(this is a companion piece for Eulogy for a Women Who Was Born Only Yesterday)
The preacher rested his hands on the pulpit. His was not a large church. It was small and simple with clapboard and bare wooden pews. It befitted its place. The spiritual home of a small farming community in the heart of Nebraska. It had once been bigger. But as with many farming areas, the young had moved on and the communities had withered. Even as the farms expanded, the number of people needed to run them had declined. So even though his was a small church, it was still too grand by far.
Today, even that would have been optimistic. Today, there were six souls in attendance. Four if you didn't count the dead man's sister and his only son.
The preacher was disappointed by the crowd. But not terribly so. It was to be expected, the dead man had moved here late in life and had never set down solid root.
The preacher knew that crowd or not, he had words to say. He was thankful to the Lord that there was at least somebody there to listen.
"Alfred Brandt was born in this town in 1925. His father Conrad, was, like myself, a preacher. His wife, Evelyn was a rock of the community. Despite their modest means, they supported families down on their luck and those in need could always rely on them for help and words of encouragement.
"When little Alfred was only 10 years old, his parents decided to take the Word of God to Brazil. They, of course, were not the first to do so. But they believed their Word was still needed. They were not Catholics."
The preacher noted that one of the attendees was already checking his watch. The preacher could offer him no succor. Alfred Brandt was a man who deserved the time.
"Evelyn and Conrad settled and established a small community in what was then a very old city - but one that was only recently modernizing. It was the 40,000 person city of Natal in Rio Grande del Norte. The elder Brandts remained there for the rest of their lives - until 1953 for Evelyn and 1957 for Conrad. They were there in 1939 when the war with Germany began.
"Brazil was not a member of the Allied Powers. But by 1942, when the United States joined the war, they were. More importantly, the little city the Brandts lived in became one of the most important places in the world. Brazil's northeast coast was the natural invasion point for a German Army. Perhaps more importantly, it was the ideal jumping off point for aircraft bringing men and arms to the European and Pacific theaters. During the war, Natal's airport became the largest US air base outside US territory. And it was the busiest airport in the world, with planes taking off and landing every three minutes. The city of Natal doubled in size and became known as the Trampoline to Victory. And it was Alfred's home.
"Alfred's parents were worldly people, they knew about the war and they knew what was good and what was evil. And so they encouraged their son to enlist in the United States Armed Forces. Of course, there wasn't much of a recruiting office in Natal.
"Alfred told me that they didn't know what to do with him when he showed up at the base. He claimed to be a US citizen, and he had the papers to prove it, but his name was German. Not only was his name German, but he was in the middle of a very strategic nowhere in Northeastern Brazil. The military was honestly concerned that he was a saboteur or, worse, a spy. The Army needed to know who he was. So he and his parents were interviewed and questions were asked back here in Nebraska. And eventually, after a whole lot of hoopla, the young man was enlisted. Because of his Portuguese and English skills, the Army wanted to keep him in Natal. So he became a airplane mechanic.
"Soon after enlisting, he spoke with his commanding officers, and he arranged something unique. Every bomber aircrew - and even some cargo crews - that came through that town and that had the time to spare, were given permission to go off base. And under Alfred's management, every one of them was treated to a home-cooked meal by somebody in the Brandt's little religious community. Over the course of three years, thousands of meals were served. The Brandts and their flock didn't have much, but they did their best to help those who needed a little comfort before facing the dangers of war. And Alfred arranged it."
"Alfred never saw combat. He decided to stay in the military for a little while after the war. It would be a free ticket to travel. He was in the US when he met and married his wife Beatrice. Less than a year later, they had a son Donald. Beatrice and Alfred realized that they loved to travel. And not just tour places, but live in them and have a chance to experience and become a part of communities. And so Alfred stayed with the military. He was moved all over the world. And wherever they went, they sought out those in need and they gave what they could to help. Alfred stayed in the military for 30 years. He never really climbed the ranks. He stayed a mechanic the entire time. Well before his retirement, their son and his wife had settled in Missouri.
"When Alfred retired, they realized the travel bug hadn't been satiated. Because the Brandt's had given so much, they didn't have a great deal of money. So he decided to work as they moved from place to place.
"The first destination was Iran. They were an ally then and Alfred worked as a fighter mechanic in the Shah's Air Force. His skills were greatly in demand and he and his wife traveled everywhere from Iran to India, and from Europe to Israel. They were enjoying their retirement immensely. And then they noticed the winds of change. Just prior to the 1979 Revolution, they fled.
"Alfred's skills, honed on ancient aircraft from World War II, were gradually becoming less and less relevant. But he still wanted to work and he and his wife still wanted to travel. So they went to Africa, a land filled with old planes that needed quite a bit of loving care. They settled in Kenya and continued their exploring ways. Africa, then as now, was a continent of great need. The Brandts started a children's health clinic in Kenya. They raised money from all of their contacts and used it to help the people who were around them.
"It was in Kenya, in 2003, that Evelyn died. Alfred brought her back to the US. By then, he was almost 80 years old. With her passing, and his growing ill-health, the travelling bug was finally gone. And so Alfred returned here, to his home town.
"When he first came here, I had no idea who he was. I introduced myself and we talked and got to know each other, some. He told me about his parents, he told me that he had a military career. He told me he had lived in Iran and Kenya. But he never told me about his charity work. I learned not a thing about what he did in Natal, during his military service, in Iran or even in Africa.
"Not a word.
"To me he was just an lonely old man who had returned home to die."
The preacher paused.
"But when he died, it was like a beacon had been broadcast to the world."
The preacher reached under his pulpit and pulled out a large bag. A bag that bursting at the seams.
"From the time he died until today, I have received 508 letters of condolence. There are only seven of us here in the flesh, but 515 people are here in spirit. I read some of those letters and I learned about the real Alfred Brandt. But only a glimpse. Many letters still remain. All of the stories I've read have been inspirational tales of gratitude. Tales of lives saved, of lives changed and of hope given.
"By reading just a few of these letters, I have learned so much from this man. And I have learned how to be a better man. And I have discovered what an honor it was to have met him.
"Now, I invite those of you who knew him to share your memories. But then, please, go a step further. Open a letter or two, tell us the postmark, and then share a memory from somebody else who loved him.
"We will all be richer for it."
The preacher set the bag on the table and Alfred's son rose to share a few words.
Showing posts with label Makes ya Think. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Makes ya Think. Show all posts
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Eulogy for a Woman Born Only Yesterday
The Rabbi stood behind his pulpit and surveyed the crowd. He had the eyes of a man of wisdom - a man of age. But his face, framed by a full beard and healthy masses of dark hair, appeared youthful. His body, sheathed in a tight layer of white skin, was strong and healthy.
But his eyes, his eyes were old.
As he looked around the assembled crowd, he remembered days of old. He remembered days when his synagogue routinely drew such crowds. Where the singing would seem to push against the seams of the synagogue's roof, threatening to burst out and carry the world upward with it. There was still a small group that came, but they met in a smaller room. The room still burst with song, but it was not the same. The days of the great chapel, with seating for 500, were passed.
The room was a model of past glory. The structure was decaying, paint was flaking, water damage threatened the Aron Hakodesh (the Holy Ark), and seats neared collapse. A smell of mildew and rot filled the air.
But despite it all, today the place was full. There was standing room only. Faces long slumbering seemed awake, aware and engaged.
Sadly, the Rabbi noted that there were few children.
He spoke.
"It has been a long time since I've conducted something like this."
He paused, letting the significance of the moment sink in.
"The passing of a life offers an opportunity for reflection. It is an opportunity for reflection upon the life that has passed. And in the case of a woman like Miriam Leibowitz, it is also an opportunity for reflection on our own lives. Miriam impacted our world as few have done. She was far from the only architect of our age, and she was far from the most prominent, but she played a role in every aspect of what we experience. Her life is a metaphor for our own.
"For me, Miriam was more than a great achiever. She was a dear friend, and a deeply troubled one.
"Miriam was born on January 5th, 2010 - in New York City. The world then was a world of chaos. A world of change. It was a world of fear, and a world of opportunity and excitement. And it was a world, although few seemed to notice it, of war. Miriam started life in Queens, but - overwhelmed by the catastrophic American economy of the day - her parents decided to emigrate. It was 2015 when they moved to Israel. In 2017, they were killed in what was called a Peguah - a suicide bombing. They were eating at a cafeteria, enjoying a night out without their daughter - when the bomber struck. And at the age of 7, Miriam became an orphan."
The Rabbi took a drink from his water.
"Miriam came back to New York to live in the care of her father's parents. She was relatively privileged. Her grandfather and grandmother had government jobs and were secure but not wealthy. But, perhaps because she was an orphan, she was rebellious and aggressive. She was a poor student. She moved from school to school. Nothing was going well.
"And then, at the age of 15, she began to experiment. In those days, people were just beginning to put physical devices in their bodies. There were pills that would photograph the digestive tract. There were implants to restore hearing and provide a direct link to phones. There were mechanical hearts. There were tiny devices that monitored and provided insulin on a continual basis. These were approved, legal, devices.
"During those terrible economic times, a growing number of people had taught themselves to build their own robots and machines. For the productive, it was an antidote to enforced boredom. For many, it was an avenue of hope. These were tinkerers extraordinaire. And among them was a tiny, illegal, minority called 'body punks.' These were tinkerers who would create devices to place in their bodies.
"At the age of 15, Miriam joined them.
