the fingerprints of God.” Raymond immediately scoffed and interjected, though he was quickly shouted down by Asher, who asked Chandra to continue.

She went on to explain that when violence stopped for all mankind at the exact same moment, it was the result of this supernatural force making a sentient decision. When she ran the same destruction tests, that force had no effect on atoms of human origin. It was impossible, Chandra posited, for a non-sentient force to distinguish between a human and non-human carbon atom. Therefore, this force must have a will and purpose. Raymond again interrupted and was again berated by Asher, who wondered if she knew how to replicate the force. The doctor explained that the reason this force must be supernatural, beyond the posited sentience, was that it was completely impossible to replicate. Somehow it existed outside the hallowed halls of High Science.

Raymond, who could not contain himself after this pronouncement, challenged her with the idea that humanity merely lacked the sophistication of technology or proper scientific knowledge to understand the force; that lightning must have appeared supernatural to cavemen. Chandra agreed with him and stated simply, “Someday I expect God will be taxonomically classified.” To Raymond’s surprise, Asher, an even more militant non-believer than he, thought Chandra had the right of things, though he sounded just as mystified. He explained that he’d always demanded evidence of God, or anything supernatural, and he’d be just as bad as the blindly religious if he refused to accept evidence when it was presented by the greatest scientist of their generation.

They continued arguing, touching on physics, philosophy, and the essentials of religious dogma as they made their way back to the Red Roof Inn.

Once safely home, the party split, with Raymond bidding them goodnight and entering the room he occasionally shared with Nico, leaving Asher and Chandra alone.

They crossed into Asher’s bedroom.

“Raymond is quite passionate. I admire his argument, though I strongly believe he misunderstands my meaning. I have never been religious and do not consider this a religious idea. It is merely a new discovery and the most plausible explanation happens to be supernatural,” Chandra said as they came to rest on Asher’s bed.

“That he is. And neither have I, but your argument’s as startling as it is convincing. You’re going to change the world,” Asher said, pulling off her blazer.

“I am thrilled with the prospect. My laboratory facilities were beneath sub-par in my hideaway. It will be wonderful to be well-funded again,” Chandra said, unbuckling Asher’s belt and sliding on top of him.

“You’ll have the best equipment and personnel in the world. You’ll finally be exactly where you’re supposed to be,” Asher said, turning off the light.

Nothing had changed during their year apart.

The next few days were spent preparing to announce Modern Issue’s support for Dr. Chandra Sen’s appointment to head the government’s research team. Asher realized his fears regarding Chandra were well-founded. Normally capable of producing entire policy positions in a single afternoon, it’d taken him nearly two days to produce a satisfactory announcement. While Raymond and Nico assured him it was the most brilliant piece he’d written, Asher was deeply disturbed by this drop in productivity. The happiness steadily enveloping every corner of his mind was proving too seductive to reject. He felt he was becoming a better person, but not in the direction he thought he desired.

The group made their declaration on Monday, April 2nd. The pantheon of talking heads, anointed by fame to share their carefully measured hot takes with the world, admired Chandra in general terms, but their praised lacked passion[4]. As the news cycle progressed, the tide turned against Chandra, until her background, family history, professional choices, dating profiles, fashion sense, and mental competency were all brought under scrutiny by these super-sleuth newshounds. Dr. Sen’s name was destined to disappear from the conversation by the end of the day until a Fuck You News[5] anchor, Bratley Manlove, subtly implied Chandra’s race and/or gender might have something to do with her lack of qualifications:

“I’m not saying she isn’t smart. She’s definitely a smart person, no one is saying she isn’t. She very smart, I just think she isn’t right for the role.

“Why’s that, Bratley?”

“I mean, you’ve seen pictures. Does that look like a lead scientist to you?”

The reaction from social media was predictably hyperbolic.

Hundreds of online groups were organized, petitions were signed, and calls to Congress were made in support of the first female of color Lead Researcher for the United States of America. The usual progressive firebrands bloviated about what a giant step forward this would be for America as a nation while online activists posted and shared the best takedowns of the racists at Fuck You News and demanded the immediate public tarring and feathering of Bratley Manlove. The hysteria mounted until Fuck You News capitulated to their sponsors and fired Manlove.

At this, hundreds of online groups were organized, petitions were signed, and calls to Congress were made in support of Bratley Manlove. The usual conservative firebrands bloviated about what a giant step backwards this was for America as a nation while online activists posted and shared the best takedowns of liberals and Dr. Chandra Sen, whom many called Dr. Slut[6]. The hysteria mounted until the popular group Anti-Fascist Anti-Fascists (AFAF) presented Dr. Hubert Slovache as their preferred candidate.

“Are they serious?” Raymond asked.

“Of course they aren’t. They’re human trolls, man. This is what they do. Just ignore their joke and it’ll go away.” Asher replied.

Nico and Chandra were unconvinced.

Over the weekend the nomination of Slovache dominated the news cycle. Dr. Slovache, a well-known cryptozoologist, was brought onto Fuck You News to defend his candidacy.

