“Come on, Louis!” It was the Grand Pooh-Bah, pulling his oxygen mask away from his face. “We haven’t got all day.”
Louis heard sniggering echo around the auditorium. A jackal in row D shouted for him to get on with it. “Speak the language they understand,” he muttered, adjusting his tie and glancing at Tiffany for moral support. She stared back with big unblinking eyes. A weasel in row F yelled out, “Cat got your tongue?” which brought more chuckles and sniggering from the audience. He had to say something. Goddamn anything, before they started walking out on him. Surprisingly, it was Lady Di that got the ball rolling. Start by telling them what you told me when we first met, Louis dear. You charmed me off my feet. You can do the same to them.
Louis had never considered himself a charmer. He wasn’t a Flash Freddy (Spank’n rich and spank’n good look’n), capable of sweeping women away with poetic words and a captivating smile. Just a farmer at heart, someone who put in the long hard hours plowing the field until the crops grew, then reaped his reward. It was certainly news to him that Lady Di had been swept off her feet. What he had said at the dinner party where they met was nothing fancy, just… “Good evening. My name is Louis DeVille.”
The whispering and sniggering stopped as abruptly as the shareholders had rematerialized. He thought he even saw the corners of Tiffany’s mouth turn up ever so slightly.
“Although, I don’t know about you, but since I’ve arrived in LeMont I’ve found it difficult to tell whether it’s evening, or night, or morning or afternoon. So maybe I’ll just stick with good day.” Most of the shareholders chuckled, this time in recognition. That’s better, Louis, he sighed. Just keep it going. “As this is my first report to the AGM, most of you don’t know who I am. My position at LeMont, as defined in great detail in my contract,” and there were a few more chuckles of recognition, “is that of Interim Management Consultant. I’ve been headhunted to oversee the restructuring of the entire LeMont Corporation.” He then pointed to the banner hanging on the back wall: L.I.E Annual General Meeting. Your Friend For Eternity. “I guess I’m a bit of a Mr. Fix-It, although my role is a rather simple one: to help maintain the LIE. Goebel, the Nazi propaganda minister, put it succinctly: ‘If you tell a lie often enough, people will swallow it.’ My job then, is to help The Boss tell the lie as often as possible in as many different ways as possible. And in my experience, the only way to get our message out to the cosmopolitan masses is to speak the common language of the masses. Money.”
The shareholders applauded politely and Santos nodded in his wheelchair, smiling through his oxygen mask. “Money talks,” he said. “You’ve all heard that saying before. What you might not have heard is that money talks a thousand languages, one everybody can understand. Money cuts through all barriers. Race. Sex. Age. Money is the universal language, the language of the soul.”
A good majority were bobbing their heads in agreement and mumbling to one another. You've hit the right note, Louis my boy. They’re warming to you. Keep this up and they’ll be eating out of your paw.
“As LeMont’s Mr. Fix-It, there are two questions I have to ask myself,” he said. “Firstly, what is good about the system that’s already in place? And secondly, what isn’t good? In other words, what works and what doesn’t?” He straightened the cuffs on his jacket and flattened his tie over his chest and belly. “Let’s begin with the first, the things I’ve observed the LeMont Corporation doing well. In my old job as CEO of a major pharmaceutical company, the negotiation of a contract took precedence over everything else. I did all I could to get the signature on the dotted line. Why, you ask? Well, it’s not what’s in the contract that’s important. It’s the transference of power. The Boss knows that. That’s why he insists all newbies sign a working contract when they arrive; it forces them to commit to him and the rules with which he governs the corporation, a voluntary handing over of power that becomes legal once they’ve put pen to paper. And the law, as we all know, is on the side of whoever has the most money.”
“You’re right there!” a rat in row M yelled.
The shareholders chuckled again and Louis nodded in acknowledgement.
