The 2084 Precept

by Anthony D. Thompson

  I'll be out of here soon, he can't say I'm not giving him his money's worth, can he? Or maybe he can. What money anyway?

  "Peter, are you trying to tell me that your whole species is like this? I mean that your entire species is either involved in, or at least in agreement with, what is going on?"

  "Well, we allow it and that is a fact for sure," I said. "It depends on how you wish to interpret the situation,” I went on. “All of us eat meat, the entire species as you put it, except for a few vegetarians of course, and we are all fully aware of where the meat comes from and how. But none of us particularly want to know much about it. Certainly we would have no desire to spend a few days watching fellow human beings conscientiously working away in a slaughterhouse, we wouldn't want to stomach the smells or listen to the screams. We wouldn't want to spend a single day there, not even an hour. If we had to perform that work ourselves, most of us would become vegetarians. But the filet steaks are good, so is the veal escalope, so is the chicken pie, so are the pork chops and, oh yes, the hamburgers. Ignore and enjoy is our motto."

  I drank some more coffee. Good stuff. If he's as good in business as he is with his selection of coffee and secretaries, Jeremy here has to be running an extremely profitable group of companies, bonkers or not.

  "At the same time, most of us know about the baby seals and the torturing of animals in general, but we don't let that worry us too much either. There is nothing we can do about it, say the voting masses. If the morons we've voted into power allow it to continue, that's just the way it is. And they're right on that one, Jeremy, they can go on voting until they're blue in the face, but they'll never change anything for the simple reason that they can't change the human race. Plenty of them have tried and plenty of them have even been killed for their troubles, your Jeanne d'Arcs, your Rommels, your von Stauffenbergs and untold thousands back through history. Laudable people, all of them, but all they succeeded in doing was to die before their time. They didn't change the human race. On the other hand…"

  "But you are a member of the human race yourself, Peter. Yet you almost talk as if you consider yourself to be separate from them."

  "Correct, Jeremy, I am a member of the human race and just as much a part of everything that's going on as anyone else. But I am a cynic too, an unashamed one. I have read history, up to and including the most recent century, and I have seen that we don't change; I have seen that in fact we cannot change, and so I have stepped aside, taken a seat in the theater so to speak. I watch some of my fellow creatures doing their best, if you want to call it that. And that's why I don't vote, I never have and I never will, I leave it up to the voting masses. One half argues one way, the other half argues the other way, and both halves try to force their views onto everyone else. And who is to say whose views are best? Sometimes the first half wins, sometimes the second half wins, and so it goes on and on. A naïve and ridiculous procedure. All we do is argue and argue and argue; as I have said, sometimes with the use of weapons and sometimes without. You cannot realistically expect anything sensible to come out of such a process, can you? We read about what happens in our newspapers, day after day for decades, and then we die. Nothing changes."

  He asks a question, he gets an answer. It's a fair deal. And in any case I am only an interviewee in this fantasy world of his. He gets the facts as I see them. And they may be right and they may be wrong, but who cares? Not me. They are facts. They don’t upset me, it's the way things are. And today's good mood, although suffering from a sprinkling of depression, was still going strong, assisted, don't doubt it, by occasional thoughts concerning the dream and her possible lifestyle. Yes, and also by the fact that the rain had stopped.

  "On the other hand," I continued, "as I was saying, there are indeed some humans who are extremely conscious of the state of affairs regarding the murder and torture of other species, and these people have achieved the creation of several 'nature reserves' in order to protect a few of the animals from the human monster. To help them avoid extinction. Or at least to give them the chance of avoiding extinction. Of course, this doesn't work properly either. The laws are broken, there is poaching, humans break in, they commit animal kidnapping and other atrocities, they kill elephants either for their tusks or even just for the sport of it. Over half of Africa's elephants have been killed for the ivory trade since 1987. And in addition to the legal slaughter of the elephants, there are another 30,000 of them killed illegally each year. Western Africa's black rhinoceros was officially declared extinct not long ago. And, sadly, the list is a long one and it's ongoing. Nature reserves are now basically places where you can go to experience the past, but without the past’s plenitude of wildlife. The British environmentalist Max Nicholson once referred to them as living museums."