During the hour long interview, the good doctor discussed the intimate anatomy of and threat posed by the Mexican Chupacabra, the veracity of the Nephilim sightings by our boys and girls in Afghanistan and what that meant for the end times, his theory about how the moral decay of America was partly, not completely, but partly, at least a little, why not? to blame for non-functioning violence, and the fact that Ricky should have definitely picked Jill as his on-screen mating partner on the recent season finale of “Man make Money and Sex” because Jackie had the look of a two-timer. The interview was an instant viral sensation and Dr. Hubert Slovache became a household name overnight.

Progressives were apoplectic. After a series of increasingly non-violent confrontations between Anti-Fascists and AFAF, both sides were ready to start burning everyone else’s homes down again. Chandra, seeing the damage her nomination was causing, chose to bypass the situation and subsume her ego by publicly suggesting, through a video-post on Modern Issue, that Dr. Slovache take the helm while she take on the role of Assistant Lead Researcher for the United States of America.

The following week the United States Senate confirmed Dr. Hubert Slovache to lead the groundbreaking scientific investigation to discover the nature of non-functioning violence.

[1] In truth the thugs would’ve been entirely unsuccessful had it not been for Raymond’s charitable nature. When the uselessness of the second incursion was made abundantly clear to the assailants after Nico, Asher, and Raymond played a cruel game of keep-away-catch with the computer over their heads, the political heavies became self-conscious and embarrassed, with one turning to the other and swearing that “This had never happened to him before.” At this point, Raymond’s natural empathy flared up and, despite Asher’s objections, he handed one of the laptops to the pitiable goon. The man seized the machine and viciously smashed it to pieces while snarling a warning of future repercussions. As they were walking out, the man turned back to Raymond with tears sparkling in the crinkled corners of his soft green eyes and mouthed a silent, “thank you,” before slamming the door violently.

Asher’s half-hearted reprimand was met with a sincere pronouncement that the poor man needed to smash that computer much more than they needed to preserve it, and that it was their responsibility to help anyone they had the power to assist. Asher was too amused with this absurdity to argue. Besides, the impact of the loss was negligible for Asher as he’d already published his articles for the day and had no new material on the drive. Raymond had lost a bit more: half an article calling for action on a ten-point plan to transition humanity to global governance. Neither of the writers mourned this loss with any true grief, however, as they agreed the plan became a bit muddled around point six. In all, the raids did very little to disturb their daily operations.

 

[2] This renowned academic, head of the most prestigious quantum mechanics professional publication, Quarky Quandaries, and a gatekeeper in the field, spent the remainder of his short existence* as a leading Male Scientist’s Rights Advocate (MSRA) highlighting important statistics such as the 5% drop in the proportion of male scientists receiving government funding** over the last 30 years.

*Cause of Death: Heart-failure during a 72-hour MSRA rant-in
**From 95% to 90%

[3] Asher’s brief encounter with Dr. Sen in Dakar, approximately one year prior to Nico contacting him to talk about Raymond, had produced a sense of contentment he’d never experienced again. During the extraordinary week before he arranged her escape, he’d temporarily ceased feeling the thrum that drove him elsewhere. For a moment Asher was satisfied with who he was and who he was supposed to be. Though it terrified him and he consciously decided he should never feel that way again, he’d spent the remainder of his wanderings attempting to recapture that feeling.

Dr. Sen was the obvious choice for the appointment as lead researcher on the government’s non-violence project, but Asher hadn’t suggested her. Raymond, to whom Asher had told the full story of his journey and who was particularly impressed by the saga of the brilliant epidemiologist, suggested Chandra during the group’s debate. For Asher, the world stood at a crossroads of history and civilization and he feared the effect Chandra would have on his ambition and passion. However, as he couldn’t deny she was the perfect candidate for the position, he contacted her through the channels he’d maintained and initiated their reunion.

[4] As one erudite sophist put it during his segment on Real News Now, brought to you by PfizerExxonMobil, “I just don’t trust her with my future or the future of my children. She may be smart, but she lacks…she lacks something.”

[5] Formerly known as Crocodile News, which reorganized after its entire male staff was arrested for running a sex dungeon for conservative preteens.

[6] Among other things.

Thankfully, Good Hope Road was not on fire when the black luxury vehicle stopped at its destination: the Anacostia Red Roof Inn.

Nico, Asher, and Raymond exited the car and walked towards the hotel’s entrance. They were not greeted as they entered nor did they find anyone manning the front desk. Asher located the desk’s bell and attempted to ring, but found it was out of service. So they resorted to yelling.

“Hello!? Excuse us! We’d like three rooms, please!” Asher called to the grimy corners of the dimly lit room.

Silence answered, followed by the clattering of what sounded like metal pans and the scuffling of heavy feet. A large, light-skinned black man in a stained Red Roof Inn uniform scurried out of a back room and took his place behind the counter.

“How mayeth I helpest thou, good sir?”

“We need three rooms, please.” Asher repeated.