"Her first experiment was, in concept, nothing special. It was a lens for her eye that would enable her to zoom in on far-away objects. But the design was elegant, the execution flawless and the results reliable, effective and safe.
"Miriam had found her calling.
"Before long, she dropped out of school entirely. She realized she could have a future in her trade, but not in the US. What she was doing was illegal. So she followed in the footsteps of her parents and returned to Israel. I met her then, a rambunctious and hopeful teen. I helped her with her first steps here in Israel. It wasn't long before joining a start-up specializing in implantable devices. They were focusing on the healthcare market. It was called Yamim Medical Devices. The founders are now world famous. They have joined that elite cast that requires no last names. They included Miriam, who was a natural engineer, Yoram who specialized in nano-technology and Avital who was a medical doctor.
"Their first device was a failure. It hit the market with a thud. It was too similar to products being developed by larger and wealthier companies. I can tell you, Miriam was crushed. But there was really nothing else she wanted to do. There was nothing else she could. So as a group, they decided to have another go. In 2021, they conceived of, created and launched the VRS, the Vessel Repair System.
"The concept was beautifully simple. Powered by the flow of blood through veins and arteries, the tiny VRS units would crawl through the bloodstream, examining and repairing damaged veins and arteries on a continual basis. When their supplies were used up or their life expired, they would dissolve themselves and let their waste be captured by the liver.
"You know what happened. This device was not a failure. It greatly reduced the risks of high cholesterol, aneurysms, and strokes. And it was the first step in what we have today - a fleet of tiny units crawling through our bodies repairing what they see as they move. It was as if the body suddenly learned to maintain itself.
"At the same time that Miriam was helping to launch the VRS, another group in India was working on solving the degradation of cells due to age. Their products launched together. While there have been many additional innovations, 2031 was the pivot of human history. Since that time, anybody with a little money was suddenly able to buy immortality.
"And a lot of people discovered they had a little money."
A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd.
The Rabbi continued.
"The impacts were not immediately obvious. I remember the years that followed. There wasn't a sudden thunderclap of change. But there was a rolling, unstoppable, tide of change. It was as if day-by-day, more and more people realized that they really weren't going to die. And so they started to live differently. Blessed with long life and wealth, those in the West were already extremely risk averse. But soon, everybody was. The equation of life had been changed.
"With immortality granted, the fear of death grew in all of our minds. A mistake would sacrifice forever. The West sent robots to fight their wars - unwilling to risk any of their own. The terrorists were forced to lay down their arms by their neighbors, who wanted a paradise in this world. Trains and cars ran slower - nobody was in a rush anymore and the risks of speed were too high. Fearing a never-ending stream of new people and a lack of resources, women stopped having children. Fearing unending economic ruin, they stopped taking gambles. Business died. Innovation died. Hunger became endemic. People only worked enough to feed themselves and to buy more VRS, not to create anything new."
Motioning around the decaying synagogue the Rabbi continued,
"This all remains true. Miriam, however, seemed to exist in a different world. Miriam was drawn to G-d not because of the fear of death, but because of the opportunities of life. With the change, her faith grew stronger, her desire to do grew greater. She spoke often of a debt to her parents - an obligation to keep moving and creating where they had been stopped.
"So Miriam had children. Despite tickets, suspended licenses and even jail time, Miriam's car never slowed down. She grew wealthy and she spent her money building, creating and pushing humanity's boundaries forward. She believed space exploration would open new worlds for ourselves and our children. But she could find few to join her. Few were motivated enough to help make her dreams reality and, in the end, none were motivated enough to risk flight in the pursuit of new frontiers.
"In many ways, Miriam mourned what she had helped create. She prayed that we would rediscover life. I pray that we rediscover life. But I know that the prospects are dim. Even her children did not follow in her path. She was a mother with almost no prospects for her line continuing. But because of what she created, she could be her own continuation.
"And then, just yesterday, that possibility came to an end. We'll never know if Miriam was pushed from that balcony or if, G-d forbid, she chose to end her own life. But it ended. Miriam was 83, brimming with youth, but overwhelmed by age. She was a bundle of contradictions. I, for one, will miss her.
"She was a rare spark of life in a world gone dead.
"And she has passed."
The Rabbi placed his hands on the pulpit and closed his eyes.
And in a mournful voice he chanted, "Yitgadal, v'Yitkadash, Shmai Rabba...."
The world was still.
But his eyes, his eyes were old.
As he looked around the assembled crowd, he remembered days of old. He remembered days when his synagogue routinely drew such crowds. Where the singing would seem to push against the seams of the synagogue's roof, threatening to burst out and carry the world upward with it. There was still a small group that came, but they met in a smaller room. The room still burst with song, but it was not the same. The days of the great chapel, with seating for 500, were passed.
The room was a model of past glory. The structure was decaying, paint was flaking, water damage threatened the Aron Hakodesh (the Holy Ark), and seats neared collapse. A smell of mildew and rot filled the air.
But despite it all, today the place was full. There was standing room only. Faces long slumbering seemed awake, aware and engaged.
Sadly, the Rabbi noted that there were few children.
He spoke.
"It has been a long time since I've conducted something like this."
He paused, letting the significance of the moment sink in.
"The passing of a life offers an opportunity for reflection. It is an opportunity for reflection upon the life that has passed. And in the case of a woman like Miriam Leibowitz, it is also an opportunity for reflection on our own lives. Miriam impacted our world as few have done. She was far from the only architect of our age, and she was far from the most prominent, but she played a role in every aspect of what we experience. Her life is a metaphor for our own.
"For me, Miriam was more than a great achiever. She was a dear friend, and a deeply troubled one.
"Miriam was born on January 5th, 2010 - in New York City. The world then was a world of chaos. A world of change. It was a world of fear, and a world of opportunity and excitement. And it was a world, although few seemed to notice it, of war. Miriam started life in Queens, but - overwhelmed by the catastrophic American economy of the day - her parents decided to emigrate. It was 2015 when they moved to Israel. In 2017, they were killed in what was called a Peguah - a suicide bombing. They were eating at a cafeteria, enjoying a night out without their daughter - when the bomber struck. And at the age of 7, Miriam became an orphan."
The Rabbi took a drink from his water.
"Miriam came back to New York to live in the care of her father's parents. She was relatively privileged. Her grandfather and grandmother had government jobs and were secure but not wealthy. But, perhaps because she was an orphan, she was rebellious and aggressive. She was a poor student. She moved from school to school. Nothing was going well.
"And then, at the age of 15, she began to experiment. In those days, people were just beginning to put physical devices in their bodies. There were pills that would photograph the digestive tract. There were implants to restore hearing and provide a direct link to phones. There were mechanical hearts. There were tiny devices that monitored and provided insulin on a continual basis. These were approved, legal, devices.
"During those terrible economic times, a growing number of people had taught themselves to build their own robots and machines. For the productive, it was an antidote to enforced boredom. For many, it was an avenue of hope. These were tinkerers extraordinaire. And among them was a tiny, illegal, minority called 'body punks.' These were tinkerers who would create devices to place in their bodies.
"At the age of 15, Miriam joined them.
"Her first experiment was, in concept, nothing special. It was a lens for her eye that would enable her to zoom in on far-away objects. But the design was elegant, the execution flawless and the results reliable, effective and safe.
"Miriam had found her calling.
"Before long, she dropped out of school entirely. She realized she could have a future in her trade, but not in the US. What she was doing was illegal. So she followed in the footsteps of her parents and returned to Israel. I met her then, a rambunctious and hopeful teen. I helped her with her first steps here in Israel. It wasn't long before joining a start-up specializing in implantable devices. They were focusing on the healthcare market. It was called Yamim Medical Devices. The founders are now world famous. They have joined that elite cast that requires no last names. They included Miriam, who was a natural engineer, Yoram who specialized in nano-technology and Avital who was a medical doctor.
"Their first device was a failure. It hit the market with a thud. It was too similar to products being developed by larger and wealthier companies. I can tell you, Miriam was crushed. But there was really nothing else she wanted to do. There was nothing else she could. So as a group, they decided to have another go. In 2021, they conceived of, created and launched the VRS, the Vessel Repair System.
"The concept was beautifully simple. Powered by the flow of blood through veins and arteries, the tiny VRS units would crawl through the bloodstream, examining and repairing damaged veins and arteries on a continual basis. When their supplies were used up or their life expired, they would dissolve themselves and let their waste be captured by the liver.
"You know what happened. This device was not a failure. It greatly reduced the risks of high cholesterol, aneurysms, and strokes. And it was the first step in what we have today - a fleet of tiny units crawling through our bodies repairing what they see as they move. It was as if the body suddenly learned to maintain itself.
"At the same time that Miriam was helping to launch the VRS, another group in India was working on solving the degradation of cells due to age. Their products launched together. While there have been many additional innovations, 2031 was the pivot of human history. Since that time, anybody with a little money was suddenly able to buy immortality.
"And a lot of people discovered they had a little money."
A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd.
The Rabbi continued.
"The impacts were not immediately obvious. I remember the years that followed. There wasn't a sudden thunderclap of change. But there was a rolling, unstoppable, tide of change. It was as if day-by-day, more and more people realized that they really weren't going to die. And so they started to live differently. Blessed with long life and wealth, those in the West were already extremely risk averse. But soon, everybody was. The equation of life had been changed.