“Have you ever heard of an employee having more money than the employer? No, of course not. That would destabilize the balance of power. The employee would be forced to buyout the employer to redress the situation; and what kind of place would LeMont become if the employees had all the power?” The shareholders along row A shook their head in dismay at the very idea of it. “Not a pretty thought, is it?” Louis continued. “Contracts have to stay. They must continue to be as complicated as possible. Every loophole must be removed. Unbreakable, so that even if an employee did decide to contest it in the courts they would be bogged down for years, or for as long as their money ran out and couldn’t afford to continue. Contracts must continue to be to the benefit of the employer. They must continue to be the cornerstone of Industrial Relations, the foundation upon which the LIE is built.”
The shareholders erupted in spontaneous applause. Louis flattened his tie against his chest, absorbing the praise, then gestured for them to be silent. “The other things LeMont does well are minor in comparison, but I’ll briefly mention them anyway,” he said, as the applause died down. “It goes without saying that a monopoly is the ideal for which any corporation should strive to achieve. Globalization achieves this aim. With globalization comes control, and with control comes power, and with power comes money. The circle is complete. Not only must a corporation take control of a market, it must grow so overwhelmingly huge that it becomes the market. There must be no room for anyone else, for with competition comes a loss of power, and a loss of power equates to a slow and protracted death. A part of our philosophy in maintaining the LIE should therefore be: smother before we are smothered.” He paused briefly, eyeing the auditorium. “Globalization is the blanket with which we will smother our competitors.”
“Hear, hear!” yelled a ferret in Row M, followed by mumbles of approval from the other shareholders.
“The promise of instant wealth,” Louis said, cutting in. “Now there’s something else LeMont does extremely well. Lotteries. Betting agencies. The idea that all our problems can be solved with money is brilliant, just brilliant. The only improvement I can suggest would be the construction of a casino and improving access to gaming machines. They should be everywhere. Mini-markets, shopping centers, restaurants, bars and clubs. The more the better. Churches, mosques, temples too; get them on board.” Louis paused. He was starting to get a little ahead of himself. “Oh, and I should also add that worshipping the Money Tree is a spark of genius. Religion. I couldn’t have come up with anything better to help maintain the LIE. Everyone needs to believe in something bigger than them self. It gives them hope. Why not money? Is there anything bigger?”
A jackal in row P held up a lotto ticket and waved it about. “I believe!”
“Hallelujah brother!” Louis said.
The biggest laughter of the speech so far rocked the auditorium, and Louis chuckled. Santosa is goddamn right. You’re in the wrong job, Louis my boy. You should be a standup.
“Seriously though, two last points on what LeMont is doing right before I move on to where we need to improve.” Louis flattened his tie across his chest and toyed with the buttons on his jacket. “Protocols. The Boss has it right, yet again. They should be just as complicated and confusing as contracts. Think of them as another layer of control. They force the employee to follow a set of instructions laid down by the employer, preventing them from using common sense and taking initiative. An employee must be trained to think how the employer wants them to think. Or even better, not to think, to become a robot, for everyone here knows that an employee with initiative is the most dangerous kind of employee of all.”
The shareholders chuckled and Louis glanced at the seat next to the Grand Pooh-Bah. Tiffany’s expression was deadpan, giving nothing away. He just hoped he was doing the right thing. Goddamn it, I don’t know what
else to say. You told me to speak from experience and talk in the language they understand. That’s exactly what I’m doing.
Just as he was about to continue, another minor quake shook the auditorium. The podium trembled beneath his feet and the microphone teetered back and forth. Louis grabbed it, as much to steady himself as to prevent it toppling over. Please, not now. Not yet. I’m not ready. The audience stared back, not bothered at all, and after a moment the rumbling moved on and the floorboards calmed beneath his feet.
“I’ve probably saved the best to last,” he said, regaining his composure. “Inbuilt Obsolescence. A concept I wasn’t totally familiar with until I arrived at LeMont. Now I see the beauty in it. If everything breaks down, the consumer keeps buying, the monopoly is reinforced and the LIE is maintained. Goddamn poetry in motion. I just wish I had thought of it when I was alive.”
