8.i.
The second
level of the pyramid structure was significantly narrower than the first. The path hugged the inner wall and a rich
velvet rope separated the walkway from the remaining space. In that remaining space, standing like
androids, were rows and rows of men and women in expensive business
attire. Next to each man and woman was a
small wheeled cart. It held various
electronic equipment and was laden with dials and blinking lights. Wires sprouted from these portable diagnostic
machines and connected with the men and women somewhere around back.
“These are the
most advanced, state of the art, high level CEOs in existence,” said General
Apathy. “The rope is for your
protection. Do not cross it, please.”
“Why?” asked
Franklin Buck. “What happens?”
General Apathy
sighed and said, “Yes. It’d be too much
to ask you to just take my word on the subject.
If you cross over, the CEOs will take that as an invitation to approach
and sell you something. They will sell
you until your ears bleed. Literally.”
There was a
strange hum that resonated from the CEOs.
Sort of like a beehive, a dentist drill, and a live microphone all
luxuriating in a post coital spoon.
When they
rounded the corner of the pyramid they were startled by a freestanding CEO. He was milling around by the velvet rope,
almost halfway down the length of the path.
“Apparently we
have a malfunctioning unit,” said General Apathy. “It would be best if you avoided eye contact
and simply ignored him.”
As they
approached, the CEO unit looked up and appeared pleasantly surprised. He said, “Hey.
Any of you guys from the Mind Hive?”
Senior
Executive’s jaw flexed. He stopped
walking, but remained just out of the CEO’s reach.
“Oh, well don’t
listen to me or anything, Junior,” said General Apathy, not turning back. “I wouldn’t know anything. Better to dismiss what I say.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’ve got this one,” said Business Woman. She slapped the CEO across the face.
“Care about the
company and the company will take care of you,” the CEO said, his face
flinching from a nervous eye tick.
“Try it. You’ll feel better,” said Business Woman.
Senior
Executive slapped the CEO.
“Listen. I’ve got an idea that’s basically a license
to print money,” the CEO said, leaning forward, whispering in a rushed
hush. “Do you own a clinic?”
Senior
Executive’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“A clinic,
man. A place to treat sick people.”
“No.”
“Well… get
one. Then here’s what you do. Start running prostitutes as a side
business. Encourage unprotected sex to
boost business for the clinic. You with
me so far?” the CEO said.
“You’re sick,”
said Senior Executive. He turned to walk
away and the CEO grabbed his arm.
“Don’t! You’ll be walking away from a fortune,” said
the CEO.
Senior
Executive yanked his arm free and said, “What?
Treating STDs. The people
frequenting your prostitutes won’t be from the same area so your clinic
wouldn’t see the benefit.”
“You’re missing
the point,” said the CEO. “You develop a strain of herpes which has as its
primary side effect, nymphomania. Inject
this super-herpes into your prostitutes.
This has a two fold effect. It
increases the frequency of the visits from your customers and spreads the
disease much quicker. Then, having
synthesized a treatment for your super-herpes, your clinic will be the only one
armed with the necessary medications for the affliction. You patent the new herpes gene and start
charging fees to all those people whose body it infects. If they don’t pay, you sue them for patent
infringement, especially if they transmit it to someone else.”
A look of
further disgust came over Senior Executive.
“Interesting,”
said General Apathy. He tilted his head
towards the militaryesque decorations on his chest. “Cancel tech squad order for CEO
5318008. Unit operations appear stable,
possibly at peak. Prepare a field kit
and place according to need.
Recommendations include medical field and/or sex trade.”
He turned,
glanced at the Union , nodded, and they continued their
journey.
