Of Marginal Importance

By J. Lewis Celeste

Or is evil a human construct to steer the masses into submission— nothing like bathing perpetually in a lake of fire to keep us in line. Or could it be a universal necessary. What if evil or the idea of evil was simply the opposition, like the poles, nature’s symmetry, the balance in the struggle of life, a reciprocal tug of war.

If evil, and the doers of evil things were determined to be a requirement for mere existence, determined by empirical research and the scientific method to be an essential element to the furtherance of life, would you accept it in all its horrible manifestations? A perpetual win-lose challenge, tit for tat, an eye for an eye, a must needs for continuation. Would you acquiesce to being the next victim if the scientists conclude that it must be so, and everyone gets a lottery ticket? Would you still have the zest for fun, the zeal for adventure? Would you shrug your shoulders and posit c’est la vie?

We have just entered our third year of plague. A truly remarkable milestone with all our medical and technical advancements exponentially accelerated in the past three decades. A plague that is creeping up on the worldwide impact of the Spanish Flu and even the Black Death in medieval times. Perhaps when it is all said and done, not as high a cost in human life, but still very high, shockingly high. But what of the social impact, the toll on the human condition, the cost on cultural norms and values, what about that? For decades, even with the advances in technology and communications, we had an established path— school, work, retirement— with various avenues on how to proceed, but there was a procession. And in that procession, certain mile markers, like childhood development and healthy competition and then the 9-5 grind. We lived with patterns, routines and expectations, and other than the outliers, those that bucked regularity and the norm, most of us accepted the general flow. C’est la vie.

Where is your world now? And I mean yours, your world, your life? Aren’t we all victims? Is there anyone on this planet who is not? Take a moment to absorb this grim reality, reflect, look away from this page and really think about it then come back and ask yourself “what is important now?” How numb have we become as a society, how yesterday is today’s news, even in real time! The innumerable tragedies, the woe after woe, the incessant bleakness portrayed constantly on the news, on your feeds, everywhere— hour upon hour in your face doom and gloom. Will we ever be able to take a collective breath again, are we even capable?

And yet, it could get worse, much worse, so much so that our numb existence would reel, like a slumbering dragon sensing the loss of a single jewel, snapping too with the quickness. And when that happens, as we blink away the fog, we should be concerned that evil and its catalysts are hedging over the line and if we don’t tug back, if we don’t heave ho with some gusto, it will no longer be c’est la vie, but telle e’tait la vie.

Maiten Bexler is unquestionably one of evil’s acolytes. Born in the heartland, but heartless since he could crawl. A true champion of the dark, a free radical against universal symmetry, destined to demonstrate what can be worse. Driven to alter the balance, to upset the status quo, to break the opposition in a decisive manner. Attrition, no, utter destruction yes! For mankind and life are just not worth it. We are the real plague and these petty back and forth struggles between good and evil, or nature’s need to filter for growth, all these numbing hiccups, like COVID-19, are just not doing it. A bigger bang is needed, a better shudder required, and he has a plan, a terrible plan. He may not be the best of the worst, he knows this, envy being one of his failings, but he will make his mark, he will certainly make his mark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Lewis Celeste
• Release date: Mar 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370228812

J. Lewis Celeste

J. Lewis Celeste is the author of the novel, “Gettin’ Paid,” along with several short stories and poems. He is a social commentator who encourages readers to question their opinions. J. Lewis Celeste challenges readers to evaluate their own beliefs, values, and perspectives. His writing focuses on core universal themes of the human condition.Contact: [e-mail]

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Of Marginal Importance

(In Libretto)

By J. Lewis Celeste

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. As far as places, addresses, business establishments and other locations like state and federal roadways and parks, these are used fictitiously, and any descriptions provided are also the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual non-public locations, businesses or entities is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by J. Lewis Celeste.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Cover illustration by

eBook design by Robert Louis Henry @ Right Hand Publishing

http://righthandpublishing.com

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Epigraph

Author’s Note

Preface

Prologue

Sonata Allegro

Sonata

Minuet Adagio & Larghissimo

Scherzo in Trio

Recapitulation with Ritornello and Codetta

Epigraph

"The Lord did not people the earth with a vibrant orchestra of personalities only to value the piccolos of the world. Every instrument is precious and adds to the complex beauty of the symphony."

