The Pile – Chapter Fourteen

After the widely-covered Martyrdom of Saint Tampala (PBUH)[1], MI’s online readership soared, requiring a massive expansion of their meager temporary servers’ capacity. Asher happily purchased the required components and set up shop in an abandoned coffin factory in Bethesda. With dramatic images of Saint Tampala’s (PBUH) protest shared with the furthest corners of social media, accompanied by instructions to “like, share, or comment on this picture if you want to be a good person,” there was a tectonic shift popular views. Opinions embraced righteous outrage towards egregious violations of SVB civil rights.

The loudest voices calling for retribution were individuals who’d discreetly or indirectly assisted anti-SVC activities. The majority of the population had stood by and done nothing while their friends and neighbors were burned out of their own homes by anti-SVC forces. The desire to validate their collective goodness and soothe guilty consciences was palpable. In this atmosphere, every article Modern Issue published was heralded as a hallowed truth told by haunted survivors of non-violent Pogroms.

Asher and Raymond spent these happy weeks in a storm of idea crafting, policy writing, and important-meeting attending as their influence spread across D.C. They found themselves on frequent trips to Capitol Hill, the White House, and Embassy Row so that eager government officials of every stripe could make sure there was no question as to where they stood on this recent SVB-related unpleasantness.

The main anti-SVC culprits, of whom Senator Stovall (R-OK) was the unrepentant figurehead, were summarily drubbed out of office in early-November after a dramatic swing in the polls, attributed primarily to the “October-Immolation-Surprise.” Rather than stay in Washington for the lame-duck session, many of the losing candidates who persisted in SVC-bigotry, joined by now-ostracized members of the military and economic elite, chose to retreat to a secret mansion refuge in what was left of Martha’s Vineyard, and form a new party with the unwieldy-but-highly-descriptive name Americans Fighting To Keep America The America We Have Known And Loved For Our Entire Lives, With Great Respect And Admiration For Our Esteemed Founders Who Knew What They Were Doing And Shouldn’t Be Questioned, which was shortened by the headline-constrained media to Americans Fighting For America (AFFA).[2]

Asher and Raymond, following these events closely, began publishing articles calling for a détente with the anti-SVC holdouts. Their position stated that it was for the greater good of society to begin the healing process, which required forgiveness for all parties. Safely-elected politicians who’d recently been eager to meet with the Modern Issue team became increasingly unavailable. They viewed the “peacenik concessionism” of recent MI articles a liability for their credibility on national defense and viewed talking with AFFA as an insufferable case of negotiating with terrorists.

As the reprisal-driven government began to draft new security laws, seize AFFA-related bank accounts, and suggest citizens would be wise to report suspicious members of their community as there may or may not be a financial reward involved, Modern Issue churned out articles advocating against the encroaching police state and in support of a peace summit. Familiar faces began to show up in-and-around their much-less-secret safe-house.

“Asher, I think I just saw one of the thugs from the Red Roof Inn parked across the street. Are we being watched again? I don’t understand, aren’t we the good guys now?” Raymond asked Asher one evening after returning home from a meeting at the Danish Embassy.

Nico looked annoyed, “Can’t we stay off a government watch list for a few months? I was just getting my insurance claims in order.”

“It’s not our fault. And you’re the one who wanted as little violence as possible, right?” Asher vented, his frustration with Modern Issue’s too-brief taste of legitimate influence adding a bitter edge.

“Even when this government is for us they do not seem to be for us,” Chandra quipped.

It was December and nearly six weeks into a new project that demanded a great deal of time from both Chandra and Asher. The couple had drifted slightly but steadily away from their everyday conversations with Nico and Raymond.

“What else can we do?” Raymond asked, “We’ve got higher readership numbers now than at any time in our history, so even if some people aren’t listening, others are.”

“Oh yes, and we all know how much respect you have for the opinion of ‘the people.’” Asher joked, “I don’t understand how you don’t see how our only option is…”

“As always, no, and we aren’t talking about that.” Nico growled at him.

A moment of silence followed during which Raymond looked at each member in turn and seemed to be gathering his thoughts for a question before Chandra intercepted him with a startling pronouncement, “Asher and I have decided to construct a child.”

