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zzambrosius_02CHAPTER SEVEN: The Chaos of Politics and the Politics of Chaos
They arrived at Plataeo Sokratenos. Force fields deflected the wind and rain away from the actual plaza, and contained the body heat of the people, making the area reasonably comfortable even in the shifting weather of an Athenian Spring.
‘A tenday after the Spring Equinox,’ Ambros thought.
Ambros scanned the square and saw Ambassador Harvey. He sat by the statue of Sokratos.
Harvey looked downcast, like he had a lot on his mind.
Averos got food and wine; Ambros his usual rice and basil pesto bowl, plus a glass of tea and a shot of spirits.
“The plaza is pretty crowded,” Averos said.
Ambros pointed with his chin: “I know that guy, and he’s sitting at my usual table. Under the circumstances, I think we should join him.”
“Under the circumstances?”
“Yeah. In that I’d rather bear his company than stand...”
Averos snorted. The two of them strolled across the square and Ambros said: “May we join you?”
They sat without waiting for an answer.
Harvey expressed surprise: “Aren’t you supposed to wait to be invited?” His slight accent nailed him as British even when he spoke fluent Hellenic.
Averos stared at him, puzzled.
“Normally, yes,” Ambros said with a laugh: “Like all rules of social interaction, there are exceptions. This is one.”
He turned to his companion: “Magistros Averos, Thinker’s and Technical Guilds, and Tech Guild Liaison to the War Guilds, I hereby introduce you to Mr Harvey, an Ambassador from Objectivist Prime.”
“Not from around these parts, as you might say.” Harvey grinned: “Clue me in, please. How is this an exception?”
Averos frowned: “You are occupying a table large enough for ten people; the rest of the tables in the Plataeo are full; Spathos Ambros says he knows you; it all adds up.”
“Then there’s our much higher ‘Commonwealth Status’ to consider,” said Ambros. He used the Rational Hellenic gesture to indicate his quotes.
“Status? If I understand correctly, one gains ‘status’ by doing things ‘for the Whole’ as someone on your Kyklo kindly explained it to me. What about someone like me?”
“I don’t know. You seem to regard the title ‘Ambassador’ as a shortcut to respect. That’s not going to fly here, in the heart of the Prime Commonwealth Timeline.”
“Yes, I figured that out...maybe I should join one of your Guilds. Like...maybe Technical Guild!”
Averos laughed: “You’d find that quite boring, I expect.”
“Really. Why?”
Averos said: “Before you could even understand what we were talking about you’d need several years of catch-up classes, even if you’re a physicist or biologist or a chemist in your own Line.” He shrugged: “I’m not bragging, it’s just a fact. Then, you’d have to renounce your loyalty to your Home Line before anyone would let you join a group or project investigating anything interesting.”
“I couldn’t just do research on my own?”
“If you’re that good, certainly.” Averos said. He made no attempt to hide his doubt.
“Mmmm.” The Ambassador pondered that. At length he spoke to Ambros: “How high is your Status? How did you...‘earn’ it?”
“‘Earn’ is the wrong word...How high is my Status,” Ambros mused: “I guess it depends on who you ask. Pacifist Deme is not going to estimate me as high as most others. What do you think, Magistros?”
Averos seemed bemused: “I’d place your Status quite ‘high’. High enough so that you could access any material item that you desired.”
Harvey frowned; Ambros himself raised an eyebrow, surprised.
“Your Rank in your Guild guarantees you a good starting point. Now, keep in mind, anyone who does the least bit of service of any kind to this society in which we all live gains a decent...I guess you’d say, ‘level’ of Status. Talking about ‘high’ Status or ‘lower’ Status is somewhat deceptive, though.”
“Doesn’t Spathos Ambros’ Guild Rank set his place in the hierarchy?” Harvey seemed genuinely curious.
Ambros laughed: “I’m sorry, that’s such a...” he paused, not wanting to insult the man again.
“It is an ignorant question,” said Averos, somewhat primly: “There are no rigid hierarchies for anyone to be a part of. The ignorance is not your fault, I suppose, but you really should be better versed in our customs if you expect to negotiate...what exactly is your function in this Line?”
“I’m starting to wonder that myself. But I’m trying to understand this madhouse. Help me to do so, please.”
“I don’t know whether what you just did is clever, or whether you’ve stumbled upon the formula,” said Averos: “But you got me there, either way. As a Master in Thinker’s Guild, there is only one answer I can give: I am Obligated to help you.”
“Obligated?”
“Let’s not start there,” said Ambros.
“I agree,” Averos said: “Here’s the basic ‘skinny’ as they say in Ambros’ Line. People in the Commonwealth organize themselves around Polis, Guild, and Deme. These entities usually—I emphasize usually—stay out of one another’s affairs. By this means, power, such as exists in this Line, is distributed horizontally. With so many centers of interest and such individual resistance to outside domination, no one person or entity can seize control.”
“Insane,” said Harvey.
“It’s working all around you,” said Averos.
“I mean...how...?”
“Before I became immersed in machinery, I worked for fifty years studying Comparative Politics at Thinker’s Guild.” Averos stated: “I became convinced of this simple principle: Multiple power bases in conflict create Chaos; the same in harmony create utopia. Why is the ‘distributed oligarchy’ of the Commonwealth a functioning near-utopia? That’s why!”
“But...”
“I will send you a copy of my thesis.”
“That’s silly. Change the subject, please,” Harvey snarled.
Averos laughed: “Sure. You were asking about Status...Let’s discuss Ambros. He makes a good test subject, because he’s so complex.”
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ambros nodded.
“In what way?”
Averos said: “He started out with a bunch of contradictory qualifications, things that cancelled each other out, you might say. First of all, he was recruited by Magistri Arrenji.”
Harvey nodded: “Even I have heard of her...”
“So I got a huge leg-up with her fans, including most of Sacred Band,” Ambros said.
Averos spoke: “And he got a ton of doubtful eyeballs on him, because not everyone appreciates Arrenji’s...shall we say, style.” Ambros had noticed that Averos found Arrenji somewhat amusing.
Ambros said: “Then, I demonstrated more skill with a sword than pretty much any ‘barbarian’ could be expected to have. So I got startedat a rank most people take four years or more to reach.”
“I...see.”
Kim came into the Plataeo, pulled off her mittens and hat and saw them sitting there. She waved and went to get food.
