Showdown in the Economy of Good and Evil

by Jarl Jensen

  “Connie set it up,” Justin said dismissively. “And if Connie sets something up with Fox News, it gets framed the way she wants it to. Trust me.”

  Another uncomfortable silence. God, this line was moving slowly. Bob-O felt the sweat begin to form on his bald pate. He wished he hadn’t forgotten his pocket square. Or maybe he just should’ve worn a button-down, like his first instinct had suggested. But he’d just been so excited to show off the new suit he’d purchased at the Circus. He wondered whether Meryl liked the suit. At the moment, Meryl didn’t seem to care. At the moment, Meryl looked pale and maybe even on the verge of losing her lunch. Bob-O had come to know that look well, given his job as a purveyor of bathroom lines.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  She nodded tersely.

  “We’ve all seen how she can sway their stories,” Evan was saying to Mr. Wolfe. “But I’m more concerned about what the cameras will capture.”

  Mr. Wolfe’s expression suggested resistance. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you kidding? We still haven’t figured out how to keep all these new residents in line. Fights are breaking out every day, no matter what we do. And the corn borers are a real problem. The crops look like shit.”

  “Didn’t Carl already solve the crop problem?”

  “Bringing in ladybugs to eat the corn borers was a stroke of genius,” Evan agreed. “But it might be too little, too late. It’s like the corn has gone from thriving to dying overnight. And the weather isn’t doing us any favors. Every week this month has been the hottest on record. We need rain to the point where it’s getting desperate.”

  Mr. Wolfe turned and looked at Bob. “How’s your water supply?”

  Bob stuck a finger in his collar, needing air. “Holding up for now, why?”

  “There you go,” Mr. Wolfe said to Evan. “We’ll just divert more of Bob’s water to the irrigation channels. Problem solved.”

  Nothing about this idea pleased Bob O. Shaler, but he felt powerless to argue. For one thing, who was he to refute a suggestion from Justin Wolfe, billionaire benefactor of the Farm community that had utterly changed Bob’s life—along with the lives of hundreds of other residents? For another, he really didn’t want to be seen to argue on his first date with Meryl. She knew him as a levelheaded, even-keeled man, and Bob would be damned if he intended to change that perspective before they even reached the head of the line.

  “We just wind up creating one shortage as we fight another,” Evan said.

  Mr. Wolfe waved a dismissive hand between them. “We’ll figure it out.”

  But Evan wasn’t done. “Point is, this isn’t going to be the harvest we hoped it would be. That’ll only make trade more difficult, which will lead to further shortages and more unrest among all these new residents.” There was conflict written on Evan’s face as he clenched his jaw and gathered his next words. “And you want to bring in Fox News’s colorful commentary while all this is happening?”

  Mr. Wolfe shrugged it off. “Like I said, Connie set it up.” He shined a pregnant glare on Evan. “Trust me, okay?”

  The noise Evan made was half sigh and half groan. “Maybe Elliot can loan us some robots to solve the shortages,” he said. His tone sounded either grating or sarcastic, which only raised the tension between him and Mr. Wolfe. But then he cracked a half smile and the tension lifted.

  “Yeah,” Meryl said, “bring on the robot army.”

  “Hey, there you are,” came the voice.

  Bob-O looked ahead, discovering to his surprise that they had reached the head of the line during the heat of their discussion. Valence was grinning at them like the owner of a thriving business, which was of course precisely true.

  “Yeah, I’m takin’ my own fuckin’ tickets again,” Valence said. “This is what happens when you steal my employees.”

  Evan shrugged. “I didn’t exactly have to beg Oscar to head up security.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Little bastard been dreamin’ about wearin’ a fuckin’ uniform all his life.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Anyway, I’m happy to let the four of you in,” Valence said. “But I’m afraid we’re at, uh, fuckin’ standing room only at this point. You mind standing in the back?”

