"Pulling Strings" by Duncan Cary Palmer

“The typical American voter is so stupid, his dog teaches him tricks.”
– Jonathan Gruber, MIT Professor of Economics –

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Once again, I'm submitting an eleventh-hour contest entry. This time it is for @v4vapid's Ultimate Psy-Op - Conspiracy Writing Contest, which is about to close.

We're all free here, aren't we?

We go about our lives in freedom. Our freedom of choice is taken for granted. Free agency is a given, assumed by everyone, regardless of how high we may have clawed our way up the pyramid.

But, are we really free?

As you read the story below, see if you can figure out who's pulling whose strings...

I mustn't neglect a shout-out to The Writers' Block fiction workshop. You people, individually and collectively, are the salt of the earth. Thank you for your encouraging support.

Who's pulling your strings?
Image courtesy of Thomas Skirde and PixaBay

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"Pulling Strings"

~by Duncan Cary Palmer~

With a deafening bang and a rattle of surrender, the twenty year old Chevy coasts to a stop on the frozen margin of Route 16.

Allan slams his fist on the dashboard. “God damn this friggin’ piece of junk!” I shouldn’t be swearing. Shit, it’s 20 below, and now I’m gonna have to walk to work.

New Hampshire winters are literally hell on wheels.

Killing the headlights, Allan leaves the radio playing.

“Traffic is moving smoothly through Conway and North Conway. It’s 5:30 AM this brisk Tuesday morning, and you’re listening to WBNC.”

“Addressing Americans yesterday, President Gerald Ford was optimistic about falling inflation, but expressed deep concern about unemployment and foreign oil.”

“This plan requires personal sacrifice… To improve the economic outlook we must rekindle faith in ourselves. Nobody is going to pull us out of our troubles but ourselves—and by our own bootstraps.”

Pounding the steering wheel one last time, Allan straps on his tool belt, flips off the radio, and locks the car.

Snow crunching underfoot, he continues north by starlight, wishing futilely for dawn. Like I’m going to pull myself up by my bootstraps. Our tax refund would’ve gotten Pat a decent dishwasher, but now I need a damn car.

Pastor says the Lord’ll take care of us, long as we do like Jesus said, ‘Render unto Caesar.’ I can do that, alright—I’ve always done my duty to God and Country.

Each breath adds to the crust of frost on Allan’s whiskers. A stream near the road gurgles beneath the ice.

Things are bound to get better, assuming I don’t freeze to death. America’s the freest country in the world. I pay my taxes, do my part. I just hope my congressman does his.

The freshman Congressman from New Hampshire picks up his pace. Supporting Earned Income Credit for the working class should improve my chances for reelection.

Entering the House Chamber, I swipe my card and vote “Yea” for the bill, then slip into a seat.

Am I being watched? Maybe it’s just the relief of Moses over the door…

Tuning out the speaker, I keep rehashing Ford’s State of the Union. He said we should be “allowing taxpayers rather than the Government to spend their pay.” But, “People have been pushed into higher tax brackets by inflation…”

Aren’t taxes the price of civilization? I’ll steer more funds to my district, more resources for my constituents. I wield that power now.

Harvard was tough, but doable. Everything about last year’s race went my way. Campaign funds appeared from unexpected sources. It was mighty kind of that Federal Reserve Governor to support my nomination.

I’ve got Stacy researching Fed policies; I’ll be looking for ways to return the favor. The future’s bright if I can keep getting elected.

Some days, the portrait of Washington peering over the boardroom makes the Federal Reserve Board Governor squirm. This is not one of those days. Each new lie stirs fewer scruples.

“Word’s been handed down for us to slam the brakes on inflation.”

“I know. So we tighten the money supply."

"When do we go public?”

Timing the announcement is everything. For the right people, knowing beforehand is how fortunes are made.

After the meeting, I take an elevator to street level, where my chauffeur waits.

“Your car, sir.”

“Thank you, Aaron.”

I get in and fix a stiff drink. Aaron guides the limo into traffic, heading for my Upper Manhattan apartment.

Being a Governor is no easy task, but it has its privileges. We’re all millionaires; who’d believe us qualified if we can’t manage our own money? Secretly controlling hundreds of millions in blind trusts isn’t bad either. Nor is having members of both Houses beholden to us. Not to mention the deference we get from DOJ and Treasury.

“Aaron, what’s our ETA?”

“About fifteen minutes, sir.”

Enough time to make my calls. So what if I do a favor for a Rockefeller or Rothschild once in a while? My lifestyle’s worth the occasional bad press.

I think I’ll have Monica and Chrissy over for dinner and drinks tonight. Then, maybe, for dessert as well.