Ambros grinned at Harvey: “My life in the Commonwealth went on like that. I Commanded the base camp for a search and rescue operation in several Timelines, and we got everyone we were looking for back...but we wound up getting mixed up with the Squid-Ant-Cyborgs. Not everyone liked that.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, sorry, I know that’s not common knowledge. The reports are all up on the Kyklo, though.” He shook his head: “I demonstrated great patience in the Regulos affair, and when it came down to it, I showed my prowess to good effect...”
Kim sat down and said: “But you nearly killed your opponent in that duel.” She took a spoonful of soup, then said: “I know, he challenged you, and he chose the live steel weapons. But his friends...”
“...are still not happy. I get why, too.” Ambros smiled: “Not gonna apologize again, but I get why they are angry.”
“Well, yes, you should,” Harvey said, judgmentally: “The use of force is hardly ever ethical, however much you may study it. In the case of that duel, I see how your society could rationalize it. But the way you all crash around the Multiverse, breaking things and killing people...”
Averos laughed: “You Objectivists should just be happy with your luck. Commonwealth Prime is aware of your ‘location’, but the Nazis and the L’Iriquois are not. You haven’t yet had to defend yourselves.”
Harvey grunted, disgruntled.
Ambros decided not to bring up the way money economies coerced the poor, or to name that as violence, or to talk about class war.
“You see,” Ambros said to Harvey, returning to the subject of his Status: “I have about half-a-dozen of those ‘part-time jobs’ we spoke about. Remember? Last time we talked?
“Yes, I do recall.”
“Well, two of those “part time jobs” do involve stopping bad guys from doing bad things to the helpless. One of those two occasionally involves stopping bad guys by killing them. Me personally, I mean. I train hard, and study a lot, to make sure that those bad guys are the ones who die for whatever cause it is they think they are fighting for. In my opinion, they should be the martyrs, not me or my friends. And in spite of your sarcasm, it is far from my favorite part of the life I am leading.”
Harvey then said: “Well...suppose you tell me what those other part time jobs are. Then maybe I’d have a clue about your Status...how high it is and why it is that way. Eh?”
Kim muttered something about willfully misunderstanding Status.
Ambros put a hand on Kim’s shoulder and said: “But we do use terms like ‘High Status’; he’s only misunderstanding it because we’ve yet to make it clear.”
“So make it clear,” Harvey said.
“Fine,” said Ambros: “Gimme a minute here...”
Arrenji appeared, seemingly from nowhere, with a shot of spirits in hand. She grinned and saluted Ambros; he returned the salute. She wore a faded brick-red tunic, with cloth versions of her belts, and no other sign of her Status. Her dreads were somewhat in disarray, usual when she came direct from swordplay.
Averos introduced her to Harvey. Harvey’s eyes got a little wider.
After the exchange of courtesies she sat silently, listening to the conversation. Harvey stared at her for a minute, and she grinned that wry, sardonic grin that SB operatives regularly exhibited. It obviously made Harvey nervous.
Finally Ambros began again: “Okay, the first and most important of my responsibilities is to be a Spathos Fifth Degree in the Sacred Band. I have to practice the martial arts, from wrestling and hand-to-hand all the way to fighting in powered armor.” He grinned merrily at Harvey, who suddenly looked worried. Ambros continued: “And I teach what I know to less-skilled people.
“I also have a lot of contacts now in the Black Warrior Guild, and the Red Warrior Guild, as well. I teach part-time at Red Warrior Skolo. I’ve Commanded various combinations of Commonwealth War Guilds in three operations...BWG in particular have helped me out in a big way. If any Magistre of that Guild asked me for help, I’d feel Obligated to agree.”
“Obligated...”
“Sorry, let’s not go there. You’re not ready for that understanding at this time.”
“What, I’m stupid?” Harvey asked angrily.
“No. But you come from a world where the economy, politics and even the culture are entirely wrapped up in exchange. It’s a world of debt, of monetizing love, of quid pro quo in relationships between parents and children! If I tried to explain Obligation to you right now, you’d mistake it for...” Ambros switched to American: “You’d mistake it for debt. Okay?”
“Sure, whatever,” Harvey grumbled.
“No, really...there isn’t even a word for debt in Rational Hellenic. That oughtta clue you in.”
Harvey shook his head stubbornly.
Ambros remained silent for a minute to let both of them simmer down.
“So...in my own Line, I’m working as an operative for Arrenji and Voukli. In essence, I’m an anarchist/syndicalist agitator, looking for the lever that would tip my Home Line into a more Rational form of organization. I write, I help edit an online magazine, I’m working with a radical labor union to organize some workplaces, I‘m agitating a Polis of homeless people in Eugene into a more activist and confrontational attitude, and I’m thinking hard, along with the rest of my affinity group, about how to scale our efforts up.” He laughed at Harvey’s reaction to the mention of labor organizing: ‘Looks like he bit a lemon.’
Ambros grinned: “As a cover for that work, I do several things: I write fiction. I work as a gardener. I pruned a hedge here in the Commonwealth, so I guess I’m a part-time Gardener here, as well. And I teach swordplay and History to a bunch of tweens and teenagers.”
“Okay,” said Harvey: “I get it. You’re complicated.” He turned to Kim:
“But surely his Rank... the Spathos Five thing...puts him in a...I don’t know, a category...”
“I get why you think that,” said Kim: “But Rank is just one part of Status, and often not a very important part.”
Harvey looked sour: “What is the point of having a system of ranks if it doesn’t ‘rank’ you?”
Ambros laughed: “It gives a very rough indication of my skill level in my chosen Guild. I’m Spathos Five now, one step down from Master...but don’t let that fool you.”
“It’s a tall step in any Guild,” said Kim: “To go from ‘not quite’ to full Mastery is a huge leap, as rare as live dinosaurs, and a much tougher go in SB than in any other War Guild.”
Averos raised an eyebrow: “I would agree. Mastery in Sacred Band is just about the hardest thing to gain, in the way of Rank.”
“All right,” said Harvey: “I am going to put the question another time: Ambros, how high is your Status, and how did you earn it?”
“But that’s not a question he can answer,” Kim put in: “Status is...sort of the average or mean level of esteem that other people hold a person in. Do you see? Like, I’ve hung out enough with this guy,” she nudged Ambros with her elbow: “...to see how people treat him. He has natural—and developed—talent in several disciplines that are needful to the functioning and survival of the Commonwealth, he’s volunteered for a dangerous job, he doesn’t brag on himself...”
