In an instant, all the unspeakable bitterness and indescribable emotional pain he had endured for years from being diverted from a life of fame and riches to one of beastly labor and misery that he had thought he had overcome now crashed upon his spirit like a merciless ocean swell onto a shipwrecked man who naïvely thought the tempest had subsided only to find himself facing yet another towering wave, this one sure to drown him as easily as a newborn kitten.
His legs shook, and his knees nearly buckled. He wanted to turn his head to the side and avoid being seen—avoid the gaze of a man who had it all and who had robbed it from him!
“Ask him how much it will be,” he heard the voice calmly instruct.
Then, he realized his cruel commutation—he was not to be forced to look into the eyes of a man of unspeakable success and riches who could have been him. No, but only because this man did not deign to look at those in so lowly a station as his.
This double-edged outcome brought him some small relief; nonetheless, inside he could feel something growing. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was powerful—unlike anything he had ever felt before in his life.
Realizing that the least painful way to end this encounter was to do so as quickly and as professionally as possible, Righty heard his voice say, “Ten dollars. Will there be anything else I can assist the gentleman with today?”
He made sure to speak to the servant rather than dare direct his speech to his master directly. In addition to eliciting extreme displeasure, it would have possibly obligated the gentleman to turn and face him, thus ensuing the fateful eye contact Righty was determined to avoid.
To Righty’s immense relief, the servant politely told him that was all and handed him the money. Righty asked if he would like a receipt.
The servant said no and appeared to turn to leave, when Sir Peters said, “Well . . . tip him, boy,” as calmly as a mother might remind her child to use his fork rather than his fingers.
Sir Peters then handed the rebuked servant a small gold piece, who then passed it on to Righty, without even looking abashed, perhaps due to having long ago been accustomed to such reprimands, whether in public or in private.
Seconds later to any objective observer, yet an eternity later to Righty, the gentleman and his master were out of the store.
Righty stood there, his hand clasped around the gold coin. His mind now returned to the sensation that was growing inside of him like a roaring flood.
It nearly took his breath away, and he found himself leaning against the shelves to avoid falling over. In his mind a resolution was growing. It was much like the resolution not to drink again, in that it was ironclad and not to be seized from his soul even by a team of horses. But whereas that resolution had mostly been formed in the negative—not to do X—with only a vague goal to do something positive with his life, he now formed a new resolution, one that was affirmative.
Somehow, someway he was going to become rich.
And not just wealthy, but filthy rich. One day, he was going to walk up to Oscar Peters with a gold cane in his hand that would make his look like a dirty twig found in a trash heap. He was going to approach him with an entourage of servants that would make his one servant look like a lonely cry in the desert. He was going to look Oscar right in the eye and tell him he was a no-good, cheating piece of trash who never would have lasted one round with him had his wrist not been half-broken when the fight began and who never would have survived the rematch that should have taken place.
He didn’t care if he had to lie, cheat, or steal—Kasani knew the world had done plenty of that to him already. He knew only one thing. He was going to become a rich man.
Chapter 40
Senator Hutherton, many months after first coming face to face with the terrible shock of seeing Smokeless Green for sale at that fine suit store, was fuming mad. He sat at home alone, large puffs of smoke emanating from his lips and rising lazily into the air like soap-filled bubbles.
It wasn’t fair! He had felt like he had just been given a secret weapon halfway through a high-stakes poker game, only to discover the rules had been changed and that everyone would now get the secret weapon. He had been so ecstatic when the bill had been passed with all his proposals, and when the fine leaders of industry had lavished gold upon him in thanks, that he thought the presidency was a foregone conclusion.
He had gone to the fine Gentlemen of Selegania Club and visited nearly every goddess in that heavenly abode, gambled wildly and cared not when he lost, and bought rounds for everyone in the establishment. What was money after all when the world was yours?!
As he knew it would, from the moment he made the ill-fated encounter with that package of Smokeless Green that just seemed to grin at him with evil glee mocking him sadistically, his luck began to change quickly thereafter. He found that Smokeless Green had made its way around the upper echelons of Seleganian society like a piece of enticing gossip, and the very next time he had excused himself to go to the restroom to get a little green lift, he was appalled to simultaneously hear at least two or three other senators sniffing away shamelessly in the surrounding stalls.
He had almost quit Smokeless Green right then and there out of spite, but when one of the senators emerged from the stall with a cocky smile on his face and congratulated him in the most insincere tone about his “great accomplishment” with the recent legislation and asked him whether he thought he “would get so lucky with the next one” with a transparent gleam in his eye that seemed to say, Don’t count on it! he knew that taking Smokeless Green was going to be a matter of survival.
Before he had even come close to a satisfying solution to the problem of Smokeless Green’s ubiquity amongst the senators, his mind then drifted to another: the populace!
As if he were contemplating termites or ants sneaking their way stealthily into his kitchen in search of some delectable treat such as honey or sugar, his bowels tied in knots as he thought of the riff-raff possessed of this fine substance. Imagine how much more difficult they would be to control! a stern voice warned him.
