Satan's Gambit

by Conti, Gene;

  With the exception of Nate and Maria, everyone’s hands went up. Wow, I thought, do we have a problem in this country. Jim looked around and finally put his hand down. I took note of it.

  I throw out another question. “Therefore, do you all believe there is no such thing as absolute truth?”

  Matt is on a roll. “That’s correct, Doc. No one has a corner on the market on the truth,” he said flashing his cocky used car salesman smile.

  “I assume most of you agree with Matt’s assertion?” I asked. Heads nodded in agreement, with the same exceptions being Nate and Maria. I took heed of Jim again. He stroked his chin, furrowed his eyebrows, as he seemed unsure of his position.

  “I would like all of you to remember this moment. The majority of you have agreed that there is no such thing as absolute truth. We will discuss and elucidate on this in more detail as the course proceeds.”

  “How many of you have studied Nixon and Watergate?” Instantly, hands shot up all over, except for Santiago’s.

  “Que es Watering Gate?” Santiago inquired, posing his question to no one in particular.

  There were some smirks and covered laughs from several of the students. I raised my index finger in a stern gesture of warning.

  Santiago was supposedly a distant cousin of Juan and sat directly in front of him in the fifth row. He came to the U.S. illegally on one of the youth trains from Mexico during the Obama administration. Obama had opened the Southern borders to all comers, during his last two years in office. These illegal aliens were then allowed to have many of their “relatives” immigrate in later years “legally” and apply for all manner of government assistance. The Republicans didn’t object, thinking the U.S. would get some cheap labor out of the deal.

  The Dems knew statistically that 70 percent or more would vote Democratic for all the freebies. The Dems were right, and now the Democratic Party has control over both houses of Congress and the presidency.

  Santiago’s tuition was being paid for by the government—the taxpayer. He resented the U.S. and looked upon us as a bunch of fools. Santiago was majoring in the social sciences and psychology. Eventually, he wanted to become a community organizer in the inner cities.

  I ignored his off-the-cuff question concerning ‘Watering Gate’.

  “Take your tablets and bring up the movie All the President’s Men. I believe it’s the tenth part where Robert Redford approaches his contact Deep Throat.”

  With that, Maggie breaks in. “I know how—”

  “Maggie, we can dispense with your personal accomplishments,” I immediately halted her before she uttered another word, and I spoke forcefully, my eyes narrowed, pupils pinpoint, and I’m sure one of my eyebrows was elevated.

  Some low-level laughs and chuckling came from a few of the fellows, but my eyes quickly darted up from Maggie and toward them. Silence, as if on cue.

  “I think we’ll leave the Nixon Scandal until our next session, class dismissed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BRAINWASHED

  I walked into the classroom on Friday, and to my pleasant surprise Brother Francis had made good on his promise. Arrayed along the window ledges was a bounty of beautiful flowers and plants; some already in bloom and others ready to burst forth their colorful blossoms.

  Once again Simon/Ali resisted honoring the country of his birth by reciting the Pledge, after which I commenced the class.

  “Juan, I believe we left off with you at our last session. We were talking about bias and right and wrong. The consensus being that each individual has the right to determine what is right or wrong for him or herself.”

  “Yes, that is what was agreed upon by the majority,” he attested.

  “By the way, have you been ill recently, Juan, you appear a bit peaked” I deduced.

  “No, I’ve been fine.”

  Matt addressed him, “Man, I asked your cousin Santi (he preferred the shortened name) if you were ill or something.”

  Santi then confirmed what Matt asked him. “Yeah, Juan, I told Matt that ‘usted no ha estado sintiendo hombre bien.’”

  “Why didn’t you say something to me, Santi,” Juan pleaded with his cousin.

  Both Andy and Pete gave their medical opinions of Juan’s ill state of health.

  By now Juan had taken his tablet and turned on the mirror app, and was carefully studying his face.

  A few of the other students made mention of it and suggested that Juan perhaps should go to Student Health Services to get checked out.

