Satan's Gambit

by Conti, Gene;

  Our conversation went on for what seemed like hours. I was developing quite a caffeine buzz after a couple of tankards of the rich brew. Father Ed learned to drink his cup of joe strong and black. When he was in Korea they didn’t have the luxuries of cream and sugar most times. Little did I realize that this café would be where Father and I would spend many an afternoon after my class was over for the day.

  His pitch for me to teach at ICC was straightforward, as I expected no less of him. We had many times before discussed the state of the nation and the world. We both came to the realization that we needed a grassroots effort, one that started with the youth. Our nation was pumping out little Marxists year after year from the socialist universities. Was our country magically expected to get back to its Judeo-Christian roots; and somehow, miraculously these young men and women would vote for conservative constitutionalists?

  We both knew what the definition of insanity is: doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. He planned to set up an appointment for me to meet with Dean Avery, so he could get me on the fall docket as soon as possible.

  Before we parted ways, I asked him, “What should I call the course that I’m going to teach?”

  “Faith and begorrah me lad, you’ll come up with something catchy that will appeal to the kids, Joe.” We were both standing by this time. He took his arm and put it around my shoulder and squeezed. No one would doubt Father Ed was still in good shape. Then he downed the last of his tankard and thumped the empty vessel on the heavy wood table.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE MATRIX EXPOSED

  I called Emily when I reached my car and gave her a heads up on when I would get home. Upon arrival, the sun had already set. There was just a remnant of afterglow in the mountains behind our home. I pulled “the tank,” what I called my car, into the garage. The dang thing had more mileage on it than Methuselah, and you couldn’t kill the beast.

  A new car was not in our plans. I was happy the darn thing still worked properly. With the dollar’s demise as the world’s reserve currency, interest rates had skyrocketed, as well as the prices of vehicles and everything else under the sun. Apart from that, for almost two decades there had been a fight for the dashboard. The major electronic players—Sony, Google, Apple, Microsoft—wanted to control the flow of information on vehicle dashboards.

  The government also saw this as a source of invading and amassing additional private info for their National Security Agency (NSA) computers. Things had come a long way since 2014 when it was revealed that Samsung’s new “smart TV” could watch you as you were watching it. All TVs had advanced microphones similar to the noise and wind reduction ones that motorcycles riders use to communicate. Some viewers erroneously thought that by raising the volume, the NSA would not be able to hear if they wished to discuss something privately. The government selectively granted consent, like a king bestowing knighthood, on only those corporations who would comply with government “requests.”

  The newer dashboard monitor displays fed the government real time location of your vehicle whether you had the map feature turned on or not. And all the late model vehicles had a LoJack chip installed that the government could use to govern and slow your car to a stop if it wanted to. And most new car owners didn’t realize that the onboard computers can also be remotely hacked to totally take control of the vehicle away from the driver.

  Bluetooth devices incorporate the perfect mike and receiver that the various agencies tune into to listen to people’s conversations live. All speech in your vehicle, as well as your travel destinations, are being fed and logged into the massive NSA computers in Maryland, Utah, or other undisclosed facilities, to be used against drivers and their passengers.

  The public begged for this monitoring because they still could use their cell phones to call their carrier to unlock the car door if they had left the keys inside. They also could notify authorities if their car was stolen so they could activate the LoJack system and retrieve the vehicle.

  During our dinner, which was ravioli with meatballs —what more could one of Italian extraction want—Emily and I spoke at length about Father Ed’s proposal. She was all for it.

  “You’ve put in over thirty years into the emergency room,” her eyes dead-focused on me, “and it’s taken its toll on you. This sounds like a great opportunity, take it!” she said.

  Chewing on a meatball, it took me a couple seconds to respond. “Yeah, I like the idea, but—”

  “But what?” she interjected.

  “Okay, but I haven’t taught in years,” I replied still masticating my meatball. “Besides, I don’t know what title to give the dumb course.” I was getting frustrated with her, and a bit with Father Ed.

  “I’ll help you develop the name. Okay?” Her voice was sweet, and she looked at me lovingly, meaning what she said.

  I avoided the topic for a while and asked her how her day went. She said she was worried about her raised-bed vegetable garden that she had just recently finished putting in.

  “All I saw today were chemtrails crisscrossing the sky, pumping out their trailing clouds of heavy metals. How many more dead plants will I have this year? And the deer and raccoons seem to eat the good ones just as they ripen before I can pick them,” she stated in a very frustrated voice.

  “Crisscrossed?” I repeated.

  “Yes, crisscrossed …” As she pronounced the second syllable slowly, she looked at me. I was still looking at her as we both smiled at each other, clinked our wine glasses and said at the same time: The Matrix. We promptly proceeded to give each other a quick kiss as we laughed.

  Over the next half hour we worked out the particulars, calling the course The Matrix Exposed 101 and 102, for the fall and spring semesters. The Matrix Exposed 101 would be a required pre-requisite before a student could take 102 in the spring. It would be a three-credit course per semester. We’d meet three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—for an hour each of those days. In the course, I would detail the how and why the Matrix we currently live in was formed. I would explain how science, religion, and politics had created it; and that all three would be needed to unveil and dismantle it.

