Today, Jeremiah is at the soup kitchen for lunch, sweeping up in the rear, because the free meals are served after six. He is sitting down, on break so to speak, having a small sandwich prepared by some nice church ladies, and noontime comes none too soon. Jeremiah is nearly ninety years old, gaunt, long, and sometimes he smells as if he hasn’t had a shower this week, because he hasn’t. He is still dapper in his presentation to the world, with a tight green, paisley vest, bloused sleeves on his olive shirt, a faded red and yellow tie tucked into his vest. He wears a pair of ragged ass wing tips he keeps dusted every day, so that when he looks down, he respects what he sees.
He works at the shelter – in the soup kitchen – sweeping up, cleaning pots and pans, to pay for his room in the back and his other two meals a day. He is one of three “employees” (if that’s the right word) who work there doing whatever is needful. None of the work is really worth money – not in today’s economy – but for the church that runs the mission, to the little old women who administer the ministry, and to themselves, these old men do enough to allow them to feel useful, not getting everything from the charity – from the love – of the members of the congregation.
Old Man Mack – everyone calls him “Old Man Mack” – comes running in as fast as his seventy-year-old legs can carry him, shouting, almost singing, “Jerry! Holy crap, Jerry! You were right . . . it’s happening . . . dey’re here now, just like you said.”
“Who’s here?” Jeremiah asks back. “What the hell are you talking about, ya daft fool?”
“Well, you said they were coming, and here dey are . . . come on, come on . . . take a look. You ain’t gonna believe dis. Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a sigh, “maybe YOU will.”
Nearly two weeks ago, Jeremiah had given a small wad of cash to a young man named Malachi – a troubled gambler, often on the ropes – to try to bail him out of a bit of trouble with the local numbers runners. Malachi had taken that money – three hundred dollars – and bet it on a series of numbers that, if things had not been rigged, would have paid off big time, cleared his debts with some other guys, and even paid off his college debt; but things were rigged and he never had a chance. This series of bets was ten days in a row, opening values of the Dow, integers only, betting odds were seven to one – per day. Day one came and went; Malachi was right on the number, so $300 became $2100 – but it was banked by the bookie, based on the sum of the bet, to be reinvested tomorrow.
Malachi had not been content to just make the wager as Jeremiah had given it to him. He took a loan from a guy in an Italian suit, wearing a pinky ring, and protected by a brick-shaped associate named Vinnie, who said nothing, but constantly neatened his suit, trying to conceal, but actively revealing his hand cannon. “That loan was $5000, with a vig of 10% per day, based on a two week pay off as the bet was made on a Wednesday and the term of the bet is up on the second Friday, so I Boss want to get paid before you disappear. Big money does that to people.” Vinnie adjusted Malachi’s collar to express the resolve intended by his Boss’ words, regarding the due date change. Word got out as to the details of the bet that Malachi had made, and on day seven, the guy was pressing for a piece of the action, claiming that Malachi owed it to him. Reason played no role in this decision, for greed had established the operating parameters.
Malachi had taken the money and put it in the hands of his bookie and in two days, his account with that bookie had $14,700, and Malachi had a glimmer of hope that Jeremiah’s wagers would pay off. He knew that Jeremiah was going to be alright about all of it, so he got a little financial backing from a guy named Benedetto. After all, Jeremiah was only gonna give him half of the profits and Jere had plans to do what Mal would call “stupid things” with the rest. Homeless shelters are not a good investment for anyone, anywhere, especially in an economically down-turned world.
Day three and following. Mal had already screwed up by making the bet for all ten business days in one shot, giving the numbers in advance, and as the proceeds racked up value, the bookie began laying off the bet on bookies, casinos, and banks as far away as California, Tokyo, and London. There was even Russian mob money involved when the morning of Monday rolled around. The original $300 would be worth over $35 Million, and Malachi had no idea of its value, or potential; he just knew he was supposed to be making a wad – whatever a wad is to him – even more so with the extra cash investment he made. Malachi was certain he was golden.