  Juan raised his hand and requested, “Doc, I have been feeling a bit queasy this morning, maybe I should go get checked out.”

  At that point, I called on Jim, “Should you tell him or should I?”

  Jim indicated he would and said, “Juan ‘ole buddy, you were the object lesson. Doc had us all in on it and wanted to show us how quickly someone could be brainwashed or biased, even as to their own state of health. You’re really fine, like you first said.”

  “All you guys and the Doc were in on this?” complained Juan.

  With that, Claudia emblazoned the conversation. “That was just cruel to play on poor little Juan. He’s sensitive and gullible.”

  Claudia was known as the Ice Princess for two reasons. One, she looked like a younger version of the Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton, tall and stately with long wavy brown hair. Second, she had an aloof attitude; she thought she was better than others, a sophisticate.

  Claudia was always well dressed in the latest designer fashions. She shopped only boutiques, Lord and Taylor, and Nordstrom’s. To say she was a clotheshorse would be putting it mildly. I don’t think I saw her in the same outfit twice that year. Her family hailed from New York City. Her father was never at home, always working mega deals with Warren Buffett types. Likewise her mother was either traveling or at some spa having herself pampered. Claudia was the rich little “orphan.” She was majoring in communications and literature, and wanted to be a TV anchorette for one of the big media outlets in New York; at least until she married some network mogul. She was a big liberal; and God, if she even believed He existed, never entered her mind.

  Claudia didn’t even realize her very comments were belittling of Juan.

  “Juan, I must say you were a good sport,” I told him, trying to put a positive spin on the object lesson. “Besides knowing that you are really okay, what would you say you learned about bias?”

  “Man, I really get it. Bias is simply the way one looks at things. And those around you have a major influence on how you look at stuff. And now I bet you’re going to explain how right and wrong fit into this bias.”

  “Juan, you nailed it. That ‘stuff’ as you called it, is called a worldview. Your bias and the way you look at right and wrong affects your worldview. And there is no such thing as a neutral worldview.” I really hammered home the word neutral.

  I looked around the class and saw everyone nodding. They got it—so far. Good.

  Philip raised his hand and asked, “But don’t the facts determine what is right and what is wrong?”

  “Gee, I thought most of you agreed that each individual could determine right and wrong for themselves, obviously apart from the facts,” I feigned bemusement; then stopped to see the reaction from the class. Silence, they realize they’d been had.

  But not all.

  Simon/Ali’s arm shot straight up; I thought he was giving me a Hitler salute. “Only Allah, praise be his name, knows right from wrong.”

  “Well, Simon, I’m sorry, Ali, we may have to discuss that point further at some time.”

  I notice Claudia, who sat three seats directly behind him rocking her head back and forth and rolling her eyes as she mouthed the word twerp. And Philip, leaning back against the wall as usual, twirled his index finger next to the side of his head, making the universal sign of a loony. Since Ali sat in front of Claudia and Philip, he couldn’t see what they were doing; and discretion being the better part of valor, I determined not to say an
ything.

  “Has anyone heard of the Tylenol scare from back in the late ’70s?” No hands went up. “Okay, punch that up on your tablets and see what you get.”

  Pete appears to be the first to find the info. “Wow! Some nut job in Chicago—hey, your turf Ali—offed several people by injecting potassium cyanide into Tylenol capsules and placed the bottles back on the shelves for purchase. Poor slobs didn’t know what hit them. Bad news.”

  “Pete, what do you mean by bad news?” I asked with a very slight sarcasm in my voice.

  Pete answered nonchalantly, “Well, that was wrong of the dude to just kill those people for no reason.”

  “And if the ‘dude’ as you say had a reason, would it have been okay then?” I pose.

  At that point Andy, Pete’s brother who sat next to him, backhanded Pete hard on the arm. “You jerk, Doc just set you up.”

  “What did I do wrong?” Pete hollers back at his brother.