“What? Construct?” Nico convincingly pretended to gasp next to an equally shocked Raymond. Her excellent impression of surprise was significantly aided by Chandra’s choice of verb.

Asher continued, “Yes, we’ve decided one of our priorities is to increase our genetic footprint in an attempt to expand the population of individuals capable of understanding this group’s ideas.”

“You’re having a child to create a person who agrees with us?” Nico asked.

“No, not at all. Or at least not exactly as you put it. But Chandra’s better at explaining it than I am. She came up with the whole thing,” Asher insisted, turning to Chandra for assistance.

Chandra glanced at Nico for a moment of understand, “We will imbue our offspring with the capability to think in a way that prepares them to comprehend and wrestle with the notions our collective regularly debates. As we are all agreed that the process of synthesizing data between brains is essential, we are confident bringing a thinking human into the world is a maximally beneficial action.”

“Well, I see your point,” Nico allowed, “So you’re pregnant? Or still just in the planning phase?”

“Oh no, no, we do not believe in pregnancy. Or not anymore. I initially desired to give birth organically, however Raymond made a strong case against the idea while I was running tests on his neural pathways.”

“I had no idea we were talking about your own pregnancy! I thought we were just talking about pregnancy as an abstract! Still, I’m glad you’ve decided against it. Pregnancy is sexist because biology is sexist. If we have the ability we should rid ourselves of that anachronistic practice.”

“Asher and I both agreed when I mentioned that interesting opinion. I extracted the best genetic combination and now we’re equally enjoying the experience of watching our child grow external to our bodies.” Chandra paused, “Nico, would you and Raymond care to participate with a child of your own? Perhaps it would be beneficial to create these children together so they have companionship as they develop.”

“Oh…a child? I…well…I don’t know about that right now…” Nico blushed and stuttered, turning to a mutually unsure Raymond.

“Maybe…well I’m a little worried about this Spirit of Violence situation,” Raymond replied, “I’m not sure how I feel about creating a child who might be able to commit acts of violence.”

“I do not believe your lack of a condition is genetic. NFVS has never been a genetic issue, as I have explained many times.” Chandra corrected.

“Honestly, you guys might want to think about it. I was a little hesitant at first myself. But now I think there’s little I could do of greater value. If you think…” Asher began before pausing and pulling out his vibrating phone. Addressing the assemblage he apologized before he answered the call, “I’m sorry, I don’t know who this is so…Hello? Hello? This is, oh. What? What are you talking about? Who are you and…no…They wouldn’t do that. I have sources on the…no, where did you get your…hey, wait, Hello?”

Standing still with his phone to his ear, Asher turned back to the group, “I’ve…I’ve just received some…some news.”

Raymond, startled to see Asher unnerved, demanded, “What? What did you hear?”

“The AFFA compound on Martha’s Vineyard…tonight they’re going to destroy it.”

“Who’s going to do what!?” Nico insisted.

“The military…and CIA…and…and everyone. They’re going to take them out.”

Following a moment of shocked analysis, Nico gave voice to the alarm felt by the room, “What do you mean ‘Take them out?’ Have they found a way to use violence again?”

“I don’t know. That’s what it sounded like…And…and they are also coming here…”

“What?! But we cannot move our child! He is too fragile! There is no way we can…” Chandra was cut off by an approaching, rhythmic thrum.

“Is that…” Raymond began before the sight of ten incoming helicopters made his question irrelevant.

“What are we going to do?” Chandra shouted, panicking, “Our child is in the lab downstairs!”

“We must, we don’t know if they can use violence…maybe…maybe they’re just here to burn the house…” Asher looked lost in thought, in a dazed state unable to comprehend the current situation.

“Even if they only burn the house we still lose the child! A fetus is not a human being and is still subject to violence!” Chandra yelled.

“Really? Is that true? That settles that debate!” Raymond smiled absurdly, completely forgetting the desperate situation.

“Shut up you fucking asshole!” Asher roared at him, breaking away from his trance, “You have to stop them! You can stop them Raymond!”

“I…what do you mean? How?” Raymond attempted to look puzzled, unwilling to accept what Asher was asking.

“You know, you idiot! You’ve got to stop them!” Asher yelled again, moving to push Raymond towards the door.