"With immortality granted, the fear of death grew in all of our minds. A mistake would sacrifice forever. The West sent robots to fight their wars - unwilling to risk any of their own. The terrorists were forced to lay down their arms by their neighbors, who wanted a paradise in this world. Trains and cars ran slower - nobody was in a rush anymore and the risks of speed were too high. Fearing a never-ending stream of new people and a lack of resources, women stopped having children. Fearing unending economic ruin, they stopped taking gambles. Business died. Innovation died. Hunger became endemic. People only worked enough to feed themselves and to buy more VRS, not to create anything new."
Motioning around the decaying synagogue the Rabbi continued,
"This all remains true. Miriam, however, seemed to exist in a different world. Miriam was drawn to G-d not because of the fear of death, but because of the opportunities of life. With the change, her faith grew stronger, her desire to do grew greater. She spoke often of a debt to her parents - an obligation to keep moving and creating where they had been stopped.
"So Miriam had children. Despite tickets, suspended licenses and even jail time, Miriam's car never slowed down. She grew wealthy and she spent her money building, creating and pushing humanity's boundaries forward. She believed space exploration would open new worlds for ourselves and our children. But she could find few to join her. Few were motivated enough to help make her dreams reality and, in the end, none were motivated enough to risk flight in the pursuit of new frontiers.
"In many ways, Miriam mourned what she had helped create. She prayed that we would rediscover life. I pray that we rediscover life. But I know that the prospects are dim. Even her children did not follow in her path. She was a mother with almost no prospects for her line continuing. But because of what she created, she could be her own continuation.
"And then, just yesterday, that possibility came to an end. We'll never know if Miriam was pushed from that balcony or if, G-d forbid, she chose to end her own life. But it ended. Miriam was 83, brimming with youth, but overwhelmed by age. She was a bundle of contradictions. I, for one, will miss her.
"She was a rare spark of life in a world gone dead.
"And she has passed."
The Rabbi placed his hands on the pulpit and closed his eyes.
And in a mournful voice he chanted, "Yitgadal, v'Yitkadash, Shmai Rabba...."
The world was still.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Cult
Zachary Yarba sat at his desk, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. A small desk lamp illuminated his workspace.
The darkness outside was just beginning to lift.
As his brown eyes scanned the pages of the book in front of him, his hands scribbled away at a small notebook to his side. Occasionally, he would run his fingers through his black hair as he stopped to think about the task that was facing him.
The book was a perennial classic: How to Become a Cult Leader by Edgar Dampier and Zachary was fully immersed.
As he read, Zachary was distilling a checklist from the pages and pages of helpful advice. He had already identified that he had the tools necessary to become a cult leader: He was exceedingly intelligent, he was good looking, he took pleasure in the manipulation of others and he was fantastically charismatic.
Now he was deciding how exactly to turn possibility into reality.
After days of reading, his guiding checklist was almost complete.
He was relieved. He had only hours to prepare.
After a final burst of scribbling, Zachary closed the book.
His checklist was ready.
He methodically moved the book to the side and placed his notebook directly in front of him.
With small and tapered fingers, he carefully removed a sheet of blank paper from the notebook.
And then he read the first item on his checklist.
1. Choose the type of followers you want.
2. Long-term aims
The choices were world domination, mass suicide, fame, and of course, money. Mass suicide was of limited use and Zachary had no need for money or fame. That left world domination. It was an ambitious goal, but Zachary had no limits to his ambition. He had always been told he could achieve what he set his mind to - and his mind was set.
He inscribed: "World domination."
He now knew his goal: World domination through a nut-job faith.
The next step was to define behavior and tactics that would get him there.
1. Choose a type of 'revelation'.
There were ample choices for each of the cult types. Old Nazis memoirs and David Irving books for the white racists (other races had other choices). Hallucinogens, imaginary 'energies' and even rocks for the new age types. And for the religious nutjobs, prophecy from God, hidden texts and communication with aliens.
Each type of revelation required its own delicate balancing act. Prophecy required faux-epileptic seizures, hidden texts required perfect mental consistency (no notes could ever be found) and communication with aliens required long periods of absence and unusual scars.
Zachary considered the possible angles to success. Just to be sure, he chose all three.
4. Target area of operations
Somehow it had fallen to #4 on the list. Zachary thought it quite important, and closely related to the first item. He scolded himself. And then he realized why he had let it slip. He really had no options. He had one population to work - it had been chosen for him.
5. Signature look
A signature look had to reinforce the cult image. Religious nutjobs loved a beard and unkempt hair. He believed he could manage it. He could reinforce the image with color changing contacts and lots of practice losing focus in his eyes.
6. Personality
The book only really recommended one: Bi-polar, occasionally violent, often distant, but always keenly aware of the anxieties of those around him. The awareness would inspire love. The distance would inspire awe. And the violence and unpredictability would inspire fear. It was, without fail, the complete package.
7. Method of social exclusion
The last item on the list was key. His followers had to feel important. Zachary decided to find Apostles. A core group of followers who would seemingly have the secrets of the world before them. From the apostles, the circles of secrets would expand, growing ever larger - until the edges of the faith were reached. It would require time to develop mysteries upon mysteries - but they could be developed in lock-step with the faith. He didn't need to start with a complete revelation.
His choices made, Zachary believed that he was ready.
To be safe, he reviewed the generally recommended action plan one last time:
The darkness outside was just beginning to lift.
As his brown eyes scanned the pages of the book in front of him, his hands scribbled away at a small notebook to his side. Occasionally, he would run his fingers through his black hair as he stopped to think about the task that was facing him.
The book was a perennial classic: How to Become a Cult Leader by Edgar Dampier and Zachary was fully immersed.
As he read, Zachary was distilling a checklist from the pages and pages of helpful advice. He had already identified that he had the tools necessary to become a cult leader: He was exceedingly intelligent, he was good looking, he took pleasure in the manipulation of others and he was fantastically charismatic.
Now he was deciding how exactly to turn possibility into reality.
After days of reading, his guiding checklist was almost complete.
He was relieved. He had only hours to prepare.
After a final burst of scribbling, Zachary closed the book.
His checklist was ready.
He methodically moved the book to the side and placed his notebook directly in front of him.
With small and tapered fingers, he carefully removed a sheet of blank paper from the notebook.
And then he read the first item on his checklist.
The options were fresh in Zachary's mind.
- Flaky new-age types. This type of follower offered free-love, exotic drugs and sadistic erotica. Zachary was generally uninterested.
- Racists. This type of follower offered loud rhetoric and a propensity for occasional violent outbreaks. But the size of this sort of cult was severely limited. Zachary decided to pass.
- Religious nutjobs. By creating a new religion, Zachary could inspire his followers to offer him the entire package: boundless devotion, a private army, worshipful service - and unlimited possibilities.
Zachary leaned over to the blank sheet of paper and carefully inscribed: "Type of followers: religious nutjobs."
Having made his choice, he came to the next item on the list:
2. Long-term aims
The choices were world domination, mass suicide, fame, and of course, money. Mass suicide was of limited use and Zachary had no need for money or fame. That left world domination. It was an ambitious goal, but Zachary had no limits to his ambition. He had always been told he could achieve what he set his mind to - and his mind was set.
He inscribed: "World domination."
He now knew his goal: World domination through a nut-job faith.
The next step was to define behavior and tactics that would get him there.
1. Choose a type of 'revelation'.
There were ample choices for each of the cult types. Old Nazis memoirs and David Irving books for the white racists (other races had other choices). Hallucinogens, imaginary 'energies' and even rocks for the new age types. And for the religious nutjobs, prophecy from God, hidden texts and communication with aliens.
Each type of revelation required its own delicate balancing act. Prophecy required faux-epileptic seizures, hidden texts required perfect mental consistency (no notes could ever be found) and communication with aliens required long periods of absence and unusual scars.
Zachary considered the possible angles to success. Just to be sure, he chose all three.
4. Target area of operations
Somehow it had fallen to #4 on the list. Zachary thought it quite important, and closely related to the first item. He scolded himself. And then he realized why he had let it slip. He really had no options. He had one population to work - it had been chosen for him.
5. Signature look
A signature look had to reinforce the cult image. Religious nutjobs loved a beard and unkempt hair. He believed he could manage it. He could reinforce the image with color changing contacts and lots of practice losing focus in his eyes.
6. Personality
The book only really recommended one: Bi-polar, occasionally violent, often distant, but always keenly aware of the anxieties of those around him. The awareness would inspire love. The distance would inspire awe. And the violence and unpredictability would inspire fear. It was, without fail, the complete package.
7. Method of social exclusion
The last item on the list was key. His followers had to feel important. Zachary decided to find Apostles. A core group of followers who would seemingly have the secrets of the world before them. From the apostles, the circles of secrets would expand, growing ever larger - until the edges of the faith were reached. It would require time to develop mysteries upon mysteries - but they could be developed in lock-step with the faith. He didn't need to start with a complete revelation.
His choices made, Zachary believed that he was ready.
To be safe, he reviewed the generally recommended action plan one last time:
- Start off within the cult-leader personality and never leave it.
- Very slowly let people in on the secrets gleaned through prophecy, secret texts and alien communication.
- Amp up the personality 'disorders' when dealing with those closest to you.
- Interact with natural followers first. He could find them easily, they were fundamentally gullible.
- Understand that psychological manipulation could develop loyalty and salesmanship later.
Satisfied with his prospects for success, Zachary watched the sun pull up over the horizon.
Dawn had come, and he was out of time.
Carefully, he placed his notes and his book back in his desk drawer.
Then he slid into his bed and feigned sleep.
Moments later there was a soft knock at the door. A woman opened it slightly and whispered in: "Wake up Zach."