  This didn’t sound like the best possible outcome to Bob-O. Since the moment he’d first asked Meryl out on this date, he had been strategizing on which point of the movie would be the best to try to reach over and hold her hand. The part where Neo meets Trinity for the first time? The part where he decides to take the red pill? The part where he gets all slow motion and bendy in his fight with Agent Smith?

  None of these had seemed like the best ideas. Really, the more he thought on it, the more it occurred to him that The Matrix was a lousy first-date movie. So now he was thinking that maybe standing in the back would be better.

  “I don’t mind,” Mr. Wolfe and Evan said simultaneously.

  Then, to Bob-O’s great surprise, he felt Meryl’s hand lace into his. His heart was still racing when she said, “We don’t mind either.”

  “Well, then,” Valence said, stepping aside so they could scan their wristbands, “welcome to the Matrix.”

  Chapter 19 Messaging

  To think that the vast majority of all the work people do is decided by banks—or more specifically, by the effect of loans from banks! I would like to pen a new name for our debt-driven society, and that word is “Bankism.”

  —Justin Wolfe

  “You’re not worried about how they’re still organizing?” Blankfein asked. “You’re not worried that they’re getting ready to open businesses in the city?”

  “Of course I’m worried about that.” Elliot pinched the bridge of his nose and got back to pacing. He had another of his damn pressure headaches. No matter how many antihistamines he took, he couldn’t get used to breathing on this infernal Farm.

  “So what are we talking about?”

  “We’re talking about messaging.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “No matter what happens on this Farm, it’s the messaging that will determine how the public perceives it. Take a cue from our president. Reality doesn’t matter. Only the messaging matters.”

  “So you’re saying we need to get ahead of the messaging?”

  “I’m saying we need to worry about Justin’s messaging.”

  “Don’t follow.”

  “You remember our argument at Jekyll Island with that little twerp Evan?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “The kid’s good at relating the point, but he doesn’t have the messaging skills. Not yet anyway. But Justin? He’s getting closer.”

  There was one of those pregnant silences from the other end of the line. Elliot could picture Blankfein fidgeting.

  “He called it Bankism,” Elliot said when he got tired of waiting.

  “Bankism?” Blankfein spit the word as if it tasted bitter.

  “He doesn’t have the idea fully formed yet, but he’s onto something that will resonate. He’s saying how the world thinks it’s all these negative events and bad governments and big corporations that are causing the world’s problems. But really, it’s the banks.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If this Farm succeeds, he intends to argue that it’s because it was free of the tyranny of banks like yours, Lloyd.”

  This time, the pause carried a much more furious tone. “What do you need to make sure that doesn’t happen? How can I compel you to up your game and stop this infernal Farm from progressing any further?”

  Elliot smiled. “You’re suggesting maybe that I break the law?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  He feigned a scoff. “If I’m taking a risk like that, it’ll have to be a considerable reward.”

  “Name it.”

  “A loan.”

  “My bank loans you money all the time.”

  “A severely discounted loan. Free money, essentially.”

  There was
a grumbling, followed by some hemming and some hawing.

  “You’re talking about sabotage, Lloyd,” Elliot cut in. “Sabotage ain’t free. And I ain’t your henchman, by the way. I’m your business partner. You want to take on a new venture, then get some skin in the game.”

  “Fine. But you’ll need to spell out what you intend to do. The bugs were a stroke of genius, but the time has come to be more direct.”

  Elliot grinned. “I have some ideas.”

  Dylan Elan Powers The Case

  Planning is complicated. It requires intelligence and motivation.

  —Justin Wolfe

  Schools are played out. Too many posers who tried it before me, and too many variables besides. They’ve got cops in schools now. And anyway, I don’t hate anyone at my school enough to off them. Mr. Jackson maybe. But fuck that guy. He’s too weak to have my attention.

  Churches are better. No one expects a massacre in church. Nice, contained environment. Usually only two exits—one in the front and one in the back. Doing the work of evil in the supposed house of God is a plus. But nah. I’m not anti-religious. Not in that way, anyway. Doing this in church wouldn’t fit my message. My brand.