“...much,” Ambros laughed.
“Hardly at all!” Kim said, emphatically: “And also, he works damn hard and doesn’t hardly take enough time off. “
Ambros shrugged self-deprecatingly: “I spend a good bit of my time sitting like this, in cafés and bars, discussing things or trying to persuade people for hours.”
”But doing that is also part of your job; it’s not time off. So I’d say your Status is about equal to your Rank, or a little higher.” Kim gave him a defiant look. He shrugged, again; after all, she was right.
“I agree,” said Averos: “Ambros’ Status and Rank are—basically—in sync.” After a moment he continued:
“All Magistrae are regarded as equal in Rank, regardless of Guild. But no Magistre of the Red Warrior Guild, and not many from the Black, would ever likely ‘pull rank’ on someone like Ambros.”
“Different Guilds, for one thing,” said Ambros. “It’s silly to try to compare say, a Master in the Smith’s Guild, or Culinary, or Fibers, to someone with that Rank in a War Guild. Or a War Guild Skolare to a Medical Guild Junior. Their Ranks are more or less the same...but they do such very different things...”
Harvey seemed to get that. He was nodding, as if he was starting to comprehend it: the complexity, if not the full reality: “Apples and oranges.”
Averos demurred: “Pomegranates and popcorn, more like. Equally honorable, but not comparable.”
Harvey sighed: “You people are mad. You make no sense.”
Kim took umbrage: “At least we are not fouling our own nest!”
“What?” Harvey asked, angry all over again: “We’re doing nothing of the sort! Our economy is ticking along just fine, the poor and useless have a sinecure in the Single Share, the government is the least corrupt in the history of the world...” Harvey seemed to be beside himself.
Averos stared at Harvey with an expression consisting of equal parts amazement and disgust. After a long moment’s thought he said: “That’s ridiculous.”
“What do you mean? It’s how we...”
“Everyone here knows how you run your version of the planet. And ridiculous means ‘worthy of ridicule’, which is what I meant. Your industrial manufacturing complex is built on filthy power extracted from fossil carbon, and it’s destroying the environment in your Line. You’re heating the planet with greenhouse gasses, and most of your factories emit poisons of several other kinds into the air, soil, and water. At your technological level, you are perfectly capable of transitioning to a sustainable energy system; you have been on the verge for years. Decades, even! But you haven’t done it!
“The people in charge of your factories and utilities don’t seem to have the common sense of a bag of feathers. If they did, they’d clean up their acts and save their grandchildren from extinction.”
“Extinction,” said Harvey, sarcastically.
“I’m afraid so,” said Kim: “Your line is likely to go Quiet in about thirty years, because of your unregulated capitalism.” She manipulated her lapscroll: “In your Line any project, however silly or even dangerous it may be, can go forward as long as its supporters can find investors.”
“That’s true in your own Home Line as well,” said Harvey.
“A point for you,” Ambros allowed: “We are also suffering, as are you, from a ‘global crisis of overproduction’. But you are fifty years ahead of us in destroying the environment, because you are ideologically unable to regulate your industries. In any way!”
Averos grinned: “Some of your coastal cities are already flooding on a yearly basis. There are no dikes or other flood control measures in place or in planning because your government does not conceive of it as their task to do such things.” He shrugged: “Your choice. But your population is spiking, because, again, your ideology places theoretical ‘Liberty’ ahead of actual ‘Community’. You are, in short, doomed.”
Harvey shook his head.
Kim typed and spoke in code. She looked at the Ambassador: “I sent you a document showing our conclusions and linking to the research. Check it out at your leisure.”
“Meanwhile, you are surely on Energy Guild’s list,” Ambros chuckled.
“Wait a minute, what?”
Averos laughed: “It’s still possible you’ll find a way to survive, sir. And as long as there is a breeding population of humans on your version of the planet, nobody from the Commonwealth Coalition will interfere with you, at all.”
“But if you kill yourselves off,” said Kim: “Then we’ll be there to pick up the bits.”
“You’ll steal my Line’s resources, huh?” The Ambassador looked sarcastic, again.
Ambros said: “’Steal’ is an interesting word.”
Averos spoke emphatically: “The resources won’t ‘belong to you’ any longer, because you’ll be dead. But yes, in the interest of finding the energy to fight our centuries-long defensive war against the Authoritarians, we will Saltate into your Line, execute any necessary repairs, turn on your coal and nuclear powered generators, and then suck your version of the Earth dry of every...kilowatt it has to offer.”
Arrenji had been sitting quietly at Ambros’ side. She quirked her eyebrow at him, and he seemed to read her thoughts; ‘She’s thinking that maybe we will have won the war by then...or lost it.’
He said nothing about that. Instead: “In 100 million years, perhaps the planet will have scrubbed itself clean, and new life will have evolved.” He grinned wickedly: “Not our problem, though.”
“Well, it’s not my problem, either,” said Harvey.
“Do you have children?” Ambros asked.
“Yes, of course...three daughters and a son.”
“Then I’d say it most certainly is your problem. Willful ignorance is a contributing factor to your government’s lack of action on the environment.” Ambros shook his head: “I wish forward time travel weren’t such a bitch. Kim is not likely wrong about your Line going Quiet. If we could justify the energy use, we could show you, and it might save billions of lives.”
Harvey looked at him bleakly: “We’ve never had a successful experiment with forward...”
Averos grunted, interrupting: “No one has ever had a successful experiment with temporal displacement, full stop. It’s a simple enough thing, technically; there’s no real difference between dropping you in your own Line a nanosecond after you Saltate from here, and dropping you in an hour or a year or a century ago. Just the amount of energy used. But a backwards intervention has at least the advantage that one can see the disaster se has created. Nothing we ever sent forward in time has ever showed up again in this Line, or any other we could find. We stopped after just a few tries, because...”
“Because?” asked Harvey.
“Think about it, Ambassador: we have no idea, to this day, what chaos we were causing. It would be utterly irresponsible to continue.”
Ambros spotted the expression on Harvey’s face, just before it vanished into blandness.
‘They are still messing around with that,’ Ambros thought: ‘I’ll ask Arrenji if we ought to do something about it.’ He rose from his seat and stretched.
“Going now?” Arrenji asked.
“Yeah,” he said: ‘My MPS just pinged me: I got a meeting in my own Line, at Samuel B’s.”
“I’ll come, too,” said Kim.