Zachary stirred slightly.
"Wake up," said the woman, "Or you'll miss your very first day of school."
Friday, January 1, 2010
Howitt
It is December 31st, 2009, and, of course, I'm travelling.
I've got a long connection in Denver Airport. It is New Year's Eve and I don't have my family, and so I decide to take a seat in the closest Airport bar.
I drudge into the bar, with its modular sports-themed decorations. I sit at the bar itself and order a drink.
And then I notice the next guy over. He's a soldier in uniform, obviously being moved someplace. I wonder where he's going. And then I see his name - Howitt.
My name is Howitt.
I think for a moment and decide it's enough to start a conversation.
"Howitt," I say out loud, letting it hang.
The soldier turns.
"Yes?"
"It's just odd," I say, "My name's Howitt too."
"That so?" he asks and returns to nursing his beer.
I order a beer. I try again.
"Where you headed, Howitt?"
"I'm deploying to Afghanistan," he states, matter-of-factly.
"Not an easy task," I say.
"No," Howitt states, "There are a few risks."
I stare at my drink - the conversation seemingly dead.
But then the soldier speaks. "Have you been to Afghanistan?"
"I have to admit, that's a strange question to ask a civilian," I answer, "But yes, I have. How'd you guess.".
"You had a look when I mentioned it. It seemed familiar. Why'd you go?"
"My company," I say, "We design and sell high-tech textile manufacturing equipment. Somebody thought it might be a good industry there - so they sent me over to make a few contacts and see if we could push some business."
"Did it work?"
"No, not really," I say, "I think I could've sold a few lines, but they wouldn't have been used much. The infrastructure isn't there to take advantage of what we've got."
He nodded, "That they don't."
"Have you been?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, "I live and breathe Afghanistan. I've done two tours, this'll be my third. But even when I'm out-of-country, I spend my time there in mind and spirit. It's the new Army way."
I nod. I've heard of it - something about preserving and continuing to use local knowledge.
"I gotta ask," I say, "Do you see any risks of returning again and again."
"It's war, buddy," he says, "There are risks."
"Oh, no," I say, "That's not what I meant. Take my business. If we stick a representative - from sales or support or whatever, someplace - they end up seeing things more like the client than like us. This can lead to some strange outcomes. I was just wondering if you have similar problems in Afghanistan."
"Oh, sure," he answers, "There are a few bad apples - and keeping them in one place tends to enable them to harvest the local fruit. They get caught selling weapons or turning a blind eye to opium or covering for their local friends. But it isn't all that common. The Army is doing a pretty good job of watching it."
I nod, it makes sense.
"So," I ask, "What do you do?"
"I'm a soldier," he states, "But I speak Pashto and I know the local culture. So I tend to work as a liaison with local Shura councils, but I also do some local intelligence work."
"Funny," I say, lightly, "You don't look Pashtun."
"I'm not," he answers, "I learned during my first tour. I'm good with languages and I'm good with people. It took a while for the Army brass to realize how useful people like me could be - but I'm in pretty high demand nowadays."
"Interesting," I say, "It kind of worked the same way for me. I pick up lots of languages and I'm very good at reading etiquette. I'm actually my company's regional sales chief because I can speak both Cantonese and Hindi fluently."
He nods his head in respect. "Do you enjoy your work?"
"Some days," I say, "But mostly, it's just a paycheck. Well, I own part of the company, so it's also an investment too"
"What else do you do?" he asks.
"I hang out with my family and I give to charity," I say, "It's a cliche, but I really believe a man is defined not by what he has, but by what he gives."
"Same here," says the soldier.
"You have a family?" I ask.
"Yes, I do," says the soldier, "I've got three kids. But I go so long between seeing them, I'm not really sure they've got me."
I nod. I know how he feels, although at least my trips are shorter.
"Its gotta be hard - leaving your family behind and being in such dangerous situations."
He dips his head a few times in agreement, "Hardest thing I've ever done."
"Is it worth it - hurting your family and risking your life for that cause?" I ask.
He looks at me. "Yes," he states, "Yes it is. The world is getting smaller and smaller. And you just can't ignore the problems of a country like that - or it'll come back to haunt you. There are always gonna be crazies, but you can't let them go and incubate in entire countries."
I nurse my drink some more. "I can kind of see your point," I say, "But to take an abstract concept of death for a cause and to actually, concretely, put yourself in harms' way for it - that I can't imagine doing."
"You don't realize what you're doing the first time you do it." says the soldier, "But once you do it that first time, you can imagine doing it again. It isn't easy - and you skip all the arguments when the shit is hitting the fan - but you can still get things done. And there's more than just danger and death. There are things to be proud of."
"So what have you done recently that you're proud of?" I ask.
Howitt smiles. "There's a game we play," he says, "We walk into villages. And I've got these sound boosting headphones on. And I can hear everything going on. But, of course, none of the locals realize it. At the end of the last tour, we were heading through town when I heard people talking about the bad guy's waiting for us. I told the team and - without a shot being fired - we were able to totally surprise them. I saved a lot of lives - not just American."
I'm impressed.
"And you?" he asks.
I think for a moment, "Nothing like that, I say. When I started my career, everything was about advancement and money. But I got past that when I realized one day that I had everything I needed. I'd made a lot of money.
"I wanted to give money to charity. But I realized that you can't just give it away - because people have to earn something for it to have value for them. They really have to earn it to grow from it. So I spent years thinking about the rules behind my charity. One of the biggest is that I'd give for acute disasters, but not for chronic problems. It was working pretty well.
"And then, last week, I came across this homeless young man. What with the economy and all, he was facing some hard times. But I could see this fire in his eyes. And so I asked him to give me a quick pitch. I was surprised when he did - but he did. He pitched me on this business he wanted to start, but clearly couldn't launch. And so, right there, I wrote him a check for $100,000. And then I walked away. I'm pretty sure I changed a few lives there."
Howitt was impressed, "It must be nice to have that kind of money to spend."
"It's a path I've chosen," I say, "I work to create so that I can share. It's how I contribute."
He rolls his glass in his hands, "I can see that," he says, "Well, in that case, I'm doubly impressed. You took the effort to earn the money and then, when the time came, you were willing to give it away."
"I guess," I say, "But I've gotta have more respect for you. I spread around a fair amount of cash around, but you risk your life for others."
"Two sides of the same coin," he says, "Two sides."
They call my flight. so I stand up and extend my hand to Howitt, "It has been a pleasure and honor to meet you."
Howitt reaches across and grips my hand solidly. "Likewise," He says.
And then in some strange way I realize that I'm shaking my own hand.
Howitt is me and I am Howitt.
We're the same man, we're just two sides of the same coin..We've made different choices, but somehow we've each ended up in the Airport Bar.
---
"Jim," comes a voice as a hand gently taps my shoulder.
"Yeah," I mumble, tired.
"Jim," repeats the voice, "It's 2010."
I open my eyes. I look around. And then I realize which path I've taken.
I've got a long connection in Denver Airport. It is New Year's Eve and I don't have my family, and so I decide to take a seat in the closest Airport bar.
I drudge into the bar, with its modular sports-themed decorations. I sit at the bar itself and order a drink.
And then I notice the next guy over. He's a soldier in uniform, obviously being moved someplace. I wonder where he's going. And then I see his name - Howitt.
My name is Howitt.
I think for a moment and decide it's enough to start a conversation.
"Howitt," I say out loud, letting it hang.
The soldier turns.
"Yes?"
"It's just odd," I say, "My name's Howitt too."
"That so?" he asks and returns to nursing his beer.
I order a beer. I try again.
"Where you headed, Howitt?"
"I'm deploying to Afghanistan," he states, matter-of-factly.
"Not an easy task," I say.
"No," Howitt states, "There are a few risks."
I stare at my drink - the conversation seemingly dead.
But then the soldier speaks. "Have you been to Afghanistan?"
"I have to admit, that's a strange question to ask a civilian," I answer, "But yes, I have. How'd you guess.".
"You had a look when I mentioned it. It seemed familiar. Why'd you go?"
"My company," I say, "We design and sell high-tech textile manufacturing equipment. Somebody thought it might be a good industry there - so they sent me over to make a few contacts and see if we could push some business."
"Did it work?"
"No, not really," I say, "I think I could've sold a few lines, but they wouldn't have been used much. The infrastructure isn't there to take advantage of what we've got."
He nodded, "That they don't."
"Have you been?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, "I live and breathe Afghanistan. I've done two tours, this'll be my third. But even when I'm out-of-country, I spend my time there in mind and spirit. It's the new Army way."
I nod. I've heard of it - something about preserving and continuing to use local knowledge.
"I gotta ask," I say, "Do you see any risks of returning again and again."
"It's war, buddy," he says, "There are risks."
"Oh, no," I say, "That's not what I meant. Take my business. If we stick a representative - from sales or support or whatever, someplace - they end up seeing things more like the client than like us. This can lead to some strange outcomes. I was just wondering if you have similar problems in Afghanistan."
"Oh, sure," he answers, "There are a few bad apples - and keeping them in one place tends to enable them to harvest the local fruit. They get caught selling weapons or turning a blind eye to opium or covering for their local friends. But it isn't all that common. The Army is doing a pretty good job of watching it."
I nod, it makes sense.
"So," I ask, "What do you do?"
"I'm a soldier," he states, "But I speak Pashto and I know the local culture. So I tend to work as a liaison with local Shura councils, but I also do some local intelligence work."