“Doth thou prefereth smoking or non-smoking accommodations?”

“Non-smoking, all three please.”

“Very good. Jackqualenya shalt lead thee to thy chambers forthwith. Jackqualenya! Comest thou out from thy hole to showeth these gentle folk to their quarters!” the man shouted roughly, directing his voice up the central staircase.

“Mindeth thy barbed tongue, Nooroozeleff, before I plucketh it from thy mouth,” came the surly response from a morbidly obese woman making her way down to the group one painful footstep at a time. “Forsooth, tis not commoneth to looketh upon folk of yonder shade standing within our halls.”

“We have come from across the river seeking refuge from chaos,” Asher explained.

“This land of Anacostia containeth its own chaos, thou shalt find no respite here,” warned the clerk.

Nico spoke plainly, “We prefer the known chaos of Anacostia to the unknown chaos of the neighborhood we just came from.”

“Very well strange travelers, we knoweth not of what thy speaketh, but if thy coin is good we haveth rooms for succor,” Nooroozeleff conceded as he created their bill, “How longeth shall thy be resting with us?

The group looked around in confusion, having not yet considered this question. Asher spoke for everyone, “Indefinitely.”

“Very good, sir. Thou canst payeth byeth the weeketh. Jackqualenya, taketh our guests to yonder master suites oneth the second floor. “

“Righteth this way,” called the chambermaid as she struggled back up the stairs to lead them to the rooms.

The accommodations were not much to speak of; the beds were lumpy in the wrong places, the smell of stale cigarettes betrayed the meaninglessness of the non-smoking designation, and the lights hummed with a faint but noticeable buzz. But there was running water, small refrigerators that worked in two of the three rooms, televisions that received the major news stations, and, most importantly, an internet connection. The group settled in, familiarized themselves with the peculiarities of their quarters, and met in Raymond’s bedroom to watch the news.

Broadcast news was blaring more of the same, with two major headlines bleating on about violence “no long working” and how predominantly affluent youths were engaging in widespread heavy “political demonstrations” through looting, robbing, and terrorizing the populations of most major urban centers. Across the world, the situation was the same: in countries with large power disparities, society was destabilized and cities were burning. But in nations “run by peasants,” as one talking head elegantly phrased it, the populace remained remarkably calm, with only a slight uptick in the destruction of property on a mass scale.

The cohort of professionals occupying their screen was at a loss to explain this phenomenon. Fortunately these luminaries were saved from their public stupefaction when a representative from the National Rifle Association pointed out that if the United States had more guns in the hands of more citizens the entire situation could have been avoided. This comment went viral and triggered a firestorm of debate, with every news channel playing it on a seemingly endless loop. This helped channel the attention of their pundits to an issue they were much better versed in shouting about.

Turning the television off in disgust, Raymond faced his confidantes. “What a pack of idiots. If it were poor people or minorities looting they’d be quick to condemn the culture, system, people…whatever. But god help us if it’s the powerful or the whites who are out of control. We can’t even process that as a society!”

“That’s fairly self-evident,” Nico added, “But the real mystery is why these groups? What’s specifically motivating these demographics?”

“I’ve been giving that a lot of thought ever since we met that jackass MB outside…” Asher started.

“MB? What’s an MB?” Nico interrupted.

“Oh, right. Sorry. It’s a term Raymond and I used in college to describe all our favorite people. It stands for ‘myopic bourgeoisie.’”

“Clever…continue.”

“I appreciate your permission. But what I think it might be is that the privileged are the most repressed group in this country…”

“What’re you talking about!? Repressed!? They’re the historical oppressors…” Raymond broke in.

“Calm down, race traitor,” Asher said, preventing the boulder of Raymond’s indignation from tumbling down the mountain of his self-righteousness, “I know how eager you are to prove you aren’t ‘one of them,’ but just listen for a second, okay? I’m not talking about you…entirely.” Asher smiled as Nico patted Raymond’s head condescendingly.

“There, there, snowball. We know you’re one of the good ones.”

“Watch out, members of historically oppressed minority groups, if you keep on with this type of talk I’m liable to start stripping your lands of trillions of dollars in resources and labor and classify you into tiered ethnic categories between which I’ll sow strife until it’s politically and economically expedient for me to leave. Of course I’ll do that anyways regardless of your actions, then blame you for your broken economy and culture and failed governments and offer token ‘aid’ and loans. These will serve to further sink your economy into recession and debt after the poorly targeted/distributed aid stifles economic growth and is plundered and invested in our art and real estate markets by your corrupt elites, who I’ll tolerate so that my people can loot whatever fruits your anemic economy produces with poorly structured trade deals. The political demands I thought would be best for your nation based on my own economic ideology and attached as a qualification to the aid and/or loans will stymie the development of a strong and competitive domestic industry while interest builds, precluding reinvestment until your country goes bankrupt. After you’re bankrupt, we’ll buy everything and control your land and lives remotely, again. All this while I pretend, validated by a global media I control, I’m a charitable saint for helping out this regrettably and inexplicably destitute people,” Raymond joked[1].