  “Wrong, is exactly the point,” Andy howled back. “The Tylenol “dude” murdered innocent people.”

  “Good, it looks like some of you are starting to come around to the idea that some things are right and some are wrong. How do we as a society decide right and wrong?”

  “The law!” Tom emphatically and vigorously called out. Tom was our pre-law/history major.

  “Excellent,” I acknowledge Tom’s good, quick thinking.

  “But the law, if not properly established, can become evil. Next session be prepared, we will discuss how this ties in with Hitler, the French Revolution, and the Age of Enlightenment.”

  Tom, still reveling and patting himself on the back, proclaimed to the class, “Damn, I’m good.” To which the class rejoined almost in unison, “Cussin’ jar!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NANA’S

  Father Ed and I met again for a late lunch on Friday. He had a board meeting or some such administrative duty that morning and knew it would drone on for hours. I had some paperwork to take care of anyway. He would text me on my cell when the meeting was over.

  My phone buzzed around 1:30 PM just as I was completing the work at my classroom desk. Good timing, I thought. I was to meet him at his car in the administrators’ parking lot.

  I got to his car about a minute before him. The door was unlocked so I sat inside. He arrived momentarily and hopped in the driver’s side.

  “Well, me lad, I’m going to treat you to lunch at a real Irish restaurant and pub.”

  “So where are we peddling your little Democrat car to?” I chided him. He drove one of those small hybrid cars that gets a million miles to the gallon, or some such insanity, but can get crushed by the impact of a housefly due to their lightweight aluminum structure.

  “We are going to Nana’s Irish Pub in Middletown. They have the best colcannon and soda bread this side of the Shenandoah River,” and gave me a big grin as he started up the car.

  “Is the engine running now?” I asked with marked irony to my question.

  “Aye, at least it doesn’t take a gallon of gas to start like your tank,” he shot back quickly.

  I felt the need to get in the last word in, on this tit for tat. “I see your personal parking space has your name painted on it. However, your little Democrat car has peed on it.” I smiled triumphantly.

  “At least it can, me lad. I recall yours had urinary, or was it fuel pump retention, and needed replacement recently, Emily told me.”

  Touché, he won that exchange. I’ll need to talk to that woman when I get home tonight.

  Middletown, Virginia, is just a little north of Front Royal off I-81, and it didn’t take us long to get there. It was a pleasant drive down from the peaks of the Blue Ridge where Immaculate Conception College abided peacefully in its high meadow.

  As soon as we entered the front door of the establishment, Philomena, the owner, gave Father Ed a big hello and wave from behind the cash register at the bar in the back. Father then introduced me to Philomena; she had one of the waitresses escort us to Father’s usual table.

  The pub used to be a bank and still had a very large, faded green steel walk-in door safe against a back wall. The side walls also had the original brick and the floors were the original wood planks, which squeaked when you walked on them.

  Father ordered his colcannon which came with Irish soda bread, topped off with his usual pint of Guinness Stout. I ordered a plate of champ, as I love mashed potatoes with spring onions. I had ice water with lemon to drink. I was thirsty again from all the talking in class.

  We ate with little small talk. I was just reveling in the atmosphere of the pub, while traditional Irish music played in the background.

  After taking a gulp of his Guinness to dispatch the last fork of his colcannon, Father inquired, “Joe are you aware of what has been happening at the southern border these past few days?” as he proceeds to answer his own question. “My sources tell me that Islamic terrorist cells are planning some sort of attack, possibly in border towns, perhaps in larger cities instead. No reports yet from the mainstream media. They always seem to be a dollar short and a day late.”

  “Unfortunately, I was either at the hospital or teaching the past few days and haven’t been following any of my e-mails or blogs,” I admitted, still consuming the last of the champ.

  “The chickens have come home to roost. During the presidency of Mr. Pen and a Phone, the porous southern border was absolutely unregulated,” Father explained as he took another gulp of his Guinness. He continued, “Many Islamic terrorists crossed the Rio Grande during that period; they mixed and blended in with the swarms of illegal Hispanic immigrants.”

