The Tragic Death
of Corporate Man
a hero for capitalism;
champion of the working class
by Tom Landaluce
Section 7:
Bull/Bear, the Crash,
and the Bowels of the Building.
7.a.i.
When
considering the urban myths attributed to floors thirteen, twenty-six, and
thirty-nine, a special note should be made about the layout of the floors
immediately above and below floor thirty-nine. Specifically floors
thirty-seven, thirty-eight, forty, and forty-one.
Architecturally,
there is no reason for these floors to be devoid of central offices and
corridors. If one could locate accurate
blueprints of the Jacob Center
Tower the impression one might get
is that middle section of each floor is, indeed, accessible. However, if one found themselves exploring,
they would be hard pressed to locate any office space occupying that area or
any hallways traversing this central region.
The phenomenon
is less obvious on the thirty-seventh and forty-first floors as the diameter of
this inaccessible space is much smaller than the floors above and below,
respectively. It has been reported that as
one nears this middle ground one can detect the sound of ringing bells and a
clamor akin to the applause of a sporting event. This has led to a belief that this central
space houses a secret horse track and the bigwigs entertain large groups of
foreign investors at illicit racing events.
Suspiciously absent, though, is the odor of horse manure. This casts the horse track theory into
question amongst those concerned.
7.a.ii.
“We can’t just
leave him,” Business Woman shouted.
“He’s gone,
sister. There’s nothing we can do for
him,” said Commander Credit.
“Lift up this
ladder and let’s go down there.”
“Can’t. It’s sealed off. Frozen.
Probably by an electro magnet or something,” the Commander said.
“So we abandon
him?”
Commander
Credit said nothing.
“What about
Fair Wage,” asked Supply. “Do we go on
without him, too? Without trying to
help?”
There was a long
moment in which none of them spoke. Then
Commander Credit said, “They’re both dead.
We press on.”
“We don’t know that,” said Supply.
“Fair Wage could be–”
“Torn in
half,” said Commander Credit. “From the
inside out.”
“But he could–”
“No,” said
Corporate Man. “He’s dead.
Fair Wage is gone.”
“And Franklin ?”
asked Business Woman.
“I don’t think
there’s anything we can do for him now,” said Corporate
Man.
“Come on. We should keep moving.”
He climbed the
metal rung ladder up through the elevator’s ceiling and disappeared into the
dark.
7.a.iii.
Also in the
dark, but in the other direction, was Franklin Buck. And he was falling. Not straight down a shaft, but in a curling
tube, like a water-park slide, only much steeper. And without the benefit of the water. Or the enjoyment.
The slide didn’t
alter its course, remaining on a continuous downward corkscrew. The friction had burned for the first few
minutes but the tube walls eventually became greasy. This decreased the burning sensation but
increased the speed of his descent. With
the added velocity came the nausea. He’d
been falling long enough to be sick once already and he could feel t queasy
roiling in his stomach return. Still, at
least it didn’t burn so much anymore.
He felt bad
for the next person to fall down this tube.
They’d have to slide through his puke.
Then his mind, through a process of deduction, pieced together a
solution to a question that was, he hadn’t realized, nagging him.
Where had the
grease in this tube come from?
The solution
that assailed him involved the breakdown and decomposition of vomit ejected by
previous riders of this dark corkscrew drop.
The greasy smear that would result.
And he was forced to admit that there was a dank stench in this
place. He was also forced to endure
another set of wracking heaves as his stomach added to the lubrication all
around him.
7.a.iv.
“How much
longer do you think it will take them to reach the top?” asked Business Woman.
Senior
Executive shrugged. Corporate Man and
Commander Credit had gone on ahead, climbing the metal-rung ladder into the
darkness above while the rest of the Union waited on top
of the false elevator at the bottom of the shaft. Discussions had lead them to a conclusion
that this was the best course of action considering their experience with the
ever descending staircase between the lobby and the thirteenth floor.
Senior
Executive reviewed his portfolio on his smart phone and Business Woman chatted
with Supply, their discussion often returning to the relationship of Supply and
Demand. Demand tried to ignore them but
couldn’t help feeling irritated by divulgences of matters he considered
personal in nature.
A beep sounded
on Senior Executive’s phone.
He read the
text and said, “They’ve made it. They’re
on the 39th floor.”
There was a
feeling of relief and an urge to celebrate.
This was immediately crushed by the realization that they now had to
undertake a dark, thirteen story climb up a ladder of metal rungs.
7.a.v.
When sliding
down a waterslide one can affect the direction of one’s body enough to send it
up the wall of the slide. This may be a
nominal and futile effort in avoiding the ultimate destination of the descent
but it is, in fact, true.
Also true in
fact was the number of exits from the corkscrew tube that were in existence as
it drops from the twenty-sixth floor.
That number
would be two.
One such exit
would deposit the unwary traveler on the ledge at the top of the
ever-descending staircase leaving him or her at the entrance to the thirteenth
floor. The other exit places the
traveler in a much more… subterranean location.
A third
relevant fact has to do with the corkscrew tube’s composition and pattern. At a point conveniently on level with the
thirteenth floor the material of the tube changes from black PVC to white and
levels from falling corkscrew to a relatively flat cruise. At this transition point there is a knob
shape, something akin to a handhold on one of those indoor rock climbing gym,
in the upper part of the side wall. In
order to exit at the thirteenth floor one would need to reach out, snag the
knob shape as they slid by thus shifting the momentum of their body up toward
the ceiling of the tube. The inevitable
downswing that follows would hurl them up the opposite wall and into a rounded
hole-like opening.
If successful
the thirteenth floor stair would be gained.
If not, the traveler would encounter a sudden dip at the end of the
relatively level area. They would then
plunge down a nearly vertical freefall.
It was
Franklin Buck’s misfortune and ignorance which caused him to sigh with relief
when the corkscrew leveled off into welcome white and then glide right past the
knob and the alternate exit and finally to his downward fate.
7.a.vi.
The metal-rung
ladder ended at a platform which was much like a miniature, wrought iron
version of a train station platform.
There was a door against the back wall and a small plate on the door
which read: Members Only.
Senior
Executive knocked on the door and after a few moments the “Members Only” plaque
slid to the side with a flick and a pair of small, tight-set eyes peered out
from inside.
“Who’re you?”
a deep voice asked.
“You don’t
recognize us?” said Senior Executive.
“No. You members?”
“Would we be
here if we weren’t?”
“Maybe.”
After an
uncomfortably long pause the voice asked, “What’s the password?”
Senior
Executive glanced at Corporate Man, then Business Woman, then Commander
Credit. His eyes flared slightly,
seeking a plausible response to the password question.
Corporate Man
stepped forward and said, “What password?
We don’t need a password. Open
the door you fool.”
“Good,” the
voice muttered. “There’s no
password. Still, that don’t show that
you belong.”
“Of course we
belong,” said Business Woman.
“How am I to
know?” asked the voice.
After another
hesitant moment Business Woman said, “You must be new so we’ll cut you a
break. Take a look at his
portfolio. That should tell you all you
need to know.”
