Jump To The New Ruling Class

By Christopher G.

Considered a Loudmouth, I found myself Stuck In The Middle of a complete Cellular Degeneration with the Answering Machine buzzing away. It is now One Minute To Midnight, and I must find the Piece of The Puzzle so I can get to the House of The Gun in time to Make The Rabbit Patch Great Again before They All Fall Down. But Here's The Pitch; Mr. Sheets wants to go to Rollies and then stop by Thee Number One Jester's Shoppe for A Life Lesson in Four-Letter Words in order to Damn That River. I have to ask, Can We Play?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Chautauqua Group
• Release date: Sep 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393460152

Christopher G.

After wandering the desert for many years, Christopher G. is travelling the land, on a quest to find that place where he might call home for a time.

Book preview

Answering Machine

He switched off the machine. Percy Blackstone had listened to the same fifteen messages often enough, even though they brought a flood of melancholia that threatened to drown him every time he did. They were the voices of people he trusted. Most of them now long gone. He could still picture the faces associated with those voices he kept, for, if anything, sentimental reasons, on the antiquated device. They offered Percy some solace, not much, but these days, some was better than none.

Feeling restless, Percy paced the floor. He lit a cigarette. He didn’t much care for synthetic tobacco, but what choice did he have. On his restrictive pension, Syn Cigs were all he could afford. They were also the only cigarettes available on the south side.

He took a few deep drags, then blew a freight train line of blue-tinged smoke rings through the rows of soft yellow sunbeams cast across the dingy hotel room he called home. Not that he wanted to live here. The Higher-Ups had jailed him in the seedy Stone City hotel some time ago. It’s what the establishment did when you were deemed an aged liability and they needed to keep tabs on you. And the easiest course of action for them to achieve that goal, was to keep you isolated.

The Meds, who monitored the program weren’t a particularly friendly bunch. Some even seem to get a depraved thrill from watching the Specs under their guard slowly die. If you wanted to stay alive, which Percy did, retired Specs like himself had to learn to put up a bullish front. If a Meds’ instruments detected low levels of resolve in a former government asset, well then, they simply eliminated you from this mortal coil, right then and there. No questions asked

The Higher-Ups didn’t like questions. They liked efficiency. Keeping retired Specs detached and on the brink of destitution only brought the ‘End Oracle’ program that much closer to its termination. Specs had served their purpose. It was time to move on. The future was in machines. They were easier to control.

Percy had just turned twenty-two when he received the clandestine honour of being classified a Spec. It happen innocently enough. He had joined a group of his college classmates in attending a school basketball game. The first played in more than a year.

It was during the last quarter of the game when he began calling the results of events on the court before they happen. His classmates ribbed him that it was just a string of lucky guesses, but when Percy called the final outcome of the game correctly, long before the final buzzer, they took notice.

That was amazing Percy, gushed Jayne Riley. A girl Percy sometimes dated.

Hey Perc, if you can you do that all the time, suggested Terry Hansen. "I know how we can make some big bucks.

I wish it were that eas... A hand on Percy’s shoulder interrupted his reply. Percy cranked his head to see a stern-looking man in a black jumpsuit glaring down at him, We need to talk son.

Ah, okay, Percy answered hesitantly.

He followed the man out of the gymnasium to the Dean’s office. The Dean excused himself, leaving Percy alone with the somber brawny stranger.

The man in the black introduced himself as Commander Alan Willis of the National Security Forces, Covert-Ops battalion assigned to the Turoy District. He went on to explain that after a number of unprecedented raids on local air defense installations by unknown alien marauders, the National Higher-Ups had decided to deploy his regiment to protect the bases from further incursions. They were looking for all the help they could get.

Not a single civilian has heard about any of this because the sites are top secret. I need you to swear that what we talk about here today never leaves this room, understood?

Yes sir, I understand. But I don’t know...

Commander Willis interrupted Percy’s innocence. I saw what you did with that game. It was quite impressive. Have you always been able to perceive the future, or were they just lucky guesses as your friends implied?

No they weren’t lucky guesses. I can...

Again the Commander cut him off.

Excellent. That’s what I wanted to hear. We could use someone with your special skill set to help us thwart any future attacks before they occur. So what’d you say. You wanna be a hero son?

Before Percy even had a chance to consider a response, Commander Willis was on the phone informing the National Higher-Ups of his talents. They immediately conscripted Percy for the National Security Forces’ Special Talents branch via speakerphone.

In the days that followed, Percy found himself subjected to a series of grueling tests, which would allow the Higher-Ups to better determine the level of his perceptive skills. They were, in some measure, disappointed to discover that Percy’s clairvoyant abilities were sporadic, and so he was classified an Alt-Spec. A Security Forces’ tag denoting a second-class clairvoyant. But to those who would soon have the privilege of working with Percy, he was always considered a first-class seer.

