by Ethan Cross
Because if there is an uncreated being who built all of this—or at least a being whose existence is beyond our limited understanding—then that Creator would live beyond space and time. Beyond our universe, beyond our multiverse. I don’t know about y’all, but I imagine such a Big Dude like that would be pretty smart. I think that a being like that would have a lot to teach me, if I only chose to listen.
Read the book of Ecclesiastes with an open mind and heart, and you’ll see what I’m talking about.
Or don’t. That’s your bag, man.
I guess I’m just saying that before we go questioning the thoughts of the man upstairs or dismissing the idea of a benevolent Creator, we owe it to ourselves to explore the real truths that Papa Bear is trying to show us.
So keep it real out there, baby girls and boys. Let your freak flags fly, but make sure your flag is displaying a banner you truly believe in. As for me, I’m going to use my story, passions, and abilities to become part of the kickass rhythms the Creator is laying down.
Baxter . . . out.
When Kincaid was finished with his rambling, Marcus said, with a grunt of disgust, “The Pothead Prophet. Do people actually listen to your bullshit?”
Baxter shrugged. “They read it, I think. It’s a blog or something. I don’t know though. Maybe they listen to it as well? I just give my thoughts at the moment and cash the checks.”
“You get paid for doing a blog? How does that work?”
“My technological wizard sells advertising space on the website or something like that.”
Ackerman asked, “How much money do you make from this weblog?”
“Frank!” Marcus snapped. “Even I know not to ask questions like that. How about we all just sit quietly?”
Baxter waved his hand in dismissal. “No worries. My cut last year was a little over two hundred thousand.”
The car went completely silent.
Baxter added, “Before taxes.”
Ackerman broke another long silence by asking, “Would you put me in touch with your wizard? I would also like to start a weblog.”
“That’s not happening,” Marcus said.
“You’re not the boss of me.”
Marcus glared at his brother and glanced toward the car’s other occupants. “Actually, Mister . . .” He searched for the exotic name Ackerman had given at Richmond Station. He finally said, “Mr. Tonydanzio, I am literally your superior in the chain of command.”
“Dantonio.”
“I know that, jackass. Just be quiet, please, before my head explodes.”
Baxter said, “You have trouble sleeping, don’t you, Agent Williams? A little herb would likely alleviate your affliction.”
“I don’t do drugs. The nuns taught me that your body is a temple, and drugs desecrate that. They alter your perception and sever any connection you could possibly have with God. Drugs are just crutches for the weak of mind and spirit.”
“There’s a difference between drugs and medicine. And God gave us all the medicine we need directly from the earth. Genesis 1:29: ‘And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat.’ I believe in organic medicine. In my mind, a little natural remedy is far better than the man-made prescription drugs that doctors are pumping into every soccer mom in the suburbs. Still, you’re correct that even medicine can alter one’s perceptions. Although, I would argue that there are many whose perceptions need a little altering. But to each his own, Agent Williams. To each his own.”
Spotting a man dressed in a biker’s vest and jeans and covered in tattoos—and hoping for a change of subject—Marcus said, “Is that our guy?”
“That would be the illustrious Illustrated Dan,” Baxter said. “Now, when we approach him, he’s going to punch me in the face. Nobody make a move. Just pretend you’re watching a National Geographic special on silverback gorillas.”
Not waiting for a response, Baxter vaulted from the convertible’s backseat before Marcus could open the passenger door. Ackerman followed suit on the other side.
Marcus rolled his eyes as he calmly opened his door and he and Det. Ferrera took up stride behind the strange private blowhard and Ackerman.
He could see the fascination growing in his brother’s eyes the more they were in the presence of Mr. Kincaid. And he didn’t feel that a stoner in love with the sound of his own voice would be the best influence on a man with enough addictions and afflictions of his own.
The man they called Illustrated Dan saw Baxter from about fifteen feet away. The biker’s lip curled, and his eyes narrowed. Dan was an older man with a white beard and shoulder-length white hair pulled back into a samurai-style bun. The tattoos started at his neck and covered every exposed inch of the man’s body. His skin was an eclectic representation of pop-culture icons and symbology, including movies, music, motorcycles, Biblical references, skulls, dragons, and everything in between. All the work had been done by true artists with an incredible level of detail.
Just as the stoner prophet had predicted, Dan closed the gap between them in two strides and struck Baxter with a powerful right hook. Kincaid spit blood onto the sidewalk and said, “Is it out of your system now, or would you like another free shot?”
Through clenched teeth, Dan said, “You have a lot of nerve showing your face around me, Bax.”
“I won the damn thing fair and square. Don’t gamble with what you’re not prepared to lose. You know that.”
“You cheated me.”
“I never cheat. You know that too.”
“I was drunk! You took advantage of the situation and stole Doc’s bike from me. Knowing full well what that old Panhead means to me!”
Baxter shrugged. “Once again, I don’t see how your choices having consequences is my fault. You chose to drink too much and play poker with a superior player. Then you chose to gamble away your prized possession. I tried to talk you out of it.”