Sure, they could vote, but most were as gullible as children being conned by a magician. He didn’t know what the effects of Orgone would be on the rabble of this nation. Then, a flattering thought occurred to him: Perhaps for men not possessed of great intelligence such as himself, this substance would merely serve to greatly energize them but without honing their wits. He chuckled to himself mightily as he imagined them drinking for hours and hours with unprecedented mirth, laughing at the most trivial of jokes.
But there will be those in between.
This voice cut off his chuckle rudely. His father had always warned him about “those in between.” There were an elite few born to rule in luxury over the rest, while most were born to live meaningless lives, performing arduous labors for little compensation, which they would then try to forget over an endless string of drinks at the local tavern, while their pitiful wives waited at home for the beatings that would accompany their husbands’ return if they nagged.
Yes, that was how it should be: the privileged and the riff-raff. But the “in-betweeners,” as his father had referred to them, were dangerous. They weren’t born into families that could afford to send them to the best schools, give them all the right introductions, and then insert them into a privileged lifestyle from which they could not fall unless they made an almost purposeful effort to do so. No, these were men born into humble homes but with kingly ambition in their hearts, perversely unfitting to the humble futures Destiny had chosen for them. These men would work twice as hard as the privileged in order to climb to their lofty perches.
Fortunately, the many obstacles strewn in their paths—poor schooling, crushing university costs, introductions that could only be obtained by the most strenuous efforts—usually brought these hapless men to an even lower state than simple riff-raff. Having never dared to aspire to anything more than a life of beer guzzling and beastly labor, riff-raff never knew the indesc
ribably painful sting of working day and night for a goal that the elite had designed to always be outside their grasp.
But this pain the in-betweeners knew all too well.
And on the rarest occasions, one of them, in spite of all the obstacles Nature (and the elite) had put in their way, one of them would somehow crawl his way to the top like some unwholesome corpse out of the grave and attain his place at their table. These were men that true gentlemen would always despise inwardly, Hutherton’s father had taught him, and they were to be sabotaged at all costs, for they, upon reaching levels never intended for them, were those that would challenge the established order.
Lord Hutherton was nearly quivering with fear and rage at this moment as he sat on a luxurious chair inside his sumptuous mansion—servants available at any moment if he decided to ring the bell that sat next to his chair—and contemplated this grotesque risk to the established order that lay right beneath the noses of his fellow senators.
The loss of advantage he had momentarily held over his fellow senators no longer seemed like the catastrophe it had only moments ago. After all, he reasoned, it was natural that they, like any respectable gentleman, would have to vie with one another, as they often did at the local polo club. It was suitable for gentlemen to vie with one another.
It was not suitable for in-betweeners to vie with gentlemen.
He nearly felt his skin crawling with in-betweeners. He could imagine them one-by-one discovering the nearly insatiable energy that Orgone provided. No longer would the ten-, twelve-, or even sixteen-hour work day be an insurmountable obstacle for these in-betweeners. He could see them diligently poring over one textbook after another, day after day, week after week, month after month—never growing discouraged, always chugging ahead . . . then inspiring other in-betweeners.
It would only be a matter of time before their ranks would begin to produce great orators who would question the crushing taxes hoisted upon them and ask whether these taxes were being put to good use. There were a great many unfitting questions these in-betweeners would begin to ask the populace and that the populace would then ask themselves. Revolutions had started with such questions. He would not sit idly by while this calamity brewed.
After a sniff of Orgone that would have killed a large horse—and that certainly would have killed him a few months ago—he set off to see Ambassador Rochten. It seemed he always had the solution to everything, and he, being a gentleman, must surely appreciate the risks Selegania was suddenly under. And had he not said that Orgone was recently discovered in Sogolia by the king’s finest botanists? Well, then surely they had already developed a proper response to the problem Selegania was now facing.
Chapter 41
“Do you think it could really work?” Lord Hutherton asked Ambassador Rochten, as they separated their time between glancing at one another and their much longer glances at the beauties they were beholding at the Gentlemen of Selegania Club.
“Of course, it will work. It’s really a question of whether you’re willing to get your hands a little dirty.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re a gentleman. I don’t exactly propose you go running naked through the street waving an ax, but someone or some people are going to have to do some dirty work if this public crisis is going to get the attention it truly deserves. I must confide in you—” The ambassador paused, looked away from the goddesses, and said to the fine senator almost in a whisper, “We’ve been having a rather similar problem in Sogolia, but as I’m sure you’re aware monarchies can dispense with such problems rather easily. The king has already declared it a capital offense for anyone not of the nobility to use Orgone.
“Alas, in republics these things cannot be done by royal fiat. Cleverer methods must be used.” Then, breaking his somber tone and smiling cheerily, “But if you ask me, that’s why it’s republics that get to have all the fun.” Although he didn’t know why, for the first time the senator found the ambassador rather chilling, but this was a short-lived sensation, as the thought of in-betweeners brought him back to the focus at hand.