Senior
Executive and Business Woman exchanged a volley of looks in which Senior
Executive silently asked Business Woman what on Earth she was thinking, where
did she come up with her scheme, and his beliefs that it, whatever it was,
would never work. Business Woman, in her
gestures and expressions, conveyed a message which implied to Senior Executive
that it sucked to be him right now.
Senior
Executive moved to the window, held up his smart phone, and showed the eyes
belonging to the deep voice a series of financials which were quite impressive.
A latch clunked
and the heavy door eased back.
“My apologies,
sir. Gentlemen. Ladies.
Please come in,” said the voice.
There was a
metallic hum as the door slid inwards and then to the left. The Union walked
inside but there was no doorman or attendant of any sort. Affixed to back of the door, at the same
height of the “Members Only” plaque, was a clunky black box. A yellow extension cord dropped from the box
and ran to a nearby wall outlet.
“So… I guess
we just make ourselves comfortable then?” said Business Woman.
There was a
long arched corridor extending from the doorway, a procession of fluted columns
flanking either side. A burst of
yellow-orange light flared from the fluting.
No benches, seats, or stools with which to make oneself comfortable,
stood anywhere along the passage.
“Well, no use
loitering about, right?” said Corporate Man stepping forward and striding
confidently down the hall.
At the end of
the hall was a massive set of doors.
Senior Executive tried to open them but they were locked. Adjacent to the double doors was a smaller,
less grandiose hallway with a modest door at the end. Perched above the entrance in bright neon
green, a sign advertised: The After Hours Lounge. There was no discussion amongst the Union ,
and barely an exchange of glances pre-empted a simultaneous shrug, followed by
a uniform migration toward the lounge.
7.a.vii.
Franklin Buck
was growing bored with his terror. Would
this, by all guesses, fatal plummet ever end?
Not all of the descent since that first drop off had been free fall. A majority to be sure, but after a while he’d
noticed a gradual leveling off, some wide corkscrewing, a few more chasm-like
drops, and even a wiggling zigzag sort of motion. The final result of all that
had been impatience.
Boredom even.
During part of
his fall the fact that he was dropping toward his death had slipped his
mind. He found himself wondering if his
lawn needed mowing and, if so, could he get by for another week or so without
doing the edging.
A new
structural element in the shaft brought Franklin ’s
attention back to his current plummeting state.
The tube’s color shifted to a bright purple and arched upward and over,
throwing Franklin into a series of
dizzying loops. His speed decreased
dramatically. Then he was poured into a
green, translucent section of tubing which traced a lazy, shallow, downward
track. He could see through the tube
wall, but there wasn’t much to see.
Concrete, pipes, and the occasional section of green, translucent, human
transport tube.
His feet
bumped against something soft and his forward progress stopped. He looked up and saw a round hatch. There was a silver lever on one side of the
hatch door and a towel rack on the other with a plush beach towel hanging from
it.
7.a.viii.
“Welcome to
the After Hours Lounge,” said a man in a very expensive suit. “Am I correct in assuming that you are
virgins to this establishment?”
“This is our
first time here, yes,” said Corporate Man.
The well
dressed host escorted them into a large room with a very long bar along one
side.
“I’m afraid
you’re a little too late to beat the dinner rush and a bit too early to benefit
from the settling up. As soon as
something becomes available, I will seat you.
I’m sure you will find the bar to be an adequate distraction.”
The host
shuffled away and the Union approached the long counter. An amber light bathed the dark stained wood
and brass fixtures. Recessed in the wall
behind the bar were thousands of bottles of various shapes displayed in a rich
cobalt light. Five or six bartenders slid
and writhed from customer to customer, mixing up every kind of cocktail
imaginable.
“You think
there might be some food at the bar?” Demand asked.
“Why don’t you
guys find out. And get us some drinks,”
said Business Woman. “Me and Supply are
gonna run off to the ladies room.”
The women
quickly strode away, Business Woman muttering something about how she should
have peed when they were in that fake gym and that she was shocked her bladder
hadn’t burst.
Corporate Man
and Senior Executive went up to the bar to get the drinks and make inquiries
about food while Commander Credit and Demand sought out and empty space and
stools enough to seat them all.
“Junior? Junior is that you?” a man snorted as Senior
Executive tried to flag down the bartender.
The man was large and stout, like an aging football player or an old
professional wrestler. His face was
bovine and thick.
Senior
Executive looked at the man and then, after a moment, he said, “Bull? God, what are you doing here? And it’s Senior Executive now.”
The man tilted
his head, eyes rolling, and made an exasperated sound. “Oh you won’t believe the things I’ve been
through in the past few– Wait. Is that… Is that Corporate Man?”
Corporate Man
smiled and said, “Good to see you, Bull Market.”
“Yeah, I’ll
bet. This all started because of you,
you know?” Bull Market said, shaking his head.
“These guys in suits came up to me saying, ‘Codename: Bull?’ I said, no. That it was just, Bull. Bull Market to be exact, but that, yeah, that
was me. And these guys rough me up, pop
me into the trunk of their car.”
Senior
Executive gave Corporate Man a puzzled look.
Corporate Man shrugged and said, “I’m sorry you got hassled.”
“No. No. It all worked out. They took me to their base and this
hard-assed bitch on the east side of town ripped her boys new assholes when she
saw me. Said something about how she’d
nearly sent out a report announcing the capture of Codename: Bull. These guys tell her that I said that I was
the Bull and she said, ‘No. This is Bull
Market. He worked with Corporate Man,
but he isn’t Corporate Man.’ Well, I was
about to get into it with them, seeing as how we’re teammates, when she
dismisses her lackeys and buzzes for a sniveling secretary guy who apologizes
to me, assures me that they meant me no harm, and that they’d like to invite me
in on a little business opportunity to make amends. Anyway, long story short, they brought me
here and I’ve been making bank ever since.
I see they finally found you and got you involved, too.”
Corporate Man
narrowed his eyes and took a slow breath.
Then he said, “Yeah. Something
like that. What can you tell me about
this place Bull?”
“You don’t
know?”
“We just
arrived.”
“Oh. Awesome!
Come with me. I did really well
today and booked a private booth in the back.
I’ll explain everything.”
“Wait a
second,” said Senior Executive. “We need
to get the others.”
“Others? Who else is here? Oh! Is
Business Woman with you? I’d kill to see
her again.”
7.b.i.
The After Hours Lounge was initially
established in the 1980’s when the typical businessman was typically male. Not only was the industry of commerce a
completely male dominated enterprise, but those males were of a variety whose
egos could only be stroked by a steady flow of objectified women and mass
amounts of cocaine. Therefore, when the
After Hours Lounge was commissioned, the only logical form it could take was
that of a lavish strip club with mirrored coasters and plenty of bathroom
stalls to powder one’s nose in.
Subsequent
generations have all but abandoned the notion of sex and drugs as their ego
booster of choice; their primary one at least.
