“Umm-hmm.”
Bragg’s eyes registered anger, but only for a moment. “One scam operator stole my money, as he ran off before I even stepped foot in his classroom. Another institute was much better, and they advised me how to do electrician work.”
“That’s the spirit,” Indie approved, “Actually orienting yourself to what the market demands.”
Bragg’s shoulders slumped. “But it didn’t work. Thousands of government workers who also lost their jobs are all swarming out there, like insects.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Bragg,” Amanda said sincerely.
“Yah,” he said, reflectively. “I’ve even heard stories of homeowners being barraged day and night with contractors, trying desperately to make a living.” He paused.
“So where are you living now? Amanda asked.
Bragg’s voice became insistent. “That’s the problem. All the subsidized housing’s gone. Some have shut down because governments can’t afford them anymore.” He brusquely jabbed his index finger into the palm of his other hand. “I’ve been wandering around ever since I got evicted. Trying to beg for a spot, but all the landlords have locked themselves up. I’m now living in a park in a tent.”
Amanda’s eyes opened wide. “And the police haven’t gone after you for trespassing?”
“Lady, there are no police left. Only those privately hired by the winners of the bitcoin sweepstakes. There aren’t any police left in town.”
Amanda was now grasping at straws. “What about the guaranteed ration of two thousand bitcoins a day?”
The burly man laughed. “Miss Amanda, you try living on two thousand bitcoins a day. That’s barely enough to feed yourself, pay the rent – hey, rent controls are gone too, so rents everywhere are being jacked up – you try to get yourself a beer or a decent haircut!”
“The idea,” Regi jumped in, “is to contribute to the economy, so that everyone’s involved in progress, not living off the forced welfare of someone else. Did you try to offer your land registry experience to become a surveyor for private companies?”
Bragg started tearing up. “Mr. Regi, there aren’t any surveyors anymore. Everyone’s grabbing whatever land there is, since there are no rules anymore. I guess I’m a failure. I’m a washout. I don’t deserve to be here.”
Amanda struggled to hold back her sympathy. She wanted to hire him, now, or find something to pull him. “Mr. Bragg,” she said, “you’re definitely not a failure. You’re a hard-working, well-educated citizen who has much to offer.”
Bragg wiped away a tear. “It’s not just me. I’m pleading on behalf of my brother, who’s a drug addict. I can’t find anyone to take care of him. He doesn’t even know anything about his tab. He’s incapable of figuring out how bitcoins work.”
Indie rolled her eyes. “Mr. Bragg, I’m sorry to be so harsh, but the fact is your brother’s a drug addict. No one forced him to take these drugs, did they?”
Bragg started crying. “No, no…”
“And he was a drug addict before we Liberators started the reforms, is that not correct?”
“Yes, but –” Bragg held up one finger and leaned ahead at the screen, while simultaneously wiping his cheeks with his other arm, “– before you guys arrived, the detox center offered him rehab, and a bed as well.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Bragg.” Indie glared at him. “Under the old regime, your brother was a burden on his people.”
“No, he wasn’t!”
“You’ve just admitted he was a drug addict. Presumably, he couldn’t hold a job or offer value.”
“He’s my brother!” Bragg yelled.
“Listen, how do his neighbors feel about spending their own money, for which they have to feed their families, upon taxes? Taxes which are arbitrarily seized by government. This family paying for an evil which is no fault of their own?”
“I know, I know, but…”
“Well, tough luck, mister,” Indie spoke with dripping contempt. “Your brother chose his path in life. He has to live with the consequences. In medieval times, he would’ve been left to die by the roadside, instead of being coddled up by today’s society.”
Bragg broke down, sobbing, bending over from his waist, and covering his face out of humiliation. His shoulders shook as Amanda looked on in horror. She glanced quickly at Demus, who seemed oblivious to the man’s plight, as he was grinning with delight. Her glance next darted to Justica, who seemed to be frowning, and otherwise inscrutable. Finally, she looked at Regi, who was slumped in his seat, with a look of concern on his face. Her heart went out to him as her eyes pleaded. Do something!