“Tell me, ambassador, what kind of fun do you suggest this republic ought to have?”
The ambassador looked at him with wolfish eyes and then began to speak again in a whisper.
Chapter 42
“What was the score today, Sweet Tooth?”
“Three on Durham Street, half on Maple.”
Michael Hathers, better known as Knuckles, sat in council with Chris Culmeyer, better known as Sweet Tooth. Knuckles had earned his name due to a tendency to end arguments by knocking a man senseless rather than let them devolve into something obscene like a debate. Sweet Tooth had earned his name due to a proclivity to stop and grab pastries and begin munching away even if he had not yet finished his chore of emptying the cash register of the store he was robbing.
Knuckles was head of the infamous Rattler gang, a name whose copyright he defended vigorously by murdering the head of any start-up that sought to steal it. He had invented the gang’s name himself, due to a particular fondness he had for that venomous viper, even though the love affair did not appear to be mutual, ample evidence of which seemed to exist, in most people’s minds, in his missing pinky finger, which had to be amputated following a nasty bite one of these critters had given him.
But it was not Knuckles’ sordid endearment towards these vicious animals that earned his clique the notoriety they had achieved throughout the capital of Selegania but rather his tendency to insert them by the bagful into the stores of those in his dominion who did not seem to take his toadies seriously enough when they were so kind as to pay a congenial visit, explain the dangerous nature of the area, and politely suggest a generous business arrangement by which the store in question could receive top-notch protection against the many evildoers in the area . . . and all in exchange for a very reasonable sum.
Knuckles found that those who were immune to such gentle means of persuasion typically saw the light once they were forced to leap on top of their tallest counter quicker than a kangaroo—whilst urging their terrified customers to do the same—in order to avoid the scaly, buzzing vipers patrolling the store. The gang’s name had become legendary throughout the entire city even though its dominion of control was limited for now mostly to slum areas of the city’s north side.
Knuckles had plans to change that though. He was a visionary. And he knew that the many smaller gangs dominating the city’s south side were just waiting to be gobbled up one by one like mice inside a hole being visited by long, slender visitor.
As for now though, he was sitting in council with Sweet Tooth, an underling he didn’t exactly admire, but he found him predictable, and Knuckles liked predictability in underlings. Creativity was the domain of leaders, he believed, and he was very suspicious as a general rule of any sign of outside-the-box thinking amongst his inferiors . . . except when he demanded it, and even in those cases his keen eyes and sour face scanned the hearts of every man before him searching for any hint that they might be conspiring against him or showing signs of independent thought.
He and Sweet Tooth conversed intently about the day’s extortion tally, using all the lingo and indecipherable grammar that criminals invent instinctually, while failing to grasp the vernacular of polite society.
During the course of this conversation, Knuckles became adequately convinced that Sweet Tooth was doing his job and wasn’t pilfering any undue amounts of the protection money that their clients had provided them today. It was Friday, and Friday was payday. That usually made Knuckles a happy camper, but today a worm of anxiety was digging through his mind—so much so, in fact, that if Sweet Tooth had ever had a mind to pull one over on Knuckles today would have been the perfect day to do it.
The perpetual snarl that was tattooed on Knuckles’ face, however, came in handy for situations such as these, for—whether he was feeling giddy or sad—his face always wore the same sini
ster expression that kept peons in a state of healthy fear.
Knuckles’ apprehension had to do with the fact he had been summoned. It has been said that everybody answers to somebody, and Knuckles’ situation—lofty though it may have been over his gang of several hundred cutthroats—offered no rebuttal to the axiom. He didn’t know all the ranks of the mysterious underworld. In fact, for all he knew, his boss answered to no one except the gods themselves, but Knuckles didn’t worry too much about unpractical issues such as these.
What he knew was that Sir Charles had sent for him via his messenger. Charles was one of those men that—without ever having to put it into words—illumined Knuckles’ savage mind to the fact there were spheres of power in this world so far greater than the tiny garden Knuckles tended that he was like a ladybug looking up at the eagles soaring high above.
With polite manners, refined vocabulary, perfect grammar, and an overall gentlemanly bearing, at a distance he would have presented no more a force to be reckoned with than any banker, lawyer, or doctor leaving his office upon the conclusion of a day’s work. But it was his eyes that belied his otherwise gentle mannerisms.
Knuckles (who was now in his late twenties) had arrogantly thought he had reached the zenith of power when at the age of eighteen he had strangled his boss to death over a disagreement about the expansion of the gang. Knuckles saw the gang’s future as depending upon swallowing up smaller gangs. Steel, his former boss, had seen that as likely to attract too much unwanted attention from the city’s police force. “Better to survive as a dog than get hunted down and shot as a roaring lion,” he would say.
The Almost Champion Page 17