Whether this is to be attributed to the influx of women into the
corporate environment, the steady emasculation of the male gender, or the
proliferation of twenty-four hour sports channels into popular culture is hard
to say. The After Hours Lounge, however,
has gone through similar changes. Gone
are the seedy accoutrements of the flesh trade, replaced by the glitz and hype
of the sportscaster set.
Where there
once stood a long stage, with dirty dance poles at either end, now sits a
repurposed bar area with a bank of plasma screen televisions. Each private booth, once the abode of
indifferent lap dances and other, less reputable jobs, contains a wall mounted,
hi-def flat screens. The bathrooms,
likewise, feature high resolution monitors on the backs of stall doors and
above urinals. The overabundance of
media screens were provided by management for the express purpose of catering
to its clientele’s desire to watch replays and play by play analysis of the
day’s trading.
These days,
the patrons of The After Hours Lounge would much rather watch themselves make
money than see their hard won gains disappear into the g-string of some cheap
entertainer.
7.b.ii.
“So apparently
these booths were used for lap dances in the old days,” said Bull Market
squirming around chairs that rode up against glossy leathered walls and crowded
around a small table. “That’s why the
room’s so small. Normally there’s only
two or three chairs in here at a time. It’s
not so snug then. OH! Here it is.
Look.”
Bull Market
gestured to a television screen which hung from the wall like a framed
landscape. On it was a man making a
series of complex gestures and emphatic facial expressions. That man was Bull Market. Text scrolled across the bottom of the screen
displaying financial figures. Pie charts and graphs popped in and out of the
upper right corner.
“Watch
this. I dump a tech stock just before
the price plummets. Made a killing.”
The image
reset, displayed the same footage, but this time in slow motion. A voiceover, which was far too excited for
the material being shown, offered a play by play of the event and then went on
to examine gains figures and percentage yields.
He passed it back over to the studio and three people in slick green
blazers discussed the amazing portfolio of the man called Bull Market.
“Awesome! Wasn’t that awesome?” said Bull Market. Before any response was made, a waitress,
dressed like a very skilled secretary, arrived with food. The Union , realizing
how starved they all were, forwent politeness and etiquette and converged on
the platters like chortling pigs.
“Good God,
when did you guys last eat?” Bull Market asked.
“Thirteenth
floor,” Business Woman replied.
Bull Market
looked confused.
“What day is
this?” asked Corporate Man.
Bull Market
looked even more confused.
“I… I don’t
know,” said Bull Market. Then he
smiled. “I haven’t thought a lot about
dates and stuff. You know, with all this
money making I’ve been doing.”
“Yeah, you
mentioned that. And we saw you on the
instant replay,” said Corporate Man. “But what is this place exactly? It looks like Wall Street.”
Bull Market
laughed. “Wall Street’s like a
backwater, country road compared to this place.
Everything happens here first. If
the Dow Jones drops, or NASDAQ shows a gain, you can bet it’s because of what
we did here the day before. This is the true stock market.”
“Can you show
us?” asked Senior Executive.
“Well, yeah,
obviously. I mean you guys wouldn’t be
here if they weren’t going to let you compete.”
“Then let’s
go,” said Corporate Man.
“Wait, wait,
wait. No rush. I’m still eating,” said Business Woman.
This comment
spurred a collection of head tilts, deep sighs, eye rolls, grins, and even some
nods of approval. Those nodding followed
the gesture with an increased shoveling of food into mouth.
“Market’s
closed right now,” Bull Market said.
“It’ll open up again in the morning.”
A moment of
silence followed. As much silence as can
be expected while at a table full of heartily eating business types.
“Are there
hotel rooms on this floor?” asked Senior Executive.
“Oh yeah. Hey!
You should all come back to my suite,” Bull Market said.
“That’s
tempting, but we should get some rooms and get some sleep,” said Corporate
Man.
“I don’t know when any of us has had a chance to sleep recently.”
“No, you got
to come. Besides, these rooms are
huge. We could have them bring in a few
more beds and we’d all fit. With room to
spare.”
7.b.iii.
As mentioned
previously, The After Hours Lounge was designed to cater to powerful, obscenely
wealthy men with outlandish, hedonistic needs.
Therefore the available lodgings for these lust swollen entrepreneurs
required a great amount of square footage in which to house all of these
seething, nigh ritualistic, orgies that were sure to take place. A supply of extra beds ensured that, should
multiple platforms of sexual conflagration be required, then guests would not
be left wanting.
Though the
sexual impetus had evaporated, the extra space had not been retroactively
converted into additional units or broken up into more useable, or economically
logical units. Current clientele found
the ample floor area an enhancement to that superstar feeling they craved and
often found the need to host large, post trade parties for select associates in
which recordings of the days financial events might, once again, be viewed and
appreciated.
7.b.iv.
Franklin Buck
was sweating. He wished he still had
that beach towel. Then he could wipe his
dripping forehead or fashion some sort of head wrap to collect all this perspiration. The sweat that came with all this running.
He streaked
down bejeweled corridors, with gilded molding.
The gems were, most certainly, foil-backed faceted plastic and the gold
probably cheap spray paint. He’d learned
that much.
Behind him, in
full pursuit, was a band of heavily armed guards with shiny scimitar
swords. The personal guard of the
Nigerian Prince. Why scimitars?
All this
trouble for simply trying to help. Franklin
gritted his teeth and the ache in his side worsened.
He never
should have accepted that check!
7.b.v.
As it turned
out, Bull Market’s wish was granted.
Partially. There was only one
available room left when the Union made their accommodations
so it was decided that the ladies would get their own suite and the guys would
bunk in with the Bull.
Bull Market
found this slightly disappointing, and more dissatisfaction came his way when his
much anticipated guests began falling asleep during the second replaying of his
bright and shining fiscal moment.
Disappointed, he gave up and they all turned in for the night.
He woke them
in the morning with a vast, room service catered breakfast during which they
watched the replay of his successes of the previous day complete with analysis
of same and forecasts for the coming day.
Bull Market had taken the liberty of having the Union ’s
clothes laundered and pressed during the night so they would all be fresh and
clean and sharp for the days trading. Couldn’t
go in with blood stains and torn fabric after all.
“Why don’t you
come with us?” said Corporate Man.
“What do you
mean?” asked Bull Market.
“Well, we
aren’t here to trade stocks, we’re trying to get to the top. Find the man upstairs if you will, the one
responsible for it all,” said Senior Executive.
“Are you
kidding? This is the biggest and best
thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve
never made more money,” said Bull Market.
“Yeah, we get
that,” said Business Woman. “But when
are you gonna go home and do something will that money?”
Bull Market
looked puzzled. He’d never considered
this. “I don’t know. When they ask me to leave, I guess. I mean, I can’t stop now, right? I’m winning.
I’m on a roll. You’ll see. Let’s head to the floor and take up
positions. Once you feel that buzz,
score that first big trade, then you’ll see.”
7.b.vi.