"Funny," I say, lightly, "You don't look Pashtun."
"I'm not," he answers, "I learned during my first tour. I'm good with languages and I'm good with people. It took a while for the Army brass to realize how useful people like me could be - but I'm in pretty high demand nowadays."
"Interesting," I say, "It kind of worked the same way for me. I pick up lots of languages and I'm very good at reading etiquette. I'm actually my company's regional sales chief because I can speak both Cantonese and Hindi fluently."
He nods his head in respect. "Do you enjoy your work?"
"Some days," I say, "But mostly, it's just a paycheck. Well, I own part of the company, so it's also an investment too"
"What else do you do?" he asks.
"I hang out with my family and I give to charity," I say, "It's a cliche, but I really believe a man is defined not by what he has, but by what he gives."
"Same here," says the soldier.
"You have a family?" I ask.
"Yes, I do," says the soldier, "I've got three kids. But I go so long between seeing them, I'm not really sure they've got me."
I nod. I know how he feels, although at least my trips are shorter.
"Its gotta be hard - leaving your family behind and being in such dangerous situations."
He dips his head a few times in agreement, "Hardest thing I've ever done."
"Is it worth it - hurting your family and risking your life for that cause?" I ask.
He looks at me. "Yes," he states, "Yes it is. The world is getting smaller and smaller. And you just can't ignore the problems of a country like that - or it'll come back to haunt you. There are always gonna be crazies, but you can't let them go and incubate in entire countries."
I nurse my drink some more. "I can kind of see your point," I say, "But to take an abstract concept of death for a cause and to actually, concretely, put yourself in harms' way for it - that I can't imagine doing."
"You don't realize what you're doing the first time you do it." says the soldier, "But once you do it that first time, you can imagine doing it again. It isn't easy - and you skip all the arguments when the shit is hitting the fan - but you can still get things done. And there's more than just danger and death. There are things to be proud of."
"So what have you done recently that you're proud of?" I ask.
Howitt smiles. "There's a game we play," he says, "We walk into villages. And I've got these sound boosting headphones on. And I can hear everything going on. But, of course, none of the locals realize it. At the end of the last tour, we were heading through town when I heard people talking about the bad guy's waiting for us. I told the team and - without a shot being fired - we were able to totally surprise them. I saved a lot of lives - not just American."
I'm impressed.
"And you?" he asks.
I think for a moment, "Nothing like that, I say. When I started my career, everything was about advancement and money. But I got past that when I realized one day that I had everything I needed. I'd made a lot of money.
"I wanted to give money to charity. But I realized that you can't just give it away - because people have to earn something for it to have value for them. They really have to earn it to grow from it. So I spent years thinking about the rules behind my charity. One of the biggest is that I'd give for acute disasters, but not for chronic problems. It was working pretty well.
"And then, last week, I came across this homeless young man. What with the economy and all, he was facing some hard times. But I could see this fire in his eyes. And so I asked him to give me a quick pitch. I was surprised when he did - but he did. He pitched me on this business he wanted to start, but clearly couldn't launch. And so, right there, I wrote him a check for $100,000. And then I walked away. I'm pretty sure I changed a few lives there."
Howitt was impressed, "It must be nice to have that kind of money to spend."
"It's a path I've chosen," I say, "I work to create so that I can share. It's how I contribute."
He rolls his glass in his hands, "I can see that," he says, "Well, in that case, I'm doubly impressed. You took the effort to earn the money and then, when the time came, you were willing to give it away."
"I guess," I say, "But I've gotta have more respect for you. I spread around a fair amount of cash around, but you risk your life for others."
"Two sides of the same coin," he says, "Two sides."
They call my flight. so I stand up and extend my hand to Howitt, "It has been a pleasure and honor to meet you."
Howitt reaches across and grips my hand solidly. "Likewise," He says.
And then in some strange way I realize that I'm shaking my own hand.
Howitt is me and I am Howitt.
We're the same man, we're just two sides of the same coin..We've made different choices, but somehow we've each ended up in the Airport Bar.
---
"Jim," comes a voice as a hand gently taps my shoulder.
"Yeah," I mumble, tired.
"Jim," repeats the voice, "It's 2010."
I open my eyes. I look around. And then I realize which path I've taken.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Jason Webster
Under his breath, Jason Webster recites the Shahadah to himself, again and again, "There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet."
He is approaching the security check point, and he is praying that he can clear it.
He doesn't need to worry.
Just before entering the airport, Jason Webster had swallowed two latex balloons. Like a drug mule, he was transporting what he needed to hide inside of his body.
Customs might have caught him, airport security doesn't have a chance.
He places his shoes and laptop bag on the conveyor. He empties his pockets of any metal. And he walks through the detector. No beeps. No attention.
Even if there were profiling, Jason would be missed. Jason Webster is white. He is wealthy. And he's covered all of his bases. His round-trip ticket has been purchased with a credit card. He has a student visa. He never handled the contents of his latex balloons. His legal name raises no questions whatsoever.
He picks up his bags and walks towards his gate.
His stomach is beginning to hurt, but he puts it out of his mind and casually continues his passage.
"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet." He whispers it under his breath.
Jason Webster is a student. He has received a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts - searching for meaning in beauty. He was a good student, but he was disappointed in his search. And so he searched elsewhere. He attended the dry churches of his native London - nothing. He experimented with drugs. He tried sex. But still there was nothing.
And then he found Islam. It started with a local mosque, and there was a taste of what he wanted. There was a taste of greatness in service to Allah. But it wasn't enough. He wanted total service, without question marks, doubts or room for dissent. Without moderation. And so, before long, he had broken with the congregation and had fallen into a smaller group - a more radical group. They met at a home, and they plotted death. And Jason discovered a way for his life to have meaning.
It started with swallowing two latex balloons.
Boarding comes and Jason breezes through. His papers are in perfect order.
His stomach is bothering him more now. He tries hard not to visibly wince - and he succeeds. He knows what is going on, the balloons are too large to digest. He is prepared for an uncomfortable trip.
The plane pulls back from the gate and with a roar of its engines, it takes to the skies.
Jason closes his eyes and silently recites the Shahadah again and again in his head. He is wearing a headset. He hopes his seat mate will think he is singing a song.
The beverage cart comes and he asks for water.
He checks his watch. It is 12:35pm.
5 more minutes.
He surprises himself. He is totally calm. He knows what he was doing and why. He hates his old world. He hates the weakness. He hates the emptiness. He hates the vanity and the promiscuity and the self-serving ways. He hates the blasphemy.
In the past months, he has learned so much, and he has so much to teach.
And he will teach. He will drive others to meaning.
It is what his service demands.
He opens a small medicine bottle and pulls out 5 capsules of fish oil. He recites, quietly, "Allahu Akbar" and he swallows the pills.
It is done.
He debates telling the pilot what he has done. But the orders are strict. Nobody is to know.
And so he waits.
Inside his stomach, the capsules break down and the oil is released.
In turn, the latex balloons begin to dissolve.
They are two parts of a binary explosive.
Jason Webster closes his eyes.
The explosives mix.
And the airliner splits apart in the sky.
----
In Washington DC, a TV newscaster is handed a piece of paper. He reads it and nods his head in disbelief. He looks at the off-camera man who handed it to him. Something is said and the newscaster grows pale.
And then, with a studied voice, he announces, "This just in. Seventeen, repeat, seventeen intercontinental airliners from Europe, Asia and North America have disappeared from radar without any indication of their fate. We will provide you more information as soon as soon as it breaks."
----
Walls alone can never make us safe.
----
* The above process of radicalization is loosely guided by the 2007 NYPD Report Radicalization in the West: The Homegrown Threat
* The bomb described will not function. I do, however, invite any would-be terrorists to try it out.
He is approaching the security check point, and he is praying that he can clear it.
He doesn't need to worry.
Just before entering the airport, Jason Webster had swallowed two latex balloons. Like a drug mule, he was transporting what he needed to hide inside of his body.
Customs might have caught him, airport security doesn't have a chance.
He places his shoes and laptop bag on the conveyor. He empties his pockets of any metal. And he walks through the detector. No beeps. No attention.
Even if there were profiling, Jason would be missed. Jason Webster is white. He is wealthy. And he's covered all of his bases. His round-trip ticket has been purchased with a credit card. He has a student visa. He never handled the contents of his latex balloons. His legal name raises no questions whatsoever.
He picks up his bags and walks towards his gate.
His stomach is beginning to hurt, but he puts it out of his mind and casually continues his passage.
"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet." He whispers it under his breath.
Jason Webster is a student. He has received a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts - searching for meaning in beauty. He was a good student, but he was disappointed in his search. And so he searched elsewhere. He attended the dry churches of his native London - nothing. He experimented with drugs. He tried sex. But still there was nothing.
And then he found Islam. It started with a local mosque, and there was a taste of what he wanted. There was a taste of greatness in service to Allah. But it wasn't enough. He wanted total service, without question marks, doubts or room for dissent. Without moderation. And so, before long, he had broken with the congregation and had fallen into a smaller group - a more radical group. They met at a home, and they plotted death. And Jason discovered a way for his life to have meaning.
It started with swallowing two latex balloons.
Boarding comes and Jason breezes through. His papers are in perfect order.
His stomach is bothering him more now. He tries hard not to visibly wince - and he succeeds. He knows what is going on, the balloons are too large to digest. He is prepared for an uncomfortable trip.
The plane pulls back from the gate and with a roar of its engines, it takes to the skies.