Malachi would be set for life if this would pay off. When Jeremiah had given him the money he told him that he should make each bet, one every day, by noon, that the bets should stand alone, that these numbers were certain and true, if Malachi had only managed to be obedient. But Malachi did not understand what was at stake, how big it could get, how vast the numbers at play would become, and how bent a man can get if he does understand – and eventually, the bookie he had chosen . . . well, he understood. To a lesser degree, so did Vinnie, once the boss explained it to him. Malachi’s biggest error was in trying to shortcut the plan that Jeremiah had laid out for him, placing the cash in his hands. To one degree or another, Malachi had the same thought as the bookie, “What the hell! It’s $300 on a bet that could never ever happen.” But, now it is happening right before their eyes, the difference is that the bookie sees the potential, realizes the maximum loss, and fear has entered his very soul. On the other hand, he understands the potential gains and greed is his greater motivator.
When day three rolls around the bookie sees that he is into it for just over 100 K, and if the bet continues to be accurate and pays off in full, he could be stuck for billions . . . and he doesn’t have billions, which is how the rest of the gambling world gets involved. The bookie starts betting Jeremiah’s numbers in other gambling venues, and making bets as the “Angel,” as he had dubbed his anonymous bettor; himself. The contrasting bets prove to be a pretty good hedge because no one believes that one guy can predict something that precisely for a week, much less two. Because he is dealing with professionals, and they know that he is not some behind-on-his-payments lout, he is able to get eleven to one on his bets. The credits on the bets comes rolling in, and the hedge is building as the bookie’s bets are going out, the other bookies are laying off the bets in other markets, backing Malachi’s numbers so that the flow of cash – or vouchers – within hours, is of greater financial value than most third world nations. With the bookie duplicating all of Mal’s bets, a total of ten times, and his connections relaying those bets, there is actually almost a quarter trillion dollars in the game very soon. The bookie understands how much he has bet, how much to pay. The difference is that the bookie, in his greed, also has a plan to undo Malachi. Even with a big win of his own, he can’t just let the boy win so much of everything.
The bookie can see how, if he plays his whole hand in advance, someone would be able to upset his apple cart – as that is his plan for Malachi from day two. Conversely, those who were taking his markers – accepting his bets – and losing huge sums to him, are planning to do the same thing. It is a giant pyramid scheme, working in reverse, interwoven with international cartels of dirty money, in a predictive program that no one could truly understand. Still, from the very beginning, somehow Jeremiah understood.
The Dow had gone absolutely bat-shit crazy because on the second Wednesday someone infused the exchange with nearly $90,000,000,000 in cash from new investment accounts, buying loads of bargain basement and down-trending stocks at high prices. A good forensic bookkeeper would be able to trace the money to the accounts of about ten or twelve crime families from around the globe, each of which were holding paper on the bets, each of which shoved a few billion into the market in an effort toward changing the numbers late in the day. If only they could change the numbers by a couple of dollars. Any change would mean a loss for their bettors. Thursday morning the Dow is up well above 350,000 for the first time in over a decade. True to the prediction, the provided number is a winner . . . for Malachi and the bookie, and the booki
e was getting his money on the dime, credit rolling in, instead of automatically rolling the bet over as Mal had done by placing a long-term bet with ten parts. This made the bookie stinking rich and – in a very hush-hush way – he had become among the richest men in the world.
He has literally become a multi-billionaire, but he still has to access the winnings of his bets, pay anyone that has bet in agreement with him, and get away with it . . . if that can be done. He is, after all, expecting to take billions away from some of the most notorious people in the world. And the question remains, “how is he going to explain it?” He could only use the four most important words in Philly, “I know a guy.”
The thought had come, from the bookies taking his bets, that maybe they would cut him off, but to cut someone off for winning, in their social circles is anathema. It would forever brand them as cowards, meaning that no one could ever trust them to take and pay a bet again. They may suffer great losses in this game, but they would play most of those off with others.