Franklin Buck
preferred the running. At least that
made sense. This debtor’s prison made no
sense at all. After that enormous,
meandering escalator he’d found himself in a small lobby with a popcorn machine
and free coffee. There was a teller
window, behind which was a door. On this
door was a sign indicating a stairwell leading to the lobby. The only way to get beyond the teller window
and continue his efforts to find the lobby floor was to sign up for a free
checking account. As soon as he’d signed
his name and had been issued a debit card, a team of burly security guards
slapped cuffs on his wrists and hauled him into a dimly lit corridor where they
tossed him into a cell.
An hour later
a piece of mail dropped into his holding pen, through a slot in the wall.
It was an
account balance statement alerting him to an overdraft of funds. Apparently, upon the opening of his account
it was noted that there were insufficient funds which, and the terms of the
free account clearly stipulated (in paragraph twelve of subsection thirty-two
of the sixteenth entry under the heading account
parameters), that should an account carry a balance under five hundred dollars
then a twenty-five dollar fee would be applied.
Furthermore, there was an additional twenty-five dollar convenience
charge for the pleasure of speaking with a real live teller. The debit card was free, but another
twenty-five dollar fee had been tacked on for the assignment of a personalized
PIN number.
“Hey!”
Franklin Buck shouted. “This is
bullshit! When I signed up you only
asked me for a hundred bucks. And
speaking to the teller? You kidding me?”
He read
on. With twenty-five dollars left in his
account, guards were proactively summoned to haul Franklin
off to debtor’s prison because the twenty-five dollar fee for summoning said
guards would bring his account balance to zero.
Additionally, a seventy-five dollar convenience charge would be tacked
on for each live guard as well as a rental fee for the cell in which he was to
be detained. Meals would result in fees
as well. The statement went on to
document twenty-five dollar overdraft fees which were to be applied to each
charge following the zero balance due to the insufficient funds in the account to
which all charges were being attributed to.
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. “Barack knows about this place?”
“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.
7.c.ii.
There were too
many levels, too many rooms. He needed
to go up, but it seemed as though these passages always went down two or three
levels for every one ascent.
After escaping
the boudoir of the irresistibly seductive Pink Slip, Franklin Buck found
himself at the offices doors of a business called Pinnacle Inc. The walls of the place were of quarried
sandstone and strange Egyptian-like hieroglyphs marched across all the surfaces.
Before he
could enter he was forced to buy a franchise business, but the purpose and
operation of the business was never made clear in the paperwork. The only thing that was made clear was that
it was expected of him to “sign up customers” upon whose fees he would earn
residual income and, more importantly, to “sign up representatives” upon whose
customers he would each additional residuals.
After that
he’d entered the crazy sandstone structure.
And now he was
lost.
Every
stairwell he discovered was guarded by a sphinx and the sphinx demanded that he
sign up five additional customers or one rep before he could gain entry to the
ascending stair.
7.c.iii.
“Prosperity. That’s the key folks. Once we prosper, then we’ll find that we’re
not disprosperous anymore,” said George W. Bush, tilting his head and cocking
his cowboy hat in a reassuring manner.
“Tax cuts will ensure prosperity and deregulation enables businesses to
take advantage of this prosperity and grow.
And growth is the only way …” He
jangled his hand as if jostling man-fruit.
Then he redoubled the intensity of the movement to emphasize each of his
next statements. “Prosperity. Tax
cuts. Deregulation. Change my diaper. War on poverty.”
The crowd
roared. The applause of deafening. George W. adjusted his diaper in quick
thrusting movements and the crowd roared again.
“Wait,” said Corporate
Man.
“Did he make these kind of speeches during his terms in office?”
“Yes,” said
Business Woman, jaw clenching.
“And he got
elected for a second term?”
Business Woman
sighed and said, “Yes. People are that stupid.”
Bull Market
paced frantically, scratching haphazardly.
“This is not good. Not good at
all.”
“We all want
the same things, right?” George W. Bush continued. “We want to live life, have our things, be
happy Americans, and kill terrorists. Am
I right?”
Cheers from
the crowd.
“Sure I’m
right. No terrorist left behind!”
An earthquake
of crowd noise.
“The only way
we can do all that is by prospering and the only way we can prospersize is by
fixing this economy and then only was we can fix this economy is by having a
conversation. Starting a dialogue with
economists and trusting in our business leaders who are already very prosperous
because they know how to do it. And we
can all follow their example. So spend
money. Stimulate the economy. And trust in the system. Let the economy correct itself. Prosper.
And that alone will create prosperity.
And prosperity for the nation means that we can continue our war on
children.”
The response
to this was disparately flat. A secret
serviceman shuffled onto the stage and positioned himself behind and to the
side of George W. Bush. He reached a
tentative finger toward the waistband of the former President’s diaper, pulled
it open slightly, and peered down inside.
His brow furrowed and his lips pulled back from his teeth. The agent nodded and was joined by more
secret servicemen. They carried W. off
the stage.
An alarm bell
sounded, signally the start of trading.
Bull Market
charged forward shouting, “Sell!
Sell! Sell!”
The arena
became a frenzy of aggressive activity and overpowering noise. Everyone trying desperately to outmaneuver
and out hand-signal each other. Bull
Market’s cries were drown out by the crowd and he was swept away into a boiling
mass as mob panic consumed the floor.
Tele-screens
and digital tickers displayed falling numbers as the market plummeted. A noise, like a high pitched whine, pierced
the air then grew higher and higher.
“Oh damn. This is bad,” said Business Woman.
“We gotta get
out of here,” Senior Executive hissed.
“It’s too
late,” said Corporate Man. “It’s here.”
Commander
Credit’s eyes gleamed and smile cut across his face. He checked the weapon systems on his arm and
said, “Yes. And it’s about damn time.”
7.c.iv.
Franklin Buck
was running again. He’d navigated
through the Black Market and defeated the Prime Mortgage Lenders in a three
fall cage match hammer battle. Now the
Foreign Investors were after him, trying to maneuver him into complex financial
death traps arranged in various back room spaces, secret hallway access
tunnels, and lavish hotel lobbies.
He ducked into
a maintenance closet and held his breath as footsteps passed him by. Franklin Buck exhaled and was about to open
the door and continue on when something in the room flickered. He turned and on the top shelf, next to the
toilet bowl cleaner and drain declogger, were two small cardboard boxes.
The flickering
light was coming from inside these boxes.
One light was
a luminous silver.
The other warm
and golden.
7.c.v.
A huge,
hulking behemoth dropped from the arena ceiling and onto the stage. A shockwave rippled from this man-shaped
bomb’s epicenter, buckling the stage and toppling market traders and coffee
fetchers.
The Union
was upended.
There was a
series of deep clunking sounds that followed and whole sections of the floor
fell away at random but oddly precise intervals. Desks, chairs, paperwork, and traders were
tossed into gaping crevasses.
When the
shuddering stopped, Corporate Man stood up, expecting to see the chaotic
wreckage normally associated with an earthquake. This was not the case. There was a pattern, a maze of elevated
walkways. The remnants of floor sections
that had not fallen away in the shock’s wake.
He peered over down into the newly formed chasm. A similar pattern was evident in the depths
but as a labyrinth of high walled trenches.