Joseph B. Wirthlin

Author’s Note

I chose to structure this novel like a four-part symphony with a minuet section as well. The sequence breaks in each section are marked by a musical notation specific to that part and sometimes the breaks are rapid, other times not for many paragraphs, it all depends on the tempo as the story plays out. When I first started writing this novel the sequence breaks were separated by asterisks and the story divided into standard chapters, but as I progressed I felt a strong urge to mimic a grand musical piece and I think it was meant to be, for this is a symphony, it just happens to be a very dark one.

I hope you enjoy this thriller, well, maybe enjoy is inappropriate, rather I hope this novel encourages you to consider our collective state of being. For even with the horrific year we all have endured— the devastation, the terrible losses, the bleak uncertainty—It can always be worse.

Preface

Have you ever asked yourself What does it really mean to be on the edge of something? Or lamented in a moment of depression that you are of trifling significance? Believe me, it would take an exhaustive struggle to truly minimize yourself to inconsequence for this would require a complete renunciation of self which has those annoying aspects of ego, preservation and pride. No, not so easily done for what are the greatest fallacies of man? History is replete with stories of colorful characters that have spent lifetimes attempting to reduce their nature in order to attain deeper understanding. And what is this understanding they sought? That you are all, to quote Carl Sagan, star stuff? I dare say with mankind's natural state of me, realizing after such brutal self-remonstrations that you are all merely space dust must be anti-climactic, for to seek so hard and find nothing more aggrandizing has to be tough.

But what if I was to say to you that this natural state of selfishness is the monumental purpose of your life force, or the very reason that you live and breathe? Perhaps it is too difficult to place yourself on the fringe because your natural state is to be the center. So, what then is of marginal importance? And more importantly, who decides? Since humans first began recording, whether in passed down song, or cave drawings, you have searched for answers. What am I? Why am I here? From whence did I come? Civilizations have come and gone with these essential questions. Why? What will this knowledge truly provide you? Do you really want to learn that you are merely an experiment, that you are space dust? Or do you seek power in awareness, believing that perhaps knowing will convey even greater knowledge? But to what end?

What if I was to tell you that you are both valued and inconsequential? What if I showed you that some of you are more of one and less than the other? Your history, going all the way back to those first recordings clearly show the belief in others above, and these others evolved into gods, now predominately believed by most of you to be the one God. What if I suggested to you that this is quite true? What if I also suggested that God has helpers—assistants if you will? Whether you want to perceive them as angels, guardians, or just watchers. What if I also told you these helpers are tasked to tend to necessary things here and there, for God has many locations in the universe where he has homogenized star stuff.

And what if I was to suggest that God is always seeking? Learning and advancing while he tests his creations—being the Grand Architect, the Cosmos Scientist! And there are countless laboratories requiring many helpers and the duties are varied, but the most important, the most vital to the Creator are the managers who are tasked with ensuring his tests are carried out without interference. Specifically, the results are to be obtained unimpeded, or adulterated in any way, but carried forth through their natural state only!

And finally, what if I was to suggest that certain of you have more critical roles in the various tests prescribed? And that you will never know this, nor what courses you may have set in motion or altered, being that these decisions must be and are scrupulously based on free will.

This story is from the perspective of one of these assistants, a shepherd, as he will soon describe himself. And he and his kind toil ceaselessly through the galactic ebb and flow to the whims of the Great Scientist, and they love as he loves, but cannot interfere. They set the tests in motion, watch the choices unfold and occasionally, upon approval, opine.

So I leave you with these last thoughts—What is marginal? What is inconsequential? How precarious this, our natural state!

J. Lewis Celeste

Prologue

In some circles Priscilla Lynch might be considered feisty. A curious contrast to what others would say, with her steadfast nature and exacting manner—so meticulous in appearance, arrangement and habit.

Where would one find any spice in her whatsoever? a former colleague of mine once opined.

But I assure you she had plenty of mustard, although she did not open that jar often and never in public. Regarding her outward persona, she was, I agree, Atlas in her severity! To advertise any discomfort, or better, discomfiture whatsoever, was, for my dear, intolerable. For a Librarian must always appear stoic, scholarly and stiff, being the holder of knowledge, the keeper of truth, and the benefactor to people who seek self-improvement. Oh yes, Priscilla was a devoted professional and maintained a rigid carriage, almost haughty for the prestigious post she held—Chief Book Lender at the town library.