  Airport? Nah. Too much security. Too many exits. Too many cops. Too much chaos and not enough opportunity to pin in the sheep.

  Need a contained environment like a church, where everyone has their guard down. Preferably a dark place. Few exits. Lots of noise and distraction to hide my work from any bystanders who would call the cops.

  Movie theater. That James Holmes was onto something. Only problem is the fucker ruined the situation for the rest of us. Security in all those megaplexes these days. Fire exits locked from the outside. No access unless you walk through the front door. Can’t do that. Not with what I’ll be carrying.

  Bombs? No. Not precise enough.

  Bioweapon? If only. Way to dream big, shithead.

  AR, AK, grenades, Glocks. Check. Old ways are the best ways, even if they are primitive and beneath me.

  Need an isolated place to do this. Proximal and large. Contained. Dark. Could go all stage-play style. John Wilkes Booth. No one would see that coming. But nah. No one worth killing goes to stage plays.

  Movies. That’s where it is. Just have to avoid multiplexes. An independent theater.

  Note: Check out that old theater on Race Street. Feel like it was closed, but who knows? Would be the perfect location.

  Chapter 20 When Unrest Becomes Stampy

  There is a gap between what is a useful interest rate and the existing low interest rate. Who owns that gap? And how can we take advantage of it?

  —Justin Wolfe

  Everything seemed to be going Meryl Johnson’s way. Her income as the Farm’s most popular finance professor had grown exponentially since the new residents started arriving by the busload nearly every day. Three blissful months had passed as Bob-O’s girlfriend. And for the past two weeks, she had enjoyed exclusive control over the classroom space, as Valence had made good on his plan to open a movie house in the city, mercifully leaving the building once and for all. Meryl missed his cocksure attitude around the place, to be certain, but she didn’t miss all the unnecessary profanity, and she certainly didn’t miss the pissing contests about who was responsible for arranging the seating after her final classes and before Valence’s nightly movie screenings.

  So, yes, it appeared that Meryl was on a bit of a lucky streak. The only trouble was that, in her experience, streaks like these only served as prelude to the massive downturn. The best years of her marriage had preceded her explosively acrimonious divorce. Her children had enjoyed their most prolonged periods of success in school just before one of them was suspended for underage drinking, losing her scholarship to Yale in the process, while the other decided to forgo college altogether so he could pursue his ultimately failed career as an EDM DJ. Subsequently, they had both disowned her anyway. Hard to keep up respect for a mother when she has been publicly shamed and rendered homeless. That public shame had come at the end of her luckiest of lucky streaks, the one that saw her little church climb to national recognition just before that feature on 20/20 brought her to ruin.

  All of this had made Meryl rather hate lucky streaks. They always put her on edge, always made her all unsettled and cranky. This was especially true this time, as her good luck coincided with the worst luck the Farm itself had yet experienced. First, the overly aggressive influx of new residents, then the corn borers, then the overwhelming imbalance between Consumers and Entrepreneurs, then the drought, then the growing unrest at the daily Circus, then the flight into Savannah proper by seemingly every megasuccessful entrepreneur on the Farm—none of it added up to a particularly good year. But the worst of it was the abysmal harvest, the negative effects of which had impacted more elements of the Farm’s economic and logistical structure than any of them had properly predicted or prepared for.

  It was what had brought the six of them here to bicker at Meryl’s table. Carl, Laz, David, Evan, and Justin—the group having become the unofficial board of directors for the Farm—had spent the better part of half an hour disagreeing on how to resolve any one part of the harvest disaster, much less all of it at once.

  “Look, nobody is arguing that the ladybugs were a bad idea,” Evan was saying, his palm open in Carl’s direction. “It was a stroke of genius, in truth. All I’m saying is—”

  “I believe what you are saying, sir,” Laz cut in, “is that it was too little, too late.”

  Carl, good natured and stoic as he was, rather glared at Evan.

  “Not at all,” Evan insisted. “That’s far too harsh for what I’m saying.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” Justin asked.