Dan punched Baxter again and started to push past them to the door of the shelter. Detective Ferrera stopped him with her ID held out like a talisman. She said, “We’re here on official business.”
“I don’t associate with cops. You wanna talk, call my lawyer. I pay him a lot of money for all that. Now get out of my way.”
Detective Ferrera stepped aside but glanced at Baxter with a look that seemed to scream, “Do something!”
With a sigh, Baxter said, “If you help us on this, I’ll give you the bike back.”
Stopping dead in his tracks, Dan turned around and asked, “What do you want?”
After handing him an enhanced photo of the tattoo from the bus footage, Baxter said, “We need you to check your whole network and put a name to that tattoo.”
“Nothing I find would be admissible as evidence.”
“We just need a name or list of names, depending on how many men you can dig up with that tattoo on their hand.”
“And if I give you this information, then I get Doc’s bike back?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Baxter said, “That’s right. Lives are on the line, Danny. If you lead us to our guy, then it’s a small price to pay.”
Dan looked down at the photo and said, “I’ll put the word out. Wait for me at your place, and have my bike ready to go. You’ll get your name.”
As Illustrated Dan walked away, Detective Ferrera said, “We owe you big on this one, Bax.”
“I didn’t do it for the department, and it’s just a possession that I’ve had the privilege of enjoying for a period of time. Plus, now I don’t have to take a punch every time I see Dan. But since the bike is my main mode of transportation, you do owe me a new motorcycle. I trust there’s something down at the impound that will suffice.”
~~*~~
Chapter
Ninety-Three
Corin bent over and threw up. Not because of the effects the drugs had on her system or the pain of her ravaged body, but at the thought of so many children born of rape.
Sitting back in the wheelchair and wiping the bile from her lips, Corin said, “You’ve kidnapped and impregnated this many women? Where are all the babies?”
Derrick laughed. “Heavens no. There are photos on this wall showing the offspring of your sister wives, but the vast majority of these are simply women who have been implanted with Gladstone brand semen.”
“Implanted?”
“Yes, did I fail to mention that I am one of California’s premier fertility specialists. I own twelve clinics across five states. My real claim to fame within that field of expertise came from a test that I developed for spotting certain genetic disorders.”
“You’re saying that a couple will come to see you or one of your employees at this clinic, but instead of fertilizing the egg with the husband’s sperm, you replace it with your own?”
“In most cases, we function much like any other clinic. Although when we discover a red flag in the genetic makeup or the personal history of the prospective father, I simply intervene with genetically superior material. And it’s not always my semen. I’ve also found a few other worthy individuals whose DNA has been disseminated among the population through insemination. It’s really a service I’m doing for these people. Especially the women. They found a genetically inferior mate. And instead of having to reproduce and create genetically inferior children, they get to elevate themselves with a child of superior stock. I can’t wait to see the wonderful things the boys and girls on this wall will do for humanity.”
“You really believe the sewage that spews out of your mouth, don’t you? You’ve convinced yourself that playing God and screwing with people’s lives without them knowing is in their best interest. You’re sick.”
“That would depend pretty heavily on your definition of what is healthy. I look around and see a world that is dying, and I want to do something about it. I, as a scientist, have an obligation to our species to attempt the circumvention of an evolutionary disaster. Look at the world today. People of lower class, lower intelligence, and who are of no benefit to society, are reproducing at alarming rates. But intelligent, educated, and worthy individuals are choosing career paths over children, or, choosing to be socially conscious, are only having a single child. It may take a couple of centuries, but eventually, evolution will always favor those who are able to reproduce in greater number. That is the essence of natural selection. We’ve deluded ourselves with these concepts of love and monogamy. But, in reality, males are built to sire many children while females are built to only reproduce a set number of times.”
“I’m going to kill you. I really mean it.”
Rolling his eyes, Derrick said, “If you see a flaw in my logic, please let me know.”
“You can’t just go around choosing who is worthy. You don’t have the right. And who’s to say that the genetic abnormality that you want to filter out isn’t the mutation that will ultimately lead to the survival of humankind?”
“I’m not choosing who is worthy. Nature is doing that for me. You act as if I’m meddling with natural selection, but what I’m actually doing is abiding by those laws. The strongest and most intelligent of the species have an obligation to ensure that the faction in which they were born wins the evolutionary race. It’s all of you who have deluded yourselves with fairy tales about angels and demons and bought into the lie that human beings are anything more than highly intelligent animals. Simply because we stand at the top rung of the ladder doesn’t mean we’re not still driven by the same instincts and bound by the same scientific truths.”
“You remind me of this other guy you may have heard of, Adolf Hitler. He also thought that the world needed cleansing and that only certain people deserved to live.”