To better illustrate my dear and her habits, consider the following: she cleaned her glasses twice daily; mornings after breakfast and evenings before supper, invariably, even if the course of her day was disrupted. Even, mind you, if her day was so disrupted that a meal would be missed, her fastidious nature ensured that at the appointed time when she must cleanse her spectacles, she cleansed her spectacles! Occasionally, if a summer day were particularly hot, she would add a session to her regimen (generally in the early afternoon), unable to bear the thought that salt may form on the nosepiece from unrelenting perspiration. In fairness to my dear, a 130-year-old building holds the wealth of tomes entrusted to her care, and with so many antiquated and dilapidated systems, especially the 1960's air conditioning unit, failure, like stale rubber bands, is quite common and surely adds a midday eyepiece scrubbing five days a week during the warmer months.

This additional bit is not meant to justify this particular habit or in any way suggest normalcy, but rather to offer full disclosure for your review. Understand please, the purpose of this example is to describe a routine event in Pricilla’s life in order to solidify her peculiar nature in your mind, so you can fully appreciate her person and ultimately, her importance.

Yes, Miss Lynch was a regimented soul in a self-imposed regulated existence where happiness was often limited to private solitary events, like teatime with her dolls (which harkened back to her lonely youth) and her double secret consumption of a specific cake at odd times. Speaking of which, this sweet fetish was always engaged in with odd particularity. When the fancy seized her, quite often I might add, she would seek immediate solitude whether a bathroom or a dark closet or whatever private location was available. Never in public, never, heaven forbid, where scrutinizing eyes might observe her peculiar practice. And peculiar indeed! I know, for I became a regular observer of my dear and her habits and I have the distinction of being the actual cause of her extreme secretiveness in that lifelong devil dog affair.

This distinction, by the way, is not a source of pride for me. In fact, for a very long time it has been the cause of constant ribbing from my colleagues, which as you must know is very annoying. I would do much to rewrite that unfortunate moment, but I cannot and as you will see, certain moments in the past are extremely important whether you are aware of them or not. So, to get it out of the way—for full disclosure only—I will briefly relate this regrettable occurrence. I leave it to you to decide if her detection of me was avoidable.

Years back, when my dear was young and slightly more eager in her approach, she would sneak down to the basement of the library to ravish her sinful treat most gluttonously. The dossier apparently noted this unusual habit but being newly assigned and irritated because I had too many cases already, I missed it. And for the record, the notation was severely lacking, limited to the following entry: Subject enjoys pastries.

So, completely unprepared, I followed her downstairs and watched how much she really enjoyed pastries! Quickly shutting the door and looking around briefly, she hunkered down, ripped off the wrapper and got to it. In apparent rapture, she licked all four sides where the cream filling split the cakes, gouging out a good amount with her probing tongue. Once satisfied with her trench work, she squeezed the cake ends together forcing the remaining cream outward to ring the now sealed pastry like a white frothy beard and eagerly licked all four sides again. After repeated passes to ensure complete consumption of all the cream, she pried the cakes apart and like a kid with an Oreo cookie commenced to scrape, suck and lick the inside walls until two hulled out shards of dark brown sweet bread were all that remained.

Completely mystified and rather glassy-eyed, I forgot myself and became—shall I say—more substantial! As such she noticed my presence in the corner behind some garbage cans. She gave such a start upon seeing me that her glasses flew off her face and she jumped back stumbling into the staircase. She never broke her gaze though and I am quite sure she saw my whole essence. And although we do appear similar to your kind, we are strikingly different. Leaving her glasses, Priscilla bolted up the stairs frightened to all hell.

Of course, I corrected my mistake immediately, but the damage was done, and I have been the subject of regular ribaldry from my peers ever since. As for my dear, she became more reclusive and paranoid and well, odd! But that was destined to be and cannot really be tied to this particular event. For like all humans when faced with the incredible, over time, she reasoned the reality of our encounter away. But this in no way changed the course of her life, the direction of her purpose, or the reason for her existence.

