“I’ve got a box of granola bars,” a young woman calls out to the redhead. “Thanks,” he says, relieved. “I was just about to run out. How about a granola bar?” he says to the next person in line, a stately, white-haired woman, who appears to be in her eighties.
“A what?” she asks.
“A granola bar. It’s really good for you. You’ll be getting lunch in a few minutes, but this will be good for you in the meantime.”
“Young man, please over here,” the next woman in line says to the redhead, stepping out of the line and moving out of the older woman’s earshot.
“Mrs. Winthrop doesn’t understand you. She can’t understand you. She has dementia. I’m her nurse. You see that pile of rubble over there, two blocks up, where the tower is sticking out? That was her mansion. Her family’s lived in Palm Beach since 1925. It was designed by Addison Mizener himself. She and her husband lived in it year-round after she inherited it from her mother. Her husband died five years ago. She always said she didn’t need to go anywhere in the world because she had everything she needed right here in Palm Beach. ‘Look around, Millie,’ she’d say to me. ‘Can you imagine ever being anywhere else?’ She always said that summer was her favorite time of the year. ‘All those silly people leave,’ she’d laugh. ‘That’s when I have paradise all to myself.’ I’ll see that she eats the granola bar. Thank you so much. I don’t know what we’d do without you and all the kind people who are helping us.”
MONDAY, OCTOBER 24, 8 P.M.: THE WASHINGTON D.C. CONVENTION CENTER. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen here in our audience and those of you watching throughout the Corporate States of America and around the world. My name is Joshua Redding, and I am the moderator of tonight’s presidential debate. In two weeks, on Tuesday, November 8th, voters will go to the polls to elect the next leader of the CSA and free-market nations around the globe. Make no mistake about it. You are watching history-in-the-making tonight. And you’ll make history at the polls. No matter where people see themselves on the political spectrum, everyone agrees that this is an historic occasion.
“I don’t have to remind you that, in recent months, the nation has been rocked by popular uprisings and boycotts—what some have called terrorist attacks—that have shut down businesses and whole cities. A president has stepped down and withdrawn from the upcoming election. As a result of a scandal, New Atlantis, the intellectual breeding ground of the Galtian Restoration has closed its doors. It is an understatement to say that the nation is in turmoil. Mortimer Gayle of the president’s Corporate Council has been quoted saying, ‘This election is a watershed for the nation. We will move forward with the Free-for-All economic policies and reaffirm the rock-bed principles that have made our beloved market great, or we will backslide into a shameful and dispiriting socialism that will doom us to self-defeat and shame.’
“Predictably, Mr. B, the ‘mayor’ of the Central Park Cooperville, couldn’t disagree more. One of the leaders continuing to coordinate relief efforts after the recent, devastating hurricane in Florida, Mr. B says in a written statement, ‘Unless you’re blind, if you want to understand what’s desperately wrong with the CSA, remember the misery going on in the Sunshine State. Every day, I look into the faces of the victims who have been abandoned. That’s right, abandoned. They could be any one of us. They are each and every one us. And yet, citizens of the CSA have been made to believe that there’s no longer a collective us. There’s only I and me. The message is: I grab whatever I can for me—to hell with everyone else. I don’t recognize the country I grew up in—and that I believed in.’”
“With those words as a bit of background,” Redding continues, “the two candidates seated before you couldn’t be more different. Former vice president, now president, H. R. ‘Bill’ Moreland became CSA president and CEO at one of the most volatile times in our history. Cary Hinton calls herself ‘an ordinary citizen on an extraordinary mission’ to take back the country. Tonight, you will get to listen to them fully explain their positions and decide which of their visions is best for your future—and America’s. President Moreland goes first.”