Ambros said nothing for the moment, but let her take his arm as he headed back to War Guild Command Complex.
When they were out of sight and hearing of the conversation he said: “You can’t be at this meeting...You’re working that volunteer post at St Val’s. You can’t be seen in public with members of the IWW.”
“Oh, of course not. I didn’t realize who you were meeting.”
“Maybe some of your friends will be there and you could sit with them.”
“No, it’s okay. I have a thing to write, and Jimmy’s supposed to take me to our room here in Athino later.”
“Okay,” he said. She stood on tiptoe for a kiss, then strolled off towards the Library.
He picked up his Shifter and proceeded to the War Room that he usually used: ‘That one is dedicated to SB actions, plus occasional overflow from the other Guilds,” he reminded himself: ‘Don’t assume you know what’s going on in the entire struggle based on what you see there...it’s a biased look at things. High-end espionage and special forces type stuff...the Red Warrior Guild does the grunt work.’
He entered the War Room, and paused: “Looks busy in here,” he said.
No one answered; no one had the leisure.
He slipped back out and headed back to the Main Hall, where he got out his Shifter. A tell-tale lit up and he paused to swap out the power mod. Then the machine hummed and announced itself ready for action.
He Shifted into the Main Hall of his own Salon, now careless of Randy’s eyes. Once there, he listened.
He heard Randy’s voice, and a girl’s: they were laughing, then moaning. He smiled: ‘He’s a good-looking, well-built young man. Can’t say I’m at all surprised...’
He soft footed it into his office, swapped a few things between pocket and desk, then picked up his Newest Pismo and slipped it into a bag.
“I won’t Saltate out of here, it’d make enough noise that it might disturb them.” He whispered to himself: “I’ll just use the door furthest from his room...”
He palmed the lock on the Wayback Room and slid along sideways, avoiding suits of Commonwealth fighting equipment and other arcane devices. He palmed his way out of the door at the northeast corner of the building. He tapped his MPS, checking that the doors were secure, then strolled off in the direction of Benham Avenue.
He looked from one side to the other as he passed each alley, and kept a weather eye out for tails: ‘Don’t seem to have a tail on me right now,’ he thought; then: ‘That’s not a good assumption to make.’
He took a roundabout route to his destination, entering the saloon almost certain of his un-followed status.
He saw Dave at a table near the back door, which led to the smoking area and a back gate into the parking lot. He waved, and Dave grinned back at him. Ambros wended his way over to the spot and Dave said: “Here, I got your booze. Irish, right?”
Ambros nodded: “That’ll do.” He raised the glass and toasted: “Your health.”
“And yours,” said Dave.
They sipped in silence for a while. Heather burst into the bar and laughed, seeing them there. She got her drink and joined them: “You guys are such guys!”
Ambros laughed: “Well, you’re not wrong. But what tipped you off?”
She snickered: “Both sitting with your back to the wall, facing the main entrance, side by side, saying nothing in that stoic way that guys that don’t know each other well always adopt. Just...Central Casting couldn’t set this up better.”
“A point for you,” said Dave: “Where’s Anthrax?”
She made a casual gesture: “Busy. Maybe he’ll get here later.”
Ambros was not fooled: ‘That was a handsign, or I’ve never seen one.’ It amused him to think of learning yet another version of “secret sign language”.
Their conversation rambled all over the map: current events, organizing successes (and a failure) and the challenges faced by Syndicalists in Africa.
Dave made a couple fairly crude off-color jokes of the sort that Ambros’ father had particularly enjoyed. Ambros was aware of Heather watching him carefully, estimating his reaction. This made him think the whole thing was a charade. Dave started in on another old sexist shaggy dog.
Ambros interrupted: “Enough. You folks are as bad as the cops, trying to figure out where I’m coming from without just asking.”
“Right,” Heather laughed: “What do you think of Dave’s bad jokes? Do they ‘offend’ you?”
“Not really, but I’m not the person they’re meant to offend. That’d be you. That sort of BS bothers me because it’s divisive. We need to unite. Sexism divides.”
Heather nodded slowly.
Ambros added: “It’s also rude. Name-calling in general is rude. Sexist name-calling is a stupid thing for poor people to indulge in. It aids the enemy.”
“Who is the enemy?” Dave queried.
“The Emerging Global Ruling Class. You heard those capital letters? Plus the military and police forces that aid and abet them, and the poverty-stricken patriotic numbskulls and evil-minded Nazi wanna-bees who will fight to the death to maintain their own slavery.”
“How would you defeat them?” Dave asked.
He laughed: “Every person on the planet who doesn’t belong to one of those groups needs to get together, and hash out a plan: not just how we get there, but where we’re going in the first place. Modern communications technology can help with that, but it probably starts with discussions like this one.”
“Where we’re going? Where’s that?”
“In my opinion, and by my preference: Generalized local self management in a money-less economy.”
Silence. The Wobblies looked at one another.
Then Heather said: “Okay. What’s with the swordfighting?”
“An interesting hobby. Good for exercise. Maybe useful in a non-revolutionary street action...Like punching Nazis, right?” He grinned his wry SB grin, and waited.
“Ever used it that way?” Dave was grinning, too.
“I’ll reserve that. I can, let’s put it that way.
Heather asked: “What exactly are you doing? You seem to be in agreement with the core principles of the IWW; but your positions, as you lay them out in your most recent writings...” She made a questioning face.
His smile disappeared: “I desire to remain as non-ideological as possible. But yes, at minimum I’m working for a better ‘Social Contract’ with a more powerful voice for the working class.”
“And in your wildest dreams?”
He laughed: “As above. Self-management. Moneyless economy. Plus the end of ‘work as we know it’. Ecological sanity. I could think of other things...”
“How do you see us getting there?” She looked serious then.
“In fits and starts, before and after what you might call a capital R Revolution.”
“Fits and starts?”
“Yeah, like you got the Burgertown workers into your union, and then they got locked out. The feds will eventually say that the lockout is illegal, but your organizing effort may go bust before the NLRB rules. Like that.”
“Yeah, like that.” Dave looked him over more positively: “What kind of hope do you have for a Revolution...the capital R kind?”
“Very small, but it’s there. See, we need lots of ideas besides our own in order to synthesize a new and broadly more just Social Contract.” He gestured at Heather: “We don’t need anything like a unanimous agreement, though.”
“Go on,” said Heather.