“…Thanks, Raymond. Alright, so the privileged, other than our dear Raymond here, are the most repressed group in this country because of the social pressures placed on them by the necessary authoritarianism of political correctness…”

“What? Political correctness? Why would we consider that a negative social pressure?” interjected Raymond once more, “The only people with an issue with political correctness are people who want freedom from the burden of censoring the shitty thoughts caused by their shitty culture or upbringing!”

“Are you done?” Asher asked, “Because I wasn’t, so shut up and let me finish.”

“Sorry…” muttered Raymond, disgruntled.

“Okay, so political correctness is not a negative thing, as you pointed out, but it is a restraint that constantly suppresses people who do have the desire and tendency to say things that traumatize other people. When you place a person in a society where every thought they have is labeled “offensive,” it tends to build up pretty powerful repressed rage and resentment. When the threat of violent reprisal is removed, all of that resentment is unleashed and we get…well, this.” Asher concluded proudly, gesturing towards the now blank television.

“I can accept that there might be a lot of repressed offensiveness in the privileged class, but isn’t there just as much repressed anger in oppressed populations who’ve been oppressed for generations?” Raymond probed.

“Of course they’re oppressed,” Nico interposed, “But if I understand Asher’s theory correctly I think it manifests itself in a different way. When you’re the historical oppressor class and are forced to repress, within one or two generations, your true thoughts and feelings towards those who both history and your own socialization places beneath you, it’s arguably a more intense personal repression than the anger caused by the everyday insults endured by demographics who’ve borne them throughout their existence and already have psychological and cultural mechanisms in place to cope with the trauma.”

“But how could a privileged oppressor class possibly face a more intense or detrimental societal repression than the oppression caused by the accumulation of hundreds of years’ worth of violence inflicted on the oppressed by both institutionalized and systematic means created by those very oppressors you claim are so oppressed!” Raymond exclaimed, willing himself to disagree with their conclusions.

“Look, we’re not saying it’s correct or just,” Nico responded, “But I think Asher’s theory makes a lot of sense. The intensity is amplified by the minimal amount of historical time dominant cultures have had to adjust to this new politically correct order.”

“Right,” Asher agreed, “it seems like every day a new word, expression, or cultural touchstone is revealed to have controversial roots. The screws keep tightening faster and faster and the more privileged a person’s been, historically, the faster the ground disappears beneath them.”

“But that ground wasn’t theirs to claim in the first place! I’m a white male and I don’t feel that at all!” Raymond continued.

“Well you don’t identify with your racial or gender group, do you?” Nico asked.

“No… I suppose I don’t.”

“Then it’s a little difficult for you to say how a privileged white male feels when you don’t feel like a white male,”

“Besides, we’re just talking about a theory. The fact remains that the privileged, many of them white, many of them male, many of them coming from means, started rioting after violence stopped existing. If you can think of a better theory, let us know. Until then, this is the best we’ve got.” Asher concluded, “So what now?”

Nico answered, “We need to find somewhere to stock up and purchase a few creature comforts to help us settle in.”

They left their retreat at the Red Roof Inn to explore their environment and search for supplies they’d need to survive as refugees[2].

According to Nooroozeleff, who they consulted before they set out, there was a single market where the entire neighborhood shopped for daily goods. However, when the group arrived, they found little more than a corner store with a paltry selection of frozen meals and slowly rotating processed meats stocked from an undisclosed source and filled with undisclosed ingredients. The attendant appeared confused by their presence, but not enough so that it disturbed his professional demeanor.

“How mayeth I helpeth thee?”

“We’re looking for somewhere to buy groceries and computer supplies,” Nico said.

“We haveth food aplenty here, as thy eyes can bear witness. But if automation thy seeketh, maketh thy way one blocketh down to the emporium of that jumped-up rascal, Frankie Sublime. Looketh upon yonder sign,” the man instructed, shuffling from behind his counter to point down the road to a gaudy red neon sign fashioned into a crude, smiling cowboy’s face with the words “Francis Sublime’s Computer Exchange Warehouse” inscribed on the brim of the wiry 10-gallon hat.

“Why a cowboy?” Raymond wondered aloud.

“Thou shalt haveth to asketh Frankie himself. Steel thyself for that encounter, a verbal assault thou shalt have if thou doth chooseth to parlay with the cur. Yonder purveyor of electronic goods is queer.”

“Thanks for the warning. So…is this all the food you have?” Raymond asked.

“The selection pleaseth thee not, white one?” came a gruff voice from the back of the store.

A rail-thin man with vitiligo-splotched skin and a lazy left-eye staring in all directions stepped out from behind the Slim Jims and walked up the aisle with a threatening saunter.

“Constantine, thou wouldst do well to respecteth mine own customers,” the clerk chided, his hand slowly making its way beneath the counter.

“Do not troubleth thyself by reachingeth for thine impotent weapon, cur. Hath thee not heardeth the news? This sorry lot hasteth recently escapethed from the madness of the whites. How for thee, snowflake,” he turned to Raymond, “art thou hereth to burn?”