“Stop! No…Raymond…but…what if they can use violence?” Nico stuttered as she attempted to grab Asher.

“Nico! It is my child! We cannot let them destroy us!” Chandra cried as she attempted to grab Nico.

No one successfully grabbed anyone and after a moment of impotence, the group regained control.

Raymond turned and spoke solemnly, “I won’t commit an act of real violence, but I will give a violent demonstration. If that doesn’t persuade them, I can’t do anything else. Let’s go.”

The force of Raymond’s words and the commanding tone of his voice as he spoke to Asher in a way he‘d never spoken to Asher before left the group speechless. With the helicopters now hovering overhead and black-garbed assault forces sliding down a reverse-gravity forest of ropes, there was no time to do anything but obey.

As the two men went outside, Raymond spoke to the trailing Asher, “Hopefully they’ve figured out how to use violence and I won’t have to do this.”

“Why hopefully? Where’s your obligation to humanity?”

“I’m starting to begrudge that obligation. I guess we’ll see.”

They came to a stop in the middle of their small yard as the road, rooftops, and sidewalks filled with gun-toting figures.

“RAYMOND CLOCK AND ASHER ROSE, LAY DOWN ON THE GROUND AND DO NOT MOVE. WE WILL NOT HURT YOU IF YOU COMPLY!” A tinny voice blared from above.

“Is it ‘lay’ or ‘lie’? Isn’t it ‘lie’ because they’re talking to animate objects?” Raymond asked Asher.

“I…what? Yes, I think so,” Asher laughed, “But look, I don’t think they can commit violence. I think they’re bluffing. I THINK YOU’RE BLUFFING!”

Bullets answered. The fire teams shot everything;  cars, fire hydrants, trees, bushes, flowers, other houses, garbage cans, garden figurines like those gaudy gnomes and flamingoes that, when Raymond drove by, he couldn’t really believe anyone owned anymore but then thought maybe they might be there ironically and he wasn’t getting the joke; anything but the two men standing in the yard. After a full two minutes of incessant gunfire the assailants ceased their barrage to assess their bloody work. Other than some horribly dinged-up vehicles and a now non-existent garden, which had so recently been the pride and joy[3] of old Ms. Fazartalingbragg, their uncomfortably-nice in an I’m-sorry-you’re-lonely-but-I-have-my-own-life-to-live-right-now neighbor, everyone remained whole and entirely vital.

“DID WE HIT YOU?” the sky-voice queried.

“NO! What did you think would happen?” Asher demanded as he stalked up to the nearest heavily-armed invader.

“Well…this was supposed to be a new technique with these new weapons, see, and well…I guess they don’t work…” the man Asher had confronted confessed as he looked down bashfully and kicked at the pile of shell-casings at his feet.

“How was firing willy-nilly all over the neighborhood flowers and shrubs supposed to make violence work?” Nico yelled as she ran to Raymond and held onto him as if he were about to slip away from her forever.

“Well, it’s in the ricochets…the guns have increased power so the bullets will bounce off objects and hopefully hit the target without coming directly from a human…” continued the man, looking more and more embarrassed as he tried to explain.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” Raymond laughed, “That was your big plan?”

“SURRENDER AND WE WILL NOT HURT YOU,” called the tin-coated voice hovering over them.

“SHUT IT PHIL! IT DIDN’T WORK! ANOTHER DoD BOONDOGGLE” the man yelled back, “Well, sorry for the disturbance, folks. I guess we can’t kill you, but we still have to burn your house.”

“NO!” Chandra pleaded, “We are growing a child in the basement! You will kill it!”

“Growing? I don’t know what you folks’re about, but I’ve got my orders.” The man said as he removed the projectile-flame-spewing device hooked to his back. He ordered the awkward gathering of impotently violent men to follow suit and began priming the machine to commence with the incineration.

“Wait!” Raymond shouted, “Watch this!”

Running up to Asher, Raymond grabbed his friend’s shoulder and punched him in the nose.

“AH! What the hell, Raymond!  I think you broke my nose!” Asher howled as he doubled over, blood streaming down his face.

