7.c.i.
The Union
walked through the set of double doors into a room the size of an arena. It was bustling with people in suits, runners
in collared shirts, and polo-clad coffee fetchers. Everyone made complex hand signals at
everyone else. A smell, covetous and
sweaty, like a locker room papered with decommissioned dollar bills, permeated
the space. The noise was overpowering, like
the engines of a private jet to the basic rights of the needy.
“Ah… This is
where it all goes down,” said Bull Market.
He led them
through the sea of people to a small platformed area sectioned off with velvet
ropes. Here were gathered those whose
previous day’s trading had garnered acclaim and this slightly elevated place of
honor was their reward.
The arena
space was so massive that more than one member of the Union
wondered how a place with ceiling so high could fit on one floor. Even if that floor was the equivalent of
three floors combined. Giant
tele-screens hung from huge steel rafters and electronic ticker displays scrolled
in every direction the eye could possibly look.
“When’s the
big show start?” asked Business Woman.
“In a couple
of minutes,” said Bull Market.
“Apparently, they’ve got a guest speaker coming in who’ll kick things
off today. Rumor has it that it’s the
President.”
“Really?”
asked Corporate Man.
“How could he
not?” said Bull Market. “This place is the economy.”
There was an
eruption of cheers and applause which replaced the already roaring sound in the
arena. At the far end of the arena was a
tall stage with huge speakers flanking either side. The lights dimmed and a spotlight flashed
upon a lone figure as he walked toward center stage. He wore a large brown Stetson hat, spurred
cowboy boots, and a man-sized disposable diaper.
“Oh god,” said
Bull Market. “Not him. Not him!”
“What? Who is it?” asked Corporate
Man.
“Ah shit,”
said Business Woman. “That’s W.”
“As in George
W? asked Corporate Man.
“Yep,”
Business Woman said, her head shaking instead of nodding.
Bull Market
scratched nervously at his neck. And
then his forearm. And then his scalp.
“This will not
end well,” he said.