On the far
side of the maze, roaring like a conquering warlord amidst the splintered ruins
of the arena stage, stood the hulking form of The Crash.
“I’ve waited
years for this, you son of bitch!” Commander Credit shouted. He bolted past Corporate Man across the
smooth, carpeted surface of the elevated maze.
The Crash ceased its emphatic bellows, glanced down, and spotted
Commander Credit. The monster grinned
and flared its eyes. With a burst of
speed incongruent to its bulk, The Crash leapt from the stage and charged
across the surface of the maze seeking and avenue that would lead to its
quarry.
Corporate Man
turned to Business Woman, but she wasn’t there.
Neither were Supply and Demand.
Bull Market was also nowhere to be seen.
“They fell,”
Senior Executive called out. He was
perched on the surface of the maze, a trench separating him from Corporate
Man.
“Down there, somewhere.”
“We need to
help them,” said Corporate Man.
“No, we need
to stop The Crash. The can take care of
themselves.”
“We help our
own first,” said Corporate Man. “Business Woman! Supply!
Demand!”
“We’re here!”
Business Woman called out from somewhere in the depths of the labyrinth. “A little bruised, but I think we can
manage. How do we get out of here?”
“I don’t
know. It looks like some sort of maze.”
“What about
The Crash? That thing isn’t down here
with us, is it?”
“No,” said
Senior Executive. “It’s still on the
surface, coming this way. Commander
Credit rushed off. He’s trying to make
his way toward it.”
“Well get out
there and give him a hand. We’ll try to
find our own way out.”
“Alright. We’ll come back for you when we can,” said
Corporate Man, flipping his necktie cape over his shoulder and leaping
upward. The ascent of leap crested when
he was over the center of the open trench.
Then the descent began. He
flailed and groped as he slammed into the sidewall of the maze, fingers gouging
into the commercial grade burber at the top of the trench wall. Senior Executive grabbed Corporate Man’s
wrist and pulled him up onto the platform.
“I forgot that
that happens when it’s around,” said Corporate
Man.
The two men regarded each other for a moment and then sprinted across
the top of the maze toward The Crash.
7.c.vi.
“Anything
broken or sprained real bad?” Business Woman asked.
“My shoulder,”
said Demand. “But nothing that’ll keep
me from moving.”
“I’m fine,”
said Supply.
Business Woman
looked around. It was dark in the
trench. The walls were charcoal grey and
there were marks, like cliff shearing, scraping down them. She pushed her way past an errand boy and a
couple of day traders and called out, “Bull!
Bull Market? You okay? Are you hurt?”
She rounded a
corner easing past two of the polo-clad sect as they helped a fine-suited trader
gain his feet. Both had visible
injuries. A gashed and bleeding head, a
leg that seemed to attach incorrectly, a broken nose, and extremely dislocated
fingers. Beyond them was Bull Market. He
was doubled over, writhing and moaning.
“Bull, buddy,
what’s wrong?” Business Woman asked, ignoring the pleads of the injured day
traders nearby.
“Get away from
me,” he grunted. “Go! While you still can.”
“Bull Market,
listen to–”
“Go! I can’t stop him. He’s coming.
Run!” Bull Market screamed. Then
his back arched and something deep inside him cracked. He howled, in agony, and tore at his chest,
ripped open the buttons of his shirt, and yanked frantically at his tie.
“Oh shit,”
said Business Woman. She turned and ran
back down the corridor, shouting, “Go! Go!
It’s nineteen eighty-seven all over again. Run!”
“What is
it? What’s happened?” Supply said as she and Demand took their cues
and ran. Several of the more intelligent
day traders followed suit.
“It’s Bull
Market,” said Business Woman. “He’s gone
Bear!”
Bull Market’s
thick, bovine face contorted unnaturally as he shrieked. Hollow, wet sounds, like rocks scraping
together in a bowl of oatmeal, grated beneath his skin. His blunted teeth cracked and then splintered
into sharp, jagged points. Tufts of
coarse, musky hair sprouted all over his body.
His suit, ragged and torn, clung to him in tatters.
And then Bear
Market roared.
A couple of
the less intelligent day traders, having ignored Business Woman’s subtle hints
that they should vacate the area, caught sight of Bear Market. Realization came too late. The beast was upon them, clawing and gnashing
and growling. Jagged teeth ripped away
huge chunks of spurting flesh.
Blood and
screams painted the dark walls of the labyrinth.
7.c.vii.
The Crash
charged along the narrow pathways of the maze’s surface, beating and battering
the day traders unfortunate enough to find themselves sharing space with the
behemoth. Some leapt into the trenches
below and were gifted with broken leg bones or dislocated hips. A few unlucky ones met a coarse-haired
blender with jagged teeth. Pieces of
these unfortunates found their way back up on the ledge accompanied by a
crimson mist.
Commander
Credit ran along the top of the maze firing gold cards from the launcher in his
cybernetic arm. Negotiating the
confusing pathway did nothing for his aim and the majority of these cards
pocked against ledge walls, or snagged in the tight curls of the carpeted
surface. A few found purchase in their
intended target, sinking into The Crash’s flesh like arrows into a stampeding
buffalo. Blood, black and tar thick, seeped from wherever the credit card
blades stuck.
The gaps
between the ledges narrowed. Commander
Credit thought the move might bring him closer to his quarry so he leapt the
trench and continued on a new path.
The Crash picked up a polo-clad coffee
fetcher, used him like a bat to whack a small group of day traders into the
labyrinth, and then flung the now unconscious man across several sections of
the maze at Commander Credit. The body
thudded against the ledge wall, face and arms slapping across the platform like
a wet towel.
Senior
Executive and Corporate Man continued to pick their way through the maze as fleeing
packs of day traders rushed by haphazardly and almost knocked them into the
trench. Senior Executive punched the
keys on his smart phone when he could risk a glance toward it. Ahead they could see the distance between
Commander Credit and The Crash narrowing.
7.c.viii.
Deep bellowing
growls echoed through the labyrinth accompanied on occasion by high-pitched,
blood curdling shrieks.
“We’ve been this
way already,” Supply said.
“No we
haven’t,” said Business Woman. “I don’t
recognize… Oh wait. Yep. That dead guy over there. I’ve seen that poor bastard before.”
Pieces of torn
up day traders lie scattered about their feet. A metal, gamey smell clung to
air, intermingling with the scent of terror loosened bowels. The deep roar
sounded in the corridors again. They
could feel it vibrate through their chests.
“We’ve got to
move,” said Demand. “Quickly.”
“Yeah, but
which way? Where is that thing?” said
Supply.
Business Woman
peered tentatively around a corner and then motioned for her companions to
follow. When the path split they paused
to consider their options. Someone
nearby screamed. This was followed by a
loud roar and more screaming.
And then wet
sounds.
Cracking
sounds.
Gurgling
choking sounds.
Business Woman
led them toward the disturbance.
“Wait? Why are we going toward it?” asked Supply.
“We don’t know
if this path leads toward that thing or not,” said Business Woman. “The other direction might double back and
put us right in Bear Market’s jaws.”