Jason closes his eyes and silently recites the Shahadah again and again in his head. He is wearing a headset. He hopes his seat mate will think he is singing a song.
The beverage cart comes and he asks for water.
He checks his watch. It is 12:35pm.
5 more minutes.
He surprises himself. He is totally calm. He knows what he was doing and why. He hates his old world. He hates the weakness. He hates the emptiness. He hates the vanity and the promiscuity and the self-serving ways. He hates the blasphemy.
In the past months, he has learned so much, and he has so much to teach.
And he will teach. He will drive others to meaning.
It is what his service demands.
He opens a small medicine bottle and pulls out 5 capsules of fish oil. He recites, quietly, "Allahu Akbar" and he swallows the pills.
It is done.
He debates telling the pilot what he has done. But the orders are strict. Nobody is to know.
And so he waits.
Inside his stomach, the capsules break down and the oil is released.
In turn, the latex balloons begin to dissolve.
They are two parts of a binary explosive.
Jason Webster closes his eyes.
The explosives mix.
And the airliner splits apart in the sky.
----
In Washington DC, a TV newscaster is handed a piece of paper. He reads it and nods his head in disbelief. He looks at the off-camera man who handed it to him. Something is said and the newscaster grows pale.
And then, with a studied voice, he announces, "This just in. Seventeen, repeat, seventeen intercontinental airliners from Europe, Asia and North America have disappeared from radar without any indication of their fate. We will provide you more information as soon as soon as it breaks."
----
Walls alone can never make us safe.
----
* The above process of radicalization is loosely guided by the 2007 NYPD Report Radicalization in the West: The Homegrown Threat
* The bomb described will not function. I do, however, invite any would-be terrorists to try it out.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Betrayal
The smell is what I love the most. The smell of wet fir and pine and cedar. They assault my nostrils and I draw them in. They remind me of simpler days, of childhood days playing in this self-same forest.
I inhale deeply and keep running.
I love this land.
The land, however, seems to be, at best, ambivalent.
The brush is tearing at my soaked clothes, the chill of the air is beginning to pierce what is left. The rain is coming down in sheets, obscuring my vision. They are conspiring against me.
I run harder.
Perhaps, somehow, I will outrun my pursuers. But I am not hopeful. They are on horseback and I am leaving a trail as clear as a red carpet. And they are not fools.
I run past a tree, and then step behind it. I need to catch a moment's breath - and I need to listen for my enemies.
I hear nothing.
Then, with frightening stealth, an arrow strikes the tree, just above my head.
How can they be ahead of me?
I look up, but I see nothing. The forest is empty.
Cowards.
I step away from the tree and pull my sword from its scabbard.
They will kill me, I know. But at least I will choose how I die.
My body will not fall hiding behind some tree.
Whoever shot at me is slow with a crossbow. So death does not come immediately.
Instead, I hear the horses coming. Moments later, with fogging snorts, they draw up in front of me. Lord Phillip and two of his soldiers.
Phillip nods his head in mock courtesy, "My Lord," he pronounces.
I nod in return.
Only the day before, the man was my most loyal vassal. The Kingdom had rested on him. And I had rested on him - enjoying the privileges of royalty, occasionally wielding its power, but rarely watching the politics of court. They had never interested me.
A fatal error.
I heard a rumor - Phillip was raising an army to dispose of me. But I knew it was too late. The man would have spies everywhere. I had abrogated to him without even knowing I had done so.
So I changed my garments, to commoners clothes. And I fled.
I was King. I could build my own support. I could raise my own army. Or at least I hoped so.
I got as far as the gate of the city. As I ran towards it, I saw a group of horsemen approaching: Lord Phillip had arrived.
I felt naked as he rode through the gateway. Common clothes were suddenly no disguise. I could have bowed my head, but my pride held me back. I was King, not he. So, instead, I tried my best to stealthily slip my way through the crowd - and to the gates of freedom.
I was almost there when Phillip saw me.
They could have killed me then and there. But I was King. To commit regicide in the public square would have undermined Phillip himself. He could arrest me. He could charge me with treason. And then, in time, he could hang me. But he could not execute me.
I was not going to die in the noose, and so I ran. And Phillip gave chase.
I ran for the forest and disappeared into the brush moments later.
It felt like a lifetime ago - but it had only been a few minutes.
Hours before, I'd been King. Now, everything had changed. Everything, even the Land, seemed to be conspiring against me.
I had been a weak King. But I was not going to be a weak man.
"On your knees," I command, solidly.
Phillip laughed. He seems pleased with his position.
"My Lord," he says, "You want to die a King. But you are no longer a King. And for my part, I harbor no desire to kill you."
I hold my ground.
"Think about it," he states, "I could dress up in the Articles of State; I could don the crown, the royal garments and the scepter. But I would never be legitimate. Such heights are beyond a man like me."
"So why betray me?" I ask.
"My Lord," says Phillip, "I might not desire Kingship, but I do seek power. And I do seek wealth. An so I just want to modify our old relationship. You will be King, and I will be your vassal - de jure. But de facto, I will rule. I will collect the tax, I will command the Lords of the Kingdom, and I will provide you with a bodyguard to keep you and your family safe."
In other words, I was to live as his hostage, under the watchful eyes of his servants.
"I am King," I state.
"Of course," says Phillip his cheerful demeanor unaltered, "You may still be King. The terminology will just be altered some. You wouldn't be the first King to serve in title alone."
"I am King," I repeat, "And this is my Land and my People. I will not betray them with falsehood."
Phillip leans forward in his saddle, and his cheerful expression disappears. His eyes turn threatening..
"Betray them?" He asks, "Your weakness has already betrayed them. If you will not be King - my King - then I will rule without you. But there will be uprisings. There will be battles. There will be wars. And your beloved People will be slaughtered by your pig-headed stubbornness."
"I am King," I repeat.
And so Phillip draws his sword.
"If it is your will, then that is how you shall die."
He spurs his horse forward and raises his weapon. I resist the urge to cower or cringe in anticipation. I extend my blade in defense.
With a deft stroke, he disarms me. He raises his blade for a final sweep. I hold my ground.
And then he stumbles back, a silent arrow suddenly protruding from his chest.
Phillip falls from his horse, gasping for air.
Moments later, a look of fear and confusion in his eyes, he is dead.
His soldiers, confused, frightened, and suddenly without a commander, stay as they were.
I order them to dismount and disarm. And they do. I pull their weapons from them.
And then I turn to the forest.
It still appears empty.
"Reveal yourself!" I command.
There is a rustle amongst the brush and then a serf rises from the forest floor. A crossbow is in his hand. I could not imagine how he had laid hands on such a weapon, but I push the question out of my mind, and ask another.
"Why?" I ask.
He drops to one knee, bows his head, and then solemnly pronounces, "You are King."
The $115 Dress?
I hate myself for it, but I can't help it.
I pick my daughter up from school, and all I can see are dollar signs.
It started before I got there, of course. My used Toyota Corolla, $125.00/month in payments. Her backpack, $43.00. Her books, G-d knows how much. Dollar signs, everywhere.
With a hop, she was in the backseat. She gives me a cursory smile and a "Hi Dad."
It's our custom
I ask her, "You learn anything new at school, or was it another wasted day."
It'd been years since she'd answered anything other than, "Nope, just another wasted day."
It was our routine, and she doesn't deviate today.
As always, I'm worried there's more than a grain of truth in her answer.
I remember when she didn't hop. I remember when she was born, and we named her - in some fit of insanity - "Z." Everybody always thought it was short for something. But it wasn't, not even for "Zee."
I could swear it was the day before yesterday.
I look in the rearview mirror and smile. She's a beautiful kid, and a smart one.
She's reading something and doesn't look up.
I stick the car in drive, she sticks her earphones in her ears, and we head home. Silent.
My cell phone rings. As I pick it up, the dollar signs flash once again. $57.00/month. They promised something cheaper, but the fees and taxes seemed to boost it up pretty consistently.
Cathy wants milk, so I stop at a 7-11 on the way home and pick it up. $2.79.
I can't get the dollar signs out of my head.
What's the total now? Is it daily, monthly - how do I group things? I put off the question.
We pull into the driveway. I grab my briefcase, Z grabs her books, and we head inside.
Cathy greets me at the door like we're some newly married couple. Most days, I feel like we are. She works from home, an artist. Her work is penetrating, beautiful and engaging. It is worthwhile, but I can't help myself from thinking about how little she actually earns.
"Hey dear," she asks, "How was your day?"
"Just fine," I say, a smile in my voice.
It's our routine.
She's wearing a new dress. I comment on it, and she twirls beautifully, smiling.
I don't ask what it costs, she hates that. It robs her of the joy of buying it - and of wearing it.
But I guess anyway, and keep it to myself. I can't help it: $115.00.
Z runs up to do her homework, and I join Cathy in the kitchen. She's cooking and I'm following her around as she tosses dirty pots, pans, measuring cups and assorted items around the room. I like to keep the place clean - Cathy, she couldn't care less.
As she measures the ingredients, I count the costs - the cash register in my head logging ever increasing numbers. $20? $30? I don't know.
Dinner time comes and we, the whole family, go to the table. For a woman with a dirty kitchen, when it comes to dinner, the rules here are strict. If you want to enjoy her cooking, you've got to eat it with her. So we sit down for dinner every night.
A bottle of wine, $7.99.
I'm losing track of the numbers. I wish I didn't care so much. But they are seeming to overwhelm me.
