Stevie could barely feel his face.
The blood had drained so absolutely that he had been unable to stand. The
footage of Mark Tanenworth’s final words before raising a gun to his head would
be burnt into his memory for the rest of his life. He felt 100% responsible for
his old friend’s demise. Mark had practically rescued Stevie from the edge of
alcoholism and oblivion, but in return Stevie had exploited and lied to the
man, leaving him out in the cold to suffer.
“This is fucking bullshit!” Phil
said angrily, gesturing at the television like a tennis player at a bad ‘out’
call. He was looking at Stevie as though he were the referee. Stevie withdrew
from himself a little, giving Phil a concurring glance, vainly trying to
disguise his undercurrent of emotion.
“What’s up with you?” Phil asked,
dismissing the weak charade.
“I knew him.”
“Who? Walter?”
“No. Well, yes, but I mean Mark
Tanenworth. The man who shot himself, I knew him.”
“Yeah, well, serves him right;
Citadel scum – by birth no less.”
Stevie winced at the crude
comment. “You don’t understand; he was my friend.”
“Didn’t you say you pretended to
be his shrink to try infiltrate the enemy?”
It was not an attack but Stevie
felt the full force of the matter of fact comment. He looked back at the
television, swallowing back a hint of a tickle in his throat. He would grieve
on his own time, this was too important.
The pair was still on the move,
staying at the fifth motel in as many nights. For all the talk about a time for
action they had barely gotten past two sentences worth of planning. Phil’s
strategy was to break into Citadel Towers. The first hurdle came at how to do
it, let alone what they were supposed to do once they got in.
“We just plant a bomb and hope to
bring the whole fucking place down.”
“Aren’t you a vegetarian? How many
innocent people would you kill?”
“There’s no innocence in that
place.” He had replied gravely. Stevie had rolled his eyes.
Stevie’s idea of action was more
constructed. He wanted to make a precise strike that was more achievable and
less suicidal than Phil’s. They would need to understand the true motive of
Citadel and once they had the foundation they could build a solid attack. The
problem was that he had no clue what Citadel was planning and the plan
therefore had even less substance than Phil’s.
But the Tony Holdsworth special
with Sam Tank was set to change all that. For all the dire assertions it made
about Walter Wallace, and for all the frustration and despair it had shovelled
down Stevie’s throat, it did reveal the final act of the Walter Wallace saga.
The spin was turned on its head; Walter was the cause – not the solution – to sadness.
“I don’t get it.” Phil interjected
again. “What’s the point of Citadel producing Walter as this mass media product
and them reducing him to nothing in his prime?”
“How much money can you get for
one product?” Stevie proposed. “Wouldn’t it be better if they could turn
happiness into an easier distribution channel?”
“What do you mean?” Phil asked,
not catching Stevie’s direction.
“I’m saying that self help
preachers will always write a book because it is more profitable than running a
seminar – mass distribution.”
“But Walter has mass distribution,
he has a worldwide audience.”
“But the show is no good. The only
drama was accidental...or fatal. How long can it be kept up and how long can it
sell?” Phil remained quiet and pensive for a rare moment of peace. “What is the
underlying message from this special?”
“Walter bad.” Phil said, knowing
the obvious answer would ultimately be wrong.
“No. Walter as a media Messiah
bad. But Walter still good, still happy. The science is the key to this
special. They can’t spell it out to us right away because that would be too
obvious, but Sam Tank has all but inferred that emotions can be measured, that
they are tangible energy with quantitative effects. Broadcasting Walter was too
general, there was a backlash of emotion and jealousy; frustration at not being
able to match his happiness. It is almost like feedback at a stadium concert.
The music always sounds better through quality headphones.”
“You mean they are going to wrap
him up into little packages of happiness?”
“He’ll be the replacement for
prescription drugs.”
“But before they could do that
they wanted to take him off air. Get him out of the picture and then make his comeback
with happy gas. Maybe they will ask him to fart in a cup, charge $50 a pop.”
Stevie nodded in appreciation of
the joke. His mood had improved but he still didn’t feel like laughing.
He thought about the time he had
met Sam Tank at the bar in Newport Haven. Mark had frozen stiff at the site of
the man - he was obviously dangerous. It had also led to Stevie being nearly
killed but for the sympathy of the Citadel agent.
“Fuck, that’s where I know this
douche bag from.” Phil said with blend of annoyance and relief, “he was the
Citadel suit who told me to write up the anti-Walter piece.”
Stevie furrowed his brow, “He was
the one who told you? How did you not remember that an hour ago?”
“Look that was only a day or two
after I witnessed the afterlife, man. Drugs are squatters, dude, they don’t
wanna leave and they make a fucking mess when they finally do.”
It made sense that Sam would want
to push the anti-Walter campaign – it had even helped inspire the attempted
bombing at Heartsfield Royal. It seemed like Sam was turning up wherever the
trouble happened, and now his sights were firmly set on Walter. Stevie had
found the motive and found the source of that motive. Now they could start
developing the plan.
“I’ve met him as well.” Stevie
said.
“What?!”
“He almost had me killed, he had
found out I was pretending to be Mark’s doctor, put a hit on me. I think he
thinks I’m dead.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No. The agent, your robot’s
partner, he’s the one who stabbed me.”
“Motherfucker. We’ll kill that son
of a cunt next.”
“No, you don’t get it. He let me
go.” Stevie said. “I think he is the key. First we need to save Walter before
they get him in the Towers, then we need to bring down Citadel.”
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