The Stark Reality

From the Stoa this day, I will tell the story of DeRoy and The Moderator as the ancient Greeks like to tell their stories. They took the real world and assigned other names and faces to the characters.

You see, reality is way stranger than anything anyone can make up. The arguments are real. The bloodshed is comedy...for now.

It was a warm day in San Francisco. The rallies in support of the Obama Healthcare plan were large and boisterous. Next to it was the OWS movement, camping out in another park ordering pizza. There was an Arab rally against Israel, an Arab rally promoting Sharia Law, and another Arab rally that called for the destruction of the United States. Such peace loving people.

This was Liberal central. If he could not get an articulated person in this motley crowd he would be genuinely surprised.

He and his cameraman, Randal were walking around, taking in all the First Amendment sights they could.

He had been looking for hours to find a person that he could talk to that was not either foaming at the mouth, raging about something, or, so high they couldn't remember their names. The rallies were loud and they were messy. The areas were torn to bits, the Porta-potties were tipped over and people just relieved themselves wherever they felt.

Finally, he found an area set to the side of the ObamaCare rally that was shaded. The Golden Gate Bridge seemed to frame the scene. Several well-dressed people sat there, sipping chilled drinks from glasses with a pitcher in the middle.

These folks looked like they didn't belong. He and Randal walked over and introduced themselves to one of them men.

"Good afternoon, Gentlemen. I'm the Moderator from the..."

"We know who you are. Have a seat and relax in the shade for a while." The man smiled disarmingly.

The Moderator looked the man over, to take his measure. He was not a big man, nor was there anything distinguishing about him. He did have an air of confidence around him, sort of like a grounded feeling of surety.

Two chairs appeared next to him, so suddenly that he didn't even notice someone putting them there.

"Please, sit. We can talk about whatever you want. Your cameraman, here, can record the whole thing if you like."

The man wore a white, casual business suit. His friends wore less formal, though casual business attire. There was something about this group that set off his Journalistic bells. There were stories and stories within this group and he was being invited to sit down.

"We've watched your traveling episodes. Most entertaining, Mr. Kebert."

The Moderator was caught off guard for a moment. He had gone by a stage name for decades and had been called "Moderator" since his show's inception nearly 20 years ago. No one outside of the legal team at his network knew his true last name.

"Come, Mr. Kebert, you are among the intellectual elite of this little planet. We can dispense with the pleasantries and simply talk as citizens of the world, here."

Randal was recording the event and keeping quiet, just like the Moderator had told him to. The shock collar around his neck ensured this; the button to the collar on the Moderator's keychain.

"How do you like our little display, here?" The man said as he sipped on a drink. A chilled drink appeared on the table in front of the Moderator as well.

"Display, you mean demonstration or protest rally, right?" The Moderator said as he sipped on his drink, which turned out to be water.

"It is a display, kind of like the manger scenes for Christmas. My collegues and I simply stir in the right elements, dash a few catch phrases, pinch the right amount of emotional energy and BAM, we have a protest rally," the man said this with growing enthusiasm.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have me at a disadvantage. You know a lot about me and I know nothing about you," the Moderator said.

"We are everyone...and no one," he said cryptically.

"Though your statement is an answer to a question, it is not the answer to my question," the Moderator stated.

"We are the ones that make the trains run on time, or not on time. We are the ones who decide that Americans like cold beer, and not British beer. We are the ones that decided that the American breakfast would be eggs and bacon. We decide how long the skirt sizes will be in the spring and whether the Cubs will ever win a pennant."

The Moderator pulled on his glass of water and thought for a few moments.

"You mean to tell me that you are part of an international organization that rigs elections and kills people like JFK when they don't do as their are told?"

The man in white chuckled for several seconds and he thought about the Moderator's words.

"Nothing so dramatic, Mr. Kebert. I guess you could call us a group of very patient social engineers. We are the enlightened ones in a world of sheep. We guide mankind to its potential. There are those that feel that they know better and ignore us. They may ignore us once or twice, but never three times. Ronald Reagan figured that out, eventually."

The Moderator looked back at him for a moment. The rally had faded to quiet in his mind, focused as he was on the group in front of him. The other men in the group seemed bored by the conversation.

"You don't control Presidents any more than you controlled the assassins of JFK," the Moderator said in an attempt to draw more information out from the man.

"You are right, we didn't control a team of assassins that killed JFK. It was Oswald and he did act alone. We had plans for JFK and that idiot messed it up. Luckily for LBJ, he understood right away who and what we were."

"You don't pick Presidents, the people do through the Electoral College. You can not possibly influence who the people pick," the Moderator said.