We finish dinner. Z dashes upstairs, saying she needs to finish her homework. Of course, she's just talking to friends. We know it, and ignore it. As Thomas Jefferson once said, "A little rebellion now and then is a good thing."
Cathy and I share a smile. She grabs a drink from the fridge, and I begin to clean up.
As I'm washing the last dish, Cathy comes up behind me. She's been watching me.
She gives me a tight hug and in a knowing voice asks, "What's wrong?"
I don't know the right time to tell her, so I just blurt it out.
"Cathy," I pronounce, solemnly, "The company closed."
She doesn't say a word, she just hugs me more closely with her $115 dress.
She tries, and I love her for it.
But I can't forget those dollar signs and I can't help but fear that they'll overcome me.
I pick my daughter up from school, and all I can see are dollar signs.
It started before I got there, of course. My used Toyota Corolla, $125.00/month in payments. Her backpack, $43.00. Her books, G-d knows how much. Dollar signs, everywhere.
With a hop, she was in the backseat. She gives me a cursory smile and a "Hi Dad."
It's our custom
I ask her, "You learn anything new at school, or was it another wasted day."
It'd been years since she'd answered anything other than, "Nope, just another wasted day."
It was our routine, and she doesn't deviate today.
As always, I'm worried there's more than a grain of truth in her answer.
I remember when she didn't hop. I remember when she was born, and we named her - in some fit of insanity - "Z." Everybody always thought it was short for something. But it wasn't, not even for "Zee."
I could swear it was the day before yesterday.
I look in the rearview mirror and smile. She's a beautiful kid, and a smart one.
She's reading something and doesn't look up.
I stick the car in drive, she sticks her earphones in her ears, and we head home. Silent.
My cell phone rings. As I pick it up, the dollar signs flash once again. $57.00/month. They promised something cheaper, but the fees and taxes seemed to boost it up pretty consistently.
Cathy wants milk, so I stop at a 7-11 on the way home and pick it up. $2.79.
I can't get the dollar signs out of my head.
What's the total now? Is it daily, monthly - how do I group things? I put off the question.
We pull into the driveway. I grab my briefcase, Z grabs her books, and we head inside.
Cathy greets me at the door like we're some newly married couple. Most days, I feel like we are. She works from home, an artist. Her work is penetrating, beautiful and engaging. It is worthwhile, but I can't help myself from thinking about how little she actually earns.
"Hey dear," she asks, "How was your day?"
"Just fine," I say, a smile in my voice.
It's our routine.
She's wearing a new dress. I comment on it, and she twirls beautifully, smiling.
I don't ask what it costs, she hates that. It robs her of the joy of buying it - and of wearing it.
But I guess anyway, and keep it to myself. I can't help it: $115.00.
Z runs up to do her homework, and I join Cathy in the kitchen. She's cooking and I'm following her around as she tosses dirty pots, pans, measuring cups and assorted items around the room. I like to keep the place clean - Cathy, she couldn't care less.
As she measures the ingredients, I count the costs - the cash register in my head logging ever increasing numbers. $20? $30? I don't know.
Dinner time comes and we, the whole family, go to the table. For a woman with a dirty kitchen, when it comes to dinner, the rules here are strict. If you want to enjoy her cooking, you've got to eat it with her. So we sit down for dinner every night.
A bottle of wine, $7.99.
I'm losing track of the numbers. I wish I didn't care so much. But they are seeming to overwhelm me.
We finish dinner. Z dashes upstairs, saying she needs to finish her homework. Of course, she's just talking to friends. We know it, and ignore it. As Thomas Jefferson once said, "A little rebellion now and then is a good thing."
Cathy and I share a smile. She grabs a drink from the fridge, and I begin to clean up.
As I'm washing the last dish, Cathy comes up behind me. She's been watching me.
She gives me a tight hug and in a knowing voice asks, "What's wrong?"
I don't know the right time to tell her, so I just blurt it out.
"Cathy," I pronounce, solemnly, "The company closed."
She doesn't say a word, she just hugs me more closely with her $115 dress.
She tries, and I love her for it.
But I can't forget those dollar signs and I can't help but fear that they'll overcome me.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Dr. Rajiv Chaudry
Dr. Rajiv Chaundry looked proud as he stood in the gleaming lobby of his newest building. The press huddled around, waiting to hear the latest from the world's wealthiest man.
We passed over a large artificial lake.
"My family is not Christian," he began, "But I still remember Christmas, 2009 as the best day of my life."
Everybody already knew what he was referring to, it was a story he'd told many times, but they waited nonetheless. Rajiv spoke in a perfect American accent - according to legend, it had been honed in one of India's many call centers.
"On that day, America passed Healthcare Reform.
"On that day my father cried and spoke the most prophetic words of his life. 'India's day has arrived.'
"On that day my father cried and spoke the most prophetic words of his life. 'India's day has arrived.'
"It can be hard to remember those days. India's was an economy just beginning to flower. Our GDP was just over 1 trillion US dollars. American healthcare spending only was over 2 trillion dollars. It represented a tremendous opportunity.
"The Republicans in those days were worried about the death of innovation - about massive costs - about twisted incentives. But we had other ideas. Indian hospitals had competed with American hospitals for international patients. The rich went to America. The middle class of the UK, Canada and a few other countries - well, they came here.
"When American stepped down the road of an even more unnatural and stilted health care economy, we knew our day was here. Healthcare is a massive industry - today larger than any other. And with reform, what little remained of the power of ownership and profits to drive quality in the United States was eliminated.
"We'd seen it a dozen times before. India was no stranger to the phenomenon: In what are essentially state-controlled industries, quality declines. Services become apathetic, buildings derelict, equipment shabby. And in healthcare, that means death.
"But we were already moving in the other direction. Thrust into international competition for middle-class patients, we applied the lessons of industry to healthcare. We were specializing our facilities and delivering cheaper, higher-quality services than anybody else on the planet. Even in those days, some Indian hospitals could deliver the world's best open heart surgery outcomes for an average of only $2,000 per operation. Today, India has grown into the world's largest economy on the back of healthcare. We provide fully 30% of all the world's health services - public or private. Our industry employs tens of millions. We've studied, we've learned and we've built.
"What you see today is a culmination of that effort."
Rajiv turned and the horizontal escalator we were on began to move. The facility was a gleaming, massive, machine of life. We were in what appeared to be a lobby.
As we moved, Rajiv continued to speak, "Folks, this hospital has 50,000 beds - by far the largest in the world. It is a medical city. We don't have a traditional admissions area. Instead, incoming patients are immediately assessed and sent to the area of the hospital most appropriate to them. We find that eliminating waiting times results in not only happier, but healthier, customers. Once in the appropriate area, patients are assessed by a doctor before we even begin to collect their paperwork. Past patients have radio ID cards that enable us to check them in without any paperwork at all.
He gestured out the window and towards a runway outside. "As many of you know, many of our efforts are geared towards enabling people around the world to take advantage of our fantastic care. That is why we started MediAir in 2014. With dedicated medical transports, including long-haul A380s, MediAir provided a huge number of innovations - FAA approved hospital beds, tracked loading to enable patients to get on and off the aircraft without even sitting up, a full suite of life support and medical systems, a fully trained medical staff, including an emergency OR on the A-380s. And last, but not least, onboard passport control, to enable patients to get from aircraft to hospital without delays. But we never had direct access to one of our hospitals - we always had to fight Indian traffic and Indian roads. Now, that has been changed. Aircraft can land on that runway right there. The aircraft pull into hangers and discharge patients directly into the hospital. The process is incredibly smooth - and admissions complications have been dramatically cut."
The escalator continued moving.
"We've built the best into every aspect of this hospital. The escalator system use RFid tags on patients to direct them to any portion of the hospital quickly and safely. Despite having a top speed of almost 15 miles per hour, the escalators are gentle. When they stop and go, they do so gently. This single innovation has enabled us to build a hospital on a scale never before seen."
The escalator whisked us into a large and darkened room. In all directions, on several floors, were individual workstations, encased in sound-proofing plastic.
"This is the hub of our virtual clinic system. Naturally, we want to reach our customers in their home countries. Not everything requires a long flight, and not everybody is willing to wait for the shoddy care their local health utilities can provide. So we built 30,000 small-scale clinics globally - but staffed here. We essentially built medical vending machines. In a private area of a shopping center, for example, a patient can walk into the kiosk, slide their credit card, and work with a doctor - no appointment required. Our doctors interact with patients and using advanced robotic technology can physically interact with patients. It takes a little practice, but our doctors acquire amazing tactile abilities using these devices. They can actually 'zoom in' on a small area and feel it in more detail than a human hand could possible provide. In addition, because of the number of doctors available, we have further cut waiting times. Of course, for an additional fee, you can be seen by 'your' doctor."
A hand went up.
"Yes?"
"Do you plan to provide surgery's using this equipment."
"No," said Dr. Ragiv, "We can't provide sufficient control of the environment through our virtual clinics. However, the clinics can be used to book MediAir flights. And we expect to deploy our first medical ships for more involved and emergency outpatient procedures. We will be parking the first ship in international waters off of the New Jersey coast. Future ships will serve other major population centers."
The reporter nodded and our escalator continued.
