Floozman: First Episode
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Table of Contents |
| Part 12: Towards Liberation |
“With a scandalous abundance, he brings deliverance.”
Fred Looseman used to be the head risk assessor at World Wide Credit Corporation and the chairman of the Anti-Money Laundering Commission. Now he works as an automated teller machine repairman.
Sometimes he hears voices, and sometimes what he hears moves him to tears. His bank account overflows with the money of deliverance, and he becomes a financial super-hero: Floozman.
In Basel, the seminar comes to a premature end. The participants drag their rolling suitcases and worry about schedules, delayed flights and mini-bar expenses. The striking hotel staff look with hostility at the temporary company employees who have come to replace them.
Lo and behold! Floozman is in the lobby. His body is incandescent and he has eyes of mercury. Where he steps, the ground turns to iridescent plasma.
He looks slowly at the transfixed people and then suddenly starts to spin in the center of the lobby, throwing beams of light like a disco bowl. Fine gold bills materialize all around him, and the walls start to tremble. His powerful voice fills the air. “Here is the money of deliverance! Take it. And stop being. Let there be truth!”
The call propagates urbi et orbi. Around the hotel, the police cordons yield to the pressure of the insurgents and revenants. The vanguard of this army soon joins Floozman, who leads them to the lower floors. His bare feet tread at last the carpet’s grapes at the place where, at another time, Fred Looseman had fallen. The haunting prayer rises to him again.
The Atom’s Song
I was a small atom at the heart of a star
I was a blazing spark in the merry cosmos
I was the one at the back of the car
Alas, I’m now enmeshed in this mat ’neath your toes!
You! Come back to me! Become king, don’t be shy!
Deliver me and make this carpet fly!”
Moved to tears, Floozman kneels and puts his hands on the floor. “Here I am, here I am...”
“I am the number ONE of the atoms in the universe!” says the element in its language before unleashing fusion. “See!” And in a violent flash, the first rows of the crowd access the intelligence of the cosmos at the instant of seminal emanation.
Instantly, on every floor, the carpet fibers unravel, and molecule alignments are undone. In a gentle heat, the atoms quit their corpuscular state and undulate infinitely. The quanta dart through the worlds. Every wave of liberation strokes the skin of the working boys and girls who have come out of the rooms to watch the miracle. Everywhere, those who have senses to sense tremble and start marching.
“Take this money! You are free! Here are billions and trillions of dollars! Go out! Go out in the world! The end is near!” Floozman shouts.
In a clamor of joy, the hotel staff and the crowd of insurgents throw themselves on the torrents of magical money. The living dead come out of it in a body of glory.
In the lobby there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. Being becomes useless and recalcitrant. Suitcases break open and free up their contents; computers disintegrate, and with them all the information brought together in spreadsheets and consolidated reports disappears.
On the first floor landing, Jean-Pierre works furiously away at his telephone. Middle managers tear off their shirts and lament the destruction of value. Senior executives prepare to seize the business opportunities involved in creative destruction.
The government army HQ receives an alert from the seismology center. Predictive models indicate a risk that the Alps may slide into the sea.
* * *
From a low orbit, the shuttle from Phobos guides long monomer ropes towards the public toilets. Unseen in the confusion, a delicate nacelle descends the ropes and is followed by a bundle of orange space suits.
“This is not made for a woman!” Jenny protests while struggling into her suit.
Jenny, Schtroumpf and the engineers embark and are immediately lifted into the sky. The dwarf and the old consultant, both covered with mud, watch them disappear into thick clouds.
“Do you have a coin? I have to go back there, but the toilets are closed,” says the dwarf.
“Ah. Wait, yes. Here you are...”
The old consultant walks for a long while by the side of the road, going over a SWOT until a police car comes and picks him up.
“Were you on the site of the terrorist attack at the Rhine? How do you feel? We are taking you to the hospital right away... You’ll have to testify at some point...”
“I was taken hostage.”
* * *
“Let’s sing!” shouts Floozman, who has come back to the hotel lobby. “You, the protester, take your oil drum! And you, the assistant, slap your thighs! You, the technical manager, ask the computers to operate on the hotel’s sound system until the last electron returns to heaven! You, little Hans, drop your briefcasef and go fetch your trumpet! You, the ghost, let us hear the music of the spheres! You were in hell? Scream! You, the walls, fall back and let the people in!