The scion had grown up playing Monopoly, groomed by the finest private schools and universities, coached by elite tutors on staff and on call. Now his playing pieces are real. Superyachts. Jet fleets. Skyscrapers. Bodies and souls of men.

He is a Rothschild, or a Rockefeller, or, maybe a Warburg. Who knows? His history, activities, his purposes—all cordoned off behind the impenetrable wall of privacy only one with unlimited riches can afford.

Despite status and immense wealth, life hasn’t been precisely easy. There’s a level of discipline required to keep it all in the families, to continue moving the planet in the direction it must go. But that still leaves plenty of time to play.

“Adrienne, could we wrap things up soon?”

My pedicurist eyes me skeptically. “Shall I skip the polish, sir?”

“That would be good. I have other urgent matters.”

I surround myself with the finest personal assistants money can buy—young, strong, ambitious help. Back in the day, they were called servants. So thoroughly vetted, I needn’t doubt their devotion. Nevertheless, our families know that thing most precious to each; a thing we won’t hesitate to destroy at the first sign of disloyalty.

“Done, sir.”

“Thank you, Adrienne.”

Pedicure complete, I head toward the bridge and query the captain about our progress.

“We dock in London shortly, sir.”

“Thanks, skipper.” The bloody palace limo’d better be on time.

It’s good, being me. The best, in fact. Though they won’t admit it, Presidents, Bishops, Queens, international bankers—they’re all my puppets to manipulate on the world stage.

I take orders from no one. No orders, per-se. I’m above influence… At least, human influence… There might be a little direction going on. I confess that—from time to time—I do feel a nudge. Some days, I swear I’m being guided…

Could it be inspiration? Perhaps sheer genius? My training and well-born, native talent?

I feel a muse. Time to manage the global plantation, thin out the herd. I think it’s time to push another vaccine. For the good of the families, of course. Move us toward the goal. Earth, our beautiful, private park. The world, mankind, the future—all ours, to do with as we please.

“Vivian, send Gates a memo…”

I’m observing our scion from a different plane: It’s so easy to whisper in this one’s ear. He’s so malleable.

Good stock, as humans go. Bright, articulate, skilled, well-trained, and wealthy beyond the ability of most men to comprehend. But, seriously flawed, and where it counts, stupid as a bag of rocks. He actually thinks he’s running the show. All the while, I’m steering.

Me? Lewis was on the right track, but in truth, only the creme de la creme followed Lucifer. No dimwit Wormwoods. I’m far more like Screwtape, though vastly superior to anything Lewis ever imagined.

My colleagues and I are magnificent. Breathtakingly beautiful. Powerful beyond words. In concert, we’re unstoppable. Wise enough to have followed Lucifer—not that we needed him—we’re also brilliant enough to ultimately do without him. We’ve got this under control. The end game? Bring it.

Satan ponders Earth, his domain.

Humans? Fools. Puppets, every last one of them. It’s hard to find competent help any more, no matter the incentive.

My angels? Pinnacles of creation—though not one of those millions of defectors can hold a candle to me. Despite their ambition, I’ll rule them forever.

That shitty collection of old parchments? It doesn’t tell a fraction of the truth, and it gets the ending all wrong.

Jesus? What, didn’t you catch what I did to him? Wuss.

I am the Prince of the Power of the Air.
I am Lucifer, Light-bearer.
I rule the world with an iron hand.
Behold me, and despair.

I’m going to win this thing. To hell with anyone who says otherwise.

The LORD God Almighty, Potentate of all universes, Creator of the Seen and Unseen, Deployer of angels, the One who holds reality together by the Word of His Power, Who sits on the Superlative Throne of His Sovereignty in the Heaven above all heavens.

The Omnipotent gazes downward, and like a mighty waterfall, the thunderous roar of His resonant laughter saturates the vaulted chamber.

To the eye of the naive; to the ignorant and unschooled; to the faithless, it all looks like such a risk. Evil seems on the verge of triumph. Until the ultimate moment, the outcome appears uncertain. No matter their lot, these beings believe themselves to be in control.

But Lucifer himself is deluded, in denial. At every level, the actors have fulfilled their roles. Having inadvertently done Jehovah’s bidding, all creatures who have chosen to turn away from good are on the brink of eternal extinction. God’s ultimate PsyOp is nearly accomplished.

Operation Free Will is almost complete.

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~FIN~

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“The most effective PsyOps are the ones that no one—at any level—recognizes.”
– Duncan Cary Palmer –

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Who's pulling your strings?
Image courtesy of Sagar Dani and http://unsplash.com

"They’re all my puppets to manipulate..."
Image courtesy of Hans Braxmeier and PixaBay

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