"I'd love to show you are R&D facility, but it is top-secret. We are in constant competition with other facilities in India and our secrets are, how shall I put it, sacrosanct. Needless to say, we have a full-scale research facility pushing the barriers of medicine to offer our patients more than any other hospital chain in the world. We have 200,000 beds throughout the chain, there is ample opportunity to profit from the best in medicine. Of course, we submit to the Indian Review Protocols for efficacy review on every innovation we deploy. The IRP has enabled India's healthcare system to provide unparalleled levels of patient safety even as it cut out the waste and red tape associated with the FDA. This is a competitive field, but it is also critical to India's future. The IRP has ensured we have the processes in place to both grow it and protect it."
We passed over a large artificial lake.
"Our innovations has slashed costs for a wide range of care. But they have also improved outcomes. I will admit that IndiaCare offers better gastric outcomes - particularly in diagnosis - but we are at or near the top of every other specialty. Specialist facilities do crop up now and then, offering innovations in specific areas and it is our guarantee that if they provide something you need, we'll hire them to do the job. We have sub-contracted no fewer than 150,000 procedures this year alone."
We were whisked onwards. The escalator shifted upwards. The opaque ceiling was replaced by a massive glass skylight. We were rising towards a gleaming tower.
"Health is a wonderful industry. Our employees change lives every day. It is amazing to consider, but only a decade ago, India was exporting doctors. Today, we import the best from all over the world. Fully half of our medical staff is from the US - doctors and nurses fed up with the hassles of providing care in the US, and the costs of doing so. Here, they just need to do their jobs. They work hard, they are paid very well and they never see an insurance form. We compensate them based on performance and, if they'd like, they can reside in our own on-site luxury condominiums. The housing complex has every conceivable facility - including synagogues and Kosher restaurants for our many Jewish doctors."
The escalator veered to the left and we reentered the hospital proper.
"Before this tour ends, I want to show you our next generation patient rooms."
The escalator came to a stop outside a cut-out room.
"We find that costs are far lower when patients are housed in wards. Of course, our patients also value privacy. So we offer compact, high-density beds. Where traditional hospitals had sliding sheets or drapes separating patients, we offer room separators that can be electrostatically tinted to be either opaque or clear. This approach cuts the risks of infection while providing a truly low-cost high solution."
Reporters nodded.
And then, unexpectedly, each of the walls suddenly lit up with images.
Reporters nodded.
And then, unexpectedly, each of the walls suddenly lit up with images.
"Of course," Rajiv continued, "We didn't stop at making them opaque. Each of these walls is a low-cost O-LED monitor. Nobody wants to be cut off from the outside world. These monitors can allow a patient, sitting down, standing up or laying on their backs, to immerse themselves in almost any environment. They can put themselves in their own living rooms or at a cafe and interact with relatives or friends. Or they can just hang out on the beach and forget their troubles. And when it comes time to medical care, any portion of the wall can be used to display medical data, including X-rays, MRIs, test results, medical probe views and, of course, vital signs."
Rajiv paused and smiled his famous grin. "Folks," he said, "Welcome to the future."
He paused again.
"Any questions?"
Monday, December 21, 2009
Steam 21 LLC
"Mr. Williams?" said the man, inquisitively.
We were seated across from each other in a sparse conference room. The kind that shouts 'start-up' in the 21st century. The man's name was Jonas Feickart and he was the CEO of Steam 21 LLC.
"Yes," I answered politely. I wasn't sure why there was a question - I'd included my name in the letter.
"Mr. Williams," Mr. Feickart said more decisively, "Did you design the model you sent us?"
Seated in the middle of the conference table, weighing on its articifial bones, was 'the model.' It was a compact steam engine. And, in my opinion, it was almost the perfect design.
"I did," I answered.
"Well, Mr. Williams," Mr. Feickart continued, "I've asked you to come in today because I've never seen anything like it. Of course, you know the project we're working on - high-performance, high-efficiency, steam-driven cars."
I nodded.
"Well," he continued, "We've been looking to perfect what came before. Did you know a Stanley Steamer built in 1906 did 127 miles per hour?"
I knew, and I nodded.
"Well," he continued, "We didn't beat that until 2009. Imagine what the designers of that 1906 car could do with modern technology. That is our concept. Take those old ideas and just re-engineer them with modern materials and parts."
He'd given the speech a million times.
"Turns out," he continued, "It isn't so easy. Those old timers may not have had much, but they knew what they were doing.
"And then," he waved his hands expansively, "You come along and send us something that just seems generations ahead of anything that's ever been built."
I nodded.
"Why?" he asked, "Why did you send us your model?" He seemed genuinely confused.
"I want a job," I answered, truthfully.
"A job?" he asked. "You don't want an equity position or something like that."
"I'll take that too" I answered smiling. Fact was, I would have taken just about anything.
"And why wouldn't I just take your design," asked Mr. Feickart.
I was ready for that one. I could play to his better nature, but I knew his type. He didn't have one.
"I gave you a flawed design," I answered, "I can make it better. And when I do, there's nobody in the world who knows better than I how to make it part of a functioning system. You work with me, and you'll get something you'll never find anyplace else." None of that had been made up.
Mr. Feickart nodded. His company had raised $150 million in venture capital promising the world - and they didn't really know what they were doing.
But I knew what they had to do. And he knew it.
This Mr. Feickart, though, was a cautious man. He was wary of investing in himself.
"Mr. Williams," he said, "Do you have a resume."
I shook my head, no.
"Why not?" he asked.
"I'm a full-time hobbiest," I answered, truthfully, "I've done some construction work, but it didn't seem appropriate for a job like this."
"But," I added, "I know what I'm doing."
Mr. Feickart nodded.
"The fact is, your model is like nothing I've ever seen before. I have a hard time thinking a mere hobbiest could put it together." He was poking for a resume.
I smiled. This was the part I'd practiced a million times.
"When I was a kid," I said, "I came across an old dump full of Stanley Steamers and all sorts of other steam engine parts. I've just been obsessed ever since. I probably know more about steam engines than any man alive."
I knew what was coming next.
"Mr. Williams," he said, "I'd love to bring you on board. But as impressive as your work it, you just can't be a part of our company. I took the liberty of running a background check - and you have a criminal record."
"What?" I asked, feigning surprise.
"A felony," he said.
"I never committed a felony," I answered.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a report.
He opened it, showed it to me, and gestured with his finger. "Right there, he pronounced."
I tried to laugh convincingly. "There?" I said, "The one marked 1965? Look at me. Do I look old enough to have committed a felony in the 60s?"
It took him a moment, but he laughed too. I didn't look a day over 30.
"Must be some kind of computer error," I offered.
"Or you've taken somebody's identity," he suggested.
"I'll do a fingerprint, polygraph, whatever. I am Bill Williams."
He nodded. He'd already run my fingerprints. I was Bill Williams.
"Do you have drafting skills?" he asked.
"I do."
"AutoCAD?"
"Pen and paper."
He was a little surprised. But not too surprised. I did work with steam.
"Can you give me a few minutes?" he asked. "I'd like to confer with my team."
"Of course," I nodded.
So he got up and walked out the door.
A few minutes later, he came back in. "Let's talk terms."
I folded my hands on the table - ready to bargain as if I had a fallback position.
But the fact was, I didn't.
I'd been homeless, on and off, for almost 50 years. I really was Mr. Bill Williams, and I really did have a criminal record.
I'd run down a man in 1965. An accident - I was never a very good driver.
I did five years for reckless endangerment. I was a black man in the South.
The criminal record stuck until people realized it had to be an error. I never stopped looking like a 30 year-old man. You can't outrun the law, but - it seems - you can outlive it.
And, I knew more about that Stanley Steamer than any man ever had. I'd been the one to engineer it in the first place.
My name was Bill Williams, and I'd been born, in 1853, to slavery.
My mother was a sickly thing - and poorly cared for as a result. But she prayed for a baby that could live and, rumor has it, a voodoo priestess more than obliged.
She died in childbirth, but I lived.
Nobody expected much of me - the son of a dead, sickly, slave woman. But I was smart - and by the time I was six-months old, every slave hand in that plantation knew it.
I was smarter than any baby they'd ever seen - white or black.
But I was too little to know to hide it.
So they got me out of there. I don't know how, but they did.
So I grew up in the North, a brilliant boy and then a brilliant man. Becoming a steam engineer was the obvious next step. I was a still a black man - my name didn't go on my work - but I was also the best steam engineer in all of the United States.
And my skills were in hot demand.
In 1906, at the age of 53, I set that record - not knowing a thing about aerodynamics or advanced materials.
And I kept working in cars through the 20s. And I kept living. And then I worked on trains. Until the 50s. And I kept living.
And then, there was nothing to do.
Times had passed me by - but I hadn't aged a day beyond 30.
The work just stopped.
And so, for 50 years, I'd worked odd jobs: I was an occasional mechanic, I was a street beggar and I even tried busking, but music wasn't my skill.
Rent was something I couldn't cover.
But I kept on living.
And I kept on working. Not for pay, of course. But for my own reward. Steam may died in the 1950s, but it lived on in me. It was buried in my brain and a part of my very bones.
I fixed the old mistakes and shortcoming. I dropped weight, improved responsiveness and designed an engine that could best anything called Internal Combustion.
Of course, nobody wanted it.
But as Mark Twain said, "History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme."
Out of the blue, Steam 21 LLC was born.
I waited for them to fall prey to the hubris of thinking they could outdo the greatest minds of my generation.
And then I stepped in, wearing a stolen suit, and ready to blow my old Stanley Steamer out of the water.
And it'd worked.
You see, I may be an old dog, and you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
But when it comes to those old tricks, well, I know them better than anybody does.
Jonas and I?
We settled on 20%.
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