He cast his eye over the shareholders. That was the easy bit done. Now he had to give the hard sell. Make them believe he was the real deal otherwise The Master’s plan was going to collapse around his whiskers like The Tower. As it was, she wasn’t looking happy with the way things were preceding.
Not damn happy at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
When The Tower Does Fall
LOUIS continued to scan across the heads of the shareholders, going over his mind several things he wanted to say before he got the hell out of here. That they were hooked on every word he spoke wasn’t in question. Whether they went the whole way, hook, line and sinker, well, that was another question all together. It had been one thing to get the board of a rival company to sit down at the negotiation table and to listen to his sales pitch when he was CEO of Global Resolutions Network, then something completely different to get them to sign on the dotted line. The difference couldn’t be quantified or manufactured and sold in a goddamn Happythecary. It was like Flash Freddy’s charm, or the X-factor all the movie producers looked for in a future star. You either had it, or you didn’t.
“As I’ve said, in my short time at LeMont I have observed many things that are being done well to maintain the LIE.” He motioned once again to the banner hanging behind him. “There are a few things, however, that I feel have room for improvement. Think of what I’m about to say as advice from a financial manager. Not as a criticism, but as a few tricks of the trade from someone who knows the game. Someone who’s been there, made the mistakes, and learned from them.”
A few shareholders in row A shifted awkwardly in their seats, especially three rats sitting closest to the aisle.
“From what I’ve seen, everything happens a little too slow in LeMont. To use a colleague’s turn of phrase, everyone is too comfortable. The problem is age. We have an ancient population and it’s only getting older. Too much dead wood. I notice there are no children in LeMont. Why is that? Is it a policy decision? Or is something that’s just happened? I’m not suggesting we get children into the workforce – they’re not efficient, no matter what anyone says – but I am suggesting an infusion of youth. There’s an unwritten law I have termed, for want of a better name, Lady Di’s Law. It says: Age is inversely proportional to the economic benefit of society.”
He didn’t say how he came to that conclusion. The first draft of the law he came up with when Ronald Reagan was still the president and not the airport. It went: Women are inversely proportional to the economic benefit of society. Based purely on his own experience of watching his wife spend every goddamn cent he had. But he didn’t have time for that now.
“Youth is the way forward for any corporation,” he said. “Why? Because they inject pace, and pace is the key to success. Give me pace in my legs than a wise old head any day.”
Santosa was nodding, Tiffany, however, continued to stare back with big doubtful eyes.
“LeMont needs an injection of speed if it wants to continue being Number One. It needs faster food, faster travel, faster services, faster everything. Fast. Fast. Fast. Especially things that get employees into debt, like banking and insurance. Loan approvals in ten minutes. House and contents insurance in less than five.” He then pointed to a ferret in row L. “You, sir. What day is it today?”
The ferret scratched his head. “Um… I think it’s…”
“Too slow!” Louis pointed to a rat in row A. “You, sir. Can you tell me what day it is?”
The rat stared back at him with blank eyes, but Louis didn’t wait for an answer. He moved onto a weasel way up the back in Row W, someone who probably thought she would never be asked. The weasel also took her time, too much time for Louis. He moved on to a mouse closer at hand, one who was sitting next to a toad in a wheelchair. She didn’t answer, as he thought she wouldn’t, but Santosa pulled his oxygen mask down beneath his double chin, and said, “It’s Satanday. What’s your point?”
“I thought it was Fryday,” said the rat in front of him.
Someone else in row F thought it was Moanday.
“This is exactly my point,” Louis said. “Everything must be done at a pace that’s so quick nobody knows what day of the week it is. The faster our lifestyle – and I’ll get more onto that in just a minute – the more confused everyone will be, and the easier it is to maintain the LIE. No one will have the time to sit down and think about what’s really going on. They’ll continue to live as they are told to live, no questions asked.”
The three rats in row A ahead of the Grand Pooh-Bah glanced at one another and nodded. Louis breathed a sigh of relief.
