Profit Before People
04.15.2020 | tm leonard A global virus has a long term effect. Humans adjust priorities.
Big busine$$ restructures their operations. Oil, banks, pharmaceuticals, travel industry, automotive, and airlines.
It's a numbers game, said Profit Before People.
Story time...
...He unlocked the door. Five empty freezing rooms.
The kitchen counter displayed empty soda bottles, a black plastic bag of cheap harsh stale tobacco, a box of lavender herbal tea flowers, 1/2 jar of Nescafé, one white coffee cup, one spoon, a sharp knife, a fork in the road and one bright yellow plate.
On a white laminated shelf was a first edition of Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, signed by the author.
“Read this,” said Silence, the loudest noise in the world.
Next to it was a black key for a teachers’ cabinet at TEOL.
“Call Trabzon,” the German man informed Ebru. “We have an MIA.”
She rang Sit Down in Trabzon.
“Lucky Foot took a hike,” she said.
“Call out the SWAT team and dogs. Hunt him down. Kill him with extreme prejudicial kindness.”
She called SWAT. The line was busy.
The German returned to TEOL and gave Ebru the key. She approached the cabinet. A rancid smell smashed her nose. “What’s that god-awful stench?”
Gagging, she threw up all over a teachers’ desk littered with empty tea glasses, cell phones and half eaten Simit pretzels. Regaining her composure she approached The Cabinet of Dr. Cagliari (1920).
She heard a ticking sound. Maybe it’s a bomb. I should call the bomb squad.
They arrived. A man in a bombproof origami suit applied a stethoscope to the front panel. Yes, something is ticking.
He drilled a hole and pushed a microscopic eye into darkness. A mirror inside the cabinet reflected a thin piece of pulsating metronomic metal. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
“We’ll have to open this with thrilling caution. Get the Die Rector.”
The Die Rector, an economist, knew what to do. “Let’s assume there’s no fucking problem. Give me the key.”
Ebru handed it over. Everyone backed up hard drives.
The Die Rector, 56, who was scheduled for a heart-valve transplant in January, unlocked the door.
Inside was The Language Company by Zeynep, class rosters, green, yellow, orange highlighters, a
magnifying glass, telescope, world globe, hourglass, a bag of hazelnuts, radioactive isotopes, a red rose with
thorns, a dissolving image of a smiling ghost playing with Lone Wolf in a mountain meadow, a mirror, a
dozing Black Mamba, a high voltage Dream Sweeper Machine from Hanoi, a Honer blues harp in the key of C,
a magic carpet, one sugar cube, a glass, spoon, dry tea leaves, an empty bottle of Xanax, a ticking
metronome, a bamboo forest, dusty footprints and rusty Communist loudspeakers squawking:
We are Authority, Power and Control. Surprise!
Study currency with a friend.
How did I grow?
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