* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the grand executive office on the eightieth floor, Papa Speculatus III, stood hands behind his back staring through the glass window-wall at New York City, his back to the newly arrived Bio-Teks.. He was absorbing the news just brought in by Noodles and Botzi.
Papa Speculatus’ thoughts zeroed on the bullion locked in the Swiss mountains. His emotions ranged from frustration, betrayal, anger, murder, (no - censor that one), anxiety and disorientation. He ignored the visitors for a while and then adjusted the angle of his mitre.
This is serious, thought Noodles -he's going to speak ex cathedra. At last the Papa turned around, fixed his gaze above Botzi’s and Noodles’ heads, as if they were insignificant bad schoolkids about to get a thrashing, and spoke in an authoritative voice.
“You fools have no idea of how much you let me down. I am the head of an empire that never sleeps. Every minute, every second, I have below some watchful disciple looking at his computer screen massaging the investor food chain. I depend on the these faithful watchmen to stay one step ahead of the US government and other marauders, to safeguard the investments of millions of gullible mums and dads who know as much about what we’re doing as sheep waiting on the ramp to the slaughterhouse.”
Papa Speculatus, formerly a Hollywood actor, went into his Shakespeare delivery role keeping his diction perfect but his tone rising a little, with a hint of anger. Botzi and Noodles both fixed their eyes on him, assuring him their full attention, to minimize chances of being re-cycled in one of his waste processing plants. They weren’t sure where he was going with this, but in any case Noodles had a trump card up his sleeve as the Papa was not yet aware of the stolen anti-clutter reactor. The Papa lowered his gaze a little, and continued.
“These computer watchmen are the corpuscles of this financial giantosaurus which I head. I am responsible for the welfare of millions, -companies, people, dollars. Even the Chinese Communists take an enema when my Capitalist Church is under attack. Yes our financial religion is nothing more than musical chairs and compassionate greed, but it ensures everybody gets a slice, admittedly some more than others.”
The Papa’s voice started to ring out, this time more Churchillian than angry.
“But when something or somebody throws a spanner in the works, be it rumour or shortage of funds, then mums and dads get hurt, and good, adventurous companies are martyred by the US government. Stopped dead in their tracks by misguided politicians, these massive companies who attained a spiritual level of creative accounting, providing wealth where none actually existed, are suddenly robbed of their ability to suck the necessary dollars to grease the juggernaut of their success.”
The Papa paused, to frame his statement with silence.
“Do you follow me?” His gaze now zeroed on Botzi and Noodles.
Botzi and Noodles stared back, betraying a lack of understanding. Without waiting for an answer which he didn’t care for anyway, the Papa, undaunted, carried on.
“It’s not only that the Gnomes held the codes to the bullion in the Swiss caves. That would only temporarily freeze the needed funds for inoffensive little bonuses paid to my share-trading missionaries. No Bugatti Veyrons, no Patek Philippes, no girls and so on. But also, it’s that they could desert MY Church like rats off a sinking ship, creating a stink of rumours and falling share prices most damaging, that can stop the merry-go-round and dissolve into a mass demonic possession of assets by the greatest Beelzebub of them all! - The Liquidator!”
The Papa waited for a reaction from his two miscreants and seeing that none was about to emerge, changed his tune to one slightly more friendly.
“Very well then! Come with me at once to the Catacomb of the Martyrs!”
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Eighteen (18)
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Botzi glanced at Noodles and shrugged his shoulders. Together they quietly followed the Papa to the executive lift. Botzi noticed the gold-plated lift fittings and diamond push-buttons. A short descent of a couple of floors ushered them into a dimly lit hall with dark wood-panelled walls all around and a polished parquetry floor.
So this was the Catacomb! Sparkling chandeliers threw light on the walls which had a series of large photographs or paintings with ornate frames and a red candle flickering at the bottom of each frame, like a shrine.
The Papa gestured with a sweep of his arm at the surroundings. “Gentlemen, the Catacomb of the Martyrs.”