“I’m so sorry, Asher!” Raymond begged for forgiveness while Chandra, who’d come outside with Nico during the gun battle, ran over to comfort her lover and collect samples. Leaving Asher’s care in Chandra’s capable hands, Raymond looked up and shouted at the flabbergasted ranks of elite shock troops, “I CAN commit violence! Stop! I can commit violence!”

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? BURN THAT SHIT!” Phil ordered from above.

“How…how did you?” the soldier stammered as he backed away. Others came closer to see what was going on. As the men saw Asher’s bloody nose, some ran for their lives in fear, others wretched, sickened by the sight of the first functional violence they’d seen in nearly ten months. Still others sank to their knees in rapture, looking at Raymond as if they‘d seen an angel strolling down K Street.

“You have to get me to Martha’s Vineyard!” Raymond shouted.

“M-m-martha’s? Why?” one of the awestruck questioned.

“It’ll only continue the cycle of hate! It has to stop!”

“I-but…”

Raymond wound up for another swing.

The man winced and relented, “There’s no need for violence. PHIL! LADDER!”

After ensuring the soldiers had entirely abandoned their plans to put the safe-house to the torch, Raymond bid adieu to his friends before they could question or dissuade him. He boarded one of the helicopters, argued with a sorely put-out Phil, and was eventually whisked away to a nearby military base where he performed a second demonstration of violence on Phil’s nose[4] for disbelieving troops attempting to take him into custody. After his abilities were clear to all parties, a new helicopter was fueled and prepared for Raymond’s transportation to Martha’s Vineyard.

When he reached his destination, Raymond was exhausted and running low on the adrenaline that’d allowed him to steamroll his usual neurosis. His mind raced to catch up and filter his actions. Anticipating this, he’d erected a barrier of justifications to prevent the threatening forces of doubt from gathering strength outside the fortress of his resolve. This barricade was composed of a simple idea; that he, Raymond Clock, was the only person with the power to prevent this disaster from occurring, which meant, as Asher had stated earlier, he had an obligation to act. His personal prohibitions against violence meant little when measured against this solemn duty.

If the Spirit of Violence business was real, though he didn’t believe it was; but if, maybe, perhaps if the Spirit of Violence was real, he alone had been chosen to use violence. And so his choices and actions had the added benefit of feeling spiritually blessed, even though he didn’t actually believe in any of that spirit nonsense. Even without all the SoV stuff, Raymond, as the only uniquely normally functioning human left on the planet, still felt reasonably justified in using his abilities to pursue the best possible course. After all, after stripping away all the false humility and lattices of entangled theories he used to pretend his mind didn’t believe so, he’d always known that he knew what was best for humanity,

Landing just outside Senator Stovall’s looming estate as evening turned to night, Raymond hopped out, told the crew to wait for him, and, feeling all the world an international spy or secret agent like in those movies he never admitted to liking but secretly rather enjoyed when he just wanted to pretend the world was a simple black and white place where a guy running around a city with a gun blowing things up was actually doing more good than harm, stealthily made his way to the front-entrance. He wasn’t sure what else to do, so he rang the doorbell.

A very narrow trombone emerged from inside. This was held by short, squat man in a hunting jacket and cowboy boots. The man pointed the trombone at Raymond’s chest and grumbled, “Whadyawant?”

“Hi, umm, sir. My name is Raymond Clock, and you’re all in danger.”

“Danger? Raymond Clock…” The hunting jacket wearing gentleman turn around and yelled back into the house, “Lieutenant Colonel Crowley, Sir! We have a visitor! He says his name is Raymond Clock and he says we’re in danger! What should I do with him?”

“Let him in. Let him in and bring him to me.” A high-pitched voice answered from within.

“Go.”

The man, clutching what Raymond now saw was an antique elephant gun, prodded him down a musty hallway lined with old pictures of Senator Stovall (R – OK) shaking hands with celebrities and corporate sponsors.

The hallway emptied into the main dining room where an equally musty group of elderly white gentlemen were sitting around a candle bedecked solid wood table debating.

“I’ll not have it, not here, not in my home,” a man Raymond recognized as Senator Stovall (R-OK) proclaimed as he pounded his fist on the table.