  By then we had almost polished off the bottle of Merlot and were feeling very happy with ourselves. I grabbed for the bottle and looked at the label. “Huh, Yellow Tail from Australia no less. Those Aussies can make a pretty good wine,” as I took my last sip.

  “Kroger,” my wife added. “And we get the gas points.”

  I called Father Ed as soon as we finished dessert, which was a scrumptious chocolate pecan pie with whipped cream on it.

  “Well, what do you think?” I asked him after giving him the skinny on what Emily and I had concocted.

  “Praise be Mary and the Saints, you’ve really nailed it, Joe. I believe the topic will be something the kids will gravitate to. The Matrix film trilogy has always resonated with them. As a matter of fact, the student union showed it last year as part of their classic film festival.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE PLEDGE

  Ihad already printed my name—Dr. Joseph Lucci—on the whiteboard with a blue dry erase marker. As I waited for the students to arrive, I stood behind the long almost black soapstone-covered lab table which was to the right of my standard plain wooden desk. My back was to the whiteboard and the students’ desks were directly in front of me. There was a bank of windows to my right, which looked out on part of the alluring grounds. One bushy poplar tree’s branches almost touched the closest windows; and as I would learn as the semester progressed, would scrape against the windows during heavy winds and storms. We were on the second floor and were also graced with a commanding view of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.

  The wall on the left side of the classroom had a whiteboard with some bulletin boards on it, and a front and rear door that led to the hallway.

  Each student had a desk, which had a retractable arm that folded up and down for appropriate wr
iting, note taking, book or tablet placement, etcetera. These desks were actually fairly comfortable. The investors understood that the mind can only absorb what the backside can endure, and were willing to put their money into good quality classroom furniture for the students.

  Brother Francis had come into my classroom a day earlier to see if he could help me in any way, and I readily accepted his assistance. He was fairly young, average height and robust from working in the fields. His skin was almost the consistency of tanned leather.

  He suggested we arrange the desks in five rows of six chairs in each row. Each desk had to weigh at least seventy pounds, and he proceeded to move them around with ease. If it took him two minutes, that was a lot.

  “There, finished,” he exclaimed proudly observing his endeavor as an artist inspects his finished masterpiece. “There is ample room in front of your lab table for you to perambulate up and down in front of the first tier of desks, pontificating to these raw minds that you will mold and develop into critical thinking adults,” he announced with a wide smile on his face.

  Brother Francis’ endeavor reminded me of an apologue I heard once about three common brick layers. A passerby asked the first one what he was doing, and he said, “laying bricks.” He proceeded to ask the second what he was doing. “I’m building a wall,” he said. When he arrived at the third worker, he asked the same of him. The third man stated proudly, “I am a master mason, and I am constructing a cathedral.” All three were doing the same work, and all three had an entirely different outlook on life, which was reflected in their attitude and work ethic. I saw the same in Brother Francis.

  He continued, “Also the margin between rows is appropriate that a student doesn’t feel his personal space is being invaded from the student in the row next to them.” He then added with a sheepish grin, “It will also make it difficult for them to cheat,” he exclaimed with a smirk.

  “Could I get an American Flag for the class room?” I politely asked. “One that has a bracket that can be attached to the wall close to the end of the whiteboard near the windows. The flag should be relatively small, probably about two feet by three feet and will hang at an angle from the bracket.”

  He knew exactly the kind of set up I needed, and it was magically in place when I walked into the classroom that following first day.

  Before Brother Francis left he made a very astute observation. “Would you mind if I grew some plants all along the window ledges? It sure would brighten up the room, as it looks kind of sterile right now.”

  He was absolutely right. I cheerfully agreed and thanked him. “You are welcome to come into the class at any time.”

  ***

  It was getting close to 9 AM, and the students were starting to file in. I was getting some butterflies in my stomach. It had been decades since I had taught. Fifteen students had registered for the class—twelve men and three women. I guess that’s not bad for starters as the kids had no idea of who I was or exactly what the course was going to be about. In the curriculum guide it was listed under philosophy, but I was teaching the course in St. Albert’s Hall, the science building.

  I recalled from my old high school teaching days that students tend to select a seat in a room where they feel comfortable, and it revealed a bit about their personality as well. This should prove interesting.

  By my watch it was 9 AM sharp, and as I was closing the door, the last student rushed in. I learned shortly afterwards that his name was Tom. He was from Missouri, the doubting Show Me state and was in pre-law, minoring in history. In time, I ascertained that he was an agnostic with atheistic leanings. Tom gravitated to the fourth row from the front door and sat in the third seat back.

  “Good morning, my name is Dr. Joseph Lucci,” I greeted the class as I pointed to my name that I had printed on the whiteboard. “You now know my name, and I would like to learn all of yours. But first let us honor our country and say the Pledge of Allegiance.”

  You would think that I had asked them to swallow hot coals or stand on nails.

