Stalking the Average Man
-The messenger had a long trip. | I nodded at my pages. -There‘s more. | I got up to get us
another cup of coffee.
-Give it another try tonight, | she said.
-A bowel movement is a regular part of my routine, | I replied...
Bonnie didn't find anything else metaphysical in that scene, nor did she say anything more
egregious than pointing out awkwardly constructed passages. I reread these, understood the
flaws, then setting my work aside took her to lunch to prod for a reward of information. It
couldn‘t hurt to try.
To my pleasant surprise, Bonnie filled in parts of her novel‘s overview nicely: her twentieth
century bad guys were part of a secretly connected group of the most influe ntial people on the
planet—two thousand individuals who had their fingers on the political pulse of the globe, which
collectively formed an iron grip on the planet‘s economic carotids. They bought sold, traded, and
manipulated events in an underground dance of commerce that could finesse a country‘s
financial stability, change educational, agricultural practices, instigate and control the spread of
disease through planned outbreaks, and discovering cures timed to the rising need of cartel-
priced medicines. Their bottom line, annually in the trillions, depended on the promulgation of
greed, fear, and fanaticism, couched in God‘s word, and patriotism to keep nations, regions, and
races divisive. If one of their handpicked dictators, or duly elected presidents, developed a
conscience, or otherwise began to think they were in control, a takeover of some kind followed.
Conversely, they allowed the obvious good guys of the world to run all of the equal opportunity,
level-the-playing- field social activities they desired, because they understood that supporting any
bias ultimately promoted the ism's for which it was designed to compensate. For the same
reasons, they quietly supported Band-Aid acts of social conscience, because superficial fixes
were ideal for helping the world‘s scavengers and sociopaths to endlessly impinge on the
public‘s sense of security. Bonnie called this odious bunch, whose depravity and despotism knew
no boundaries, the Players.
Teasing me , she said I had met some of them in my travels, as well as some of the good
guys who would help bring them down.
While the Players practiced their dark trades, her protagonists were studying the disciplines
of handling energy. In time, their skills and growing numbers would influence the Players‘ focus
on negative applications of their power, to enhance the impact of the irresistible forces‘ return
they had made inevitable. As I understood her, the focus of these emissaries of change was not
directed at felling felons, like cops chasing robbers; it was about stalking the footings of corrupt
empires by educating people to their ways, and how they contribute to their damaging ways.
Underestimating the effect of these -woo-woo | metaphysicians, who were actually focusing
massive, but as- yet silent existing momentums, when things began to fall apart trusted Players
would break ranks. This crack in their global operations would never seal; like water dripping
through a pinhole in a dam, wearing through exponentially into a catastrophic breach, so great
was their greed and suspicion that the erosion of their empires would become unstoppable.
This was great stuff for me—already condensed to explain who the protagonists were, and
why it would take acts of God to bring about change : trying to remember my morgue scene was
a small price to pay for what I might get in return.
It did cross my mind that I could lie about trying to do this, but there's too often an aspect of
an experience that either isn't known, or can't be faked for those who are in the know. People
who claimed to have worked the bang-bang showed me this, and Bonnie certainly knew her shit
well enough to question my reactions to exploring deep memories. Anyway, it made no sense to