Regi spoke softly, and all the other wizards turned to him, listening carefully. “Mr. Bragg, umm, we do have a recommendation for those who are unable to maximize their productivity in the bitcoin economy.”
Bragg kept sobbing, and didn’t indicate he was paying attention.
Seeing no reply, Regi continued with a caring voice, “That would be to appeal to the good nature of people, starting with your strongest possibilities, such as immediate family, then good friends, then your networks with the community, and finally, strangers.”
“Crowdsourcing,” added Amanda. “It’s like crowdsourcing.”
Regi nodded at Amanda’s point.
Regi asked the desolate guest, “Have you tried to solicit bitcoins for your brother using effective marketing techniques?”
Bragg finally lifted his face up to face the camera. His face was emotionless as he deadpanned, “I’m a failure. I have very few friends. It’s just the way I am. My parents and I don’t get along. I refused to attend my sister’s wedding, and she’s sure not talking to me these days.” He started crying again, covering his face once more with his arms. It was very hard to anyone to hear his next muffled words, which were wracked by sobs. “I’m just a big, fat nobody.” He looked up again, his eyes red, tears streaming down. “I can’t even get my local café to give me a free cup of coffee, they all hate me.”
Indie finally snapped, out of impatience. “Amanda, this Petitioner has made his point. It’s time to move on with our agenda.”
Amanda stared at Indie in desperation. How should I politely show disagreement on live television?
Regi solved Amanda’s dilemma. “You’ve made some good points, and this is a very sad story. Tell you what, tell me the name of your brother, and we’ll file it on record.”
Resigned and breathing deeply, Bragg said, “Leonard Bragg.”
“Address?” Regi asked discreetly.
“Usually under the Indiana Avenue Bridge in Indianapolis. Above the Upper Canal.”
“Well, thank you for your valuable time, Mr. Bragg,” Amanda said respectfully, mindful of Indie’s wilting glare. “We’ll take a fifteen minute break.”
Inwardly, Amanda groaned. What had she gotten herself into?
For the second time ever since that idiotic battle, which had unfolded in North Dakota, she thought about quitting.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Arriving at the Upper Canal, a disguised Amanda peered around carefully, tipping her brown leather fedora closer to her brow. She wore white-rimmed sunglasses. Walking at the intersection of Indiana Avenue and West Michigan Street, she searched for the bridge. There! Gingerly finding steps below, she bounded down with a spring in her step.
So hard to cope with the patience of taking the train - a few hours too! (gasp!) - when lately, all she had to do was allow herself to be zapped everywhere.
The stench of urine struck her nostrils. Two makeshift tents appeared in her line of vision, along with dilapidated shopping carts full of half-open cans, dirty clothes, and faded torn magazines. She saw two homeless men sitting on the concrete base overlooking the bridge, with baseball hats overturned on the ground to collect coins from passers-by.
Must be desperate, Amanda thought, there haven’t been any new government-issued coins or legal tender for over a year now.
She halted in front of the two men, w
ho were fully bearded and over-tanned, too aware of the contrast between herself and them. “Excuse me,” she said, “I’m looking for Leonard Bragg.”
One of the men stared at her. “Boy, they keep comin’, don’t they.” He said, “You’re too late. Half hour ago, a guy came to get him. Offered him a home.”
Amanda’s spirits soared. “Oh, that’s wonderful! Do you know where he went?”
He pointed one block further. “Said he’d be on Roanoke Street.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What number?”
“565.”
Amanda practically ran up the stairs, two at a time, and didn’t stop until, panting, she saw the N ROANOKE sign another block away. Catching her breath, she speed-walked toward the intersection. She continued up to a drab old L-shaped three-storey apartment complex with a large sign that read “Manor Apartments.” She froze, and quickly darted to hide behind a post, which also had the benefit of a wide street sign posted about her eye level.
