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A curse invited the monster that clawed on Max Jervis’s door, and that curse germinated in the tragic killing that ended the conflict the internet bloggers named “The Sandbag Defiance.”
A dispute over poker tables and roulette wheels rested at the heart of the battle. Communities scattered throughout the desert surrounding Max Jervis’s radio studio were no strangers to economic hardships. Max drew large numbers of listeners from his immediate area by creating monsters out of corporate CEOs, federal tax auditors, investment planners and wealthy inheritors. Max always kept an open ear to overhear the disputes spinning just outside of his studio door, for he knew that the wattage power of his tongue, with a little talent and skill, could transform local, bad will into an international crisis.
While Max enjoyed a breakfast of steak and hash browns one morning at his favorite diner near his studio, he overheard a table of the native desert dwellers lamenting misfortune.
State bureaucrats had denied those native desert dwellers a permit to open a resort and casino. The desert natives had petitioned hard for such an enterprise, for they had planned to invest revenue generated from the dollars sacrificed to the fates of blackjack and slot machines into the installation of new infrastructure the native desert dwellers’ communities required to secure reserves of drinkable water. Max listened to that table lament their misfortune while chomping on his breakfast steak, and he heard those native dwellers say that they needed to do a better job of explaining their plight to their more affluent white neighbors.
Max empathized with those natives who tentatively sipped at their coffees. Max’s heart agreed that it was not fair that those who sat in their air-conditioned homes should deny those native to the desert acess to water by arguing on the immorality of rolling dice. Max knew from experience that many of the best poker players came from those suburban homes. In truth, Max's heart thought it more than a little cruel that those suburban voters, who so casually watered their desert lawns with the very resource the native dwellers only wished to drink, would deny those of the desert a modest casino.
Only, Max did not build his empire by following his heart.
A strategy coalesced in Max’s mind. Years of muffling his heart with succulent shanks of steak and potent whiskey shots helped him quickly set aside any lingering sympathy for the desert natives. Compared to the marketing numbers focused on those well-irrigated acres of suburbia, Max realized that the number of native desert dwellers who tuned into his show was small. Max could not dream of jeopardizing the larger, suburban market for some principal that lingered in the heart.
“Excuse me for eavesdropping, men,” Max raised a finger on his fleshy right hand, and a server hurried to top off the mugs of coffee the radio host nodded towards on that table surrounded by the dining natives. “Sounds to me like you all need to learn how to play hardball. Would you mind if I took a seat at your table?”
Max grinned. Not a face at that table winked recognition at his voice.
“Water sounds like an awful delicate matter. A real fluid dilemma,” Max began. “It sure sounds to me like you all need a bargaining chip; and from my experience, the best way to get people to listen to you is to remind them of what they owe you. And I believe those very suburban families, who deny you of your most basic need for drinkable water, owe you folks a great deal.”
Max gauged the native desert dwellers as they sipped at their freshened coffees.
“You need to remind those families that all of you are the real victims,” Max continued. “Remind them what they have taken from you. And I have just idea how to do it.”
Max would never trade his voice for any other talent. The timber of his voice was so honed that he needed neither credentials nor evidence with which to persuade.
“I recommend that you all submit a lawsuit demanding that all that ancestral land be given back to your people. Go to the courts and argue that those suburban acres, with those watered lawns, deserve to be given back to you. That would get their attention. Remind them that their home lots best belong to you.”
None of those natives smiled at the suggestion. Puzzled expressions creased upon their faces.
“That is sure a heck of an idea,” one of the natives replied, “and we’re gladdened by your sympathy. But sir, none of us want that land. What we want is a casino and fresh water.”
Max nodded. “Exactly. Those folks denying your casino license will be ready to listen when you remind them what they owe you. You’re only going to file the lawsuit to get a little bargaining position. Compared to a claim to take that land back, a request for a casino license is not going to seem like very much.”
None of the native desert dwellers promised to follow Max’s suggestion over that breakfast, but none of them vowed to discount it. Max enjoyed their company while he finished another plate of steak and in short time persuaded those natives that he was as much a victim as any of them. Max picked up the tab, waved the good desert folk farewell, and drove straight to his secluded radio station in the middle of that desert so that he could break the story with a clever kind of twist when midnight struck.
A Voice That Summons Monsters Page 2
