The Merchant of Death by Shane Joseph
A tinted, black Mercedes exited the highway, wound down a ramp, and slid onto the dirt road that crossed below. Samuel Slade II slid back into the plush rear seat, opened a bottle of mineral water from his mini bar, and swallowed half its contents, exhaling gas in a loud burp. He was glad the mayor had relented and built this new exit, exclusively for SS Defence Contractors, cutting off five miles from the commute. The unexplained drone that suddenly removed the hapless local politician’s house may have influenced the decision. Now, the remaining question was, “to pave or not to pave” this last stretch. And the road was getting rattier with erratic torrential downpours - climate change, the experts said. Slade did not believe in this piffle. He was the climate, with the ability to make things hot or cold for anyone.
Concrete bunkers surrounding a circular administration building shimmered into view as the car pulled into the parking lot beside a hangar. A helicopter and three Beechcraft jets gleamed in the sun on the facing apron. A golf cart stood by his parking spot with Gulliver, his ineffable personal assistant, sitting inside. He didn’t know when Gulliver slept, ate, or had sex, but the man was always available when called upon at any time.
The uniformed chauffeur opened the rear passenger door and bowed. Slade disembarked, straightened the crease in his white pants, and sniffed the crisp desert air.
“You hit every hole today. Like playing at the Masters, Cruise.”
“Sorry, sir – them potholes are getting’ bigger and plentiful with dese rains.”
“Check your eyesight, otherwise you won’t be driving me anymore.”
Slade slid into the passenger seat of the golf cart.
“Morning, sir,” Gulliver breezed, giving Slade his desired shot of optimism for the day. “Comfortable ride?”
“My ass is in a sling. Get that road paved.”
“Costs five million, sir. County won’t fund it as it’s deemed a private road.”
“No more persuasive drones around?”
“Can’t repeat. Forms a pattern.”
“Mayor has a daughter in uni, right?”
“Affirmative. Sophomore. Kidnapping won’t work, either. It boomerangs with a lot of kaka.”
“A school shooting, then. Lone gunman. Just her. No need to add to the mass killing stats.”
“That’ll look fishy.”
Slade liked his assistant’s quick-fire repartee and Devil’s Advocate role. Gulliver’s flashy dress—light blue pants, pink tie over a paisley shirt, and red shoes, with gold rings in both ears—technicoloured this otherwise monochrome desert landscape. Beautiful clothes and elaborate makeup hid the man’s emaciated frame. Slade was convinced his assistant had some terrible social disease or was a drug addict, and was trying to cover it up. Good, those on the edge try harder. Replacing Gulliver would be tough, though.
Slade pushed further. “Get Sellink to run a story with one of his media buddies. Reveal the young bitch’s secret promiscuous life. Invent it if she hasn’t one. A jilted lover got trigger happy. You know…”
“Hmm. The last guy who disputed Sandy Hook got into deep doodoo.”
“That asshole tried to deny too much. Like denying the moon landing. Or the stolen election.”
“Okay, I’ll check it out, sir. The usual for you today?”
Slade liked his “usual:” a cold latte infused with lavender or chicory before his walk among the troops to see how things were shaping up, then a deep massage before lunch with the visiting “influential” congressman. Today, he would take the helicopter to the Ritz downtown for that luncheon meeting—Cruise wouldn’t get him there fast enough in the car, and with those damn bumps… Then a refreshing, exotic chai after lunch—a gift from Vlad himself—before signing off from the workday and starting his evening activities. Today’s evening “activity” was that blonde Russian ingenue—another gift from Vlad—who was determined to get to Hollywood and willing to bestow favours upon him for making the right introductions. Yes, life was good.