Noodles mentally noted the word “gentlemen”. This was promising, as he was drumming up courage to make an offer to the Papa after they humoured him, walking around this tacky, whacky mausoleum.
The Papa explained.
“On the wall are displayed pictures of men deemed martyrs of the Capitalist Church.” He walked over to the first one, a large photo of a man beaming a benevolent smile. He pointed to Barney Madhat, a free man of late. The caption under the photo said “In the steps of Mother Teresa.”
“Barney bestowed fiduciary zeal and financial grace on his chosen people. A lot of American Jews will remember him for cleansing them from their wealthy extravaganzas and delivering them into a simple communal life, one of sharing, -albeit soup mugs and bed bugs. A lot of them took a bath, it is true, wishing he hadn’t chosen them. But all agree on one thing. He was the quintessential Mother -one you didn’t know you had till he quietly had you. Many felt heartbroken when they plucked Mother away from their bosom because he also took their houses with him.”
The Papa was entirely unfazed as to the convoluted logic he was preaching.
“Barney Madhat loved wood ducks. During his bankruptcy prosecution, the Sheriff auctioned most of his possessions. A wood duck costing Barney $60 found a live partner who parted with $4750.”
“The unsuspecting Jewish flock that Barney converted on the East coast asked God to drop him dead, while the ones on the West coast wished he would live longer than Moses, always afraid to tie his shoelaces in the penitentiary. Some cursed he should get pregnant as well. The US government gave him 152 years. Barney’s lawyer argued 'cruel and unusual punishment' as the sentence didn't include a full supply of vitamin pills to last the distance.”
“And so he was martyred, vilified, receiving blows from every quarter, bearing his pain silently. What did he do? Everybody was having fun except some bastard who blew the whistle.” This was the first time the Bots heard the Papa swearing. Nobody raised an eyebrow out of respect for the anguish he was suffering.
Papa Speculatus stopped for a moment in front of the shrine, with bowed head, his lips trembling in a short silent prayer to Mother Barney Madhat. He moved on to the next shrine.
“Lehman Bludgers. In 2008 these spiritually untouchable bankers built up their financial grace in assets worth $691 billion. Come all ye faithful, they said, you shall be granted a loan at My Father’s house and you shall pay no starting interest and you shall hunger no longer. The Bludgers started as humble Alabama cotton traders and built themselves up into a brobdingnagian bankissimo.” He paused, adjusting his dentures, then added
“Requiescat in pace.”
He faced the Bots and not getting a reaction, concluded the prayer. “Amen.”
He moved to the next. “Oh Washington Moochal ! Dear WAHMOO as they were affectionately known. They actually patented a motto ‘YOO HOO!’ being the cry of joy bursting forth from the breasts of the hopeless poor when they were given money, life-savings, of other gullible poor. No matter, WAHMOO extracted a blessing from each transaction but their financial grace of $327 billion was brutally wiped out in 2008.”
A pause. “Requiescat in pace.” The Papa turned aside glaring at the bots - they got the message and finished off his prayer.
“Amen!” they chorused reverently.
“And here, the shrine of the ‘Three A
migos’ -Ken Lahey, Andrew Fustbuck, and Jeff Skidbum, some of the major executives of Emron Energy of Texas who suffered an inexplicable meltdown of company share prices from $90 to $1 in November 2001 and wiped out the savings of many innocent souls. Their financial grace was worth $65 billion with sins of liability of only $23 billion.” The Papa was dramatic about these three stooges. “Gentlemen -behold! This is THE MONUMENT to creative accounting......”
Another respectful pause. “Requiescat in pace.”
The boys picked up the pace “Amen!”
Papa Speculatus was already at the next shrine, pointing.
“Have pity on him Oh Lord. This is Chief Executive Officer Bernie Embers of Wordcom, the former communications giant. He has the benign looks of a Kernel Sandstorm except he fried his investors for billions. The Emperor in Washington crucified him for 25 years in a penitentiary. In 2002 before their Fall of Grace, Wordcom assets were worth $103 billion.”