Bill Moreland stands up, arches his back, buttons his jacket, looks back in the direction of Cary Hinton, then walks slowly to the podium. Four years ago, he was Ham Cooper’s first choice to replace his thenVP, Harold Harmington, who decided not to run again, which quashed the ethics investigation against him. Moreland accepted with alacrity. Though his colleagues at Benson, Benson, Trickman, Schlosser & Schlag, the securities firm in which he was senior vice president, were eager to capitalize on his place within the administration, most hardly knew him or noticed he was gone. A diamond-in-the-rough that nothing could polish, he was successful throughout his life because he was smart enough to play dumb. Agreeable, lazy, seemingly devoid of ambition, the human equivalent of an odorless, colorless, harmless gas—his chief virtue was that he never appeared to pose a threat to anyone, except his family. Heirs to a mining fortune in Colorado, they trembled at the possibility that he, the eldest of three sons, would ever be responsible for managing their collective interests. So, he was sent East on a trumped up ‘business development’ mission, from which he was never allowed to return.
The consummate yes-man and proud of it, even telling anyone who would listen that he wasn’t “here” to make waves, mild Bill rose up the corporate ladder in various financial institutions—never remaining long enough in one place to be held accountable; landing comfortably near the top but never so high as to provoke jealousy; keeping his mouth shut, his ears open, and his hands clean. He stood for anything, everything, and nothing—often at the same time. If he came across a body on the sidewalk, chances are he’d walk over or around it. Nothing touched him—and he touched nothing. So, nothing stood in his way.
To Ham Cooper, Moreland was the running mate he had always wanted. He was perfectly content rarely to attend meetings, never to be called upon for his opinion, and thrilled to stand in for Cooper at ceremonial trivialities, like ribbon-cuttings and state funerals, especially state funerals. So, two months ago, when Cooper resigned, it shocked everyone that “mild Bill” became “wild Bill” as soon as he walked into the Oval Office. A Dr. Jekyll turned Mr. Hyde, Moreland appeared to take special delight in firing half of Cooper’s staff, minutes after swearing to the oath of office—and letting the rest know they were on borrowed time. “Things is gonna be different ’round here,” he proclaimed, smashing his fist on his desk. He then held a press conference denouncing the former president, demanding a thorough investigation into the case against Atlas Fitness Centers and New Atlantis—“no matter where it leads,” he said—and pledging that his administration would “gush” (his exact word) in a new beginning for the CSA.
At the podium, Moreland stands for a full minute without saying a word, sucking in a mouthful of air, or so it seems. Then, he looks to the left and says, “A-rh I am John Galt,” then to the right and repeats, “I am John Galt.” Finally, he stares straight ahead and, extending and raising both arms above his head, fists clenched, says, “Believe in me. I am John Galt. Just look here. Look at my tie. The gold dollar sign I so proudly wear is the symbol of everything that’s great about the CSA. A-rh there’s almost nothing more to say—except, it’s a sin to be poor.”
Cary Hinton scowls and shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
After waiting about thirty seconds, Moreland sucks in another breath, then continues. “A-rh, my fellow investors, I know that word bothers some of the socialist caste,” he says, knitting his brow, turning and pointing to Hinton.
“Watch it, Bill! Remember, I get the last word,” Hinton flings back at him, pointing with her right index finger.
“Investors! Every man, woman, and child in the CSA has the privilege of being an investor in our Free-for-All e-con-o-mee. If they’re smart enough to take advantage of that glorious opportunity, they can be richer than they ever imagined. If they don’t, well, they’re not even worth talking about, a-rh. In the CSA, you freely inv
est whatever you choose to invest and wherever you chose to invest. And, a-rh, you profit or you lose. That’s the game we play. And if you’re in the right place at the right time, you may make the rules you play by, which is even better. It’s as simple as that, a-rh.
“At the end of the day, the only thing that matters is that you win and that you win big—real big! Alotta people still don’t ‘get it.’ They pussyfoot around, talkin’ about mush: our debt to society, the common good, the poor and the hungry. Well, I couldn’t care less about any of that stuff. And I have no patience for losers. You are your own God. You’re not responsible for anyone else, and no one else is responsible for you—and me. Glory be to me! I just love saying that. In fact, I love saying it so much, I’m gonna say it again. Glory be to me! That’s true freedom! It’s what makes us and our markets the envy of the world, a-rh. And it’s not to be taken for granted. It took years for us to win—and decades to defend.”