“If you insist. There’s a guy whose name I forget, who propounded this theory that he called the ten-eighty-ten principle. So, ten percent of the population will always be ‘heroes’: they’ll have a moral or ethical code at least loosely based on the Golden Rule, and they’ll stick to it no matter what. Another ten percent will always be villains: they’ll engage in violence and cause mayhem just for fun. The eighty percent? They’ll go in the direction of the winners. We need to be close enough to winning to draw in, say, seventy percent of the eighty percent in the middle. Numbers will vary some, but...that’s approximately where we gotta go.
“Now remember: the “other side” only needs ten percent more, because with 20% of the population in their camp they can sieze power. We don’t want to sieze power. We want—we need—near-consensus.
“Discussions like this one may or may not be happening in other countries, and may or may not lead to an agreement, and that agreement may or may not be to fight for real collective freedom. My job...”
The two of them seemed amused. Heather prompted: “Yes?”
He laughed at himself, for saying such things: “My chosen task is to agitate, to poke and prod, and to look for the lever, and the place to put it, that could tip this world into some more rational form of organization. One that is not dead set on the extinction of our species. After that...”
“After that?” Dave asked.
“After that, or better, at the same time: ‘Liberty, equity, community’.”
Heather nodded: “None of us will get our desires entirely fulfilled.”
“Well,” said Dave: “A revolution of the type Ambros is dreaming of can only be the result of a new paradigm in social relations...and those are always the outcome of a synthesis of many different threads in the movement leading up to them. Like Ambros said...”
“It’s not time to compromise,” said Heather.
Ambros spoke emphatically: “Oh, hell no, not even close. Compromise comes after—or during, at the soonest—a global conversation about what we want to build!”
Heather and Dave glanced at one another. Heather said: “What do you think?”
“He’ll do.”
“Anthrax?”
“Well, he’ll agree with us, but even if he doesn’t we out-vote him. This is well within the slush-fund protocols.”
“Yeah, the Council and the Assembly agreed. So, Mr Ambros...”
“Hmm?”
“If we were to rustle up some international union funds to send you on an occasional overseas trip, to speak to local groups or to their representatives, would you do that?”
“I’m to speak my own mind? Not some prepared monolog?”
“Absolutely,” said Dave: “We send you, you say yourpiece, we bring you back.”
“Why me?”
Heather shrugged: “Some of the international union locals need an example of a more radical view of things. You can expound that, since you’re not a member of IWW leadership. And this will fit in with your other work...timeline-wise.” She raised an eyebrow.
He smiled a slow, wry smile, nodded, and said: “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll go you one better: I’ll pay for the travel. Just set me up with sites and audiences.”
Dave said: “No. We—the IWW—have to have skin in the game. Fifty-fifty.”
“Seventy-thirty, and I have veto power over dates.”
“Sixty-forty, and you have veto,” said Heather.
Ambros saw the look on her face; ‘It’s the best deal I’m gonna get...’
“Done!” he said. They each shook hands on it.
“What now?” Heather asked.
“You seem satisfied with my bona fides,” said Ambros: “I got no other appointment for today. Let’s just get to know each other better.”
“Sounds good.”
“Stories,” said Dave.
“Huh?”
Heather said: “This is a game we play. Tell a story about yourself, true or false. Nobody asks, nobody guesses. Nobody interrupts. Whether you tell the truth or not, we learn something about you.”
Anthrax sat down, a beer in each hand: “And you learn about us.”
Dave opened his mouth to speak and Heather said: “He got the news.”
Anthrax laughed: “And I agree, Ambros here is perfect for that job. I got an idea where to send him first, too.”
“Later,” said Dave: “I’ll start.”
After a moment he said:
“I didn’t used to be a cripple. Not born this way, anyhow. But I was a little guy, and got pushed around a lot in school. Being pretty obviously bi-sexual made things worse for me. I got tired of it.
“So I started with Judo, and then Jiu-jitsu, and then Karate. Got so I thought I was quite the fighter. I had a sensei who taught me a bunch of dirty tricks, too, cause he said little guys needed to have those. Anyhow, the physical bullying stopped after I bashed back a couple times.
“That said, I was still a little guy and I still had to put up with a certain amount of BS.” He shrugged: “So, when I was about twenty-five I had a job working for this big manufacturing firm as a trouble-shooter. I went from factory to workshop to sales floor, solving problems with workflow, or personality conflicts. It wasn’t a bad job, all told. I actually had an effect on the bottom line, and I made lotsa people’s work-lives easier—or at least less nasty.
“I was working out of Portland at that time. Boss sent me north, I was supposed to take a meeting with some supervisor at a workshop that made parts for a thingamajig. Gave me the file, and keys to one of the company cars. Off I went.
“So I’m about halfway to Seattle, it’s dark as the pit and pouring down rain, and I saw police lights in my rearview. I pulled over. Cop says: ‘Your plates are expired.’ I was like: ‘Huh?’ Not contradicting him, just puzzled.
“He says: ‘Get outta the car, asshole.’
“Long story short, he decides that instead of citing me and sending me on, he’s gonna impound the car. I was saying: ‘What the hell?’ and similar, right. But that seemed to set him off even more, and he arrested me for, I don’t know, sassing him or whatever.
“So I’m booked and printed and mugged. They toss me in a cell with some gigantic half-drunk dude with an attitude.
“Meanwhile, I haven’t checked in to my hotel. Boss is beside himself: ‘Where’s Dave?’
“This is before cell phones or the internet: ’96 or then-about. So I can’t reach the company, or a lawyer. They wouldn’t let me call anybody, I don’t know why. Anyhow...gigantic drunk dude says I’m sitting on his cot. I move, and I’m still sitting on his cot. I get up, dead tired, soaking wet from standing in the rain, pissed off, not in the mood...he rushed me, and I missed my first kick, hit the side of my foot on the steel bedframe. Now I’m really pissed, so I broke his nose, his arm, and one testicle...shouldn’t have lost my temper, it made everything worse.
“I stayed in jail for a week because of that beat-down, but it was all on video. Of course the DA eventually decided not to press the case, it was BS from the start. But I got fired because my boss didn’t want to admit to the fuck-up with the expired plates. The day I got out, I got mugged in broad daylight in the still-pouring rain, while I was trying to put some cash together for a train ticket. With the bad foot and all, I hurt my other knee foiling that mugging.