Anyhow, anyway, any hoot, Priscilla Lynch was a gas! A thesis if I was so inclined, but more importantly a necessary in the continuation of your society . . . to existence actually, as you know it to be, if I may be so bold.

Queer, flighty, isolated and other than her own opinion, completely overlooked and often unseen by everyone, yet, my dear was essential to your life even proceeding. Intrigued? You should be for there are many like her throughout your world so marked. Human oddities that may appear to you to be irrelevant or surplus or better off dead to lessen the irritations in your life, but unknown to you they are so much more important than you will ever be. And the key here is that they are unknown to you!

Some are fat, grossly obese and a burden to all, even the furniture; some are slow, fossil slow and extremely difficult to bear; some are so goofy that you just want them to drown already. Others are so shy they don’t even look at themselves, or so clueless they don’t know themselves, or so fearful they don’t want to move. And the list goes on, ad nauseam to you and your kind—you better examples of people. You know these ones I speak of, don’t you? They’re never invited to your parties or flirted with at the checkout or even granted a smile to advertise your whitened teeth. But they are so critical, these marked souls, and to my brethren and me they are gold in your world of molten lead. Each worth so much more than a stadium full of you and they will never know it.

So, this tale begins with a focus, a specific focus, on one of these crucial lives fated with an exceptional task that will go unnoticed by all but those of us who tend your miserable flock in order to ensure this pigeon coop called earth is suitably maintained. And you shall see by the unfolding events after my dear Priscilla fulfills her purpose how important she was.

I guess I should offer you something about me. I am simply an assistant to the Creator. There are many of us and we travel throughout the universe on various tasks and assignments for the Creator. My job is to ensure His laboratory is properly set and prepared as outlined by the Creator. His laboratories are many and they are not rooms or buildings, but entire planets, yours for instance. His experiments are beyond my scope of understanding, but in the ones that I have assisted they all seem to revolve around choice and chance. For your kind, an advanced lifeform with much potential, He says, the experiments center around specific acts by selected humans that initiate other acts in sequence that must occur to continue your species’ progression. I do not know his end purpose, but I do know this is a recurring experiment of his and many other lifeforms on many other planets have failed after much promise and he simply moved on. But we have been here for a while and your kind seems to be holding His attention for some reason.

Sonata Allegro

It was a hot day. The air conditioner was on day three of an extended break and her midday spectacles’ cleaning was approaching regularity, for this was the fourth breakdown in five weeks. This time the word was that the particular broken part wasn’t even manufactured anymore. So, minus an overhaul of the system, fans were going to cycle stifling air until early autumn. As my dear fretted for the umpteenth time over the conditions, the preamble to the moment alluded to in my opening remarks occurred.

He approached with the stack. Only one held any importance. But without the stack, the one could be considered odd and maybe even remembered, and that, of course, could not be. So better he thought to have a whole stack along with the look of a scholarly soul, a voracious student, a true seeker of knowledge. Nothing in the stack was so distant from the one that a probing thought might go back to odd or peculiar. All loosely connected for a college researcher or someone on a philosophical pursuit or maybe even a modern eccentric approach to Emerson’s experiment, he thought. Easy to forget or better not to register at all was his goal.

He knew his appearance was spot-on; perfect in his narrow view of perfection, narrow for he allowed no errors, perfect was perfect. With his carefully chosen attire and well-practiced demeanor, he was completely in role. Masterful really, he reminded himself, for his appearance could easily be described, and that was his default intent. If something occurred to disrupt his plans, he wanted the library staff to recall exactly what he portrayed. His hair was disheveled and lay lank and dull across his head. This look accomplished by not washing his head for days and limiting any arrangement to finger combing. One could only achieve dedicated limpness with time. Mere representation no, true realization yes, perfection is becoming what you emulate. You are, he often reminds himself, you are, not you appear to be, this wins the trophy!

He wore a wrinkled collar shirt, pin striped pink to convey liberalism, black jeans not so broken in, to avoid the suggestion that comfort is more important than pursuit. A satchel instead of a backpack for a satchel is so much more academic. Glasses, round and tortoise of course, and an eight o’clock shadow to denote studiousness, intense to the point of exhaustion, and its thickness matched his hair washing hiatus.