Today’s latte was creamed to perfection, and Slade inhaled its invigorating aroma as he scanned his inbox. The usual again: wars in the Middle East and Africa were winding down. So many had died over the generations that everyone over there had enough leftover arms to fight for another fifty years, and a thriving second-hand market was shutting out guys like him in that theatre. They had been fertile fields when his daddy, Samuel Sr., retired Green Beret, had started Samuel Slade Defense Contractors at the end of the Korean War. Now the game was different and bigger, and Daddy was dead. Slade tuned into Central Europe – boy, wasn’t this a goldmine! He could shut down the entire Mideast-Africa section and just focus on this theatre, and life would still be good. Orders were flooding in from everywhere – the Germans, the Brits, the Scandinavians, the Ukrainians, even the Russians via SSDC’s subsidiary in South Asia. And he had old pal Vlad and his visions of a faded empire to thank for this. Not that Vlad didn’t expect his “commission” to be remitted to an account in Dubai punctually. Slade had to admit he shivered the day a payment went missing due to some clerical keying error, and Vlad called in a huff. People died for such mistakes. But Vlad was reassured after the error had been sorted, and now sent Slade gifts via third parties, like that great chai.
Then there was little guy Volod, who was desperate for help from anywhere because Vlad the Big was kicking his ass. Volod had so many of Vlad’s people living in his country, he was besieged, and he did not ask questions as long as the arms arrived and as long as they were funded by Western allies. Slade didn’t have to pay Volod under the table either– he just had to make sure Vlad did not know. And Volod had to be kept alive, otherwise there would be no war between the two Vs, and no bonanza for SSDC. Yes, Central Europe was a great bonus that had fallen into his hands.
It was time for his “management by walking around.” He liked walking the halls of this large administration building, HQ, with its one-way tinted windows that afforded a 360-degree view of the desert with its buttes, blue skies and violent sunsets. It was reassuring to see his silo buildings where the “produce” was manufactured, embracing HQ on all sides. The silos had no windows, hence he visited them only when seeking reassurance that his world was still intact.
He had never felt this secure growing up in the large ranch house that had been the Slade Family homestead. With an absentee father away on business trips most of the time and a mother who fell in and out of nervous breakdowns, home had been one of uncertainty and fear. When Mother was finally taken away to a mental asylum, life became quieter and lonelier, although the matriarch’s maniacal presence stuck to the walls to give him nightmares. Nannies and governesses had not helped, for they were only interested in earning paycheques, not in him. That’s when Samuel Slade II had decided that his life as an adult would be free of attachment. When Sam Sr. died, he demolished the old homestead and bought a custom-designed luxury penthouse in the city. Despite its long corridors, this HQ building—also built after his father’s passing—was like his city condo, built in Samuel Slade II’s image.
His first stop was to Finance, down the hall from his office. He located his key departments – Finance, Marketing, Production & Product Development, and HR – around him like the silos ringing HQ. It was comforting to know what his lieutenants were up to by being able to drop in on them at a moment’s notice, without warning.
Albert Finco, CFO and VP of Finance was a balding man with a hook nose and thick glasses. He dressed in suits and bow ties and held his trousers up with suspenders— conditioning from his Wall Street days. He had a separate backroom vented to the outside, for the CFO smoked incessantly. Slade accommodated this habit and had the backroom built, even though SSDC was a smoke-free workplace. CFOs were constantly under a lot of pressure, and everyone needed their vice.
“How’s trading, Al?” Slade kept it nonchalant, the more nonchalant the more his lieutenants quivered and worked harder. Despite the sealed smoking room at the rear, the smell of burnt cigarettes was strong in the CFO’s office.
Finco peered over his computer screen and broke into a smile, revealing stained teeth. The right side of his face twitched constantly. “Crypto’s not doing too badly.”
“Nice to hear. I hope you are not accepting payment in that vapourware yet, though?”
“You would double sales if you do. Even the bankrupt guys seem to have oodles of crypto.”
“I’ll have to get Sellink to do some ‘market conditioning’ first. Make sure we don’t have another meltdown of the currency before we can hedge with real money.”
“Or make sure there is a meltdown, and then open the world for payment only in crypto – there can only be upside afterwards.”
“Hmm…a thought. What else have you got for me?”
“Couple of our customers, national governments, have declared bankruptcy. Overspending on defence, internal corruption, and that sort of thing.”
“I heard. Tell them, as good clients we’ll give them two months to sort their shit out, then we are selling to their enemies.”
“Some of them don’t have enemies.”