A lumpy-faced mustachioed man in a tweed suit, who spoke with a southern drawl and a wad of chewing tobacco under his lip, responded in a voice laced with helium, “When you kindly allowed us to use your home as our headquarters, you were agreeing to put the needs of AFTKATAWHKALFOEL,WGRAAFOEFWKWTWDASBQ first. This man can help us. He has connections and explosives expertise. We need him.”

“I will not be the first Stovall to host a Chinese in the family estate, no sir,” the former Senator (R-OK) continued before noting Raymond’s entrance, “Well, I don’t believe my eyes. You’re not amongst friends Mr. Clock, as you must well know. Why’re you here? And choose your words well, son.”

Raymond punched the elephant-gun toting man in the nose and addressed a silent room, “I’m not here as your friend and I don’t know why you would even pretend to threaten anyone. You’re all part of a cadre of pathetic, sad, bitter old relics this nation has the extremely unpleasant task of re-socializing. I was looking forward to the great cull of time to naturally reduce your herd, but now with NFVS, it seems we have to deal with one another indefinitely. I’m the only human being on Earth who can use violence and I’m going to use it to put a stop to the cycles you represent.”

Helium dude responded first, “Mr. Clock, my name is Lieutenant Colonel Bertram Crowley and I can assure you as the leader of AFTKATAWHKALFOEL,WGRAAFOEFWKWTWDASBQ, we’re listening. I don’t know how you can do what you can do, but we will give you our time. ”

“Oh. Well…in that case…” Raymond paused to think. He’d assumed they would attack him after his diatribe, but after a moment of recalibration, his brain snapped back into action, “Good. First, you’re in danger. The government is coming to capture or trap you. They tried to kill me and burn my home earlier this evening.”

“How? How do they plan to do that?” Crowley responded, his voice rising to new octaves.

“I don’t know. They tried some stupid bullet bouncing thing with us so whatever they have planned will probably be equally moronic, but it‘s also likely be highly destructive, as always. I suggest you make preparations to leave immediately.”

Crowley made a motion and two middle-aged gentlemen in dusters and bowlers, who’d been standing behind him during the meeting, sprinted out of the room.

“Second, and I assure you I follow up on my threats,” Raymond said as he motioned to his third broken nose of the night, which was currently still bleeding on the fuming hunting-jacketed individual seated nearby while his gun rested peacefully in his lap, “I demand you stop all anti-SVB activities at once and live a regular and happy life free from violence and hate.”

The elderly gentlemen around the table looked to one another in silent agreement, “Mr. Clock, we would rather die than see this great nation fall into the hands of you Crazy bastards.” At those words each of the gentlemen grabbed one or two of the pistols they always carried on their person and fired every round they had at Raymond, who sighed and waited for them to stop.

“Conservatives are so annoying. Now let’s try this again, children. I need you to…”

He was interrupted by shattering glass and a sudden flash of yellow fur and brown feathers zipping around the room.

“What the hell?” Raymond goggled.

“Mr. and Mrs. X, Agent Jackrabbit! Capture Lieutenant Colonel Crowley!” A voice shouted from an unknown location.

Raymond could make out what looked like two predatory cats darting towards the table carrying a net between them with…yes that looked like a bird of prey, maybe a hawk? He didn’t know specific species of birds as well as he would have liked at that precise moment. Whatever was happening, the fur and feathers had tangled Lieutenant Colonel Crowley in their net before anyone else moved.

“Agent Steel! Agent Sparkles! Acquire the package!” another voice called from a different unknown direction.

Now a hulking animal, unmistakably a gorilla, a highland Silverback if Raymond’s memory served him correctly, careened across the room, terrifying the un-netted guests and motivating the ensnared Crowley to struggle with his bonds a bit harder. Behind the gorilla came a…what was that? A chimp, right? Yeah, it had to be a chimp. Raymond didn’t know if there were different types of chimpanzees, he just remembered that he’d thought for the majority of his life that chimps were the closest animal in terms of genetics to humans and had been embarrassingly disabused of that notion by a casual acquaintance at a party[5]. But he was sure this was a chimpanzee, whatever type of chimpanzee it might be. It was moving in behind the big gorilla towards the trapped Crowley.