There, on the parking lot, were two men hugging. One obviously was a homeless man, with tattered clothes and a shabby beard. The other man was tall, thin, and wearing an impeccable suit.
“You take care, Leonard. The apartment’s all yours now,” the gentleman said to Leonard Bragg, holding him eagerly by the arms. Amanda didn’t recognize the voice.
“Thank you so much, thank you,” the beggar said as he expressed gratitude. “I can’t tell you how much this means.”
“No need,” said the dapper man, patting him firmly on his arm. As the benefactor hurriedly walked away, Bragg yelled out, “Hey! What’s your name?”
The benefactor stopped, and winked. “My name, you could say, is Milton Friedman.” He chuckled, waved goodbye, and set off toward the alley.
Milton Friedman? A startled Amanda processed the name.
The famous economist? He was long dead, too. Who’s this mystery gentleman? She resolved to catch up to him, to find out.
The departing man didn’t see Amanda. He walked quickly around a corner, into a narrow alleyway. He then sidestepped two garbage cans. Funny, Amanda thought, the pace of the man was unnatural, as if he were walking elevated above the ground, by an inch or so.
Losing sight of him as he turned the corner, Amanda momentarily panicked. “Sir!” she cried out as loud as possible, then ran up.
Now in full sight of the hidden lane, Amanda halted to a full stop, and then gasped.
The mystery man had disappeared into thin air.
Chapter Forty
Amanda fought off the urge to nod off as she lay on her bed within Liberators’ Headquarters. Just as she thought she’d keep reading, her eyes would momentarily close, her jaw would drop, and then she’d alert herself back to reality.
She rubbed her eyes. No. She had to stop working soon. She glanced across the room, to where Demus’ favorite chair stood. Hmm. She had a wicked grin. She’d pretend she possessed magic, and visualized him – red shirt and all – materializing right in front of her. This time, he’d have an expression of shock on his face, wondering how he was summoned against his will – at her beckoning. That’d be fun.
Amanda felt mischievous. With difficulty, she inverted her hands outwards. She placed her thumbs next to the outer corners of her eyes. The next two fingers on each hand, down – on her upper neck. She pretended to meditate.
Come on, Demus. I order you to appear.
Opening her eyes, she imagined the slim body of Demus sitting right in front of her. He was starting to appear in her imagination. Good. Good. Keep it up.
She shrieked for a second when Demus appeared. However, he was wearing a gold crown over his head, and majestic red robes that flowed out spilling to the carpet. A white fur trim outlined the fancy robe that was fit for a king. He wore a slim waistcoat with golf leaf embroidery on the front, equipped with brilliant red and gold collars. On his legs were ornate slacks, with red and gold lines running down the sides.
Demus grinned. “Why are your hands like that, Amanda?”
Amanda gulped. “Demus, I was just thinking about you. Did you come here on your own, or did I make you happen?”
“You were thinking about me?” Demus exclaimed with delight. He simpered. “How sweet of you!”
“So it’s just a coincidence,” Amanda said blankly. “A weird coincidence.” She frowned. “Why are you dressed like a king?”
“Well,” Demus began with a shrug. “Everyone has said for a long time now that we behave like kings. So I thought I’d dress the part.” He laughed.
She held her hand up to her mouth to suppress her mirth. As much as she tried, she could never completely hate Demus. He had a knack for getting into her heart.
He pointed at her, sensing he was on to something. “Did I just see that? Are you laughing?”
Amanda couldn’t help it. She desperately sucked in her breath, and then laughed with abandon.
“King Demus,” he rocked his head back and forth, using a singsong voice. “King Demus, to preside over us all.”
Amanda couldn’t help but play along. “King of the realm, the power, and the glory.”
“Okay.” Demus appeared serious now. He snapped his fingers, and the royal garments disappeared. Back to his regular clothes. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
“Only if you’re my king,” Amanda teased him.
He vanished from his chair, and materialized on her bed, lying against the pillows. He turned his head to her. “We seem to be stuck in the same old rut.” He playfully pouted, jutting out his lower lip.