“Those bastards have salted their country’s money away in personal offshore accounts. We’ll find them enemies if they don’t have any. Start a war on their border with a neighbour. You know, the ‘who fired first’ syndrome. We still don’t know who started WWI – that’s where that strategy was perfected.”
“Okay, I’ll put it on the agenda for when I speak with their defence ministers by satellite later today.” The twitch on the man’s face increased.
“So, other than for that, life seems to be okay?”
“Well, as a risk manager, I’m concerned that we are over-leveraged in one sector. Central Europe is pulling in 50 percent of revenue.” Finco looked around like it was time for his next cigarette.
“You worry too much, Al. My daddy would have given his right arm to have had that kinda war in his time.”
“It’s my job to raise the risks. On the positive side, we will make a killing at financial year-end. Our best year since I joined your outfit 15 years ago.”
“That’s what I like to hear. And we can thank Central Europe.”
“I guess.”
“Well, keep up the good work. And make sure to throw in a bonus for the executive team this year, will ya? Send me a bonus proposal by next week.”
“How about the rest of the staff?”
“Include only the ones with proprietary knowledge. The rest can go to hell, or Amazon. We are robotizing anyway.”
Finco stood up and his fingers were trembling; the twitch had gone crazy. He looked furtively towards the backroom.
Slade rose too. “I’ve kept you too long from your next smoke. Have a nice day, Al.”
His next stop was to Sellink in Marketing.
Rupert Sellink III was the black sheep of a patrician southern family. A computer whiz from Stanford who had dropped out before completing his degree. This guy was reputed to be behind the surprising wins of strong-man autocrats who had come into office around the world over the last decade, primarily in being able to influence voters through social media. Vlad himself had endorsed Sellink during one of their private satellite phone calls.
Slade found his VP of Marketing in a room peppered with computer screens. Should this guy’s job description be changed to VP of IT? The man lived in blue jeans and golf shirts, with his hair tied in a man bun. But Marketing and IT are integrally linked these days. Sellink insisted he was a marketing guy, not an IT guy, just as he insisted that he was a global citizen despite his indelibly southern tones.
“Hush up…take a pew,” Sellink said, raising a finger as Slade entered, without even glancing in his boss’s direction. Slade sat in the offered chair beside his VP and watched the screen that Sellink was busily typing into.
After a while, Slade got impatient. “What the fuck are you up to?”
“Hold your horses!” Sellink continued to ignore him.
Slade was about to storm out when Sellink sat back with a satisfied grunt. “See those thingamajiggers on the wall, boss?” He pointed to two giant screens positioned directly in front, on which numbers scrolled relentlessly. “The right one shows the Twitter responses to our posts today, praising Volod’s victories.”
“Why are you doing that? Big Vlad will burn our ass if he finds out.”
“Sure. He’ll be madder than a wet hen. But the left screen shows Vlad’s victories. All fiction. It’s neck ‘n neck between ’em.” Then Sellink swivelled from his screen and faced Slade. “Don’t worry, the admin accounts are unrelated, located over yonder in Central Europe. No one will connect ’em with us.”
Then it dawned on Slade. This was the fake news campaign he had ordered Sellink to work on. Now he was seeing it in action.
“This war will go on till the cows come home, boss.”
Slade leaned back and laughed. “It takes me a while to get used to your methods.”
Sellink fished out a pouch from his desk, spilled some powder from it on the desk, curled a piece of paper into a cone and snorted. Slade grimaced but remained silent. He had indulged his Marketing VP’s need for several “hits” during the day to remain super-productive.
Sellink grinned, his eyes taking on a glazed but triumphant look. “I’m fixing to start on that South China Sea project soon.”
“Good. Al told me we need to hedge our risks. How long will you need to get that spat to boiling point?”
“Something’s cattywampus up there. The Chinks are happy as dead pigs in the sunshine over their new leader. Besides, they really are no good at invasions. Lotsa more work needed there.”
“I’d say switch Central Europe to maintenance mode and turn South China Sea into full ramp-up.”
“Okay, boss. I’ve got the same hankering. I’m good at new, not at maintain.”
“There’s one other thing. A local matter. We need a smear job on a young lady at the local campus. Gulliver will give you the details.”