  "You mentioned killing as a sport before."

  "So I did, Jeremy, I apologize. But please don't consider that I was exaggerating. All kinds of human beings do it. Only recently in fact, the elected honorary president of the World Wildlife Fund itself, King Juan Carlos of Spain, proudly appeared in colorful photographs together with his slaughtered elephant. And by the way, we don't call these killing jaunts 'killing jaunts', Jeremy. We call them 'safaris', it sounds nicer."

  I finished the last of my coffee. "So to summarize, Jeremy, no we are not all like this. A small minority fights to save a few of the creatures. They have also set up 'rehabilitation homes' for the animals their fellow-humans have tortured, mistreated or abandoned—a plentiful supply of these as you may imagine—and they are always generally trying to do their best."

  "Well, I am pleased to hear that," interjected Jeremy, "although at the same time I have difficulty in coming to terms with the revolting horrors you have depicted, and which make protective care attempts a necessity in the first place. An extraordinary planet in this sense, absolutely extraordinary. For my own particular species, in fact for any of the universe's intelligent species, it is a fairly sickening tale—an abominable, repulsive and immoral tale—and I will need to reinforce my memorized notes with plenty of research or my professor might query the reliability of my facts. He might accuse me of distorting the truth, of factual exaggeration in order to enhance the dynamics of my thesis. But if I may say so, Peter, you personally do have views, that much is clear from several of your comments, and it would seem to me that you find these activities to be exceedingly abhorrent, is that not so?"

  "Yes Jeremy, it is. But again, my views are irrelevant. It is the facts that count. I cannot change the human race. I cannot change the way things are, and so my views don't worry me. The subject doesn't depress me either, except perhaps in an abstract way while describing it all. And so it doesn't prevent me from enjoying life. There you are, that is the way I am."

  "Interesting, interesting. Well, I think I can say you have given me enough of a broad overview, so how about we call it a day? Or would you like another coffee, a spot of lunch perhaps?"

  Spot of lunch? No thank you very much, got to be joking, enough is enough, no coffee either, back into reality, that's what I need, out into the sun where normality reigns, normality such as it is of course. The main thing was to remove myself from this white asylum-wall environment. I checked my watch. Just past midday. Great. End of the story, goodbye Mr. Parker, vaya con Dios. Maybe I'll head straight off to Germany, still make it home before midnight.

  "No thanks, Jeremy," I said. "It's been a pleasure. 'Interaction with Other Species'. An interesting subject, I hope I was helpful. Ignore my views, my views are incorrect ones often enough. Just stick to the facts and you'll be O.K."

  I stood up, stretched, I could do with a cigarette. Two, in fact.

  "Our next meeting," he said. "I'll need time for the research on this one and in any case you are travelling back to Germany for a few days and, if I recall correctly, you have a meeting in London on the Monday. So how does Wednesday of next week sound to you? My agenda is rather full for that morning, so… 2 p.m. perhaps? Or would you prefer the Thursday?" />
  Keep him happy, no need to create waves. Peace on earth and leave quietly, that's the plan. But a last bit of fun would not be amiss, it wouldn't do any harm, would it? Isn't that what I came for in the first place?

  "Jeremy," I said, "if I decide to continue with these meetings, and I understand that I am under no obligation to do so, they are going to cause some considerable disruption to my life. Right now, I don't know whether I will be loaded up with work next week here in the U.K. or whether I will be starting off on a new assignment in Spain. But either way, I shall be working full blast, and to have to absent myself from work when I shouldn't could have undesirable effects. I earn a considerable amount of money in my business and I like to conduct it professionally, as I am sure you do yours."

  I paused, I looked at him. He looked back at me. He was thinking. Maybe he was even thinking the word 'money'? He thought some more.

  How much?" he said.