For the next forty-five years Percy worked in the National Security Forces Specs Division, preempting numerous alien invasions. His skills of clairvoyance foiled innumerable assaults. If it wasn’t for his secret National Security classification, Percy Blackstone would have been known world-wide as a hero. Unfortunately, that type of notoriety was not allowed.

Now seven years retired, the Higher-Ups still controlled his life. They had stowed him away in Stone City with other, in the Higher-Ups opinion, worthless, aging Specs, of which he was not to associate with in any manner.

Percy extinguished his cigarette. He hobbled his somewhat-hardy seventy-four year old framework across the room. He yanked up the blinds to gaze down at the multitudes bustling about the streets below. From his third-floor perch, Percy studied the innocent civilians scurrying to and fro. Their motivations occasional revealing themselves to him in moments of perception, which sometimes gave him a pounding migraine.

His skills were tarnished, even though he attempted to work them daily. It just wasn’t the same after saving the world from would-be conquering aliens, year in, year out.

If only he could talk to someone about it, as he did with the others while in the division. It made him feel better to discuss the burden of knowing experiences before hand.

That’s it!

I need to talk to another Spec before I go mad and give the Meds a reason to finish me off, though Percy.

He shuddered. Dare I even consider such a treasonous act?

Percy circled the room, deep in thought.

What’s the big deal. If I’m careful no one will know. But I have to find another Spec who is willing to break the law as I am. That may be difficult. The promise of death has a way of discouraging such actions.

He returned to the window. Percy spied a young couple standing in front of the coffee shop across the street, engaged in a lively kiss.

She’s going to slap his face in a moment, Percy perceived of future time.

Sure enough, after removing the man’s hand from her derriere, the young woman yelled something Percy did not hear, and then gave the fella a good hard slap. The woman promptly walked away in a huff.

Ah, I’ve still got it. But who couldn’t see that coming, Percy chuckled.

Three hard knocks on his door quickly brought Percy back to real time.

Blackstone A-13784! Hello? a monotone voice inquired through the thin veneer door.

Percy knew that tone. They all had it. He moved from the window to the stand next to door.

Yes, what is it?

Med-89662. I’m here for your weekly, the stiff, almost mechanical voice replied.

Percy did a quick survey of the room for anything out of the ordinary. Meds reported any and all peculiarities to their supervisors. Satisfied he was safe, Percy opened the door. The Med entered and promptly recorded a visual of the room. And of Percy.

Okay Blackstone, you know the routine, The Med said flatly. Percy nodded.

The Med proceeded with Percy’s examination which consisted of a physical scan, a detailed interrogation of his activities for the week, and a sweep of the chip implant behind his right ear. The entire process took ten minutes.

Alright A-13784, I’m done here, The Med stated, returning its instruments to a black satchel it had set down on Percy’s kitchen table. The Med pulled an envelope from the satchel handing it to Percy. Oh yes, one last thing. You’re confined to quarters for the remainder of the week. Orders from HQ in Bowlder.

But why? Percy asked defiantly. I’ve done nothing illegal!

The Med shrugged, I don’t make these decisions, now do I?

But what about food? My assigned shopping day is tomorrow.

Everything has already been approved. Your groceries, and other required sundries will be delivered to you as scheduled tomorrow.

The Med took one last scan of the room. It detected the ashtray full of cigarette butts.

Those things will kill you, you know?

So can you, Percy returned sharply.

Duly noted, The Med responded. Picking up its satchel, it left Percy standing alone in the middle of his hotel room, feeling violated, as he always did after a Med visit.

Percy sighed and lit a fresh cigarette.

So much for the rewards of serving your fellow man.

Percy returned to the window. He looked down at the people who would never know that he and a small group of others spent the prime of their lives working to save the lot of them, only to end up being confined to a solitary room.

Lost in his thoughts Percy did not hear his telephone ring. It was when he turned to extinguish his cigarette that he saw the red light flashing on the answering machine. His hands trembled with expectancy. He carefully engaged the playback button on the vintage machine.

Percy? It’s Jayne, the recorded voice announced. Jayne Riley from the division. We need to talk.

A promising smile lit up Percy’s solemn face.

He listened to Jayne’s message a number of times, just to be sure he wasn’t dreaming. Then he erased it. There could be no loose ends.

He already knew where they would meet come Saturday.

Here’s The Pitch

Down a gleaming corridor on the fifty-second floor of a West London office tower, a group of power-suit executives sit around a polished chrome conference table, situated in the middle of a glass-walled meeting room. While waiting for their headmaster to arrive, the general conversation shifts to some bragging office gossip.

Yeah I know, she says no all the time, but anybody can see she’s lying, boasts Richard Finch. An unappealing, petty little man, Finch is the current CFO of the GLB Corporation, and aspiring company womanizer.

I could have her if I wanted to, but I can’t be bothered putting up with all that winy secretary chatter just to get laid. Though I wouldn’t say no to her getting her knees dirty in the mens room, if you know what I mean.

A few of the men at the table look up from the studied portfolios before them and grunt.