Sellink’s eyes lit up and his chest swelled. “Oh, I dig that. Shitting on those belles is my specialty. They had the balls to call me an Incel when I was in uni. Bitches. I’ll call Gulliver pronto.”
Slade found his VP of Production and Product Development, Joshua Makepeace, eating a hamburger, a plate of fries, and a 12-inch pizza at his desk. It was only 10.30 in the morning. The man shifted his 300-pound bulk and licked his fingers upon Slade’s unannounced entry.
“Late breakfast?” Slade said and leaned against the office door. The place stank of grease.
Makepeace pushed his food aside hurriedly, grabbed a sheaf of paper napkins on his desk and wiped his hands and beard. “You’re early today. This was brunch. Trying to lose some weight by combining meals.”
Slade sighed. “I bet production must be bursting at the seams?”
“I’ve activated our two offshore sites to cope with demand.”
“Good insight on your part to contract with those rapid deployment locations seven years ago.”
“When I saw hostile moves in the Crimea back in 2014, I knew the lid was going to blow wider.”
“And what other news do you have for me? No more germ warfare systems, I hope.”
Makepeace smiled. “No. Covid put paid to that. We’ve put all germ prototypes on ice for the short term.”
“Good.”
“However, my development team is working on a satellite-based missile system.”
“Oh, no! Don’t you think SDI II will also die like Star Wars when costs become the only thing to go into the stratosphere?”
“But our approach is different this time, with less fallout. And a lot more affordable. We will not be firing missiles at earth from space.”
Slade raised his eyebrows. “Then?”
“We will zap other satellites in space, inactivating them. ‘Green Warfare,’ if you like to call it.”
Slade leaned forward. “Tell me more…”
Makepeace launched into a series of PowerPoint slides on his desktop and talked through his emerging thesis for the next half hour.
“Of course, this is preliminary. But I should have a prototype for demo in about a month.” Makepeace grabbed a handful of soggy fries and stuffed them in his mouth. “Excuse me. Talking about these things always makes me hungry.”
Slade winced at the fresh layer of potato droppings on Makepeace’s keyboard and tried to focus on the new information. He finally had something meaty to discuss with his “inside man,” the influential congressman, this afternoon. Getting SSDC into the Strategic Defence Initiative II program was now a distinct possibility with a concrete product concept to anchor their pitch. Besides, these strategic programs had buckets of money for contractors like SSDC, even if they went nowhere in the end.
“Well, good work, Josh. You let me know if the development team needs additional seed money to lock this prototype down. We are having a banner year – there is money to spend on… on experiments.”
He ignored Makepeace’s greasy paw and eased out of the big man’s office.
His next stop would be his hardest, and he had been saving it for the last. Francine Sackville, 60, VP of Human Resources, was his longest-serving employee. She had come to the firm as an intern during his father’s time. Her dark eyelashes, perky breasts, svelte form, and French-Canadian joie de vivre had charmed Sam Sr. and the pair had been lovers, it was rumoured. When Sam Sr. had his stroke and was forced to step down, his parting gift to her was a promotion into the executive suite. Not that she hadn’t been useful. She knew everyone’s family circumstances and was Mother Comforter. She had been largely responsible for retaining key employees over the years, with her directness, fairness, and generosity. However, recent business strategies were creating friction.
Slade found her office in disarray. Valuable paintings that adorned the walls, some dating back to Sam Sr.’s time, were askew, as if the cleaners had been dusting violently and not straightening them. Paper files littered her work desk and coffee table, including the chaise longue where Francine was known to take rejuvenating naps. A glass of red wine and a half-empty bottle reposed on the desk and Francine had her hands on her head, staring down at a file. It was 11.15 a.m.
“Is this a good time?” Slade asked knocking at the door. She was the only one he would knock for, given that she was old enough to be a second mother to him, the first one being long dead.
“Oui. Entrer.” She raised her head and peered at him over red-bordered reading glasses balanced awkwardly on her beaklike nose. Her once proud breasts, sagged.
“You look busy.”
“Busy?” (Sounded like boozie). She took a swig of wine. “I’m turning into an alcoholic.”