Raymond blanched, “No, sir, not at all, I’m not one of them. I know I’m white, but I can’t help that and do understand that I benefit from being part of the historical oppressor class, and so I can never make up for what my ancestors…”

Asher stepped in before the situation got out of hand, “We’re not looking for trouble, man. Yes, we did just come from the burnings, but we’re running from them, not taking part in them.”

“And thou believeth Anacostia is the propereth place to flee? A place of safety?” the man laughed, revealing a mouth full of dying teeth, “This world hath truly gone mad. Thy presence is not welcometh, but thy presence is not unwelcometh either.”

With these words he bought his pack of Nutter Butters and exited the store, the metal bell on the doorframe jingling as he left.

“What did that mean?” Raymond asked the room.

“I think he just meant people will notice us, but maybe no one really cares? Maybe? I didn’t really understand either,” Nico said.

“Do not bothereth thy minds with Constantine. The man recently losteth his partner to the scourge of overdosage,” the clerk explained.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Raymond replied.

“It was hardeth oneth poor Constantine. The Christian medical facility attendingeth to the dying body of the partner, Gabriel, wouldst not recognize the right of Constantine to visiteth before Gabriel expired. Eveneth direr, the bank hath seizethed their domicile, though the couple hath occupiedeth the structure together for nearly one score years. Though I ameth a devout man, something appeareth wrong with yonder circumstance.”

“Wait, Constantine is…” Raymond began, “That’s horrible! This is just one more reason why we need to normalize non-traditional relationships and make the law more flexible right now!”

The clerk’s tone and demeanor shifted abruptly, “Homosexuality iseth a sin. What happened to Constantine mayeth not be righteth, but that changeth naught in the eyes of our Lord.”

“Ahh…well that’s one opinion,” Raymond stumbled, his mind jostled by the man’s unexpected statement, “I guess we’ll just…”

“’Tis no opinion, sir. ‘Tis God’s will. Thou wouldst do besteth to remembereth it as such in these end times.  Our toleration of the sodomites has broughteth about this calamitous ruin,” the attendant preached, his voice swelling.

“I wouldn’t exactly call being unable to use violence ‘calamitous ruin,’” Raymond laughed, looking to his uncomfortable companions for support.

“Raymond! Let’s go!” said Nico sternly as she attempted to grab his arm and drag him towards the door, though her grip that felt more like a caress.

“The heathens shall be purged! It is his will!” railed the corner-shop clerk.

“Purged using what? Violence doesn’t work anymore!” Raymond shouted as Nico and Asher forced him out onto the sidewalk in front of the store through the sheer force of their combined disapproval.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nico berated.

“What? What do you mean? How could I leave a bigot unchallenged?”

“Nothing you could’ve said was going to change his mind, Raymond. It just caused a scene,” she sighed.

“We have to shine a light on the dirty crevices of humanity to ferret out the cockroaches!” Raymond huffed passionately, “Asher, you know what I’m talking about! We used to do this all the time at Trotsky!”

Asher shifted his weight awkwardly as they stood on the chilly gray sidewalk flanked by rows of dilapidated buildings pasted with disingenuously optimistic real estate advertisements. “We were young, Raymond. We’ve got to be pragmatic now. I mean, I think that was the only store selling any kind of food in this whole area.”

“How does getting into shouting matches with crazy people qualify you for your self-anointed ‘Champion of Righteousness and Truth’ title?” asked Nico testily.

“Why is it that whenever I do or say something you’re both so quick to point out how wrong I am? I’m getting tired of being in the minority!” Raymond said, wounded.

“Get used to being a minority, we’re in Anacostia now, buddy,” Asher joked in an attempt at levity.

“You know what I mean!”

“I respect you too much to coddle you, Raymond. When you’re wrong, we’re going to disagree with you.” Nico told him, frankly, “Maybe you’ve been wrong a lot recently. Just be right more and we’ll be on your side.”

“Do you want us to start being fake with you, Clocky?” Asher put more delicately.

“No, I suppose you’re both right,” Raymond conceded, “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so touchy.”

“There, there,” Nico cooed condescendingly, patting his arm, “Anyways, we need to check out this computer place so we can get you two online again and I can video-conference into my board meetings.”

With everything patched up, they walked to the blinking neon cowboy head in silence.

Entering the grungy interior, they were greeted by March to the Scaffold blaring from a stereo system behind a heavily fortified counter. A tall, well-built man with his back to the door was conducting an imaginary orchestra.

Asher began, “Excuse me, sir?”

The man whirled and paused the music in one swift movement, plunging the room into a vacuum of noise.

“What’s up?”

“Yes, hello there, we’re looking for some laptops. Basically just for word processing and video calls.” Nico inquired.

“Yep. They’re right there,” the man motioned to a stack of boxes in the far corner of the cluttered space.

“I see…thank you,” Nico intoned as the trio moved towards the computer pile.