Not to over-emphasis our antagonist’s genius, but I must include the piece de resistance: his brilliant choice of footwear—dirty white sneakers! Not the cool looking tennis shoes of those who frequent coffee houses, the modern-day scarf wearing sophists who listen to the Bobs and think that T.S. Elliott was actually good. Good God! But well-traveled sneakers, beat up and broken in. A cunning choice that completes the package that will do nothing less than convey to even a critical observer, ‘here comes an inquisitive man who stands more than sits, paces more than stands and is so hungry for knowledge he neglects personal needs.’ His preparations were artful and exact, and for those of us watching, we marveled.

Maiten Becksler, born in the heartland of America, bred on revivalism and three radio stations. Two of which chastised the wicked on a regular basis, the remainder so dysfunctional that you might hear a Simon and Garfunkel right after a Chopin. In his formative years, he learned that man was evil and that no Jesus was coming to save him. The years of the leather and the lash, even a chair on occasion, learned him well. His transgressions began so early in his life that he forgot his first depravity—maybe a cat or a dog or a field mouse on a glue trap ready and waiting for an experiment. It didn’t matter, these beginnings, other than for posterity and retrospection. These initiations led to his calling, and that led him to pursue a unique education abroad, an education very few students survive. Maiten not only survived, but he thrived.

You should know that he was best in his class in every category. His mentors even considered raising their expectations after witnessing his remarkable determination and robotic consistency. But they realized that he was so exceptional that his dedication could not be used to measure the will of normal men. But let us focus on consistency, for you must understand in his line of work consistency is crucial. To better understand this, first know that consistency is the base factor for operational success. Inconsistent anything will likely cause you to fail in your mission. And this man had a mission, an awful mission.

So he studied this strange librarian for three weeks. He knew her quirks, her habits, and her fastidious ways. He noted how she grumbled when the air conditioner kicked out but maintained her rigid demeanor with customers and staff. He made sure she saw him repeatedly over the past couple of weeks, studious, constant, same sections in the library, fully absorbed. But he never checked out a book. This was due to him being in the process of obtaining a library card. Not so easy to do in the current world, even library cards require proof of identity and residence. He only moved into the area a little over a month ago and had to wait to provide a utility bill showing he was local. So, while other aspects of his scheme played out elsewhere, he made himself conspicuous in Priscilla’s library, well, he made this role of his conspicuous, biding his time until he received his library card which just so happened to be the day before this hot day of which I speak.

So it was this day, the day, that he was at the counter before my dear after such tedious prep work in order to walk out with the one book he needed to carry out his devastating plan. He was confident that checking out the stack would go unnoticed, especially when she was so disengaged and irritated at the still air and humid creep. She would be professional yes, but curious and engaging with the borrower, definitely not. And with this particular borrower, she most definitely should not, unless she must, and sadly she did must, for it was her essential act, but neither of them knew this.

♪

‘Not only is the A/C out, but this stupid scanner is acting up! I wonder what tea to have tonight, the raspberry lemon or the pomegranate, I’m so sick of green tea,’ she fretted while wiping the glass face of the scanner with a tissue.

She noticed the young man and the impressive stack of books before her. She glanced at him momentarily and shook the scanner in a silent explanation for the pause in service. She recalled this visitor and his relative constancy in the library in recent weeks.

‘Collegian,’ she mused.

She wiped a couple more times and took the top book, a hardcover edition of Walden by Thoreau.

‘Silly idea, Transcendentalism, but great visuals,’ she mused. Scan once, no read, scan twice, no read, rub barcode, scan and read. Second book: The Middle of the Journey by Trilling.

‘Columbia University comes to mind, Marxist if I’m not mistaken.’ Scan and read and smile. Third book, a soft cover by Hannah Arendt’s Origins of Totalitarianism.

‘Deep stuff!’ She glances up, he is watching her, but she doesn’t notice the intensity, just the still stuffy air and the annoying scanner.

‘She would have been a wonderful tea guest.’ Scan and no read, scan, no read, scan and no read, rub the barcode, ‘Damn A/C!’ scan, of course not, rub, rub, rub and read! A triumphant breath in! A quick smile, none returned.

‘A sour one huh? Well he has been in here almost as long as I have,’ she concludes. She picks up the fourth book, another hardcover, The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann.

‘Heavy, not as heavy as his contemporaries, but deep enough, what’s this guy studying?’ She wonders.