"We don't pick the Presidents, though we decide who will run and who will not run. When both candidates have been chosen by us, then the people will pick someone of our choosing. In the same vein, if you can influence the people, they will pick who we want. We have done this for over 100 years. We know how to make things happen."

"Are you part of the Fabian Society?" the Moderator asked.

"The British, as usual, come up with good ideas but then lose them when it comes to implementing them. Too hung up on class and all that. We shed them back in the 19th century and charted the true course of Progressivism in the world."

"You guys are that shadowy group of people that declared that violent revolution was messy and uncontrollable and that change could be made in progressive increments, right?"

"You are right to a degree. Think of it as a stealth revolution. We have spent decades framing the rules, setting the rules of the debate and the content of the messages since Theodore Roosevelt. We have been quietly shaping American Culture since then. We are a patient people. Willing to wait several lifetimes to make the changes that we feel the world needs to have made."

"How can a group of people, such as yourself, influence all that."

"Mr. Kebert, I can tell you who will win "Dancing with the Stars" this year. I can tell you who will be voted off the island next week. I can even tell you what the number one song will be in the nation a month from now."

"I can't believe it, sir. No small group can do this. There must be an army of you spread around the world," the Moderator pointed out to him.

"There are more, but not many. We influence those who influence others. Like I said, we decide what you eat for breakfast. We decide whether Pepsi will market a new brand of cola next year. We even decided who would stand for elections in the Russian Federation earlier this year."

"What about George Soros and Barak Obama. They are Communists and Progressives. What do you have to do with them?"

"They are willing puppets. Soros is simply a face and a check account. We made it so that he could crash the British Pound and earn his fortune. We are the ones that made sure that a Kenyan born bastard child could be the President of the United States. You just have to know what levers to pull and who's ear you need to bend. We are not a violent people, Mr. Kebert. We are simply persistent and persuasive."

"You know I'm getting all this on tape, sir. Aren't you afraid of being "outed"?"

"What you tape or broadcast is irrelevant, now. Things have progressed to the point where we don't have to work as hard to push things where we want them. It turns out that you can get a lot done in two generations. We've had six to work with. If we even allow your segment to air, it is doubtful that anyone will believe anything. Listen to how conspiratorially this all sounds. Nut cases from around the world will flock to you. Your credibility will decline in equal amounts. I have nothing to fear from you."

"You tell me that I eat corn flakes in the morning on your direction, that you decide elections, and that Vladimir Putin plays musical chairs at your whim and you tell me that you have nothing to fear from me?" The Moderator states with some exasperation.

"I. Have. Nothing. To. Fear. From. You." The man emphasizes each word with a gesture of his glass.

"I can have you killed. I can have your bank cut you off. I can ERASE you from the historical record. You can not touch me, nor can you influence anything. Me, and those like me, control the world and everything in it. We are setting up the dominos, we will deduce how and when to knock them over. Do you think that ObamaCare is about healthcare for Americans? You are a fool. Do you think there is any real difference between a Democrat and a Republican? Phah!"

"No, Mr. Kebert, we have nothing to fear from you or anyone else. Now, you go about your business and entertain the masses. We'll decide how best to direct mankind."

"You can't do that, sir. Someone will find out about this and stop you."

"Mr. Kebert. You are a simple, simple child. Neither you, nor anyone else you know can stop us." A flash of irritation crossed the Man in White's face as he set his glass down.

The man opened his mouth to say something else, but was instantly cut off. Over the Moderator's right ear, the sound of a bumble bee buzzed by. An instant later, he was splashed by something red. The man in White had been struck right between the eyes. His suit was covered in gore and he fell to the ground thrashing about.

It could not have been a bullet, because he would be dead and not thrashing. The red looked to be paint.

A moment later, something like a hockey puck landed on the glass table. Instantly, he was knocked to the ground by a shockwave and a blinding light.

He stood on wobbly legs and turned to run from the scene. He slammed into an unyielding wall of meat. A mass of muscle on a person so big his nose hit him in the chest.

The "flash-bang" grenade had shattered the table and threw everyone about. This man must have been a body guard for the group, though from the murderous look in his eyes, he was not the one who had thrown the grenade.

The group of men were beginning to come around, groaning. The big man had the Moderator by the throat and was about to kill him when he suddenly let him go.

Instead of killing him, he roared in pain and fell to his knees. Behind him, a slight, young brunette had him by the little finger of his left hand. The hand was behind his back and she was squeezing his pinky.

For some reason, this massive, towering wall of flesh was helpless and paralyzed in her simple, two-fingered grip.

With a twist and scream, he fell over, unconscious. The short, slender woman leapt up on his prone back and began to shoot the fallen Progressives in the crotch with a very high-powered paint gun. Only she was shooting glass marbles now instead of paint balls.