“We can never rest. Our whole glorious way of life is under attack,” he says, again turning towards Cary Hinton, scowling and shaking his head in disapproval. “Evil people are out to take everything away from us, a-rh. Some of our weak sisters find my massage hard to take. But I say that’s their problem. We are a diff’rent breed of people—and proud of it. We are an exceptional breed of people. We choose ourselves for greatness. It’s a heavy burden to bear. We gotta be strong. We gotta meet our destiny. As Free-for-All economics spreads around the globe arh, the rest of the world is either with us or against us. All of you are smart enough to guess which is the rendition for them to choose.”
Smirking, quickly turning and looking at Cary Hinton again, then back at the audience, he continues, “At times like this, I feel like I’m teaching kindergarten, a-rh. Ms. Hinton’s words are inflammable. For months, she’s been talking up her half-baked propaganda and talking down the principles that have made the CSA great. Well, I’m here to throw cold water on her fire, a-rh. And I want all of you to be firemen in my fire house. She’ll give us a three-alarmer if she wins, you betta believe it. I’m not gonna let her destroy the greatest marketplace in the world. Election Day is your chance to honor Atlas and to rededicate yourself to John Galt.
“Number One: Remember, there ain’t no such thing as ‘the common good’ that the goodygoody lady over there harps on. Deadbeats love the sound of those words, a-rh. They tell couch potatoes, illegal aliens, welfare mothers, drug addicts, perverts, moochers, freeloaders, lazy good-for-nothing takers that there’s always gonna be dumb fools who will take care of them. That’s what you get with Miss Hinton: a bunch of bloodsuckers feeding off you.
“Well, you can trust good ’ol Bill Moreland to tell you there ain’t no ‘common good.’ It’s just the fig leaf, a-rh. You heard me, a fig leaf. Some people are ashamed of what they got. But we all know what’s under there—and they should be proud of what they got, unless it ain’t much of anything. You’re not your brother’s keeper, a-rh. Don’t fall for the scam. There are no good Samaritans. In the CSA, no one’s comin’ to get you when you’re down-and-out, and you don’t need to hightail it to bail anyone out. Get what you can, as long as you can, ’cause when you can’t, no one’s gonna be there for ya, a-rh.
“Number Two: Miss Hinton and her supporters badmouth rich people. Oh, how they chew ’em up and spit ’em out. Rich people this, and rich people that, a-rh. You name it: Rich people are responsible for the bad weather, high prices, your hemorrhoids. Yes, blame everything on the rich! Well, let’s get real clear about how the rich get rich: They are cree-a-tive. What’s that? They make things—that sell. That’s right! They’re on-the-make. As the saying goes, ‘It ain’t cree-a-tive unless it sells.’ Cree-a-tive artists don’t piddle around in some studio painting. They paint what sells, what they make people wanna buy. They don’t care if it’s a bowl of fruit or a sailboat. They don’t care if you hang it over the refrigerator or put it under the bed—as long as they get rich. Free-for-All inventors don’t just fiddle around with gadgets for the fun of it. They make something, anything. Then, they sell the hell out of it. They make people want to buy it, arh, whether they want to buy it or not. That’s real cree-a-tivity!
“Number Three: Don’t let Cary Hinton and her crew get the gov’rnment back in the business of running the economy—and your life, a-rh. We’ve spent years giving the gov’rnment away. Don’t fall for the propaganda that we need gov’rnment. If you can find it on the Internet, you don’t need gov’rnment to do it. And since you can find almost everything on the Internet …well, all of you are smart enough to figure out what comes after that.
“I’ll give you an example of how gov’rnment buttin’ in can stomp on good people like ants. ’Bout thirty years ago, gov’rnment high-and-mighty, know-it-all bureaucrats in Washington, in cahoots with tree-hugging environmentalists, dreamed up some regulaytions ’bout logging on federal lands. Just like that, someone did some half-ass study and decided they had to protect the forests, a-rh. You know, for ‘the common good.’ Well, before that, some hardworking men had been making a good living. But it got so bad, if a kid broke a branch off a tree, he could have gone to jail.