They turned
another corner and saw a bear-man eating a day trader.
Supply jumped
and Business Woman shifted into a defensive posture.
Financial
stats scrolled beneath the image and the scene played again but this time in
slow motion.
“That’s it,”
said Business Woman pointing to the huge telescreen hanging above the far end
of the corridor. “This whole place is
jammed with TVs. Everything is being
filmed. We should be able to get a fix
on Bear Market once they cut back to live footage.”
Another slow
motion replay of a particularly gory encounter appeared on the screen. A group, consisting of two day traders and an
errand boy, ran afoul of Bear Market.
The chivalrous day traders let the errand boy have first go at the
snarling beast, shoving their younger colleague forward and then, in a further
display of generosity, allowing him ample space for the impending exchange by
turning quickly and running down the corridor.
Luckily, the day traders were not refused a part in the fray as the
errand boy held up as well as wet toilet paper against a circular saw and Bear
Market was on top of them before they could disappear around the first corner.
Several
statistics flickered across the screen and the stock ticker continued its
ceaseless scrolling. A wide angle,
bird’s-eye shot of the arena replaced the slow motion brutality. The Crash stamped along the top of the maze,
bulldozing the scurrying day traders, trampling a few unlucky ones and knocking
several more into the death trench.
Bear Market
was visible at the edge of the screen. A
red fog seemed to hover around him.
“He’s a couple
of walls that way,” Business Woman said, gesturing. “And it looks like we can get to the end of
this maze if we keep heading the way we’re going, then take the second right,
followed by the third right, and then a quick left before – Ah! The screen changed. We’ll just have to find another TV when we
get that far.”
They moved
down the corridor, through echoing growls and screams, hoping that Bear Market
wouldn’t roar into their path.
7.c.ix.
Commander
Credit skirted another corner on the surface of the maze and found himself
looking down a long, straight pathway.
At the far end loomed The Crash, bellowing and beating its chest with
the bloodied torso of an overused day trader.
Commander
Credit let loose with a piercing war cry and then screamed, “I’m gonna cancel
your ass you huge pile of shit!”
He cocked a
lever on his cybernetic arm and charged.
The Crash roared and thundered across the ledge. Seismic shudderings pulsed through structure
of the maze. Commander Credit fired a
steady stream of platinum card’s at the monster’s face. A few bounced off, but the majority stuck
like porcupine quills in a curious dog’s muzzle. The Crash swiped at the cards, ripping them
from its face, the uprooted blade edges black with sticky tar-blood.
And then they
were upon each other.
The Crash
tried to charge through his opponent, but Commander Credit leaped up and off
the edge of the maze, fired a small barbed shaft from his mechanical arm. There was a thick cable that connected the
barbed shaft to the interior housing of his arm. The other end jabbed deep into The Crash’s
shoulder.
Commander
Credit activated a toggle switch on his mechanical arm sending a pulse of
electrical current through the cable.
The voltage was minimal and had not direct effect on The Crash, but it
activated several pneumatic pistons within the barbed shaft and caused the
housing of the shaft to expand fifteen to twenty-three percent in size. Commander Credit gripped the cable of the
variable-hook and used his momentum to swing out over the trench and back onto
the maze ledge, landing behind the enraged creature. He punched a PIN number into a keypad on his
arm and a sharp, magnetic strip popped out, running like a blade from his elbow
to his wrist. He slashed at The Crash’s
exposed ankles. Spurts of thick, greasy
tar burst from severed Achilles. The
man-creature howled, toppled forward, and slid across the pathway where it
teetered on the edge of the trench and almost fell into the labyrinth. Its mammoth hand slapped and locked onto the
wall across the void, halting its descent.
Thick fingers dug in, splintering the hard material.
Commander
Credit leapt forward, slashing. His
black magnetic strip slicing into The Crash’s exposed foot.
The hulking
creature clamped its legs together, its knees snapping shut on Commander Credit
like a rat trap. There was a popping
sound and all the air went out of Commander Credit’s lungs. His mechanical arm was pinned up against his
neck, the magnetic strip blade and the gold and platinum ordinance inside, now all
but useless.
“You…”
Commander Credit wheezed.
The Crash
tightened its leg vice.
“I’m…” and
again he couldn’t utter an additional word.
He needed a good quip here.
Something defiant and snarky.
Something to show that he had met death and was spitting in its
eye. But he couldn’t even gasp, or
wheeze, let alone be clever.
The world
turned grey.
7.c.x.
The labyrinth
didn’t necessarily follow the same path as the ledge-maze above. For instance, there were circular doorways
that tunneled through sidewalls allowing passage where, up on top, there was no
such option. More than one corridor that
at first appeared unbarred became impassable when the walkway became a decline,
dipping far beneath floor level, and terminating at a steep wall. And there were pits in the floor that dropped
away into blackness. If one were to test
the depths of these dark holes by dropping something down one of them, a
dismembered hand of an unlucky day trader for example, it would be an unnerving
amount of time before a thudding report sounded from the bottom.
“Damn that’s
deep,” said Business Woman, wiping blood from her hands on the suit of a
nearby, hand-amputated corpse.
“Can we jump
it?” asked Demand.
Business Woman
tilted her head, shoulders slumping, and said, “You want to try?”
“Well... not
really.”
“What are we
going to do?” asked Supply. “Go
back? I think Bear Market’s back there.”
“Yeah. Can’t go back,” said Business Woman.
“I could grow
and get you guys out of here. There’s
often an excess supply of luxury items during a crash so it wouldn’t be that difficult.”
“No. Then you’d be trapped down here alone and
we’d still be lost but up there with The Crash.
Maybe if you were big you could see better and lead–”
Business Woman
stopped. She stared at the pit and bit
her lower lip.
“Well we
can’t–” Demand started.
“Hold on. Give me a second here,” said Business Woman
holding her palm toward Demand. A low,
rumbling growl echoed off the trench walls.
It sounded close. “Okay. Demand.
Focus on increasing the demand of a particular commodity.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t
know,” said Business Woman. “Just pick
one.”
“You mean… Oranges
or something?” Demand asked.
“Sure. Whatever pops into your head first.”
Demand scowled
and took a deep breath. His jaw clenched
and his hands bunched into fists. The
floor vibrated, a slight tingly hum are first, and then an excited,
pleasure-bed shudder. A section of floor rose up from the pit and locked into
place, almost seamless with the rest of the trench floor.
“Come on,
quick, before Bear Market catches up to us,” Business Woman said as they sped
across the new floor. Then, as if on
cue, a roar echoed off the walls, loud and close.
“Wait a
second,” said Demand, turning back. He
held his hands up, palms outward, and eyes pinched shut. There was a crack, like a rifle shot, and the
section of floor fell away, leaving a pit once more.
“So he can’t
follow us,” Demand said.
Bear Market
charged around a corner and into view, flailing his clawed, syrupy-red
paw-hands and roaring. He skidded to a
stop at the edge of the pit, howled wildly, and slammed his arms against the
floor, claws gouging jagged ravines across the smooth surface. Two snuffling grunts sent sprays of ravenous
saliva and day trader red into the air.