“An emerging trend I noticed in the years before I died, something I think will catch on in LeMont, is the idea of lifestyle. By lifestyle I mean anything and everything from the clothes we wear, to renovating the kitchen and bathroom, to the career we have, to where we dine and drink our cocktails. It’s the whole kit and caboodle, all rolled into one. And it’s perfect for maintaining the LIE.” He took the microphone off the stand and held it to his mouth. “Here’s how it works. We’ll have a two-stage marketing attack. Hit them in waves. Firstly, we blitz the city with advertising – billboards, radio, TV, cinema. Basically, our aim is to sell the actual concept of a lifestyle as a product. Specifically: how to get more out of life by upgrading to a better one than what we already have. If Mr. and Mrs. Jones next door have more than us, then we need to do something about it. The employees of LeMont have to feel that their current lifestyle is inadequate, that there’s always something bigger and better.”
Louis moved closer to the edge of the podium, dragging the microphone cord behind him. He was beginning to feel like an evangelist preaching to the congregation. Forget standup, I should be on TV. Have my own goddamn station. Entertainment Religion. Now there’s an idea: “Louis DeVille’s Hour of Praise.” The money will roll in. “The next phase of attack,” he said, closing the lid on his runaway thoughts, “is to then sell the idea that our products will give our employees the lifestyle they are now seeking. We’ll package it all together and call them, say, Lifestyle Choices.”
He nodded to himself. That was good. That was damn good. Maybe I should forget religion as well. Maybe I should get into advertising. Keeping the microphone to his mouth, he went on: “What we’re really doing is hooking the employees into an eternity of non-achievement, of constantly believing that they can’t be happy or safe or appreciated without our Lifestyle products. Happiness isn’t something that comes freely from within; it’s something that has to be acquired. You see, we can’t actually maintain the LIE without the voluntary involvement of the employees. It’s them that perpetuate it. We just get the ball rolling and give it a nudge now and then when it looks like slowing down. We literally have to be on the ball ourselves. Always watching. Always coming up with new ideas on how to keep believing the LIE.”
He moved along the edge of the podium, almost dancing the Fox Trot with the microphone. Man, he was flying. Now he knew how rock stars felt. He could almost feel a song coming on… And she’s buy-yigh-yigh-ying a stairway to heaven…Where were the screaming women? Where were the lady
’s underpants being thrown on stage? You old romantic, Louis, he chuckled. Now you’re just getting carried away.
“And just how do we keep the ball rolling? I hear you ask. It’s not as difficult as you may think. Once the system is set up, it’s virtually self-perpetuating. Once we’ve convinced the employees that their lifestyle is a product to buy, maintaining the LIE then simply involves reminding them that the key to having everything is money. In the old days it was called brainwashing. Nowadays it’s called targeted marketing. Did you know that the average child sees twenty thousand junk food adds a year? Twenty thousand! That’s the level to which we have to strive.”
He paused only briefly, letting the facts sink into the minds of his audience. “Our marketing pitch will be both direct and indirect. Direct is easy. We already have the Home Shopping Channel doing exactly that, and the only thing I’m going to elaborate on is that it should be more entertaining. In fact, everything should be an entertainment – newspapers, religion, banking, home improvement, education. Entertainment should become an integral part of our lifestyle. It should be the oil in the engine. Why? Because if we keep the employees laughing, they’ll keep working for us.” He paused again. “It all comes back to control, in all its multitude of forms.”
He had now reached the end of the podium. He spun on his heels and headed back toward the center where he had started, stepping neatly over the lagging cord like he had done this sort of thing a million times. He could feel every set of eyes following him.
“TV is a vital medium of control. We should have more channels. Fill the airwaves with entertainment. Perpetuate the LIE with game shows – Wheel of Fortune, The Price is Right, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” His pace quickened in step with his flow of ideas. “But in my experience, it’s the indirect, subtle approach that works better. We transmit our message in such a way that it seeps into the psyche of the employees and actually becomes a part of who they are. Once it’s ingrained in the mind, the message begins to direct how they think, and how they think is how they act. Which is our end goal, is it not? Mass manipulation for profit?”
DeVille's Contract Page 26