  Evan blew a hot breath through his nose. “I’m saying that, considering the timing of when the problem first showed up, there was nothing we could do to salvage the harvest anyway.”

  “Exactly,” Laz said. “Too little, too late.”

  The men all glowered at each other, no one wanting to give any ground on what had been, so far, just an argument about semantics. Meryl drew a breath to point this out, but Evan jumped in before she could say anything.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what should or shouldn’t have happened. What we need to be discussing is how we deal with it. It’s one thing to grow this little experiment of ours after a bumper crop. But this harvest was far worse than the last one.”

  “One of the worst harvests in the history of this farm,” David corrected. “That’s what Nora told me Dan said, anyhow. He been doin’ this for forty-some years. Grew up here. Says he never saw a worse haul.”

  “Yes, how is Dan?” Meryl asked. She hadn’t seen Dan in ages, now that she thought on it. She missed him and hoped that the rumors weren’t true.

  “I quit askin’. Nora don’t like talkin’ about it.”

  Meryl’s somber mood only deepened. Dan’s condition was just more evidence that her lucky streak would soon turn. Why ever celebrate anything good when all that tragedy lurked just around the corner?

  “We’re going off the rails again,” Evan said, pinching his nose.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Carl said.

  “Here here,” Laz agreed. He slapped his hand on the table. “What you gentleman—and lady—need to be discussing is how on God’s holy earth we’re going to feed our livestock.”

  “C’mon,” Justin said. “The harvest was really that bad? We don’t even have enough to feed our animals?”

  “This is why we called the meeting, Justin,” Evan said, and to Meryl’s ear, he sounded uncommonly miffed with his employer.

  “You mean we aren’t here to dish about Bob-O?”

  Meryl felt herself flush. It still baffled her that she was in a relationship at all, let alone with someone as suave and sexy as Bob O. Shaler. Some of the newer residents had taken to calling him the Toilet King. A lesser man would’ve blanched at the nickname, but Bob-O embraced it. God, she wished he were here right now. H
e would know exactly how to break up this ridiculous logjam.

  “Can we please stop joking around, gentlemen?” Laz asked. “And lady? I have starving animals to feed.” He leaned in closer to Justin, who sat immediately to his right at the round table. “You ever try to milk a hungry dairy cow, friend?”

  Despite the tension, Justin smiled. “Don’t believe so, no.”

  “Well, let me tell you . . .” Laz paused to cluck his tongue. “It is unpleasant.”

  “I feel for you, Laz. Really. But I can’t just—”

  “All due respect, Justin,” David interrupted, “but you’re a billionaire, say?”

  “That’s what my accountant tells me.”

  David stood and set his hands on the table so he could lean into his point. “So why don’t you just pick up the phone and call in an order for some feed? Hell, you could probably feed the whole Farm with what’s in your pockets right now.”

  “Could probably feed the whole damn state,” Laz said.

  Justin looked to Evan as if seeking support, but Evan merely folded his hands over his notepad, betraying nothing. So Justin shifted his gaze to Carl.

  “This ain’t my place to say,” Carl said. “Don’t want to get involved in the economic decisions.”

  Now that searching gaze found Meryl, who blanched. “I’m with Carl on this one,” she said quickly. “This is your experiment, not mine.”

  The billionaire grumbled. “It’s our experiment, damn it. Not mine. Ours.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” Laz said, raising his hands.

  Evan sighed. “An outside influx of cash to supplement a poor harvest isn’t entirely out of the question. We’d just need to—”

  “No,” Justin snapped.

  Everyone blinked at him, surprised by his tone. Justin Wolfe didn’t often lose his cool, at least when it came to matters unrelated to Connie.

  “I’ve already piped in too much cash as it is,” Justin insisted. “Jao and Hap are knee-deep in my construction loans. Anyway, this Farm is supposed to be self-organizing.” He fired a hand in Evan’s direction. “Isn’t that how you designed it? This economy is capable of adjusting to these problems.”