“Then I missed the train. So I went running down the tracks, limping on both sides, soaked to the skin, and caught the train when it slowed to make a big curve just outside the yard. They’d stopped putting cabooses on the trains by then, so I had to sprint past the rear engine and hop the train at the baggage car. Dislocated my left elbow, but I made it.
“So then I was unemployed, and couldn’t get my injuries dealt with. I sued the cop and the DA and the department, and eventually they settled and I got some money. But not enough to get the repairs I needed.
“Those were the first of a long series of injuries that, bit by bit, got me where I am today. There was a car wreck that put the cherry on top.
“Now I have to use my brains. Lucky I have any.”
The band on stage finished their set-up and began muttering into mics, occasionally singing snatches of song.
After a moment’s silence, Heather said: “I’ve never been able to tell this story all the way to its end. But...by the rules of the game, none of you can interrupt, or question, and you don’t get to know if it’s really true.” She grinned wickedly, then began her tale:
“My parents divorced when I was about two years old. Daddy was pretty much completely out of the picture. Mom kept bringing home guys; she’d keep ’em for a month or two...
“I guess I should backtrack a bit. Mom got pregnant at sixteen, and I was born a month after her seventeenth birthday. People often assumed we were sisters, ’cause she looked even younger than she was, and I was an early bloomer.
“Well, when I was fourteen she brought this guy home. I’ll just call him ‘Ollie”. Ollie was seven years younger than my mom, which made him just ten years older than me. She kept him a little longer than most of her boy-toys; almost a year I guess. Then she threw him out with the usual high drama and fisticuffs that she loved.
“So...I kept running into him around town. I liked him. He had a clever sense of humor, and he looked great in a tight shirt. One day just before I turned sixteen I invited him home while my mom was at work, and it went about the way you’d expect.
“We were real careful. I wasn’t ready for intercourse, ’cause my mom was dead set against birth control of any kind. For me, anyway. But hey: you guys are grown-ups. You know all the ways two people can please each other without actually fucking. He was real good at all those things, and I got good at them, too.
“When I was ready—just before my eighteenth birthday—I opened up and let him in.
“Now here is where somebody always interrupts, and starts telling me how traumatic the whole thing must have been, and how I must be damaged for life and how could I ever trust a man again and...and, and, and.
“Either I shut up then, or I wind up in a horrible argument, with nice liberal ladies or Christian evangelical types telling me that my lived experience is not real, or dismissing me as a slut.
“Look: I consented. I was—technically—too young to consent—legally—but I was all in for the whole ride.
“Shortly before my nineteenth birthday, someone told my mother what Ollie and I had been up to. We probably got sloppy; I was legal then, after all. She called the cops. She didn’t ask me...first I knew of it was cops pulling me out of class.
“I wasn’t foolish enough to answer any questions. So they had nothing on Ollie except gossip. They dragged him in anyway and gave him the old third degree, but of course he didn’t talk either. So...they decided to detain me in ‘protective custody’. I guess so they could keep interrogating me...pushing me. They had to let Ollie go, though, after seventy-two hours. The judge put conditions on the release: he wasn’t allowed to see me or communicate with me. But...we kept in touch through a mutual friend.
“Me they kept for almost a week. I still didn’t budge. Ollie sent a lawyer. I’d had about enough of the nonsense anyway. The lawyer got me sprung.
“Then someone ratted us out, probably my friend’s mom. They dragged Ollie in, because we’d been in touch, right? Ollie’s lawyer was furious, he pointed out that I was nineteen and the judge had no right to forbid us to speak to each other. He didn’t cuss or anything, but he shredded that judge. Got nailed for ‘contempt of court’.
“But he was right, of course. They had to let Ollie go. And that’s how I lost him.
“Ollie had dual citizenship, US and Brazilian. So I ordered him to go. He didn’t want to, but when he got word through his lawyer that they were coming for him again...I mean, the story had been in all the media, he was ruined hereabouts anyway, convicted or not...both of the local papers were just vicious about it. And I got named, too, since I was an adult then.
“So we got a friend to drive him to Klamath Falls, and he got a train to San Diego, and a bus to Mexico City, and a plane to Brazil.
“And I’m still finishing school, right? My birthday is right before New Year’s so I turned nineteen six months before I graduated high school. I had to live with my mom for those months, that or be homeless. That was fun, right?
“You remember I said she liked drama and punching? She came at me with her fists closed, once. I got up and threw the kitchen chair I was sitting in right at her head. She caught the chair, but dislocated her pinkie. That put an end to any thought in her head of physical assault. But she wouldn’t shut up.
“There was this song, it played all the time on an oldies station my mom listened to. Every time she brought the subject up, I’d sing this part to her, real loud:
But I’ll die as I stand here today
Knowing deep in my heart
You’ll fall to ruin someday
For making us pa-a-art...
“So there I am, theoretically an adult but locked into this asinine situation, and who do I meet? Dave here. I saw a poster for some anarchist group’s rally. I always believed the hype, that anarchists were these violent jerks who broke the laws for no good reason. But I was pissed off at my mom, furious with the cops, and on the verge of going postal on that asshole judge, and that kinda sounded okay at the time. So I went. I’ve been a pain in the ass to the local Establishment ever since, and damn proud of it.
“I went to Brazil last year, to see him. He’s got a couple kids; calls them his ‘insurance policy’. That’s got to do with extradition treaties and Brazilian law. He’s still the best between the sheets that I’ve ever had—sorry Dave, sorry Anthrax. But it’s true.
“So I invented a term, a concept. As far as I know I’m the first one to think of it. I call it: ‘retroactive consent’. Not a legal concept, at least not yet, but...
“So that’s my story.”
Since the rules forbade comment, a short silence ensued.
By then the band came on stage and began a full sound check. After multiple starts and stops, they played the first verse of a song:
Invisible hand around my neck
Around my heart, and on my back
Invisible hand grabbing at my brain
Sending it down the drain.
Are you happy with that hand around your neck and in your brain?
Are happy watching all you could be go down the drain?
The band nodded okay to the soundman and headed out back to the smoking area.
Then Ambros said:
“When I was twenty-one I lived in a poly commune outside Cleveland Ohio. I was junior member of the group, who were all anarcho-eco-feminists of various stripes. The local branch of Posse Comitatus, led by a guy named Duggins, got wind of us. They really didn’t like us at all. Well, consider the source: they wouldn’t, right?
“But it really seemed to piss them off, how active we were without any of us ever getting arrested and beat up by the authorities.