Then he bolted back down the corridor, the way he’d come.
“Too bad,”
said Business Woman. “I was hoping he’d
fall into the pit.”
“That just
what I was think–”
But Demand
didn’t finish. Another deep roar cut him
off. And then heavy pounding footsteps.
Bear Market
burst into view, charged down the trench corridor, and leapt over the pit like
a pouncing cougar. His hairy, blood
matted body slammed against the floor and slid toward them leaving a scarlet
trail.
And then he
was up, springing forward. Howling and
snarling. Terrible teeth bared, ragged
with scraps of torn suit fabric and stockbroker flesh.
7.c.xi.
The Crash
pulled itself upward, its head and back still dangling over the trench, legs
tightening around the limp form of Commander Credit. After it maneuvered itself onto the ledge and
sat up, The Crash pulled the little man from between its legs and stood, leaning
on its hand for balance; its hand leaning on Commander Credit for emphasis.
The hulking
behemoth growled and picked up the limp man.
It cocked its head and studied the small thing. It smelled him. Then, quite gingerly, a swollen purple
tongue, cobalt veins bulging on the underside, poked out form its cracked lips
and touched the unconscious man’s cheek.
The Crash grinned. Somewhere in
its tiny, primitive, reptilian brain a connection was made.
1987.
It didn’t
recognize or even think in terms of the numerical date, but felt a general
awareness of events from that era. The
Crash gripped Commander Credit’s good arm between its huge finger and
thumb. It adjusted its other hand,
positioning the thumb beneath the pit of the cybernetic arm with massive index
finger on the shoulder and neck of the opposite side; the rest of its fingers
gripping the ribs below.
The Crash
started pulling.
Joints
popped.
Muscle fibers
tore.
“Sorry to
interrupt your Black Monday, but…” Senior Executive shoved his smart phone into
the Crash’s face. Light blared from the
screen, blue-white and hot. The Crash’s
eyes shriveled, pupils going as white as hard boiled eggs.
The Crash let
go of Commander Credit’s cybernetic arm and covered its eyes. It swatted at the blinding, burning light with
the limp body still gripped in its other hand.
Senior Executive jumped back, dodging with ease. The Crash roared and swung Commander Credit around
in flailing, desperate arcs. It shuffled
its feet, determining the orientation of the maze ledge, and hurled Commander
Credit along the wall’s path directly at Senior Executive.
“My portfolio
will protect me,” Senior Executive called out, swiping his finger across the
phone’s touch screen. A series of
charts, graphs, account information, and other investment data opened up and
out of the device, one on top of the other, crystalline and impossibly fast
until a full body-sized, blue-light shield, blazed from the phone.
Senior
Executive blocked the human projectile that was Commander Credit, the impact of
the body thrumming like high tension cables against the blazing shield. Caught in the electric hum the Commander slid
to Senior Executive’s feet and slumped across the ledge. Corporate Man jumped down from above, necktie
fluttering behind him, and gathered up Commander Credit in his arms.
“It seems as
though our stocks are rising, despite your efforts,” Corporate Man shouted at
The Crash. “With our careful investment
strategy focusing on recession proof commodities we–”
But he was
drown out by a flesh quivering bellow as The Crash, blind and enraged, charged
toward them on the narrow ledge.
7.c.xii.
They raced
through the corridors, Bear Market snarling and gnashing at their backs. Business Woman was in the rear. She could feel the damp heat of sure death on
her ankles as she ran.
“Which way?”
Supply shouted as they approached a divergence in the trench labyrinth.
“I don’t
know,” said Business Woman. “Just
go. Go!
GO!”
They turned
right and kept running. Bear Market
slammed into the corridor wall as his intended prey swept around the corner,
but he was at Business Woman’s back again within a couple of strides.
“If we turn
into a dead end we’ll encounter the literal meaning of that term,” said Demand.
Jaws snapped
and snagged the back of Business Woman’s suit jacket. Bear Market jerked his head, tearing the dark
blue fabric and disrupting her stride.
She stumbled, then slammed into the floor and slid. Her speed carried her into an intersection of
corridors. Supply and Demand turned
left. Business Woman scrambled,
redirected her momentum, and launched herself to the right. Bear Market’s teeth snapped on the empty air
she’d occupied only seconds before. She
yanked her jacket off, backed further into the corridor, and shook it like a
matador.
Bear Market
charged.
He was almost
upon her when Business Woman jerked the jacket to the left and pivoted to allow
the beast passage. Bear Market, anticipating
the feint, bit toward the right. His
jaws clamped down on empty air again as Business Woman leapt upward, slammed
her palms onto Bear Market’s head, used it as a spring board, and vaulted over
the charging ursine body. As soon as her
feet touched the ground she streaked down the passageway after Supply and
Demand.
She found her
companions less than one hundred yards later.
At a dead end.
“We’re dead,”
said Demand.
“No,” Business
Woman said.
“We. Are.
Dead,” said Demand, turning toward her.
“We can beat
this thing,” said Business Woman.
“How?” asked
Supply.
A roar echoed
off the walls. Bear Market slowly crept
around the corner and into view.
“Increase
Supply on all necessary commodities,” said Business Woman.
“That won’t
deter Bear Market,” Supply said.
“Just do it!”
Business Woman shouted. Immediately,
Supply started growing. “When prices
plummet we’ll buy up everything, reverse it, and increase demand. I can then–”
She froze.
“My PDA’s
gone,” Business Woman said, rifling through her jacket. “It must have dropped–”
Bear Market
slammed into them. A clawed, paw-shaped
hand knocked Demand against the side wall.
Blood flowed into the fabric of his purple jacket along four slashing
lines. Bear Market’s other arm pinned
Supply against the wall as he snapped his jagged mouth at Business Woman. She dodged the gnashing teeth, but, without
hesitation, Bear Market jerked toward Supply and clamped down on her neck.
There was a
sound that occurred during this moment.
It wasn’t a terrified scream, like that of trapped prey or horror movie
unfortunates. It was muffled, slightly
gurgled, and similar to the noise a person makes after eating something
distasteful or hot but finds they are unable to spit it out.
This sound
came from Bear Market.
Supply was swelling.
Terrified and
panicking, she was unable to think of anything other than
my-god-a-huge-man-bear-is-killing-me. As
her mass increased, so did the amount of blood in her system. Blood that Bear Market was feasting on. Blood
that was gushing down his throat.
And he
couldn’t let go.
His teeth were
buried in her neck flesh, which was expanding and bloating. Bear Market’s back hunched. He thrashed, struggling to get free. His violent movements furthered Supply’s
panic and her size doubled in seconds.
Bear Market puffed up like a mosquito trapped in a camper’s arm.
“Supply! Calm down!” Demand shouted, his hand
clutching the bleeding gashes on his side.
But his shouts grew softer as his body shriveled and diminished. A moment later Supply’s body filled the
trench. Demand was the size of rat.
