Savant 1

To work for the people, and by that I mean to resonate with them as an idea, you have to appear dumb as fuck while being as smart as a whip. Marylebone had the maths down to a fine art. He managed to be a spokesperson, a commentator and still remain inestimably cool. How many people can achieve that?

He was a ticking timebomb that the establishment wanted removed. They tried to discredit him but they underestimated him. Each time they sent someone in to upstage him it was them that ended up looking the buffoon.

He smiled, arched an eyebrow and lit up the joint he had been treating like it were a super model’s leg he was turning in his hand. It tasted good — good shit; hydroponic; from the farms out in the sticks. He had money tied up in that shit — the market had slumped as of late but he knew there was a boom around the corner; these things went in cycles and the whole methamphetamine kick was dying down.

His sidelines in providing prescription drugs for those who couldn’t afford them was reaping dividends. People thought of him as just a TV presenter; they had no idea that he was staging a quiet revolution. Even the government goons that had been following him around had no real clue what he was up to.

He had been lacing the water with psychotropic drugs for about two years now in certain areas — mainly the ones that suffered from racial tension. He stuck amphetamines in the water of the areas that seemed too peaceful. He had friends on the various waterboards that controlled the supplies around the country. He was an agent provocateur and he had countless contacts in the art schools and amateur dramatic societies that would stage little skits for him to amp up a feeling that he wanted to be floating through the universal mind.

He had to be in the public eye to make him untouchable. If they came after him — if the shit hit the proverbial fan; then he needed to have a sympathetic public behind him to give him some kind of crawlspace. Revolutionaries could no longer hide — they had to be in plain sight and use the same tools that the big boys were playing with. You could be a one person media company.

He had to cut with the reckless shit though — like lacing the chief of police’s food with female hormones; like doctoring up a digital rendering of the prime minister going down on the president. Shit like that just wouldn’t fly. Shit like that might get him caught. Couldn’t have that. What could you do if you got caught? Not much — that was what.

Shit, he was stoned. Fucking out of his tree. Put some Marley on and float for a bit. Business could wait — revolution could wait. He needed to get high. Getting high made sense — it switched you off, and he spent all his life switched on.

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One Response

  1. Pretty cool. Like playing God, with less wrath…more mellow revolution. Haha.
    You’re really good at writing from a third person perspective [if that’s the correct term?…I’ve seen people called up on that a few times on the Cafe] and still getting us right into the character’s zone.

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