As the apes approached the large cats, who Raymond recognized now as cheetahs, the felines noticed the chimp, lost their professional bearing, slipped out of their harnesses, and pounced on poor, poor Agent Sparkles, ending her life and resulting in the third case of carnivorous fratricide in the Agency’s long and storied history.

“AGENT SPARKLES!” a third voice called from nowhere.

A deafening roar cowed the bedlam of the room. The roar was followed by a groan of earth and building material as the ground began to sink into itself.

“JOHNSON! Didn’t you deconflict operations with NSA?”

“What? No that was Johnson! I was in charge of briefing Agent Jackrabbit and…and…the late Agent Sparkles…”

“Don’t blame me! I wasn’t supposed to coordinate with those fuckers! That was you, Johnson! Deputy Johnson tasked you himself!”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Johnson! If this was Beirut…”

Before Johnson could tell the congregation of Johnsons what he’d do if he was in Beirut, the structure collapsed and into sank into a hole.

The hole had been created by the subterranean nuclear blast of the twelve-kiloton atomic device the NSA had requested to sink the Stovall estate. Rather than merely sink the estate, however, the blast was sufficient to sink the entirety of Martha’s Vineyard. Within minutes the guests, house, grounds, and body of poor, poor Agent Sparkles were all dragged underneath the freezing December waters of the North Atlantic.

Hours later, Coast Guard rescue ships trolled the uncharted stretch of sea littered with the finest in modern furniture, clothing, and accessories old-money could buy. The crews eventually came across a man impressively balanced in a yoga position on a broken section of what appeared to be a long dining room table. As they hauled in the bedraggled, shivering soul, the crack rescue squad’s human resource representative asked the man for his name so they could check if he was on their list of currently missing persons.

Raymond responded calmly and deliberately despite his spasmodic trembling and the relentless clattering together of his teeth inside his frozen mouth, “M-m-my n-n-name is R-r-raymond C-c-clock, and I n-n-need you to t-t-take me to W-w-washington D-d-d. C-c-c. R-r-right n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-now.”

[1] The incident/man’s official designation mandated by the flourishing Church/Temple/Synagogue/Mosque/Shrine of Violence® (C/T/S/M/SoV®) after an intense debate by the newly self-appointed CTSMSoV® Elders/CEOs. Out of the ten proposed holy trademarks  presented to focus groups by the CTSMSoV® Deacons/Marketing Team, “The Martyrdom of Saint Tampala (PBUH)” tested most positive across every demographic except agnostics, who responded neither positively nor negatively.

[2] The first building the organization bombed was owned by the media company in responsible for the name shortening slight.

[3] And really the only reason she got up in the morning anymore ever since her husband passed two years ago and her children moved away and stopped writing. Her children had an underdeveloped ability to deal with the pity they felt for others suffering from grief, a cycle they’d learned from their parents. Therefore they avoided anyone in the throes of extreme sorrow. Whenever they tried to help, their nagging guilt transformed into resentment faster than they liked to admit, which made them feel ashamed. Other’s pain felt like their own personal punishment; like they’re the real victim.

[4] A demonstration he was much less sorry to perform by the time the disagreeable and bloodthirsty Phil delivered an impatient Raymond to the base.

[5] The acquaintance had informed Raymond that it was actually bonobos who shared the most DNA with humans. After the conversation, so it wouldn’t look like he was upset about being corrected because only a horribly immature ass with a fragile ego would be upset by such a thing, he’d stayed at the party for a respectable length of time before excusing himself from the event with a fake emergency he made sure to tell everyone was political in nature, returned home, and moved away from the city as quickly as possible.

The Pile – Chapter Thirteen

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

Even a full week after the burnings, “The Purging of Anacostia” was trending. Screens were pumped full of burning LLS’s, Anacostian’s 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. The rest of us can’t even break your skin.” Nico reminded him.

“I’m aware, but the extraction of vital parts of my person is more concerning to me 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.

Handing a now-full needle to Chandra, he pleaded, “Please make this the last test.”

“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 this monopoly on 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.

Hey Sports Professionals

You’re exploiting the potent combination of human desire and mass communication very well, but not only is the result destructive for the poor schmucks who attach sports to their personal value and spend money they don’t have buying your addictive products, it’s terrible for your own bodies and minds. You’re being exploited by powerful rich people who force giant taxpayer-funded non-profit stadiums on everyone else.