  "I am not a bargaining man, Jeremy. I am not an Arab in his marketplace. Not my type. To adequately compensate me for the risks involved, my remuneration would need to be increased to €800,000 from the €500,000 previously offered."

  Let's see how his tiny fantasy world deals with this one. An intriguing little exercise. Interesting, does no harm, just how much of his illusory money is he willing to throw around?

  He continued to look at me, drank some coffee, placed his elbows on the table, looked at me some more, and did some more thinking.

  "Peter, I am not a bargaining man either. Irrespective of how much you earn, I consider your risks to be minimal and I cannot accept the amount you mention. Nevertheless, as I would prefer to retain your services, something of which you are well aware, I would for that reason alone be prepared, for the period of time involved, to raise our agreed fee to a total of €600,000. And as I judge you to be a reasonably honorable person, I would also be prepared to transfer this additional sum of €100,000 to you immediately, today in fact. In return, however, there would need to be a change in our contractual conditions. Namely, your right to resign before our meetings are completed would be canceled. And the penalty for breaking this new condition would be the return the two advance payments already made. This is a take it or leave it offer. I too trust that you understand my reasons for this."

  No, Jeremy, I do not understand your reasons for anything, anything at all, you are a mobile madhouse, I have to leave, I could get infected.

  "O.K., Jeremy. I made an offer, you made an offer. No bargaining. I accept your fee and the change in conditions. Next Wednesday at 2 p.m. will be convenient to me. See you then?" I said.

  Exercise completed. Another mythical €100,000. Like Bitcoins in a way. Wherever I'll be next Wednesday, it won't be here. I gave him a nice smile, and got to my feet.

  He also smiled, stood up, we shook hands, he accompanied me through to reception, a couple of staffers were there chatting and drinking coffee but not the dreamy Ms. Goodall. Maybe she was at lunch, what a pity. He said goodbye, thank you for your time, have a good trip, and I was gone, out of the door, down the stairs and out into the street. Some cloud, some sun and some people, normal ones no doubt about it.

  Whew! What an absolutely fascinating experience. And no weird happenings, no strange occurrences, no fending off of maniacal assaults, everything as formal and as un-embarrassing as a talk with your doctor. Assuming that the talk is not about prostate or erectile dysfunction problems of course. I imagine those must be quite embarrassing talks. But who cares, for me that's far away in the distant future, or I might die before I ever get there. Or I might be one of the 20% who live to be a hundred and never notice a thing.

  The cab could wait. I needed a cigarette. I lit one up, considered whether to go back to Germany today or leave it until tomorrow. I checked the time. 12.40 p.m. Early enough. And I'm not too tired…let's go.

  I finished the cigarette, hailed a cab in the Strand, back to the hotel. Went straight to the garage, hung up my jacket in the back of the car and drove out using the prepaid ticket given to me by Little Miss Ugly. Lit up cigarette number two.

  * * * * *

  I wound my way down into Knightsbridge, along Kensington High Street to Hammersmith and into Fulham Palace Road. Crossed the river via Putney Bridge and into Putney High Street, traffic packed as usual including Sundays but you usually only lose about 10 minutes.

  So it was today. Up Putney Hill and after that it was a fairly free run getting out of London and continuing on down to the M25. This is London's ring road, the last I heard still the longest city bypass in the world, 188 kilometers. Heavy traffic but not a real problem until there is an accident and then it clogs up for forever and a day. No accident today.

  You might say this route out of London is a bit of a detour if you're going to Dover. But in my experience it has always been the most reliable route. In any case, it is best never to become involved with the horrors of the South Circular route which some navigation systems will lead you into. You would regret that, terribly in fact.