“Yes. It’s a bit early for lunch.”
“Lunch? Je ne pas. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep. No one even fucks me now, except for this company. All I do is drink.”
“Maybe a vacation is in order.”
“How can I vacation when I have to fire sixty employees…sixty… over the next two weeks, hah? People I brought into this company by spinning them dreams of career, pension, and prosperity.”
“Well, robotics is making strides, and we need to retool.”
“This company is losing its soul, mon cherie. How can you entrust complex weapons of mass destruction to some computer program that could…moauvais fonctionnement?”
Slade pointed to the wine bottle. “They are less likely to malfunction with a machine in control than with a human who has had a good booze-up the night before.”
She threw her hands up in a dramatic shrug, drained her glass, refilled it, and returned to her file. “This employee, fifty, three kids in university, wife on disability – and you want me to fire this man, n’est pas? He’s got another ten productive years in him.”
“But his job could be done by a robot that works 24 x7, has no emotional baggage, higher accuracy, less distraction, and requires no wages but depreciation, which is also tax-deductible. It’s a slam dunk, Francine. The future of work is here.”
“Pouah, I hate you. I hate this place.”
Slade needed to leave. This woman was downright creepy and beginning to sound like his crazy mother in one of her “states.”
“I’ll let you get on with it, then. And think seriously about that vacation when this…retooling exercise is over.”
***
It was 4 p.m. and Slade was drowsy. The massage had been rejuvenating after Francine. The lunch with his congressman, even better; some concessions had been extracted: a stay on the federal investigation into SSDC’s arms shipments to the Russians via the South Asian subsidiary, and a promise to put in a “good word” on SDI II.
Gulliver stuck his head in, “Chai time?”
“Of course – the piece de resistance! Bring it on.”
The assistant waltzed in, wielding a tray over his shoulder, invoking the image of a garçon in a Parisienne restaurant.
Slade felt generous and indulged in small talk while Gulliver poured from a gold bordered tea pot into a matching tea cup and saucer. “Do you like your job, Gully?”
Slade saw the permanent mask of confidence slip on Gulliver. Bosses usually get intrusive when something diabolic is afoot. His minion had learned well in the halls of corpocracy.
Slade laughed at his own question. “Don’t worry, I’m not firing you. Yet.”
“Working here beats the alternative, sir.”
“What drugs are you on?”
Gulliver jumped this time, and tea spilled into the saucer. “Sorry, I’ll get that cleaned up.”
“Never mind. I like slurping the dregs from my saucer. Sorry to startle you.”
Gulliver’s face had aged ten years. He looked like an actor who had gone backstage and washed off his makeup.
“Am I getting the chop, sir?”
“No. Just curious. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Whatever I take…the drugs… helps me come to work every day, sir. Face the pressures. Otherwise, I would… die.”
“We are all dying of something, Gully. You just happen to know what yours is.”
“Thank you, sir. Would that be all, sir?”
“Yes. And will you have the pictures in Francine’s office straightened, please? She is off balance.”
After Gulliver had departed, Slade tasted his steaming cup of chai. The brew tasted stronger today and there was a hint of bitterness that could have been hickory blended for just the right edge. He reviewed the day’s events, a lifelong practice before signing off from the workday and turning his attention to the evening’s program.
Everything was looking up for SSDC – booming sales, new products in the pipeline, politicians playing ball, a mass layoff that would pay for the proposed bonus many times over, and a proposed new war in the South China Sea that would drive earnings into the stratosphere. Yet, there were a few irritants. He hated his executive team. Their vices and vulnerabilities were finally getting to him, he who kept a clean life devoid of alcohol, tobacco, or drugs, who exercised, had plenty of physical sex, and ate healthily, who had no emotional baggage in his life such as wives, children, or pets.
He made some resolutions on the spot. Francine would be fired first, but only after she performed this next hatchet job he had given her. She would be number 61 on the exit list. Let her enjoy a vacation on the generous severance package he would include and get laid by some aging octogenarian hopped on Viagra on the Riviera. Loyalty to his dead father would keep her mouth shut.