Business Woman
leapt onto Supply’s knee and climbed up to her shoulder. She grabbed Bear Market’s jaw and wrenched
it, but nothing happened. Panic flashed
in Bear Market’s eyes and she redoubled her efforts, tugging and prying and
pounding on his snout.
7.c.xiii.
The portfolio
shield emanating from the smart phone crackled and hissed as The Crash pushed
against it. Senior Executive was losing
ground. The force of the financial
disaster’s onslaught pushed him back toward the end of the pathway; the edge of
the ledge.
Corporate Man
signaled, gesturing toward the drop off, indicating that they should leap to
the side where the path-maze forked at a T-shaped junction and that this action
would result in the blinded Crash falling into the trench.
It didn’t
work.
Somehow The
Crash knew, as if the shape of the maze was a part of it and the thing turned
when the two men made their leap, as though it could see them.
“We’ve got a
problem,” said Corporate Man.
“I see
that. How can it anticipate the shape of
the maze?” said Senior Executive.
“That’s not
what I meant,” Corporate Man said, shifting Commander Credit’s body onto one
shoulder. “I think we chose the wrong
path back there. This lane dead ends in
another hundred feet.”
The Crash
surged forward, spurred on by Corporate Man’s words. Sparks
erupted from the smart phone shield.
“It’s reaching
Depression levels,” shouted Corporate Man. “You got any tricks left?”
“Not
many. We may have to sacrifice Credit,”
said Senior Executive, straining to hold his position on the shield as blue
sparks rocketed past his face.
“That’s not an
option,” Corporate Man said. His foot
teetered on the drop off. The Crash
continued to push. Senior Executive
skidded backwards and into Corporate Man and they nearly toppled.
“Enough!” a
voice rang out.
The Crash
hesitated, lifting its head in an effort to locate the voice.
A flash of
gold and silver streaked over Corporate Man’s head and a silvery flash exploded
at The Crash’s temple. The giant
stumbled back and a golden explosion burst under its chin sending it sprawling
across the top of the ledge.
Franklin Buck
stood atop the maze. His fists
glowing. One gold and one silver. He glanced back at Corporate Man and Senior
Executive, cocked a smile, and then advanced on The Crash.
“I’m here, you
monster. I’m Franklin Buck, the One
Hundred Dollar Man and I wield the power of the Gold and Silver Standards.”
The Crash
twisted onto its feet and charged, howling, milky eyes wild. Franklin
crouched and rammed a silver punch up into The Crash’s groin. Then he jumped and delivered a golden hammer
blow, knocking The Crash backward. A
flurry of alternating punches, silver gold, silver gold, fired like pistons
into the staggering behemoth. Gold
across its massive jaw, then silver to the sternum. Gold snapping the bridge of its nose.
The Crash
dropped to its knees and Franklin
chopped, silver and gold, on the sides of its neck. He reached back for one final golden blow and
punched with all his might. With all the
Gold Standard could bear.
His fist
slammed into The Crash’s open palm.
The Crash
growled, its hand clamped around Franklin ’s
golden fist like a bear trap. Franklin
screamed as The Crash stood. It hoisted
him off the ground. Golden light flared
between the monster’s fingers.
7.c.xiv.
Bear Market’s
body swelled like an overstuffed tick.
Supply’s head, and most of her upper arms, jutted above the trench
wall. Her body, still in the shaft
below, was squeezed unnaturally in the narrow corridor.
“Demand! You’ve got to help her! You have to increase. You have to grow!” Business Woman
shouted. Her hands gripped and gouged at
Bear Market’s lips. She yanked, trying
to unclench his teeth and jaws.
“Do it
Demand! Now or else–”
Bear Market
exploded.
A burst of blood
geysered from Supply’s neck. The initial
crimson shock wave hit The Crash, spilling it into the trench. The Crash dropped Franklin Buck as it tried
to grasp the trench wall, but its hands slipped, unable to grip for all the
blood.
Pieces of Bear
Market rained down onto the maze and into the labyrinth; fluttering flaps of
skin and chunks of matted hair-fur. His
jaw, still lodged in Supply’s neck, the source of a scarlet fountain. Supply writhed and twisted and slowly shrank
into the depths of the trench.
Business Woman
lay strewn across a wall, gasping for breath, clinging to the unexpected perch.
“Help Franklin
Buck,” Corporate Man shouted as he dropped down from above, necktie-cape
fluttering behind him, landing near Business Woman. He was coated with a fine spray of red mist
and a shrapneling of bear meat.
“I’ve got
you,” Corporate Man said, clutching her wrist.
“Can you stand?”
Business Woman
nodded and, with his help, she regained her feet. Across the maze Senior Executive helped
Franklin Buck find his footing. Then
both men lifted Commander Credit, supporting him on their shoulders.
“We’re making
for the exit,” Senior Executive called out.
“Where are Supply and Demand?”
Corporate Man
looked into the trench. Supply lay
there, deflated and still. Face down in
her own blood. He shook his head.
“What about
Demand? He could still be alive,” said
Business Woman.
“I doubt
it. You can’t have one without the
other. I could head down there and take
a–”
A roar shook
the arena and then everything started to quake.
The Crash rumbled through the trenches, swinging its huge arms, breaking
walls, toppling whole sections of the maze into the dark spaces of the
labyrinth.
“Run!”
Corporate Man yelled.
They dashed
across the maze, turning haphazardly at intersections, choosing a course that
took them away from The Crash’s rampage, but in the general direction of the
stage.
The labyrinth
was fast becoming a pile of rubble.
The pathway
veered twice and put them on an intersecting path with the destroyer below.
“We have to
turn back,” Corporate Man said.
“No. I think this well lead us out,” said Business
Woman.
“It’s gonna
lead us out of this life.”
“Trust
me. This is the way.”
The maze
banked again putting The Crash on their right instead of directly ahead.
“See. We’ll be alright,” said Business Woman.
The Crash swerved
toward them. Debris, papers, shattered
wall, and mangled body parts rose about the giant like a dust devil. It exploded through the maze wall that Corporate
Man and Business Woman were running along leaving an expansive gap in their
path.
“Hang on!”
Corporate Man called out as they reached the edge. He grabbed Business Woman
around the waist and jumped. His necktie
unfurled behind him and they dropped down onto the ledge on the far side of the
Crash created chasm. They raced down the
walkway, huge television monitors fell from the ceiling and shattered all
around them. Amidst a shower of broken
glass and ruined diodes they made it to the stage area.
Senior
Executive, Franklin Buck, and a very groggy Commander Credit awaited them.
“The
elevator’s this way,” said Senior Executive.
They ran to
the exit door and out into a hallway.
Behind them The Crash continued its ruinous assault on the stock market
floor.
7.c.xv.
The Big
Bossman grinned. In front of him, on the
monitor screen, The Crash continued to destroy the thirty-ninth floor.
Strewn about
him were obsidian and ivory chess pieces.
Embedded in a wall panel was a CD, the words “strategies and tactics” showing
on the section of disc that remained visible.
He moved his
hand to a glowing red button and fingered it with a flourish.
“Prepare for
guests, General,” he said. “They are on
their way up.”