“Now there’s this thread in the Left and all, about ‘going to jail for justice’. So, I get the point, right? But our poly family had kids; if any of us got arrested, we’d lose them into the system and maybe never get them back. So we always had bugout routes, and trustworthy people keeping them open. Nobody ever got arrested: never.
“Still, Posse C set out to put us out of business, in our place...whatever. We had a couple of close calls and squeaked by.
“One night Tina’s daughter Andrea woke us up at three AM. I got the rifle that was my assigned weapon, and loaded it from the cache where we stored its bullets, and went outside.
“As soon as I was out the door I smelled accelerant. Gasoline, I think. I ran around the house and saw the fire, and I saw Duggins running like a bunny. I threw that rifle up to my shoulder, and started to squeeze off a round, but I hesitated. I hesitated between killing that shit and raising the alarm. Then he was out of sight.
“I put the fire out, with help. Tina had already raised the alarm, of course, but I didn’t know that for sure. Anyway...
“You’d think maybe a guy like that would think twice before messing with us again. You’d think wrong. That was in early seventy-five. By then the FBI had some idea who Posse C was, but the local cops were clueless. Posse Comitatus killed five...” He shrugged: “...Maybe six leftist activists in the tri-county area in the next year. Then Duggins killed a cop. At that point the tables turned, and the Posse were the ones on the run.
“The next week Duggins showed up in our yard again, with kerosene and couple Bic lighters. Maybe he figured he had nothing to lose.
“Stanley—not his real name—was on watch that night.
“I guess Duggins misunderstood the situation. He probably figured that since Stan was gay as fuck and more than a little dramatic about it, that Stanley wouldn’t shoot him.
“Duggins’ error. That shotgun held ten cartridges, and Stanley emptied the magazine. There was nothing left of Duggins but his head and feet.
“I’ve never puked that hard in my life, before or since.
“But I always wondered: what if I’d put a bullet in that asshole’s head the first time I had a chance to? There’d be at least—at least—six people alive who died because I didn’t.
“So that’s my story.”
Anthrax grinned: “When I was nine years old my mom got sick. MS. My dad got overwhelmed pretty quick, so mom and he sent me to stay with my great-grandfather in England. Until then I had no idea that our family had any money. Great-granddad’s house was this gigantic crumbling mansion in the countryside in Kent. He lived there with his widowed daughter-in-law and a pack of corgis and a couple sheepdogs—and a lot of sheep—and there were horses and a guy to take care of them, so I learned to ride.
“So I get there, and grandma picks me up at a train station and drives me out to the manor. She says (and here Anthrax spoke in an utterly flawless upper-class Kentish accent): ‘Your great-grandfather is very old, and though he’s not sick, he just likes to be alone at this point. So you just pick a room in this hallway and move in, and Bella will feed you when you’re hungry and if you go out into the grounds take the dogs with you.”
“All in all, it was not a bad way to spend the last three years of my boyhood.”
Anthrax paused, then said: “Well...among the amenities at the manor, there was a totally amazing library. I started reading all the books that I could understand, and I came across C.S. Lewis. I was too blind to catch on to the allegories at ten, and I really loved The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe.
“There was this big terrifying wardrobe in the room across from mine.”
He chuckled: “You see where this is going, right?
“So it took me almost a month to work up the nerve, but finally I went over there and opened the thing up. It was very dark. I climbed in, with my little flashlight. To my deep disappointment, there did not seem to be a portal to Narnia in the back. Then...I noticed that the back panel had a crack along one side. I could feel air flowing out from behind it. So I dug in with my fingers and pulled it loose. Looking back, I should have asked myself if I was damaging a precious antique. But also, it seemed plain that I was not the first kid to go hunting for Narnia in that wardrobe.
“I got the panel pried aside, and sure enough there was a secret passage, a space between the walls. I crawled in, wondering how far it went. It was all cobwebby and nasty, but I persevered. The tunnel intersected another one pretty quickly and I turned right. I reached a point where I could stand up; there was a box standing upright and barring the way. It had a handle.
“I worked the handle a little and it came open.”
He glowered for a moment: “I shit you not, there was skeleton in that box. I shrieked like a banshee and ducked down and smacked my head on the tunnel roof and crawled back to the wardrobe and closed the panel and piled a bunch of old luggage up against it.”
He sighed: “That night I happened to be eating in the kitchen and the old man made an appearance. You ever look at a picture or a guy and think: ‘That’s my ancestor, no doubt?’ He looked so much like my mom, in spite of a beard and no hair...
“Anyway. He seemed right jolly about something. He welcomed me to his house and showed me where Bella the cook kept the best pickles and asked if I’d been having a good stay. Told him I had been. He asked if Geoff had started me on riding lessons and I told him yes.
“Yeah, he was jolly wicked happy about something.
“I think he set the whole thing up. I don’t know what affect it had on me in later life. I’ve never been that scared since, though.”
Everyone sat there silent for a bit, then the conversation started up again: mostly small talk, inconsequential except as it gave Ambros insight into the various Wobblies’ interests.
Heather, it turned out, wrote poetry as well as prose, and made her money as a masseuse. Anthrax worked in a factory that made joists for modular buildings. Dave was on disability, and knitted, making occasional money by selling his sweaters on the street. Ambros confessed to his high school baseball and wrestling letters, and mentioned his fiction. Heather wheedled a bit and got him to confess that he’d played the drums.
“Once upon a time, in a galaxy far from here. I would not call myself a drummer now...”
At length the IWW folks took their leave and left him to his own devices. His whisky was about gone, and he debated himself about another.
Then his Shifter activated itself and hooked to the MPS. A disembodied voice whispered in his ear: ‘Phone call, USIT Line 17, from the cellular network...’
Ambros had acquired a ‘dummy’ cell phone, for exactly this sort of circumstance. He rose from his seat and pulled it out of his bag; he slipped through the door into the smoking area, and stood behind a booth: “Go.”
“Hello?” He wondered who could be calling.
“Ambros? Man, I could use your help...”
“Arlen? What is it?”
“It’s Mark, man. He’s out...need to get him to Emergency, now.”
“Where are you? Never mind...” Ambros’ tech showed him exactly where Arlen had called from: “Okay, I’ll be there in few. Hang on...”
“...yeah, sure.”
He waved the connection away and went back inside. The ‘phone’ in his bag and the last of his whisky slammed, he headed out the front door. He glanced at the message board and determined that the band was called The Obscure Enterprise. He noted that.
