The man to Pity and Hate.

this is a story about a man in a cell
the cell is not a prison cell in a penitentiary, though he deserves to be in one
he lives in a tower, a skyscraper at the top, a penthouse suite
his furnishings are some of the finest on earth
to the left of his desk, his humidor filled with expensive cigars, each of which would be a month’s rent for a cheap apartment in Chicago. and to his right, a liquor cabinet filled with very expensive spirits. the the prices don’t matter to him. he is so well heeled that he doesn’t know what they cost, as the places that he buys from, by the case of each, sell only stuff in the “if you have to ask” category, by which is meant that if you need to ask the cost, you shouldn’t be in there in the first place. the stuff never matters to him.

How does he make his money, you ask? Why does he have so much of it? He does so in ways that would make Adolf Hitler squirm in disgust and hatred. Even he had standards above this.

He is an addict. Not a crackhead. Not a methhead covered in crystal sores. He doesn’t get his money smashing old ladies in the head with a crowbar for the bills in her purse or breaking car windows for the handful of coins in the cupholder. No, he is not so craven., He’d never get his hands dirty like that, not like before. He is a wealth addict. He gets a brief moment of satisfaction from  a program an aide set up for him for seeing money flow into his accounts from the horrible things he does. You ever play “Cookie Clicker”? You ever reach the point when you’ve enslaved a hundred grannies made hundreds of factories filled with children anf huge farms and time machines pouring cookies into the total and the amount of cookies is massive and still you want MORE? That is him, but with dollars instead of cookies. That wait for the next big dial to start spinning? That’s literally all he lives for.

He is a robber, but not like a crass man with a gun to the teller’s head. No. He destroys more lives in a day than ten crackheads ever do in a lifetime of degeneracy.

He has connections all over the planet. Politicians, police and military officers, desk workers, aides. Connections in the CIA, the KGB, American Alphabet Agencies, special forces units, and many more.
He operates by bringing a powerful nation to war with a much smaller, poorer nation
The armies absolutely wreck the target, burning crops to ash; leaving craters in roads filled with mangled, twisted bodies, and the burning and burned-out carcasses of vehicles civilian and military alike. Homes and businesses turned to scattered rubble and schools put to the torch. the infrastructure pulled out like a giant weed at the roots and chopped up like for a scavenger’s meal.

None of this matters to him. This is only the set up in the plan. What he really does comes after, and it’s like a play about hell, only in real life.

See all the destruction after a war like this costs a huge amount to fix more than the shattered nation that was can afford to repair at once. This is where the man in the cell comes in. He represents an organization, names withheld; even to him, for he is but a mere rook in a massively multiplayer game of 3level Star Trek chess and all his pieces, of which he is the king, have pawns and knights of their own. Unknown Armies, none that matters to him..
He sets up a central bank, and selects a wretch in good standing with minor level connections he can use. He invites this thin starved man, one that has eaten the barest rations, possibly rats on a skewer just to live; for a dinner alone with him, but first a ..... chat about his country’s future.

Imagine a thin starved wretch entering a hallway both long and and huge, so as to make anyone walking it feel small and insignificant, only to enter a room filled with tasteful luxury, with the wretched “prisoner” at a desk that looks like it cost hundreds of lives worth of wages (for his people) sipping whiskey that for a single bottle could feed a suburban cul-de-sac takeout Chinese three meals a day for a week and puffing a cigar that’s like a month’s rent on a house to buy, and is offered a seat on a rickety almost broken chair (purposefully selected to make the occupant as uncomfortable as possible by the rich suit himself) and then the Talk commences.

The Devil at the desk starts his trademark salesman’s routine, enunciating each word in velvety tones, as smooth as the whiskey he sips what the future of this ruined country consists of and the faustian bargain the wretch is about to sign.

He talks of a huge loan, enouth to rebuild the country, turn the water and power back on, to refertilize the farms, to make schooling again a reality or the children and to build a noble, bright future for the wretch’s people.

He speaks of factories built to help the wretch, of commerce and trade, and of the best engineers to make his country prosperous.

He draws out each word, having the wretch in his uncomfortable chair on the edge of his rocking, unbalanced seat. He holds out the tantalizing future out like a piece of delicious meat over the  head of a starving dog. The Devil knows what he’s doing. He’s done it a hundred times.

The Wretch knows he’s being set up, He’s smart enough to recognize that all this has a hook, but he knows that turning this down would invite backlash, even though he can see the hook sticking out of the tasty meat, soon enough his willpower breaks. He bites down, signs the contract and instantly the hook bites, but it isn’t him that is caught, it is him and his family and his nation that is caught and here’s why.

The hook is interest. Credit card like interest. Even if he himself and his entire nation work their fingers to the bone, the bones into dust and hawk the dust door to door as a sexual aphrodisiac during the few hours they should be sleeping, they’ll never free themselves from this trap.

Soon they’ll be selling off their riches , soon then they'll be selling their governmental corporations and finally their land from beneath their feet just to make the next installment of the never-ending debt. They have sold their freedom for a false dream, and they are never going to be free.

The wretch that sold the soul of his nation is rewarded for his part in his nation’s enslavement by a huge dinner with expensive food, the same booze that the “Prisoner” drinks and a cigar that costs so much. A fitting last meal.

What does the Man in the cell get from this? 10% of the installments, his fee. And so the numbers climb a touch faster...


Now you know why he should be hated, but not why he should be pitied. He’s an eternal loner. His family’s old money, old as the stones. He was bred and trained for this life, it’s all he knows. He never had a friend, and his other needs were bought or Rented for. He had a wife once. They met on a cruise ship in the Bahamas, She married him for his money, He married her for her looks and the fact she had a teenage son from a previous marriage, because for all his wealth he is sterile and incapable of having children of his own much less the time to raise them.

Some three years after they married, she had an affair with a waiter working at a small restaurant they often dined at. He likes to think She ran off. It saves him from thinking about those men with the hungry wolf eyes he paid a large undisclosed sum to for a Day or Two of their time... After the matter... Was (narrator holds up two fingers with one hand as he speaks then grips them with the other) “well in hand”

His son knows what happened to his mother, the men were paid to force him to watch every gruesome detail, and he knows what will happen if he strays... By day he lives the life of a rich kid of Instagram, by night he’s tormented by nightmares of his dying mother begging him to kill her.

The Prisoner is a prisoner by distance as well as welth. He cannot relate to others, he has no clue how to. He indulges in cocaine and other expensive hedonisms. But a man has needs, and sometimes he hires an agency to fill them. Most of the sessions are companionship, but on a few occasions (5 per year) he hires two escorts for some fun. One to satisfy his darker urges, and another to provide first aid and clean up the blood, after some resuscitation.

All the interns fear his ass. They suck up as much as possible, and when he dies his son has secretly decided to give him a lavish funeral with free expensive booze and cigars (to see who comes, mostly suckups and shiteaters) then have him cremated and scattered on a landfill, as such a man deserves.

Now don’t you feel conflicted?