Scan, no read, scan and no read, pause, wipe, worry about nosepiece, scan and read. Next book, a paperback, more like a pamphlet, The Quabbin Reservoir, almost a chuckle, she looks up he is watching her with a blank stare.

‘Odd, maybe a comment . . . perhaps not,’ she decides. Scan and read. The next book, hardcover Time and Free Will by Henri Bergson.

‘Wow, this young man must be soul searching.’ Scan and read. Last book, a soft cover, Plays by Bernard Shaw.

‘Really, some light reading,’ she muses. Scan, no read, scan and read.

She takes his library card and swipes it, Arthur E. Wallace, no previous activity. No outstanding books, PHD student in Philosophy.

‘Wouldn’t he own most of these books by now?’ she wonders, ‘well, whatever, not my business, wretched A/C so stifling.’

You’re all set sir, three weeks.

She pushed the stack back toward him and held out his library card. Not a word in return. He took the card, picked up the stack of books and made his way to the door. And the universe paused. The forces submitting to this pivotal moment, pensive to learn their course and us shepherds, we tensed and my need for breath was excruciating. Would she? She must . . . She wiped her forehead watching the man walk away.

‘Damn A/C! Quabbin huh, guess he is going on a nature hike of his own,’ she concluded.

You do know it’s not a pond, right? She asked abruptly.

He stopped, as if smacked by the question. He even dropped his library card, but this reaction didn’t register with her. He turned in her direction.

If you’re looking for a pond, it’s not in Belchertown, but there are some good walking trails.

She smiled and pushed her sliding glasses back up. He bent over and picked up the library card perfectly balanced. Not one of the books under his other arm even threatened to move. He nodded at her and made a quick cursive scan of the area. No one took interest, only her, stupid her. He turned and exited the building and the universe continued and I finally breathed.

♪

He poured a double of Islay single malt, his favorite and breathed it in deeply. So wonderful this libation that he would, if able, spare the island just to ensure his one weakness survived. But his ultimate goal superseded fine spirits, and his goal was paramount. So, savor the smoke, the peat, and the unforgettable taste while he can. The bitch is dead, that’s inevitable. He had worked so hard to avoid distractions, but she was an observant one and that was fatal. Her demise was asked and answered because she couldn’t help herself.

‘What a mistake though,’ he thought, ‘am I slipping? Walden and a guide to Quabbin! Any fool would draw the connection!’ He shook his head in disgust.

Three weeks wasted; he should have just stolen the booklet. Oh well, hiccups and hang-ups were part of his world. Well, maybe not his world, but he fucked up and would have to amend. This wouldn’t be too difficult, but surely an inconvenience, and that itself was a mark of failure. Failure that is unacceptable. What would his classmates say? His instructors? A pang tightened in his stomach as he brooded. The punishment would have been severe had he screwed this up in training for sure.

That silly military model adapt and overcome is for contingencies, meaning essentially that the original plan failed. And reward is not given when you switch to plan B, at least not in his world, where plan B is consolation. His self-reproach was driven in part because such high expectations were placed upon him. Although touted as the perfect student so long ago, he could not dispel from his mind the vision of collective shock and admonition from the faculty—had they been aware. This shadow haunting him so many years after his training was a clear mark of the intensity and the brutality of his training. Yes, this will eat at him for a good while, but he will get over it eventually.

His efforts now, all these years later, are completely independent and not subject to peer review, instructor correction or debriefings. But his awareness of personal error burned his ass and he was his most outspoken critic. Of course, he had absolutely no idea that the event he was scolding himself over had been stacked against him. This is not to say by any means that Priscilla was encouraged, cajoled, pushed or tempted to make that utterance as he walked away. For these moments that change your collective human course must be made with free and un-imposed will. But I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that universal and heavenly forces were buzzing so close to my dear that her essence had to feel some kind of pressure. And for the record, as previously intimated, these moments are known beforehand, and the settings are pre-arranged for the most part. So, had Maiten been aware that his adversary at that moment was the entire universe, he may not have been so hard on himself.

He swirled his scotch, inhaled deeply and reflected. Sixteen years ago, 1994, he was twenty-two and "generaled" out of the army. His discharge papers did not specify the reason, but it was for cruelty.