“Well, I’m from the school of ‘if you’ve seen one tree, you’ve seen ’em all.’ The great thing about Mother Nature is she’s out there makin’ things grow. If you just leave her alone, you’ll get all the trees you could ever want—or need. Mother just loves making trees. You can have nonstop trees—as long as you leave Mother alone. She gets testy when you meddle in her business. You can chop down a whole forest and, a-rh, after you plant a few seeds, which cost you nothing, in time all those trees will grow back so you can chop ’em down again, make a pile a money, and chop ’em down again. It’s perfect—if you just get the gov’rnment out of the damn way.
“Mother Nature wants you, me, all of us to chop down trees or she wouldn’t have made it so they can grow back. Mother Nature loves Free-for-All economics, a-rh. Mother Nature is all for free markets. You better believe that one of the proudest moments of my life was when we lifted all restrictions on logging and let the market take off. Ask the loggers who are making money hand-over-fist if it was a good idea. And the same goes for bankers, oil and gas companies, developers, and everyone else you can think of. Man, now that we’ve got gov’rnment out of the way, everything’s aboomin’. So, I rest my case. The choice is yours, CSA investors,” he says, looking intently into the camera. “By now, you should know to vote for me on November 8th. It’s a sin to be poor! I rest my case, a-rh,” he says, quickly returning to his seat.
“Thank you, President Moreland, Ms. Hinton, the floor is yours,” Joshua Redding says.
“Thank you, Mr. Redding. Bring him in,” she shouts when she reaches the podium. A young, redheaded man hurries up to her with a manikin dressed and made up to look like Ham Cooper. The audience first gasps, then erupts in laughter.
Moreland jumps out of his chair, shouting, “I object. What the hell kinda cheap stunt …”
“Cheap, is it, Moreland?” Hinton asks. “I’ll tell you what’s cheap— the way you and Ham here connived and cheated average men, women, and children all across this country. Did you forget that we’ve got every word of the fraud you were part of on tape? Or are you going to pretend you didn’t know about the deal to make billions from the misery in Florida? Everyone has heard the plotting between the prez and his Corporate Council. You may be standing here, but I really want all the good people of this country to remember you’re just as guilty as former President Ham Cooper,” she says, putting her
arm around the manikin.
“How dare you? I object, I object,” Moreland shouts.
“Down boy, if you don’t mind, Moreland, I have the floor now. I sat and listened to your poison. I didn’t interrupt you, and I expect the same basic courtesy from you, unless…” she breaks off, as he sits down. “That’s better!” she adds, first looking at him, then turning to the audience. “You’re gonna hear a lot more from President Cooper before I’m throu
gh—and Moreland, you ain’t gonna like it.
“No more Moreland! No more Moreland! Less is more with Moreland!” Hinton starts to chant. “Two months of Moreland is more than we can stand! Moreland says that he feels like he’s teaching kindergarten, that my words have been ‘inflammable’ and that some people don’t get his ‘massage.’ Well, we get it. We just reject it. Mr. Moreland is flat-out wrong about everything—except one thing. I have come to light one huge fire, ‘the people’s’ fire—and to put another one out, his! It’s time Free-for-All economics went up in smoke. By the time I finish with him tonight, he’s gonna wish he was in kindergarten, because, with a little help from my friend Ham here, I’m gonna put him through Hell and in Hell,” she says smiling and putting her left arm around the shoulders of the manikin and stroking the top of its head. “Aren’t we, Ham? But first, I’ve got my own choice words for Mr. Moreland.
“Listen up there, wild Bill: I’m gonna tell it to the people straight. Atlas Energy Drink! Atlas Fitness Centers! Florida! Cooperville! Free-for-All economics—all of it is the social equivalent of date rape. For sixty-seven years, almost seven long deceitful decades, you and people like you have drugged the good, honest, decent people of this country into thinking you were doing something good for them. But you give yourself away when you pronounce ‘e-con-o-mee.’ Because your Free-for-All agenda is a con, and all of you only think me, me, me. You speak in tongues—forked tongues.
Moreland shouts, “That’s an outrage! She needs to be stopped!”
Atlas Drugged Page 20