  My car is an Audi R8 V10 5.2 Automatic. It is an expensive car but it still cost me less than €100,000 for a 14-month old one. Its top speed is around 320 kilometers per hour although the dash shows more. Of course, you can’t safely use that speed, even in Germany. But the speed limit in this country is a pathetic 112 kilometers per hour. And I chugged along in the fast lane at around 125, safe enough. Actually, perhaps I shouldn’t call this speed limit pathetic. In the first place the whole country is obnoxiously over-populated, and in the second place they can't afford to build a road system capable of safely handling the resulting volumes. It's just the way it is. My R8 gets looked at, not because it's a left-hand drive, but because it's just a fine looking car and the English don't have any of their own anymore, fine or not. Their Jaguars, their Land Rovers, their Rolls Royces, their Bentleys and even their Minis are all owned, technologically modernized and produced by foreign owners nowadays. And the Rileys, the Triumphs, the Rovers, the Austins, the Morrises, the Hillmans, the MGs and everything else of yore have simply been eaten up by the YDIYDS monster—'You don't innovate, you don't survive'. The English—or the Brits, if you prefer—couldn't hack it, too busy worrying about which football shirts and tracksuit bottoms to wear each day I suppose. Or which football games to go to. Or which darts tournaments to watch. Or snooker tournaments. Or which pub has the right TV channels so that you don't have to go anywhere to watch something while you drink your beer.

  But I am prevaricating on subjects of no interest. Trivialities. Let the Brits get on with it I say, it’s their country and nothing to do with anybody else. And the Northern Irish too. They do not come under the heading of either English or Brits. They are, if you wish to put them into a group, UKs.

  But I was enjoying the drive. Every now and then the clouds allowed the sun to shine through. I branched off onto the M26. This road leads you onto the M20, it takes you through a few remaining sections of the green England of yore, pleasant on the eye, a stretch without industrial estates by which I mean none that you can see, and it took my mind off the snail's pace I was being obliged to maintain.

  Along past Folkestone, along the cliffs and down into Dover. I tanked up the car and drove past the castle up on its hill and arrived at the port at about twenty past three. I checked P&O and Sea France (the latter went belly up in 2012 and their ships were bought by the company operating MyFerryLink, but I still call it Sea France) for the next ferry. P&O it was. I bought the ticket and drove through to the loading area. The trucks were already boarding and a few minutes later so were we, the cars and the buses.

  They are pretty well organized. They need to be. This port processes around 13 million passengers, 3 million cars and buses and about 2 million trucks per annum. This volume of traffic became significantly lower than it used to be however, except for the trucks, ever since the building of the Channel Tunnel, which I don't use.

  It took a while for them to cast off, and then we were out of the harbor, into th
e English Channel—as the English call it—and with the coast of France already visible in the distance. I don't take the Channel Tunnel for two reasons. Firstly, there is a limit as to what security precautions are possible and the day the terrorists, your choice which ones, decide to bring down millions of tons of ocean onto the travelers in the tunnel, is not something I wish to be a part of. Being a good swimmer would not be of any help. And being a bad swimmer, which is what I am, would also not help. Secondly, I like to breathe some sea air, it's supposed to be good for you, I can eat on board the ferry without losing travelling time, and I can do some shopping if I feel so inclined.

  And so I did just that. I breathed in some sea air while smoking a couple of cigarettes to compensate, I ate a meal of sausages, mash and mushy peas—can't get that on the continent—and I bought a bottle of single malt for my neighbor, Frau Müller, and a bar of chocolate for Mr. Brown. No IHT on board, logical, it's not a paper the Brits would read anyway. But no problem, I wouldn't really have had the time for it today.

  I found my way to the main bar for a coffee. It was loud and full of English, or Brits, or UKs, most of them swigging beer and talking a language which sounded to me like a collection of Greek truck drivers trying to speak Turkish. England is a country where orthoepy no longer exists. It was difficult to understand what they were all shouting about: murdered grammar, pronunciation a collection of guttural grunts, no word separation, and the usual generous sprinkling of 'fucks' and 'fuckings'—the latter without pronouncing the 'g' of course—spread over everything like a salad dressing. It always brings to my mind the sufferings of the small village of Fucking in Austria, whose town road-sign is subject to regular theft by the well brought-up Brit tourists.