‘Cruelty, what a harbinger,’ he thought.

PTSD were the letters the shrinks pushed, but he knew better. He laughed then and he laughs now. What trauma? What stress? He loved combat and the resulting mayhem, relished it really.

He was always last in donning the gas mask, watching rather, his panicking squad when the horns wailed incoming. He stood by amused as his fellow soldiers rushed to get into their chemical suits, shaking, cursing, sweating in their efforts, all the while looking up hoping not, praying not.

‘Pussies, the lot of them,’ he chuckled.

Trauma hell, it was exhilarating. He wished he had met Saddam, what a guy—his kind, at least he had thought that back then, but then he got caught in a hole and wilted like dripping cardboard, a large stiff sheet of defiant corrugation pissed on and folded up into a soppy little package. Displayed on the news, the former dictator looked like a hobo at his first dental checkup, pathetic.

‘He died well enough, some dignity returning for his last speech, but I’ll bet he was kicking himself in the ass for not taking the exile option. Lesson: the easy way out is the easy way out dumb ass! But they ain’t going to catch Maiten in a hole like that, no fucking way!’ he promised himself.

His disenchantment with humanity, since early childhood mind you, fueled by chaos and conflict propelled him to find his way. Three months after his discharge, hopping around Eastern Europe he found his soul mates, kindred malefactors bent on devastation. Most of his new acquaintances held deep ideological convictions, but a few others lacked any sense of higher purpose or religiosity. These others were his real kind.

As with anywhere else people assemble, cliques formed, and his gaggle thought martyrdom was stupid and self-absorbed and teased their fellow devout trainees. For him, a step further, claiming they were ethically disingenuous. He supported his assertion with several points: mere death for a cause is not true martyrdom; by definition it requires significant suffering. Blowing one’s self-up doesn’t really check that box. Also, with the in-depth training they received for meting out terror and destruction, self-sacrifice reduces the overall effort by a capable operator and whether a handful or a hundred victims, the loss of the so-called martyr isn’t worth it. Finally, he argued, in furtherance of his previous point, the goal is mass annihilation, so staying alive and in the fight, far outweighs scoring a personal tally. In his estimation, owning squares is more important than how many of your opponent’s pawns you removed.

‘Position play, then strike en masse, it is the best strategy.’ Maiten concluded definitively then and reflectively now, however now is just for introspection for he has accepted that coordination is not logistically feasible, especially with how the zealots pushed, but it would have been the better play.

Now, the wolves range independently. In some way, this adds some spice to his efforts but also some hypocrisy. There are some from his class that he wants to best, simply for posterity, what with the expectations and all, but also, his previous position on tallies not being personal but overall, are now actually personal, but his anticipated measure is not in the hundreds, but the thousands, five digit thousands or above if he was lucky.

He sometimes characterizes himself as an anti-Buddhist. Where they seek enlightenment through noble truths, he seeks encouragement through inescapable realities. Where Buddhists look for nirvana, he strives for desolation.

He found his way all those years back by meeting a tall fair-haired Swede named Erick Fraber. He sat across from him in a seedy bar in Budapest, they drank fiercely, talked bitterly and he was ultimately invited to a meeting. That meeting led to others each more secretive and probing. Six months later he was a new recruit in a clandestine deep undercover terrorist training program designed and funded by ideologues for long-term self-sufficient global operations. Brilliant and progressive for the purpose was to train and release independent operatives that were technical experts and somewhat loyal-less, only loosely affiliated but joined in goal: destruction, death, annihilation. Some of his classmates waxed poetically the notion of a rebirth, the repopulation of society after their combined efforts to rid the planet of polluted humanity—a utopia of like-minded souls! A crock Maiten knew, for no organized population of people has a chance of success. None ever have, none ever will.

‘Socialism?’ he mused, ‘only in heaven, but then isn’t there still a hierarchy up there as well?’

Speaking of heaven, others in his class were true believers in their faith (and there were many denominations represented, believe it or not). These trainees may be more particular in their target selection, but they were well financed and this funding allowed the likes of Maiten and Fraber to develop—the real X-Factors, the true pupils.

Maiten was one of the purists. Complete extinction of mankind—to him, you were the plague, the disease, and he bought the plan but without any post communal hopes. Besides, Maiten enjoyed the thrill of the process. To him, instilling terror was sublime. Since he was a kid, causing other living things pain and suffering drove him, engaged him, and sustained him.