“Yes, and he forced those beliefs on others and murdered millions. I’m not trying to hinder or harm anyone. I’m simply trying to give my genetic line a leg up over the competition. It’s perfectly natural. Think about natural selection and the types of people we would view as enlightened, intelligent, and productive members of society. Are they having children? Or are the dregs of society the ones who are flourishing and spreading like wildfire. Every generation, we are going to get dumber and dumber because of natural selection. Every generation, there will be fewer educated people and more illiterates. Unless we take back natural selection.”
“You’re a pig. A Neanderthal. You think you can just hit women over the head and drag them back here to be your wives?”
Derrick looked up at the wall of baby pictures one last time and then said, “Obviously, I can. No one has stepped up and stopped me yet.”
“Your precious Darwin would be ashamed of the way you’ve corrupted his ideas.”
With a shake of his head, Derrick said, “You’re only succeeding in putting your ignorance on full display. I’m taking the natural next step of his work. Let me recall a few of Charles Darwin’s own words . . .”
Closing his eyes, Dr. Gladstone recited from memory, “We civilized men . . . do our utmost to check the process of elimination; we build asylums for the imbecile, the maimed, and the sick . . . Thus the weak members of civilized societies propagate their kind. No one who has attended to the breeding of domestic animals will doubt that this must be highly injurious to the race of man.”
He paused, taking a deep, reverent breath. Corin noticed that Derrick seemed to recite the words of Darwin with the same fervor that a gospel preacher may quote the Bible.
After a moment, he added, “According to Soloway in Demography and Degeneration, Alfred Russel Wallace reported that: ‘Darwin was gloomy about the prospect of a future in which natural selection had no play and the fittest did not survive. He talked about “the scum” from whom “the stream of life” is largely renewed, and of the grave danger it entailed in a democratic civilization.’”
“What about compassion?” she asked. “That’s one of humanity’s finest qualities. It’s one of the many things that separates us from mere animals.”
“Darwin believed the same thing. He never called for the eradication of any subset of the species. At the same time, he hoped that the weaker and inferior members of society might refrain from reproducing. He often cited Francis Galton’s Hereditary Genius, which introduced the concept of eugenics. Darwin warned that if we don’t ‘prevent the reckless, the vicious, and otherwise inferior members of society from increasing at a quicker rate than the better class of men, the nation will retrograde, as has too often occurred in the history of the world.’”
Corin wasn’t sure what else to say. She had tried numerous times to appeal to Gladstone’s conscience and humanity, but it seemed that part of him had never existed.
Checking his watch, he said, “I’ll direct you to some further reading materials, but we have all the time in the world to debate the subject. We have the rest of our lives together.”
~~*~~
Chapter Ninety-Four
Marcus and Ackerman waited at the southwestern corner of Washington Square Park, two unmoving rocks in a flowing river of tourists and shoppers flocking into the niche stores and cart vendors that lined both sides of the street. The air smelled faintly of funnel cakes, which masked the scent of the ocean and fish market that was only a few blocks away. Following Oban’s instructions to the letter, they were both dressed in tuxedos. Oban had suggested a neutral location and said he would send a limo for them at 6:30 sharp.
Checking his Apple watch, Marcus said, “Two minutes to game time. By the way, don’t damage that tux. It’s a rental. And the Director has become very budget conscious lately.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m hoping we can handle this without getting any bullet holes in our clothes.”
Admiring
his reflection in a passing city bus, Ackerman said, “We do look rather dapper.”
Rolling his eyes, Marcus replied, “Oh yeah, you’re ready for the cover of GPQ…Gentlemen Psychopath’s Quarterly.”
“I’m not a psychopath. You know how I feel about the misrepresentation of that term. I’d wager there are more CEOs of Fortune 500 companies who are suffering from psychopathy than those who are serial murderers.”
“Okay, okay. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”
“Not to mention,” Ackerman continued, “that true psychopaths are born that way, whereas I was forcefully designed and sculpted into my current glory.”
“I know, I think. I’m just being my normal grumpy self.”
“We are what we are, brother. Whether we like it or not. Do you blame me for what I am?”
“I really don’t know what the hell that means.”
“Let me rephrase.” Ackerman hesitated, apparently considering his words very carefully. “Do you believe that I had any choice in the things I’ve done?”
Marcus took a deep breath and said a quick prayer while rubbing the cross tattoo on his chest. “That’s a deep question. Honestly, I don’t know, Frank. I don’t blame you for anything that happened while you were under Father’s thumb. But after you got away from him, that’s when you really got started. You could’ve gone to the authorities. You could’ve explained things to people. Hell, you might’ve even been seen as a hero.”
“In other words, I could have played the role of the victim.”
“I’m just saying that you had a choice.”
“I’ve thought long and hard about that, brother, and I honestly don’t know if I did. When you’ve been taught to do one thing your entire life, and you’re dropped alone as a teenage boy into the world . . . Can that boy be expected not to do the one thing he’s been trained to do?”
Marcus said, “I don’t know that it really matters. It happened. It’s over. All we have is right here and right now. The past is gone, and tomorrow may never come. What you do in this moment and every moment after is all that matters, and I do believe that you genuinely want to do good. That’s all that counts right now.”