By this time, the stock market is thrown into turmoil as the word about the bet – at least the general information – is shared with every news agency worth knowing; all five of them. Suddenly someone notices that, due to the international appeal of this bet, the details of the arrangement, the number of ways that the original bookie used to try to lay off his potential losses, and to lay off his own wagers for additional gains, there are now nearly one-hundred-twenty-million people directly or indirectly involved. With myriad others financially intimated into the arrangement, through hedge funds and new business investments – and all together nearly one hundred forty trillion dollars is involved. Yes, that is $140,000,000,000,000 of loose virtual cash being exchanged on this one series of bets. The amount is over five times the current GDP of all America. Most of this money was either freed up from personal savings accounts, additional mortgages by the little fish, repatriation of almost all funds being hidden off shore, or brought out of retirement from criminal organizations around the world, and astonishingly from one nation’s entitlement slush fund; the division is about equal parts of each. The money missing from the American entitlement funds – what had once been termed “unfunded liabilities” – is discovered and seized. This is immediately followed by the sudden disapproval of so many American individuals over being financially in bed with every criminal enterprise in the world, and it causes a significant fiduciary exodus. The stock market collapses when hundreds of millions of investors sell everything low, and then re-collapses, dropping the Dow to about 72,000 for the first time in . . . well, since 2009, then half that, and almost half again. No one alive can still remember that far back, but Jeremiah saw all of this coming. The number is 6249, it is still good, and it pays off, seven to one.
Maybe this is what Jeremiah thought that Mack was screaming about, flustered and excited as he was, but that is not what got Mack into a lather, not what was changing history outside, not what had crowds of people walking in amazement one way and running in terror the other. But, the two were related somehow. So Jeremiah slowly rose to step outside and take a look.
Jeremiah was later heard saying that Malachi’s job was to make the bets in a sequence, one at a time; expecting that the fourth or fifth day would be the end of the days for the bookie’s willingness to take the bets. But he also fully expected that the bookie would demand the next five numbers – or more if possible – and do the betting himself. Jeremiah calculated that he and Malachi would split either $720,300 or $5,042,100, depending on which day the bookie quit; and with the instructions he had given to Mal, he expected to have open options, and he had real plans for the money. He also expected that the people with whom the bookie made his bets would likely do the same – cease the bets, demand the next numbers, and acquire all they could. In the event that it was all discovered, and should coercion occur, Jeremiah had twenty numbers. What he had failed to know, and what Mal kept hidden, was the fact that he laid it down as a single bet; the fact that he had borrowed another five large to make his own honey pot bigger; not to mention that there were loan sharks involved. Since Jeremiah didn’t have any money in hand, and he hadn’t heard from Malachi, he figured that Malachi had somehow blown the bet, lost the money, gone off for a good time, or . . . maybe he’s dead.
In the old days Jeremiah had been brilliant, analyzing data, trends, markets, and more than once – hell, more than a dozen times – he had been proven reliable in prognosticating the economy, impending wars, financial and political attacks on the nation, and certain unacceptable social constructs or behaviour. The problem is that Jeremiah is right too often. Some had used the word “prophet” regarding him, and if he had been a weather man, Jeremiah could have had a wonderful life, but he reported and predicted the times and seasons of history instead of snow and rain, and he often seemed to be ratting out the national schemes before anyone knew that they were afoot.
He had foretold of the nationalization of every major industry, in order, weeks or months before each occurred, all the way up to the nationalizing of Hollywood. Once the federal government took over the propaganda machine, there was nothing produced that didn’t smack in some way with hyper-nationalism, Islamophilia, humanism, Statism, or moral liberality; not caring about the mores of the public, so long as everyone paid their taxes and kept their civil obligations. They even nationalized the porn industry, though the purists of the “Istanians” were dead set against even allowing it to operate, much less being a functional slice of the government pie – and Jeremiah had predicted that too. He predicted the unionization of almost every job in Ameristan, and last month, in an open letter to the big three new agencies, the five biggest papers, and the President of the People’s Free Ameristan . . . well. It got page six or page thirty coverage in some papers, zero seconds of airtime on any network, and no worthwhile attention from the President – maybe because Jeremiah had told the truth about him so long ago – so his letter went into the “E-44-File,” which is a record of communiqués from dissidents. The letter foretold the collapse of the markets, cash depletion of the banks and lending institutions, the gambling activities with the national treasury, and more. Today someone would decide that the letter deserves attention.