♪

What, you didn’t realize people like Maiten exist? They do, in droves, could be herds even, and we the shepherds watch and cringe, but never interfere, for He has decreed that you must face these adversaries alone, for growth, for ascension. Enemies in arranged calamities for the individual, the family, for country and occasionally for the world, arranged but not pre-determined, and that is the nerve-wracking part, for your will decides the survival of humanity for its own sake. Our event board is always bright with innumerable scenarios, each one important, but ranked accordingly: the rapist lurking by her car, will she fight? A death of a child, will they cope? War approaches, is the collective spirit enough? And this story, a mere moment that could affect an entire nation, the globe perhaps, left to the random act of a local oddity, random but not. So we steer and hope and cheer and dote on, but intervene, never.

For Maiten and his ilk are necessary to bring humanity to redefining moments where you either succeed or you do not. So the clock ticks and we have watched all the close calls, the little and the large, the abject failures and the wondrous successes. But know that there are many event boards and many shepherds as He has more tests going on than I can count. So understand that if Maiten and his cohorts achieve their goal, He will merely look to other places where life struggles on, just not yours, anymore. Anyhow, Maiten will not brood too long, for his purpose compels him forth. He will pep up soon enough.

♪

She walked down the aisle passing items that never interested her. Not even noticing what they were. Content in her repeated movements, she knew exactly where her needs were, so her feet pumped unconsciously. If she ever bothered to reflect, she would nod gratefulness that this store did not switch things around. Bored must be the minds of retail management to so often reorganize their wares. They ought not. Counter-productive we would tell you; irritating repeat customers by moving things around in hopes that a new look will open pocketbooks. A silly notion indeed! Your base nature, offset by curiosity to varying degrees, is habit. Knowing where the detergent is, or the dry cereal, or home goods is comforting and with that clock perpetually spinning, and the ill-timed traffic lights, and the delay here or there grates on your kind. The drip-drip of these setbacks ultimately culminates in frustrated breakdowns that snap the vestige of patience and result in the he lost it realities of your society. Can’t you see that? As said though, my dear would nod appreciation had she thought of this constant, but her mind was not on her conveniences but on her evening ahead.

‘Maybe iced tonight,’ she thought, standing before the tea section.

Nothing instant, that could never do, but a slow, coaxing steep poured over ice with some tupelo honey and fresh lime slices made her mouth tingle in anticipation. She knew her stock and was shopping to replenish her hibiscus and chamomile, two of her favorite late summer brews, but for cold tea she was adventurous, mixing different blends. A few years ago, she discovered lychee, very nice alone, but blended with rooibos, so refreshing. She had plenty of rooibos but no lychee, which was only sold loose, but she knew her market and found some packets on the bottom shelf.

‘What an odd man,’ she thought, drifting over recent events. ‘I need to get on Frank about the A/C, intolerable really, my glasses slipping like that, so unacceptable. We could get some window units, at least behind the counter. Really odd, that one, peculiar look in his eye, almost malevolent. Darn, these limes aren’t right, they always do that!’ she huffed.

The bagged limes were beautiful, but $5.69 for four, where the loose ones at $1.00 each were mottled and too soft, really irritated her.

‘Maybe Meyer’s lemons instead?’

No, she knew, she was just stalling, she was fated to pay $5.69. Oh well, she will use the lot of them anyway, but $5.69, and so much smaller than the loose ones! She tossed the best bag in her basket and moved toward the snack aisle. Her subconscious mind tripped the anxiety meter as she got close. Even though she used self-checkout, she felt the staff ogling that strange lady with the devil dogs, her conscious eye never caught any undue scrutiny or attention, but her self, ashamed at her passion, always did. But desire overcame embarrassment, whether real or contrived, so she grabbed four boxes and headed for checkout with her head down.

♪

Slanty checked the gauges. He noted the pressure levels and remarked to himself that they were pushing near max. Employed as a lead technician at the Carroll Water Treatment Plant since 2006, Slanty has worked for the Water Resources Authority (WRA) since 2003 when Massachusetts merged agencies under the Department of Conservation and Recreation. He loved New England. Born and bred a