When he’d rounded the bakery next door and reached the alley, he fired up the Shifter again and said: “Trace the last call...right there, in the shelter...”
He dropped in behind a pillar. He stepped around that and approached; Arlen knelt beside Mark, who lay on his back, pale and breathing raggedly.
Arlen said: “Thanks, man. I really...”
“Dude...if you need me, call. Wild horses, y’know?”
“Yeah. I appreciate it.”
“What’s up? He fall off the wagon?”
“Nah,” said Arlen: “I don’t smell no booze. He jus’ sorta fell down. He looked all clumsy, then said he was dizzy, then leaned on the picnic table there, and slumped, like he died. Thought for a second or two that he did. Y’know?”
Ambros knelt and touched Mark’s neck, felt a flutter of pulse, and said: “He’s in bad shape, whatever happened to him.”
‘Think fast, man,’ Ambros thought. Aloud he said: “I’ll get him to the Catholic Services Emergency Room on Thirteenth. You meet me there, as soon as you can get there.”
“How you gonna...Oh. Right.”
“Don’t ask. I’ll do it. I’m feelin’ antsy about transporting both of you...don’t ask. Meet me there.”
After a tense pause, Arlen said: “Okay. I trust you, bro.”
“Git,” Ambros said, distracted.
Arlen grunted as he rose laboriously to his feet: “See ya...” He left, looking back several times.
Ambros accessed his tech: “Find the breaker in the lighting system in this shelter...”
‘Dhulyena; done.”
“Cut the lights. After I’ve Jumped, turn them back on.”
“Akuo sas.”
He picked out the spot he wanted: “Just to the left of the main door at Sacred Heart...behind that bush there...”
He expanded the Shifter’s field to include Mark. He Saltated.
A soon as he dropped in, he grabbed Mark under the shoulders and dragged him into the light: “Hey, I got a sick man here! Somebody come help!”
Nurses and orderlies came running out; a litter appeared and they carried Mark in. They yelled and grunted, all in their own medical jargon. He watched his friend carted off to an exam station. The medics attached Mark to a dozen machines; a man in lavender scrubs drew blood.
Someone touched his shoulder: “Sir?”
He turned, and followed her to the nurse’s station: “Can I get names and insurance information, please?”
He shook his head, hard: “His name is Mark Olmstead. He’s homeless. He’s a veteran, though. He should have medical coverage...”
She began to talk about the VA hospital across town.
He waved her silent: “It’s ten PM. They don’t have Emergency service. What am I supposed to do?”
“Well, I have to put somebody down as insurance, I have to...”
He pulled out his wallet and got out some bills: “How many of these fifties do you need, right now, to keep him till you find out what’s wrong? And until he can walk out of here under his own power?”
She stared as he began laying them on the counter, one after another.
Finally she stopped him: “Okay. I’ll put down ‘out of pocket’. Who are you, anyway?”
"‘Out of pocket'. That was the phrase I was looking for. I’m just a friend of his.” He realized that she needed a name: “Ambros Rothakis.”
She gave him the squirrelly look that his name often evoked, since his word-fame as a gadfly had begun to spread. But she typed his name in.
Then he added: “The real person to talk to is named Terry Arlen. People call him Sarge. He’ll be here in a while.”
She nodded, typing that in as well.
He walked over to the waiting area and took a seat where he could see Mark’s feet through a gap in the curtains.
He began a meditation session: ‘Calm,’ he thought: ‘Relax.”
He drew an extra deep breath and opened his eyes: an hour had gone by. He looked up at the door, and saw Arlen come in, looking tired but alert.
Arlen spotted him and crossed the room.
He sat down: “Any word?”
“Not yet.”
“My man ain’t been looking good,” Arlen growled: “I don’t know what’s wrong...he wouldn’t go to the VA.”
Ambros nodded: “He’s not gonna have a choice, now. This joint won’t keep him, if he can’t pay. Probably transport him to the VA hospital.”
Arlen nodded: “Dude, you know stuff. What should I do? He’s my best man, my right hand. I don’t...”
“I’ll leave a message for Dan Castle. I’ll have him draw up a medical power of attorney for Mark, and put your name on it as primary. Maybe Joanna and Red as well.”
“Not Red.”
“Oh?”
Arlen shook his head: “Red’s a good cook and a tough guy. Good man in a fight. Not good for this.”
“You know him better than I do.”
“Yeah.”
A very young-looking man in green scrubs approached. He looked from one of them to the other.
Ambros said: “Talk to us. Dr...?”
“Dr Alcott. You are Mr Rothakis? The man who brought him in?”
“I am. This is Terry Arlen, the sick man’s best friend.”
The doctor nodded. He looked at his tablet and blushed: “I’m...not supposed to tell people who aren’t next of kin anything.”
Arlen growled again: “I’ll have a power...whatcha call it?’
Ambros said: “Medical power of attorney. Dan Castle—my lawyer—will have it ready for Mark’s signature in the morning.” The mention of Attorney Castle had its usual good effect.
“I suppose, under the circumstances...here’s the deal. His liver functions are way off. I mean way off. Kidneys, too. He’s also very dehydrated. Fluids are helping, he should be conscious by the morning. But...”
“He’s a long-time alcoholic. If that helps...” Arlen muttered.
“I guessed that. How long has he been sober?”
“About...” Arlen frowned: “Three-four months, I guess.”
“Hmm.” The doctor seemed concerned.
Arlen said: “Look, doc. He started drinking about halfway through his second tour in Nam. ‘Bout seventy-one, I guess. Like every drunk I’ve ever known, he’s gone on the wagon, and fallen off, multiple times. Don’t judge.”
The doctor sighed: “I don’t. Judge, that is. My uncle...his story could have been cloned from your friend’s. We’ll keep him on fluids, and send him over to the VA Hospital tomorrow. Look for him there...and good luck.”
The young doctor walked off, shoulders slumped.
“Lemme get you a cab, Sarge.”
Arlen agreed: “I hate to impose, but...”
“I offered. It’s not an imposition.”
“Okay.”
They rose and Ambros led the way to the street, hoping to pick up a cab that was dropping someone off.
no subject
Date: 2020-08-05 04:00 am (UTC)sp. judgmentally not judgementally
'Are happy watching' word missing
no subject
Date: 2020-08-05 04:09 am (UTC)