Richard Finch leans back in his chair. A smug, satisfied grin stretched across his spiteful face.

Maybe you’re not going about it right mate, suggests Oliver Goodwin. An average-looking bloke who flashes a noticeable overbite of tea-stained teeth with his reply. And I should know. That Cheryl gal is one crazed sex maniac. She loves doing it, all of it, and all night too. ‘Course you gotta buy her a lot o’ drinks first. But then, what’s a few drinks between co-workers right?

Oliver’s spicy addition to the conversation pulls in everyone’s attention.

Mind you, it was only that one time. But still, whoa eh. Whoa, Oliver concludes.

This time, all the men stop to grunt. They then obligingly return to the paperwork before them.

A studied hush envelops the meeting room to rest for a slight moment before chief executive officer, Bruce Welton, a verbose, self-important man, enters. The seated men instinctively rise.

Welton’s larger-than-life persona chases their silence to the rafters.

Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting. I was unexpectedly detained, but now that we are all here, let’s say we get to the matter at hand, shall we.

Bruce Welton, President and CEO of the GLB Corporation, along with his inner circle of shameless executives operate their multinational consortium with a questionable integrity. Most recently they were deceitful enough, the words lucky or fortunate cannot apply here, to have an Interpol money-laundering investigation dismissed due to a lack of evidence. Word is they killed off the chief examiner on the case. Ah, corporate power. It would seem they live by a different set of rules. And it probably doesn’t hurt if you own those rules. Which, of course, the GLB Corporation does.

Alright then, Mr. Welton begins. He takes possession of the high-backed leather chair at the head of the table. Is everyone up to stride on this? He scrutinizes the response from each of his colleagues. All those present acknowledge their readiness.

Very good gentlemen. I’m glad to see everyone’s done their homework and that we’re all set to go public with SquanderIt. I personally believe this venture is going to make us all very wealthy...again.

The men laugh their approval. Bruce Welton himself chuckles.

Yes I know what you’re all thinking. What? More money? For me! Well gentlemen, if not for us than who? We did the work, well not the real grunt work, but still. We’re the ones who make it go, even if no one wants or needs it. That’s what God put us here for, right? To tell the world what it wants and needs. If we didn’t then they would be like sheep in the wilderness, lost, cold, frightened, and about to be torn apart by the nearest pack of hungry wolves. We can’t let that happen. We are, in a matter of speaking, their Shepards and I for one am willing to give my flock anything it desires to survive. Especially when that translates into real capital for us and the corporation. Wouldn’t you agree gentleman?

The men eagerly rise from their chairs to give their CEO a grand ovation. He bows graciously, and signals his associates to take their places once again. Once seated, the applause is directly  replaced by a pounding of fists on the table. The chant of ‘Welton, Welton, Welton’ shakes the room.

Bruce acknowledges the accolade. Yes, thank you gentlemen, thank you. And to you also. He begs silence, Now if we could please quiet down so that I may continue.

The room falls still. All eyes on Welton.

Yes, yes. Excellent. Again thank you. I, of course cannot take all the credit on this project, as we all put in a yeomen’s effort and will soon be reaping our just rewards. Welton breaks to pour himself a drink of water.

Now, the reason I called this meeting is to present to you a video pitch I produced with the help of some of the good people we have down in the IT department. Before I run the segment I must preface that I am no actor, though I do think I did a rather bang-up job of it and hope that you will all agree. So without further ado...

Bruce Welton leaves his chair. He moves to slide open the wall-panels directly behind him, revealing a large video screen. Activating the remote in his hand, he dims the lights and drapes the walls. The meeting room goes dark.

The screen flickers with a grainy black and white countdown clock - four, three, two, one. It then swirls into a kaleidoscope of colour bursts. Imagines of faces, places and objects flash across the screen until the camera comes to focus on GLB’s CEO Bruce Welton standing before the Tower of London. He nods, offers a brief smile, and begins the pitch;

"Hello and welcome investors. My name is Bruce Welton. I am the President and CEO of the Greedy Lying Bastards Corporation. A multinational company with a storied past but more importantly, a brighter future. I am here to share with you the monetary benefits of a truly unique opportunity and how you can capitalize on the IPO of our newest venture, SquanderIt.

As I’m sure you are well aware, a great majority of the world’s population spend most of their finite time on this planet doing all sorts of nice social things online. What this now commonplace sedentary lifestyle affords us is the opportunity to produce a product that is essentially pointless and brings no real value to the world, other than to facilitate people into wasting away even more of their meager existence on something that, ironically, is useless.

Fiendishly brilliant you may ask? Why, yes it is. Clever? I don’t mean to brag but, again yes. That is why we jumped at the opportunity to develop SquanderIt, because if we didn’t, someone else would have. And why should we let some other heartless corporation take profits on something that is rightfully ours? Am I right? You know I am. So with that said, if you will allow me a few minutes of your time, I am going to tell you how SquanderIt works and how it will increase your investment