  “Whaaa?” one moaned.

  “I haven’t done that since first grade,” said one of the females.

  “Man, that’s lame,” came a voice from the back of the room.

  The discontent was glaringly obvious.

  “Well, I’ll start it off and anyone is welcome to join in or not,” was my firm retort.

  “I refuse and I’m offended,” defiantly stated Simon, a small, thin black American, with long, black wiry hair tied in the back, who sat in the first row, second seat. Simon was from Chicago’s Southside and was taking general studies, as he had not picked a major yet.

  He had a Christian background, but through the influence of his brother, who had done time in prison, he was converting to Islam. As a gesture of diversity and tolerance, the prison system was now permitting radical Imams to be chaplains and counselors.

  He had just about jumped up from his seat, and was standing stiff with his hands straight down at his sides, in a military style.

  “It’s Simon, I believe, and no one is forcing you to participate,” I said addressing him firmly.

  “Don’t call me Simon; call me Ali Saful Islam.”

  “Is it okay if I just call you Ali?”

  “That would be permissible,” he replied, again answering in a clipped military tone while still standing rigid.

  “Does your name have a meaning?” I gently solicited.

  “Absolutely,” he replied soundly and proudly. “It means Greatest Sword of Islam,” and he promptly sat down.

  Great, I have a micro-terrorist in training, I thought to myself, and without further hesitation I turned to face the flag, placed my right hand over my heart, and started to recite the Pledge.

  For a few seconds mine was the only voice in the room. Then a weak second voice, which was female, accompanied me; it belonged to Maria.

  Maria sat in the third row, second seat, almost directly in front of the lab table. She had nearly jet-black hair, soft brown eyes, and olive-colored skin with an angelic face. She reminded me of Natalie Wood who played Maria in West Side Story. I discovered she was a Roman Catholic of Hispanic origin. Her family had well-established roots in Texas; one of her distant relatives actually fought alongside Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie at the Alamo. She was in the BSN nursing program.

  Finally, some other voices mumbled along as they stood up. I think most of them couldn’t even remember the words; it probably had been years since last they uttered it. Besides, Maria had more than likely shamed most of them into saying it.

  That first Pledge of Allegiance was tortuous for me and for them as well, I’m sure. However, it got easier with each recitation before each class started. I was not backing down. This was their first lesson; they had just poked their head out of the rabbit hole that lead to the Matrix they lived in, little did they realize.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BLUE PILL OR RED PILL

  “Why have you chosen to sign up for this class,” I asked to no one student in particular.

  “Just curious,” responded Thad. He sat in the second row, fourth seat. Over time I found that Thad was fairly nationalist, a pro-USA libertarian type. He was from a Christian family in Colorado; but when his minister failed to sufficiently answer his questions about why a loving God would permit the death of innocent people, especially children, he converted to Buddhism. Thad was majoring in journalism, with a minor in astronomy of all things. “Figured I might be able to write a series of articles for the Veritas Beacon, regarding what I learn in this class. Anything that smacks of the Matrix is always in vogue with the students.”

  Huh, I reflected, possibly a series of positive articles in our school paper.

  “I wanted an easy course to cruise through, and picking up three credits was a bonus,” Philip immediately chimed in with an arrogant tone. He was in the back row and was leaning back in his chair so it was resting against the back wall. He was of Chinese ancestry from San Francisco. Philip was somew
hat of a prodigy being a triple major in physics, math, and biochemistry. He was also fluent in both Cantonese and Mandarin dialects. His father was from Beijing where they speak Mandarin, which is the official state language of China. His mother was from Guangzhou where blue pill or red pill Cantonese is spoken. He was a hard core, but honest, evolutionary atheist.

  Maggie sat in the first seat in the second row, right in front of my desk. I got her number in short order. She was strikingly beautiful, and she knew it. Maggie had a full mane of thick, long, wavy blonde hair that had dyed dark streaks of color running through it. Her eyes were a dark green framed with heavy eyeliner and mascara. An old college buddy of mine would have described her as “zaftig.” She certainly would have made it into the Mae West/Dolly Parton club hands down. And she always wore revealing form-fitting apparel.

  As soon as I saw her, that first day in class, I immediately thought back to the old Hall and Oats song from the early ’80s, “She’s a man-eater.” Every move was planned and executed like a big cat on the prowl. She kept the guys salivating.

  Maggie was from Southern California. Where else? Totally amoral and an agnostic, she wasn’t sure if there was a God, and could care less anyway; but she was anything but stupid. Majoring in women’s studies, she was totally honest though with her response. “I signed up for the course because I’ve always thought that Keanu Reeves was the bomb. He could put his slippers under my bed anytime.”

  With that it was time to move on.

  “Like Morpheus in the Matrix, I’m going to give you a choice of the red pill or the blue pill. You take the blue pill, and you can leave the class no questions asked and return to your world of the Matrix, where your destiny is already planned for you. You will continue on with your mundane existence never knowing that the Matrix, not you, really controls everything you think and do.”