Waiting, he took a drag from his cigar.
The lateness of the Associate did not bother him. While the others at the table were nervously murmuring and fidgeting about, He was carefully arranging the final details of the masterstroke in his head. He appreciated this little moment; "The calm before the storm" the poets called it.
He had chosen an inconspicuous business attire for this little private occasion. After all, sticking out while moving about the city would have worked against His cause. He could have easily pulled out his Star of David from his bedside drawer and pinned it on his suit, with the purpose of revelling in getting a reaction from onlookers... But He did not desire the fame or infamy; only the power. He was comfortable enough in the shadows, in the darkness. The task of scandalizing the public would be left to the Performer.
He took another drag from the cigar, and, not entirely a non-sequitur of thought, he couldn't help but briefly muse on how the observers and listeners never cared for the human effort underneath a puppet show. They enjoyed, or pretended to enjoy, the clanging and clamor, they enjoyed the act itself. But they never stopped to think about the Puppetmaster, about the person
truly in charge of the show. Not most of them, at least.
Finally, the Associate arrived.
Almost immediately, the other associates quit their scurrying about, put on their best business face and took their seats around the table. The Associate hastily took his own seat near the door and put his folder on the table, taking the time to briefly go through the sheets it contained.
"[REDACTED], nice of you to arrive!" He said.
"Did you acquaint yourself with our latest protege?"
"Well enough, I'd say:
Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones. Wants to rap. Obsessed with Scarface. Also associates himself with petty criminals and gangsters. His life's philosophy concludes with the cliche "Life's a bitch". Absolutely talentless, but likes to think he's quite smart and well-read. Uninteresting, depraved, and utterly worthless. "
"Pretty much, yeah. Nothing to worry about, though. We've already handpicked the producers to do the necessary adjustments. And the advertisers and critics are there to convince the public that this is really amazing. Like we've done many times before."
"Like we've done many times before, yes. But never have we put forward something so obviously inane. I've been with you since the 60's. I remember a lot of the bands and performers we put forward during the 'Nam times. They always had a talent, though. They always had some artistic flair that made them actually worthwhile. They wrote their own songs and played their own instruments. But this... This "Nas" guy... This is insanity. We shouldn't do this. We can't do this."
Cynical smiles and sneers all round the table, a bit of an awkward forced laughter. He was the only one to respond with seriousness:
"[REDACTED]... Think of the money. Think of the wave we'll unleash. In half a decade, we'll have a dozen similar acts raking in immense profits. Who actually cares if it's good music? Who cares if it glorifies trash and crime?? People will be convinced it's good, and we'll be winning! That's all that matters"
"I'll take that for a dollar!", another associate exclaims, unknowingly misquoting one of the greatest movies of the century. The rest jeer with that same fake and forced laughter as a little while ago.
The Associate stands up from his chair carefully, with gravity.
"Gentlemen, I'm out. Our undertaking was profitable and enjoyable, for the most part. But I can't sit idly by as we destroy sacred things... as we destroy talent and art."
The Associate made a motion then towards the door. The Person at the End of the table pointed his finger at him and tilted his head at a menacing angle:
"No more life in a mansion for you, [REDACTED]. No more Mercedeses."
The Associate paused for a minute and seemed to stare into space. He squinted his eyes, and declared, not with malice, but with wistfulness:
"Mercedes is just like cigars... Made for people with small dicks and big egos."
It hit its mark, and, after regaining their composure from the blow, the others erupted with an unquenchable ire. Except for Him. He was not perturbed or in any way moved by the remark. Because He held the conviction that he was doing the right thing, and it was an implacable conviction. Even as the Associate left the room, the Person at the end of the table suddenly felt more zealous than ever before.
"Gentlemen, we move forward."