Jeremiah gets to the door in time to see crowds of people running to the left – traffic is absolutely asnarl – twenty or thirty cabs have crashed into each other, with half dozen police cars, down the block to the right. There are random people walking, entranced, faces up, eyes glazed, strolling like zombies to the right, and as Jeremiah is about to follow their gazes upward to see what they see, his eyes are suddenly and inextricably fixed on Malachi. Mal is across the intersection, at the farthest corner, with his hands up, pleading with a couple of men, as a small cadre of others are running up behind. The group – except for Malachi – looks rather well dressed and pressed, but still somewhat thuggish, like TV lawyers. “They are Mob!” thinks Jeremiah. One of them – Mal would tell Jere later that it’s Vinnie – is waving a gun at Mal, signaling him to get on his knees.
At this point one might think that the police could drive by and do something, but that is not going to happen. These days and your days are different. In this day the police only enforce the Sharia Constitution and all of your little personal crap – like debts and murder – well, those are left up to the local Magisterium.
Vinnie stands there, gun in hand, glaring at Malachi, with compatriots arriving to the rear, gathering close enough to see what is going on. Suddenly, because no one is looking up, and because falling objects don’t make as much noise as the current honking and screaming surroundings – there falls a gargoyle and about twenty feet of stone handrail from the top of the immediate building, and it falls on every one of the men that are intimidating Malachi. Whump! Crash! Wham! In a second Malachi has no pursuers, only a dense covering of dust from the stone and cement hitting the concrete sidewalk, and a mild splattering of blood. Malachi gets up off his knees as Jeremiah begins to run to Malachi, but instead Jer
emiah’s eyes begin to follow the gaze of all those people, most of whom don’t even notice eight dead thugs under the rubble, and what he sees both terrifies and comforts him.
There in the air, just above the rooftop of the building where Malachi stands, is an aircraft – a flying thing – a space ship, maybe. It looks like a small city with a huge scrolling electronic banner like the news stream in Times Square. Jeremiah looks up and sees a message beginning to scroll which says,
“Ἐν ἀρχῃ̂ ἐποίησεν ὁ θεὸς . . .”
At that moment, part of the banner gets shot out by a fighter plane strafing it, bullets detonating little things similar to light bulbs, leaving small piles of some sort of odd, almost fluid, plastic shattered and splattered on the ground. The jet – a new F-31 Vampire – looms overhead; blasting past the edge of the behemoth, circling about, it comes to rest, hovering with a thunder, face to face with the banner.
“Here’s some more, you alien bastard!” he shouts into his mask, relaying his words to the control tower at McGuire Air Force Base. “You’re not filling our minds with all that other-world shit!” and he fires another volley.
“Stand down, Major!” is the reply from the Air Base, but the Major would not be deterred.
“Jeremiah!” is shouted from somewhere, but he doesn’t even let it register in his head.
The flight recorder that would be played for the news later, would record about two dozen words in what some said was Farsi, others say Arabic, his message ended with an “Akbar” and several hundred rounds of mini-gun ammo; .50 caliber, and a sudden high note that someone; a fan of the ancient Spielberg movies, said was a high E. Just then, all the gauges went dead, the flight recorder stopped, the engines shut down, and the plane fell silently until it became a smear, bleeding forward, streaming into the face of the craft, disappearing. A small and sudden blue blast from the monstrous ship had completely disabled every single item in the plane, suddenly drawing it into . . . into what? No one knew. It looked like a cartoon of something being vacuumed into a small hole, but the cartoon is reality, made of steel and aircraft aluminum, slurped into nothingness. The ship makes a sudden, graceful, and silent climb up above two thousand feet in about six seconds, and there it remains. The F-31 Vampire is deposited as if projected from the stone edifice of the nearby building, onto the sidewalk below, empty and unharmed, other than resting on its belly with the landing gear up.
The Warriors' Ends- Soldiers of the Apocalypse Page 11