One by one the Progressives screamed in agony and began thrashing.

The Moderator could not believe what he was seeing. It was DeRoy!

She was wearing a yellow summer dress with a flower pattern on the shoulder and she also wore a floppy summer hat.

The hat flew off as she pulled something out of her small backpack.

A pole telescoped out from her hand and a Confederate battle flag quickly unfurled. With a look of distain at the Moderator, who was holding his crotch and praying, she let out a rebel yell and shot her marble gun into the air.

"You bleeping Goat loving fags, eat me!", she screamed at one of the Arab protest groups. She then shot into the ObamaCare crowd, downing half a dozen of their numbers.

"Obama is not a god and his wife is FAT!"

The roar from the Obama crowd drowned out the roar from the Arab crowd. If the Moderator was not so terrified, he would have wondered at that.

He saw the flag bob and weave as she ran off to the side of the park, in the direction of the Golden Gate bridge. He and Randal began to run with the crowd that surged after her in a rage.

It was a crazy, disjointed sprint toward the highway that lead to the Golden Gate bridge. The mob was in a frenzy. If they caught DeRoy he was sure that she would be torn to shreds.

The Moderator almost lost his balance when he tripped over three people who had fallen. He almost tripped again he ran into a pile of bodies that were thrashing in pain, holding their eyes and ears.

DeRoy must have been shooting behind her and dropping more of those flash-bang grenades. The front part of the mob was trying to slow down, wary now of this young, slight woman who seemed to run and negotiate obstacles like a mountain goat. The fastest in the mob could not catch up.

She leapt upon a truck that was heading to the North side of the bridge and began speeding out over the water. DeRoy was laughing and pointing at the crowd as it fumbled after her. A Koran wrapped in bacon was thrown from the speeding truck and onto the hood of a car that had been swamped with Arab protestors. The screaming and yelling reached a new pitch.

The crowd surged onto the highway, blocking traffic.

The Moderator seemed to be carried on by the crush of the crowd, his feet hardly on the ground.

Somehow, after what seemed like forever, the crowd began to spill out onto the North side of the bridge and into the Golden Gate Recreation Area.

The Moderator heard more shooting and bangs. The crowd broke up in the wider space available. He saw DeRoy's dress shoot into the forest as her little legs sprinted her up the forested hill.

As the mob surged after her, they fell into pit traps that DeRoy must have left behind. In them was a mixture of skunk oil and bacon grease. Pictures of a dead Osama bin Laden fluttered down from the trees, further enraging the mob.

The Moderator was able to get to the side of the event and work his way slowly towards the hill. He heard a ripping noise from his right and looked over as the crowd began to get cut down like wheat in a field. From somewhere in the forest, the rebel yell was joined by other rebel yells. Compressed air was sending thousands of marbles into the crowd, sweeping from right to left from at least two points within the tree line. Hundreds of people fell where they were hit, writhing in pain, those behind piling up over them. More still scrambling over the pile to get at their Southern tormentors.

The Moderator nearly stepped on a man who was camouflaged as he stepped into the woods. All he saw were the whites of a set of eyes looking back at him from a mossy bush. The man did nothing, other than to begin ignoring him.

He could hear DeRoy's voice in the trees, directing the defense of the tree line.

There were now bullets being fired into the tree line by gun wielding Arabs and Obama supporters. There were now over a thousand bodies, writhing in pain, knotting up the park. The crowds behind continued to try to surge forward but were meeting resistance from their own people, reluctant to step out into the opening.

A collective groan could be heard as the ripping noise opened up again, ripping lines deep into the crowd rather than across its front. More rebel yells could be heard as flash-bang grenades began to rain down into the crowd, fired from compressed air cannons somewhere in the woods.

It was too much for the crowd to bear. It began to break up, fleeing over those that tried to push in from the bridge. Others began to run back towards route 1 and into the waiting arms of crowd control police.

The Moderator was documenting the events as he had seen them as a shadow came over him and Randal.

DeRoy stood upon a tree stump looking at him.

The Moderator was gripped with fear.

"Those Som-bitches don't control Jack!"

She spit on the forehead of a hippy that had happened to crawl from the crowd.

"Ah still hate you." She said as she pointed at the Moderator.

With a swish of her skirt she was back into the tree line. Her Confederate posse vanishing into the woods with barely even a foot print to indicate they had ever been there.

The wind groaned through the swaying trees. Or was that the groan of a thousand puppets crying out in pain.

Have a great day, everyone.

Think about this for a while. There is a lot here to think about.

Live well.

--Zavost