“They’re $600 each. If you want a mouse and speakers and all that shit, add $100. If you’re buying more than one, I’ll give you a 5% discount for each additional system you purchase,”

“These kind of suck,” Raymond whispered to the others. His attempt at private criticism proved futile in the stillness of the claustrophobic space.

“They’re the best you’re gonna find in Anacostia, but feel free to browse the other stores.”

“We’ll take three plus the extras you mentioned,” Nico responded blithely, her eyes willing Raymond to behave.

Asher made small talk with the man as he gathered their items, “So…why a cowboy?”

“Why not?” the man replied.

“I mean, it seems a little strange for the neighborhood…”

“Because I’m black and this is a predominantly black neighborhood and the cowboy is an American icon of white male dominance and imperialistic tendencies through your quasi-spiritual founding myth of manifest destiny?”

“What? Yeah! It is!” Raymond chimed in enthusiastically.

“Now look what you did,” Nico said in wearied amusement.

“What did I do?” the man asked.

“Raymond here is very excitable when it comes to proving his non-white bona fides,” Asher explained.

“You?” the man turned to Raymond, his voice shifting slightly, “You’re into racial theory?”

“Yes! It’s actually one of my favorite things to talk about!” Raymond leapt at the words, ignoring the backflips Nico and Asher’s eyeballs performed.

“I must admit it’s refreshing to talk to someone who knows what the hell I’m talking about,” the man allowed, “This country’s an intellectual wasteland.”

“Yeah, I know how you feel. It’s all I want to talk about, but people either don’t care or find it pretentious. But it’s so important and infinitely interesting, and there’s always more to learn because the situation is constantly shifting!”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, man. I’m Francis Sublime and this is my shop.” As he offered his hand to Raymond, he visibly paused before continuing, “I assume you’re Raymond Clock then? What circumstances conspired to bring Nico Leftiè, Asher Rose, and yourself to my shop in Anacostia?”

The three friends’ eyes darted to one another, caught off-guard by the man’s unexpected knowledge. Raymond answered after a moment, “You…you know who we are, all of us?”

The man laughed, “Sure! I’m a pretty avid reader and, at the risk of sounding self-aggrandizing, my memory is perfect. You and Mr. Rose look exactly like your site’s bio pictures, and Ms. Leftiè has a fairly well-photographed face; certainly not one it takes someone with my memory to recall. But don’t think I’ve got you at too much of a disadvantage; I’m sure you know me as well. You cite me enough that I should probably earn royalties from most of your posts.”

“What? I don’t believe I know a Francis Sublime, do you guys?” Raymond asked Nico and Asher, who shook their heads.

“No, probably none of you knows Francis Sublime. But I’m sure you’re familiar with Francis DeMasters.”

“Francis De…Francis DeMasters is dead! He, whatever pronoun is right, died in Liberia like four years ago! There were like…pictures of his body and stuff!” Raymond stuttered.

“Yes, well that was the result of some creative engineering on my part and no small amount of money passing into the hands of some well-placed Liberian officials. I got a new passport as Francis Sublime of Liberia, cut my hair, lost weight, and here I am,” he explained in a matter-of-fact voice.

“I…this is unbelievable…do you guys believe this?” Raymond turned once more to Nico and Asher.

“I can see it now, Dr. DeMasters. It’s truly an honor to meet you,” Asher said, offering his hand after spending a moment studying the man’s face.

“You’re the closest we have to a modern hero,” Nico remarked, “I was horribly upset when I read about your death.”

“But why, Dr. DeMasters? Why did you fake your death? Your work was so important and inspiring! Your thesis on systemic post-modern suppression, commoditization, and acquisition of racial and gender identities in hyper-capitalist societies changed my life!” Raymond gushed.

“Thank you, I appreciate your kindness, but I’m not a hero or even someone to be admired. You must understand,” Dr. DeMasters implored.

“What do you mean? Your campaign to equalize educational funding, student demographics, and quality teacher distribution across the nation’s school districts was amazing!” Raymond fawned.

“Did it work? Is it equal now?” DeMasters responded bitterly.

“Well…no…but you were trying! And you got the DeMasters Educational Fairness and Equality Act passed!” Raymond encouraged, “Of course it had some problems, but everything that goes through Congress is compromised. It’s amazing you got anything that progressive and forward-thinking passed at all!”

“That’s some politico double-talk bullshit. Complicated problems need complex, carefully crafted solutions. Making idiotic compromises so the opposition can have their political pound of flesh is one of the many reasons this democracy failed. As the problems our nation faced became more convoluted, the compromised half-measures from the white male elite didn’t cut it anymore. We let this country rot to hell and there was nothing we could do about it because of the type of system we let ourselves become.”

“Isn’t there still hope though? We can always change it around!” Raymond urged.

“No. We’re finished as a civilization. Our elite Caucasian patriarchy never deserved to survive in the first place. Shay’s Rebellion would’ve been a fitting end to prevent the subsequent 250 years of war and violence that’s only spread and metastasized as we seized the role of imperialistic hegemon from our former colonial masters.”