Sports for money does not require the simultaneous attention of millions. You’re very talented, but please be reasonable. If you’re a well-paid professional athlete, you’re very well-paid by any standard. Pool some of that money with other players and set up a new organization for all your sports and play inside a building you own. Please play in reasonable sized places that integrate well into your city so your games don’t disrupt everyone else’s lives..

Next, create a pipeline program that replaces college and high school sports. Prospective future sports professionals will train and compete here safely under professional guidance and instruction as they prepare for their career in sports. Have after-school programs for prospects during high school, relieving schools and taxpayers of the need to fund professional sports. Create a robust selection process and hire prospects from high school directly into your company, where, while providing various administrative and logistical assistance, they will participate in full-time training camps and life skills programs until and after they’re selected for a professional team. For those who wish to concurrently take college classes, plan to set aside money for tuition assistance and other benefits. Pay fair salaries and treat athletes like respected employees. Make salaries standard across the league to prevent wealthy teams from determining the location of talent and allow for the self-incorporation and official induction of exceptional and organized externally created teams.

Your organization can be a multi-tiered multimedia and sports company that liaises with communities to nurture prospective sports talent (please do not gouge poor communities with prices, there’ll be plenty of money), reports on league activities through your own channels and publications, broadcasts and sells licensing rights to games, licenses player and league merchandise, and serve as the major player-owned sports league.

With your current salaries you could complete your contracts, pool a proportional percentage for seed money and immediately attract a swarm of international investors dying to do business with you. Retain a solid majority control and steer the organization to be the best sports league in the history of humanity.

Please stop exploiting human frailty to feed your own ego. You have the power to create a better situation for yourself and future sports professionals.

The Pile – Chapter Twelve

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…

 

The Pile- Chapter Eleven

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.

The Pile – Chapter Ten

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 1st 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.”

Abdication

war is over

The Korean peninsula would benefit from a lack of US involvement. It’s time for Russia, China, South Korea, North Korea, and Japan to move beyond historically tenuous regional relationships and petty maritime border bickering. It’s time to find a solution to nuclear weapons in North Korea without the American Wild Card. It’s time to end the war on the Korean peninsula and remove a foreign military force that abuses the South Korean population, supports crime networks and human trafficking, and destabilizes the peace. War on the Korean peninsula will be one of the great cataclysms of our age. We, as humans, can prevent it from ever happening.

It’s time for America to become one nation among many nations. The false stasis of Pax Americana thoroughly disproved and the prophets of the miserable World Order (their words, not mine) revealed as cynical mouthpieces for their exploitative tribe. They who sold the illusion of stability, progress, liberty, and equilibrium as they handed out small pox blankets and nuclear guarantees.

Our hallowed elite, sitting in mahogany halls.

We are observed in rot-filled homes forming mutinous mouths.

Our hallowed elite, opinions weighted with fortune.

We are observed in hole-filled streets grasping at the future.

 

Their walls climb above our heads until they own the sky.

Our lives are bought and sold as holy consumption dissolves on the tongues of the faithful.

Their deaths electrify our minds and topple our world.

Our lives are programs we run to complete blocks of time worth what the market pays.

 

Our hallowed elite, caressed now by Asclepius.

We are observed in sick-filled offices loving our pills.

Our hallowed elite, outsource empathy for comfort.

We are observed in our shame-filled weakness,

We are observed in our anger-filled failures,

We are observed in our trauma-filled relationships,

We who lack the will to triumph over all beings.

 

Their halls are the halls we build for them,

Our homes are the homes they told us to build.

Their opinions are the opinions we lend value,

Our futures are the futures they told us to have.

 

The walls that overtake us are creations of our mind,

Those lives we consume in delusion are creations of another’s.

The deaths that control us are creations of our mind,

Those lives we complete in deference are creations of another’s.

 

Their nourishment is the nourishment we provide,

Our sickness is the sickness they told us we could cure.

Their empathy is the empathy we forgive,

Our weakness is the weakness they told us would lead to ruin.

 

We are hallowed.

Our lives are hallowed.

We are elites.

Our world is what we allow.

Collective abdication our legacy.