A moment of silence. “Requiescat in pace!”
“Amen!” they chorused dutifully.
They were now feeling they were entering martyrdom themselves. How much longer was this going to go on? -There were some fifty shrines left, all dedicated to the financial Pol Pots of Wall Street who crushed the hopes of millions of decent Americans.
Their agony was suddenly terminated when the Papa’s iphone demanded attention. The Papa listened quietly for a few minutes and announced, “I have to get back to the office. Something even more serious than the fate of the Gnomes has arisen and I’m afraid I have to immediately order my Church on red alert.”
As they walked back to the lift, Noodles saw his chance. “Would this serious matter have something to do with the theft of the anti-clutter reactor?” he asked the Papa.
Papa Speculatus III stopped in his tracks, almost losing his mitre, and turned around, looking at Noodles. “How the hell did you know?”
Noodles knew he was back in the game. “I invented the reactor when I was working at JPL. We knew it had been stolen and we were about to go looking for it. Then you rang with an offer we couldn’t refuse, about the four missing Gnomes. We took your job instead, but unfortunately, we started a little late.”
The Papa was still amazed but tried not to show it, so as not to weaken his hand in case there were to be fresh negotiations between them. After a moment he looked Noodles straight in the eye. “Let’s talk.” he said.
They returned to his office and Noodles told the whole story, whilst the Papa sat down and listened, guarded by good spirits with which he blessed himself with four fingers from time to time.
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Nineteen (19)
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The outcome was this. The Papa learnt that the murder of the four Gnomes was just the start. It was an entree of revenge for worse things to come. The CIA also informed him that the New Leaning Tower of New York was not a Halloween hoax, nor a replacement for the World Trade Centre Towers, but actually a lucky escape from a terrible accident. It was the real Parisian Eiffel Tower and it had been hi-jacked and converted into a missile. That missile was accurately aimed at the Basilica of the Capitalist Church, except that two brave pilots (one parachuted, one AWOL* - *Away Without Leave) had managed to deflect the tower into vacant ground.
But as well as all this, Noodles filled in with a wealth of knowledge about the Calamari, the Papa’s deadly adversaries. Papa Speculatus could handle the Emperor of Washington, after all, he owned half his senators, but it was the Calamari who killed without warning that really focussed his attention.
Noodles was on top of the game. The Papa forgave them the previous bungles, admitted they had little time to mobilise to save the Gnomes, so he cut a new deal. The ten million dollars was back on the table. The goal was now to retrieve the anti-clutter reactor and permanently lock it away from criminal use, as soon as absolutely possible, all expenses paid. There was no time to lose.
As they got up to leave, they watched the Papa fit a platinum brain scanning ring on his head and hammer a few keys on his wireless keyboard, while studying his large computer monitor. He was aware they were staring at him.
“The latest,” he said smugly, “rapid-fire trading... -we buy and sell millions of shares in micro seconds before floor traders can blink- we already set up the sacrificial cow and carved the meat, now we suck the marrow from the bone as well, heh, heh. -Explain that to the mums and dads! -Har! Har!” His laugh was almost satanic.
The bots were amazed -was he a Papa? He rattled the keyboard like a Demon. Suddenly the Papa was locked in a powerful incoming surge of information.
“HOLY FUNDING HEDGE-HOGS!” the Papa screamed. His lips quivered, “Buy! Sell! Buy! Sell! Buy! Sell! S-Sell! S-Sell! B-Buy! B-Buy! Sell! S-Sell! Buy! Sell! B-Buy! Sell! Buy!..... Bbbuy!... sssell!.. Bbessll!... Bbbbb!..... Ssssss!.... Bbbbb!....Sssss!...” In a trembling mass of tangled nerves the words could no longer form. “A-aa-a-a-a-gg-gg-gg-g-a-aaa-g-g-gg....!”
“Let’s go!” Noodles shrugged to Botzi.
The Idiota Code -Poppycock Place Series Page 5