  “Not to mention the one hundred thousand ‘legal’ Muslim immigrant terrorists he imported per year from the Middle East, Africa, and Asian countries. Excuse me, ‘refugees,’ he called them,” I added.

  “These cells are now ready to coordinate attacks on us. It will also give the government and the Illuminati the excuse they’re looking for to make biometric chips mandatory.” Father then suggested we retire to the outside back patio for dessert and coffee.

  “What I don’t get is how these terrorist cells have been able to establish legal training camps right here in the U.S.,” I posited in an aggravated tone.

  “My friends in the agencies say they cannot stop people from congregating where they want to legally live,” Father said as he waved to our waitress and pointed to the patio. She nodded in a way that she knew Father’s routine.

  “Yeah, except if they’re Christian, and especially if they own weapons,” I grumbled while trying to squirm my way following Father out to the rear patio. “Then they’re tagged as Religious Extremists by our government.”

  “In deference to my buddies, they have to do the government’s bidding. Our drones and security teams can at least keep an eye to see if these radicals stay in their compounds.”

  We found a table outside and Father lit up one of his Camacho Ecuador cigars. I understood why we needed to go to the bier garden.

  Our waitress handed us menus again, so we could order dessert and coffee. Father already knew what he wanted and told her he’d have his usual.

  I quickly reviewed the selection and ordered the chocolate brandy bread pudding and coffee.

  As she left, Father asks, “Everything going smoothly in class?”

  “A few road bumps here and there. I have my work cut out for me. Basically I’m at square one. The kids don’t even know, or don’t believe in, right and wrong—or absolute truth.”

  “Sounds as if you are at the infancy stage of development in teaching them. Just start with pabulum.”

  “Trust me, I am. I had them review the Zapruder film, and they were shocked.”

  The waitress returned promptly with my regular coffee and some creamers. In front of Father she placed a very generous glass mug of Irish coffee.

  “Wow, I can really smell the whisky in that,” I commented.

  “Yes, laddie boy, it has an extra shot of Irish whisk
y in it.”

  “Bailey’s?”

  “Heaven’s no! Bushmills, it’s aged for twenty-one years. They keep a bottle just for me behind the bar.”

  “Here, Father, your Irish bread pudding,” our waitress declared as she set it before him; then she almost dropped my chocolate brandy bread pudding in my lap. Lightning fast, my hands stabilized the dessert plate.

  “That was close,” I said after she left. I continued, “Then I attempted to discuss the Watergate break in. That didn’t go too well, to say the least. I was trying to get across to them Deep Throat’s advice to always ‘follow the money’ and that the money always leads to the goal of all tyrants, which is power and control.” I took a big bite of the chocolate brandy bread pudding as I let the chocolate and liqueur linger on my taste buds a while.

  “Joe, you’ll have ample time to drive home those two points; you do have two semesters. When the Soviet Union was at its peak in the mid-’80s, the wall of power and control it had over its people and the satellite countries was called the Iron Curtain,” he explained as he took a sip of his Irish coffee. “Now, you are calling it the Matrix.”

  “In China,” I added, “it was called the Bamboo Curtain; we’ve swapped iron and bamboo for a Digitalized Curtain behind which Big Brother is controlling people—using computers, cameras, drones and satellites,” I added, treasuring another bit of Nana’s chocolate brandy pudding.

  Father and I talked for a while longer, bemoaning the fact that too many in our culture were walking around in a happy fog of diversion created by the Matrix called Bread and Circuses. The Romans used this tactic to control and appease the plebian masses, offering them free food, and staging huge free spectacles in the Colosseum.

  “Panem et circenses, is the Latin form,” Father enlightened me, and then he took a draw on his cigar, as if he was luxuriating in some ethereal fragrance. “The ‘bread’ today is the welfare for the poor and crippling credit for the middle class.”