- Sloth
The Moon - Illusions, Intuition, Confusion, Darkness
Merlyn Oldfather is perturbed.
“These fuckers are listening to the psychopaths!”
Bard and Ansley trail after Merlyn as she storms through the complex, drunkenly waving the tarot card.
“Using their sin against my sin. Sneaky devils. Can sloth even beat greed?”
“I know I’m a fan.” Bard is drunk, tired, and very thirsty. “Why are we walking so fast? Where are we anyway?”
It looks like some kind of kaleidoscope cathedral. Sunlight fracturing through towering stained glass into prismatic fractals. But aren’t they underground? Does the Plain Wrapper Building have an underground sun? Bard needs another drink.
Merlyn stops and liberates a bottle of wine from an altar. Praise the Lord. Bard crashes in a pew as Merlyn flusters around.
“We have to kill this meme.”
“About that,” says Bard. “How?”
“I dunno. Kill everyone who’s seen it?”
They both look to Ansley.
He shrugs. “It’s gone viral, but not in the mainstream. Definitely less than 1% of the online population has seen it. Maybe a million people. Give or take.”
Bard shakes her head. That’s way too many. It would break all her rules, or close enough. “I can’t kill that many people. It’s a logistical thing. Even if they lined up, my trigger finger would get tired.”
Merlyn grumbles as she paces. “I’m thinking about smallpox again - which would work - but comes with its own problems. What about a bomb? Are all these people clustered together?”
“No.” says Ansley.
“Fine, fuck it. We’ll have to get rid of phones. Social media. The internet. Fuck it all.”
That sobers Bard considerably. “Excuse me?”
“Sloth is propaganda and the internet is a propaganda machine. So we turn it off. Seize the means of production.” Merlyn shrugs. “It was a nice little money siphon, but it’s more trouble than it’s worth. We’ll go back to controlling people with cable news.”
“They’re handing out the tarot cards on the street.”
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“And taking pictures of it, and posting it online.” says Ansley. “That's where it’s gone viral. Shutting down the internet would stop it.”
Bard’s chest constricts with anxiety. She pulls her phone on autopilot to distract herself, but that makes it worse. She puts it back, then pulls it again. And again and again. Caught in a loop of emotional displacement.
Ansley correctly assumes that Bard needs a minute and takes up her side of the conversation. “But does shutting down the internet make sense with our other plans? Are we not bankrolled by tech billionaires? Will we roll Mentor out on the radio?”
“It’s about time we spent those tech billionaires. They shall fund their own destruction. A simple hastening of the inevitable. And we won’t need Mentor for long. The whole game is changing soon.”
Merlyn and Ansley quibble their way to a workable plan as Bard succumbs to shock. Can you play Snap through the mail? Will she ever finish the Calamitous Bob? What about porn!
Nervously flipping her phone in and out, she considers her options. Maybe she could kill a million people? How are they discussing the loss of phones so calmly?
Bard cracks. “Is this even allowed? I don’t think people will let us do this!”
Merlyn laughs maniacally. “Oh sweety, of course they will. There’s so many good reasons to get rid of phones.
“They’re attention traps. Designed to mimic high level social interactions. Gossip, praise, community, sexuality. You know - the best parts of life. But they work too well. Blasting us with virtual success until real life can’t compete. A reconfiguration of our reward system until everything else is a lethargic slog. An insidious modern addiction. At least booze got us laid. All we get from phones is a mental health epidemic of low self esteem, wasted hours, doomscrolling, loneliness, and isolation. All culminating in a collapsing birth rate that spells the end of the human race. We’re practically saving the world by getting rid of phones.”
“Really?”
“I dunno. Who gives a fuck? But they’ll definitely let us get rid of them.”
Merlyn and Ansley bustle away, planning the new world order. Bard butterflies her phone. What now? What next? Why? She knows she should follow. Or finish her church wine and sleep in her sexless sex dungeon. But maybe she could leave the complex.
Wafting on alcohol fumes, she floats into the night. Why is she leaving? She can do anything in here. Totally safe. Outside has rules. Outside she’s someone else. Masks. Tactics and masks. What does she really want? Her mask is a cop. She must not break the law. She must not rampage.
Folliet Bard is at a strip club.
The back right corner table is occupied by a cocaine dealer. Because every strip joint has a cocaine dealer in their back right corner. She could buy coke. So much money. Or she could just take it. Her mask is a cop. Who does she think she is? Being a cop won’t protect her if she steals from the gangs. Some very murderous men will be along to ask pointed questions. How wonderful. Now that she occupies the coke corner, half the club is her new best friend. Coke, shots, dancing, kisses, shots, coke, boobies, shots, shots, shots, screaming. A man has hands on her. Tossed around. Do they wanna fight or fuck? Does it even matter…
Folliet Bard awakens to disaster.
The champagne room floor is a mosaic of broken glass, white powder, blood, and naked bodies. Bard stands, dusts herself off, and looks for some clothes. One of the naked men triggers a few memories.
“Dang. I have fucked everything up.”
“I dunno.” Lunar gives a megawatt smile. “I think everything went great.”
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