CSI: American Carnage (Thursday, October 17, 2019)
THE CENTRAL PLAINS – Far below the desiccated rows of corn, some sending up curls of smoke as they burn in the wake of the lightening storms and arson attacks, far below impoverished farm women clutching their babies by the roadside, begging from the kids in jalopies out to score some weed, far below the towns with their closed up windows and empty streets, the Dark Ones sit in the vast central plains complex’s Antechamber of Anamnesis, remembering the way it used to be when the money flowed like oil into their great subterranean tanks, perhaps the biggest and most capacious in the world, but now so full that funds are diverted to subsidiary holding vaults located in the Caribbean, Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, and multiple discrete dark locations where only those with elaborate maps can find their way. The elder brother sits quietly on his settee, sipping the latest green tea from Jiangsu, which he finds acceptable. He places the glass carefully on the side table and turns to his brother, silent now for weeks. My brother, the elder says, the Gambler Showman has careened into our protectorate, a surprise, I hate to say, to me. We have controlled it so seamlessly since the great Ottoman days, I fear I took it for granted, although the Showman has shown signs of adventurism in the area for many months. Now he has written a letter urging the Ottoman Successor to make a deal. The Successor, of course, will laugh in his face and toss the letter in the trash. It is the possible reaction of the Showman that worries me now. He has warned the Successor that “history” – whatever that might mean to the Showman – history, he says, “will look upon you forever as the devil if good things don’t happen.” I can see the Successor laughing to himself over this line. Do you recall the way Suleiman laughed at the pesky Slavs in Belgrade? Ho ho ho. The Dark One chuckles to himself for several moments. After a moment, the antechamber falls silent but for the drips of rot coming from the younger brother’s fingers, several of which have already fallen off into rotting piles of corruption on the floor. The skin on his face has drawn tight and his teeth, those still remaining, thrust forward in a prominent grin. The elder brother continues to chuckle to himself and he does not immediately notice the left arm of his brother has also come loose and is now held in the air by the sleeve of his suit jacket. Yes, says the elder at last. Quite a letter to the Successor. It concludes with the Showman’s characteristic words of advice: Don’t be a tough guy. Don’t be a fool! Oh words of wisdom! Were they directed closer to home! The brother falls silent. His eyes grow watery, clouding his vision. His brother’s arm at last slips from the sleeve and falls with a plop! to the floor. – Thursday, October 17, 2019