Then he would get rid of the rest of his current team of VPs. They wouldn’t be as discreet as Francine, looking to write tell-all memoirs to supplement their severance packages, so he would arrange for them to have an “accident” aboard one of the Beechcraft while en route to a business meeting. Save on severance, and recover the destroyed Beechcraft’s cost via insurance. He would then outsource the collective SSDC executive knowledge base to Big Data and hire young MBAs to do those VP jobs if still needed. He liked young blood – they were cheaper and had no sense of history after social media robbed them of it in their formative years. They would not have stabs of conscience like Francine. And their bad habits and addictions, if they had any, would be nascent. They would just have to push buttons like those drone pilots did out in the desert to destroy targets on the other side of the world. He was tired of people who could think and were haunted by their thoughts. In this outfit, he did the thinking. His minions were supposed to merely follow instructions. That’s why robots were perfect. And he would get the same results, or better, than with his current executive crew. Their current thinking was already captured in data banks and would be extended exponentially by AI algorithms. He would keep his options open on Gulliver, though – robotic personal assistants hadn’t reached his required level of competency yet. Hope the little shit didn’t die in the meantime of whatever he was afflicted with. Perhaps, I’m his affliction.
The phone rang, startling him - the red satellite phone over SSDC’s private satellite network. Damn? Just when I am ready to clock off?
“Sam?” That unmistakeable husky drawl.
“Hi Vlad. How’s it going?” Despite his attempt to sound jovial, Slade felt his palms go clammy.
“You bloody fucker. I’m a-gonna kill you!”
“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”
“You sold that malchik weapons.”
“Hey, slow down, Vlad.” Slade was sweating now. He gulped his chai. “Lemme explain.”
“I’m a-gonna fuck you.”
“Lemme explain. I’m selling weapons to many customers these days. All the Europeans want a piece of my action because they’re scared you’re gonna attack them, see? Now, if some of them are turning around and selling their surplus to Volod, I can’t stop ’em, can I?
“This not surblus. This is smarter bombs than you sold me. They are knocking the sheet out of my boys. I have myatezh.”
Slade felt a burning in his stomach and he wanted to puke. Vlad was toxic, even on the phone. He had to end this call quickly.
“Vlad…calm down, man. I know you are in a bad mood. Mutiny, eh? Can we talk tomorrow? When I can explain all this better? I’ll provide statistics.”
“No use tomorrow. I am finishing war today. Too many losses here.”
“You are declaring a ceasefire?”
“No. I am declaring victory for my side and ending war.”
“Congratulations.”
“But I am going to kill some traitors first. You are one.”
“Come on, Vlad. I know this is disappointing, but I’m your friend. Always have been. In fact, I’m just drinking the chai you sent me.”
Slade heard a grunt on the other side – was it a chuckle or a cough? “Good. Drink good.”
“Talk to you tomorrow, Vlad.”
The phone went dead.
Ceasefire. Fifty percent of our revenue just got wiped out on that phone call. This was worse than a market rout on cryptocurrency. Finco had been right.
The pain in his stomach had balled into a knot and was shooting up his chest. Even the chai was not helping. He drained his cup.
Then he looked at the teapot, his eyes bulging!
“Gulliver!” he screamed.
His assistant came rushing in.
“Haven’t we had this same box of chai for several weeks now? The same packet I drank from before?”
Gulliver stared at the pot and then at Slade. “A fresh consignment arrived for you today, sir. From Mr. Vlad. So, I threw out the old one that was going stale, and made your tea from the new box. Is anything wrong?”
“Oh fuck. I have been poisoned.” Slade fell off his chair. There was foam bubbling in his mouth and he felt he couldn’t control his sphincter anymore. Gulliver started jumping up and down, screaming for help. Silly faggot!
He was suddenly back on the old Slade Family ranch, running down those dark hallways with his mother’s shrieks stalking him. He needed fresh air. He needed to escape.
The end came fast, like a stick of dynamite with a long fuse: a slow burn before the sudden explosion. It was glorious letting go – to mad mothers, sphincters, malformed executives, industrial mass-murder, and unbridled wealth generation. As the poison entered his heart, Slade slumped to the floor and spread his limbs out, exhaling a final, “Fuck it!”