Nico, Asher, and Raymond were visibly uncomfortable. DeMasters noticed.

“If you need an example, look no further than my legislation. It did more harm than good and discredited the entire movement. They destroyed the most crucial features, like building public transportation infrastructure and housing for displaced students. What was left was an unfunded mandate for students and teachers to pay their own way to attend or work in schools scattered across different states and cities! It was an unmitigated disaster!”

“It was,” Asher agreed, “But it wasn’t your fault, sir. Between the Teacher’s Union and the privatization caucus, you never really had a chance.”

“It wasn’t their names on the bill,” Dr. DeMasters spat.

“That isn’t fair to you, sir!” Raymond objected, “People knew what happened. You killed yourself because of that?”

“I figured it was the only way to move on with my life. I was receiving daily death threats from Parent-Teacher Associations, and frankly, I was ashamed. I’d never failed before in my whole life, and this failure was so massively spectacular that I didn’t see any way to recover. So I threw in the towel on all the ‘change the world’ bullshit and now I’m just trying to keep my life simple and happy.”

Nico answered coldly. “How could you just quit when so many people were depending on your guidance?”

“Why should I exist for them to depend on me? Why can’t they stand up and depend on themselves? I came from nothing and gave life my best shot, accomplishing more than most human beings could ever dream. Unfortunately, this reality isn’t going to be fixed, so I made the choice to go back to nothing, having learned my lessons. I don’t owe anyone a damn thing.”

“Why are you telling us this if you’re living this great new simple and secretive life?” Nico continued to probe.

“What’s the point of keeping this a secret now? Violence doesn’t exist anymore, what can anyone do to me? And I’m sure none of you want your identities widely revealed around here, so it seemed like a safe bet. I figured at least I could squeeze a decent conversation out of you lot, but it seems I’m just going to be prosecuted for my faults instead.”

“No, no! I would love to chat! We all would!” Raymond glared at Nico, who returned his ire with equal ferocity.

“Then answer my question. What brings two political writers and a philanthropic heiress to Anacostia?”

“We’re refugees.” Asher admitted, “We just came across the river earlier today. It’s complete insanity over there.”

“Nothing can hurt you.”

“That’s true, I suppose,” Asher replied, “but our homes were burned to the ground. How could we get any work done in that type of instability? ”

“Fair enough,” admitted DeMasters, “this is everything, right?” he motioned to the large heap of electronics.

“Should be,” Raymond answered, “thanks, Dr. DeMasters.”

“I’m just selling you some shitty computers, Mr. Clock; but you’re welcome. The total comes to $1,890 with your bulk discount. Ms Leftiè, can you afford it?”

Nico produced her credit card and smiled, “I’ll manage. Thank you for your concern.”

As they gathered their haul, DeMasters addressed Nico once more, “It’s strange, you’re not at all as I expected. You’re very precise and official in your interviews, but it’s always belied by a warm undercurrent. Now, however, I don’t sense any warmth coming from you at all. What’s your true self, Ms. Leftiè?”

His direct questioning stunned Nico. Asher interceded, “I’ve heard of your reputation for decanting souls, but I’m amazed to see it in action. Ms. Leftiè has had a fairly troubling day. Watching one of her buildings burn down and being cut off from her board meetings has been…”

Nico broke in, annoyed, “I am perfectly capable of answering for myself, Mr. Rose, but thank you for your effort. As for your assessment, Dr. DeMasters, I must say I’m disappointed. All you’re detecting is fatigue and hunger. We’ve just moved into a new home and haven’t eaten anything substantial since lunch, and it seems the prospect of getting a decent meal is rather remote given the rather limited selection at the local ‘market.’”

DeMasters’ face clouded with anger. “And why do you think that is, Ms. Leftiè? Why do you think every reputable store in this neighborhood has folded up shop? Why do you think the only food sold here is subsidized, processed shit with little nutritional value, resulting in epidemics of obesity, diabetes, heart disease, mental illnesses, and innumerable other illnesses within our population? I apologize your organic grocery is not catering to this broken down corner of the city, but maybe you should think about the cause of an issue before you complain about it.”

Nico was embarrassed but resolute, “I’m sorry; I spoke without weighing the full content and context of my words. Of course you’re right about the social ills plaguing this place, but I would appreciate it if you check your tone in speaking with me. I think you might find the way you’re addressing me differs from how you speak to my male colleagues here.”

“Why…I’m just…” DeMasters blustered.

Nico cut him off, “I’m sure it’s unintentional. I know you as a champion for the rights of the oppressed, so I’m sure this is a simple slip-up.”

Asher looked at the impassive Nico and fuming DeMasters, “So…we should probably get back to settling in. On that subject, what do you eat here, Dr. Demasters?”

“Food. It’s not gourmet, but it’s what people who don’t know anything about health call regular. And if you’re going to be part of this community, you’re going to have to settle for that. There’re good rib and chicken places and the rest of the stereotypes,  and fast food chains occasionally make a go of opening a business every once and a while. Mostly I just eat shit, but not too much, mostly plants when I can get them, and then exercise to make up for the rest.”