Amanda gently ran her fingernails down Demus’ left arm, electrifying him. “Sometimes routine can be good.”
Chapter Forty-One
One year, nine months post-Liberation
The four wizards, in that order: blue, red, purple, and yellow, appeared all bewildered as they sat at the side of a long table in the huge ballroom of Liberators’ Headquarters. All the guests – about forty in all – had to arrange for transportation there, whether it be by bus, train, plane, or car. They were all meticulously searched upon arrival and whisked through security.
One of the guests was the President of Partners with Liberators, Leslie Bafia. She spoke to Amanda with much excitement. “Yes, the People’s Assembly is an excellent start.”
“People’s Assembly?” asked Demus, somewhat puzzled.
“Yes,” Amanda eagerly explained. “We’ll have an assembly of one hundred citizens of North America, all carefully selected to reflect as many segments of society as possible. The aged, the young, the middle-class, the capitalists, the socialists, and umm –” She glanced over at Bafia for help.
“And,” Bafia added, “the underdogs, too. Women, the homeless, the disabled.”
Indie stood up, commanding everyone’s attention with a loud voice. She knew the proceedings were private; this time, upon the Mortals’ request, the discussions would not be televised. The wizards had protested mightily, but deferred to the wishes of the Mortals. “And why do we need a Citizens’ Assembly?” she shouted.
“People’s Assembly,” Amanda corrected her.
“You need us now,” Bafia stood up in defiance to Indie. “Do the words ‘Battle of Osborne’s Farm’ remind you of anything?”
Indie wanted to fire off a retort, but bit her tongue.
“Indie, the Liberators’ popularity has hit a low, at twenty-six percent,” Amanda said. “You need to win back their trust.”
Demus had enough. He rose, and shouted out, “Remember your history! You had spineless politicians who bent to the will of the people, and in the end resorted to secret deals and lobbying! They are the ones who betrayed the trust of the people!”
“That’s enough, Demus,” Bafia admonished him.
Demus turned red. He held out his hand, pumping his arm up and down. “This is all secret bargaining! You have – you know what – a token in a wheelchair to balance off an aboriginal!” He sarcastically gestured with whooping sounds, eliciting gasps of outrage. “This i
sn’t governance. This is pandering!”
As astonished faces among the large Mortal assembly glanced at Demus, Bafia snarled out at him, “Sit down, Demus!”
He muttered to himself, loud enough for everyone else to hear. “This is unbelievable. I’m a wizard, and I’m taking orders from a Mortal. What’s this?” He shook his head rapidly in disgust as he sat down.
“Anyway,” Amanda stood up to assert her authority. “This is all still under discussion. We’ll aim for a People’s Assembly to work hand-in-hand with the Liberators in three months from now, for their last year of rule, and preserve as much as possible the advantages of their sweeping reforms.”
“Hear, hear!” some attendants clapped.
All four wizards sulked amidst the wave of self-congratulation by the Mortals.
A bespectacled man, thin and short with a pot belly walked up to Amanda, appearing careful not to attract attention. “It’s time now.”
“Oh yes,” said Amanda as she rose. She called out to the four wizards seated beside her. “Justica, Demus, Indie, and Regi, you’re needed now.” With a finger curled up in their direction, she beckoned for them to arise and to join her.
“What’s this?” Regi grumbled to Indie, quietly enough not to be heard by anyone else.
The small break-away group sauntered off to a smaller conference room through a door, where they found photographers, along with a smattering of ordinarily attired Mortals.
“Guys, this is Bruce,” Amanda gestured toward the bespectacled, grinning man. “He’s one of the top political consultants in this country. He’s worked on several municipal, state, and federal elections. He’s going to help us.”
Demus felt challenged. This was his territory now. “Political consultant? I’m responsible for politics.” He glared at the short man with disdain. “Why is he here?”
Bruce half-apologetically spoke out, “I mean you no disrespect, Demus – may I call you Demus? – but your image needs refurbishing.” He paused. “Major renovating.”
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