“Thanks for the help!” Asher said, intent on concluding the conversation.

“I would love to get dinner sometime, Dr. Demasters! Are you free?” Raymond burst out.

“I’m sure I can squeeze in a dinner. Give me your number and I’ll let you know.”

Raymond scrawled his contact information on a scrap of paper and joined the others in bidding farewell to Francis Sublime. They left the store and walked their newly purchased essentials through the darkened neighborhood.

When the group reached their room at the Red Roof Inn, they settled on pizza as an appropriate first meal for their new life, a dish they’d not eaten in a combined fifteen years. They ordered pepperoni because they didn’t know how to order anything else. Raymond volunteered to retrieve the pie, leaving Nico and Asher with enough time to resume their extremely delayed conversation from that morning.

“I don’t know if I can keep this up, Asher. I’m so exhausted.” Nico lamented from her prostrate position on the uncomfortable bed.

“You’re performing splendidly though! It’s exactly what he needs!” Asher encouraged, striding over to sit next to her.

“DeMasters saw right through me! I’m so sick of being this stereotype!”

“Do you want Raymond to improve?”

“Yes, of course I do!”

“Then you have to continue like this. He’ll never be happy with someone who’s nice to him. This is the only way he works: abuse him mentally and his love and respect for you will grow.”

“I don’t understand! Wasn’t he hurt today by our constant berating? He’s pulling further away.”

“No, that’s not true. Hurting his pride like that is good for him and for you. It might be a strong negative emotion at first, but if you remain mentally abusive but emotionally supportive, the strong negative emotions will transition to strong positive emotions.”

“And this helps you with your project?”

“Yes.”

“Does it matter to you how I feel about him?”

“It’d be better if you loved him, to be sure.”

“I’m not sure I can. I feel more connected to him than any other person I’ve ever met, but that isn’t translating into love.”

“What’s your complaint?”

“He’s a challenging person to tolerate all the time.”

“I know, but just remember what we’re making sure he experiences. That alone should help you empathize.”

“I don’t lack empathy for him, just patience.”

“Fall in love with him, you’ll gain more patience.”

“Sounds like circular logic to me. I think the only way I can fall in love is to turn it into a project.”

“Do you think you can sustain when you’re finished?”

“Do you really think Raymond will ever be a finished?”

Asher laughed, “No, I suppose not. I’m sure he’ll find some new existential crises to fret over.”

“He will, and I have my other projects to consider.”

“Those things are trivialities compared to what we’re doing.”

“Compared to what you claim we’re doing. I’m going along with it for now because it makes sense, but I promise you, Asher Rose, one whiff of self-aggrandizement or personal power plays and I’ll come after you with everything I’ve got.”

“Slow down there, Ms. Leftie.” He emphasized her unaccented name for effect, “You ramped that up pretty fast. From Raymond to targeted assassinations in two seconds flat.”

“We’re tinkering with the world, Asher. I’m not interested in your bullshit.”

“Nico, do you have a problem with me?”

“No more so than I ever have.”

“I’ve grown up a lot.”

“Haven’t we all.”

“I don’t deserve this and you’re being self-righteous.”

“I’m tired. You’re not the one who has to keep up…”

Raymond strode into the room carrying a pizza.

“My card was declined! There’s some issue with my bank account. I told the pizza place my room number and they said I could take it home on credit…Do you think it’s because I’m white, like subconsciously they classified me as less likely to steal because I’m from the historical oppressor class? Or is me thinking that an unconscious bias where I’m classifying white people as less likely to steal and so that’s what I think they think? I’ve felt horrible thinking about it the entire walk back.”

Nico looked up from the bed, “Shut up and just give us the food; we’re starving. Here, take my card and go pay.”

“Alright then, I’ll be back!”

“You’re a natural. Even I can’t tell you’re faking,” Asher praised once Raymond was gone.

“Thanks. It’s a little easier when I’m really hungry and he sounds like such a jackass. I just don’t want to get used to acting like this, though I admit it’s more efficient than being decent.”

“It is. It’s also the best way to make civilization uncivilized. Where would we be without our contrived social niceties and the buffer of our politically correct manners?”

“Burning down houses in Georgetown, obviously,” Nico quipped as she opened the box to observe puddles of orange grease pooled inside burned pepperoni slices, themselves floating on whitish goo and tomato paste. “Do we have any forks?”

 

[1] In a single breath

[2] It was fortunate that the fortunes of both Nico and Asher were held in private overseas accounts and invested in industries unaffected by violence. Luckily, the international financial system had remained largely intact thanks to the vandalism almost exclusively targeting non-corporate, locally owned and operated businesses and charities. Raymond, who’d insisted on investing what money he’d saved into regional art projects, was rendered destitute when the organic co-op and art gallery where he owned a 25% stake was burned to the ground and its fields salted during an inebriated re-enactment of Sherman’s March to the Sea performed by the nearby town’s high school lacrosse team.