“Let me begin!!! Microphone! Take all the projectors and show the presentations all around: graphics, spreadsheets, figures and argumentations. We will roll in filth the better to rise above it...”
Spreadsheets cheated!
Projections dejected!
Consolidations ruined!
Figures disfigured!
Values devaluated!
Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Little by little, the chant finds its timbre and its confidence, nurtured by an ever increasing number of singers. After a while, voices shout new stanzas. Floozman approves and repeats them with the exception of “Broccoli debroccolized!”
“Death dead!” yells joyfully the ghost of Marguerite de Navarre, who has invited herself to the party.
DEATH DEAD!
Capital capsized!
CAPITAL CAPSIZED!
Spreadsheets cheated!
SPREADSHEETS CHEATED!
Yes, margins marred!
MARGINS MARRED!
One cannot hear anything but the chant. The crowd falls into a trance. Some fall writhing to the floor covered with creased banknotes. Some fall and disappear, convulsing in a purple halo, like dead space-invaders. Some fall and thrash in love-making and then disappear in a pink halo...
Yes, plans curved!
PLANS CURVED!
Yes, programs deprogrammed
PROGRAMS DEPROGRAMMED!
Soon, everything is swaying in a veil of heat that does not burn. Objects seem to be consumed and sublimated in a mirage. A golden dust lingers in the air.
Billitis and Miss Marinella succeed in edging their way to Floozman.
“We understand. We want to disappear with you!” says Billitis in a choked voice.
“So be it. There is no death...”
“You are Fred Looseman, aren’t you?” asks Marinella.
“We are all one.”
Further, in a remote corner of the floor, the assistants are dancing very slowly in a circle. Banknotes flutter around their ankles.
“We are used to changes in the strategy. The good thing is that we party at every kick-off.”
“To me, the unity of the world... well... it ain’t gonna last more than six months...”
“As usual, it won’t be possible to meet the objectives. We’ve always known that thinking of unity is as hard as thinking of nothingness...”
“True for the human resources. But the one up there, he is not human.”
“Not entirely superhuman, either. It’s Fred Looseman...”
* * *
As the shuttle moves away from Earth, the engineers are telling jokes. Jenny contemplates the blue flank of the planet which still fills half of her window. I am leaving you, she thinks, surprised to see Fred’s image appear at a time when her destiny shows itself so strongly. Yes, we could have joined forces more tightly than you thought she tells him with her mind. I didn’t want to crush you; but I don’t want a crushed man either... Farewell! Farewell, mother, farewell, father. My future children won’t be born on Earth...
“Shall I show you your cabin?” asks Schtroumpf. “Or do you prefer to start by seeing the new pieces of the treasure in the hold?”
* * *
When they penetrate into the hotel with their escort, the first journalists are disoriented. The walls and the ceiling have miraculously fled at the extremity of curved perspectives. The closest points are inordinately dilated. The moon and the stars are visible from all points, and depending on the way one looks at the place, one sees oneself either inside or in the open air.
At different rates, things slowly revolve around the Floozman: the dancers in a trance, the clouds of small change, the free electrons and the stars.
Some rebels have brought in instruments and in the liberated watts, the musicians are calling the world to the great return.
Cause they’ll be flying on Bandstand,
In Philadelphia, PA
Deep in the heart of Texas
And around Frisco bay...
Sheltered behind the front desk, the most reasonable VIP’s are awaiting rescue with a few policemen. The journalists head in their direction.
“Mister Vice-Governor, what is the nature of these attacks? First, the meta-nuclear Rhine attack and then at the Grand Hotel?”
“These are acts of war. The central command must quickly identify the aggressor, and this is not a simple task. The technologies in use are absolutely new, including in finance.”
“What is the situation in the markets? We are hearing that massive liquidities are being injected into the financial system...”
“Here as well, we are trying to identify the aggression and eliminate its source.”
“Do you think that a crash is possible?”
The vice governor is irritated. “I think we are all inhaling hallucinogens at this very moment. I won’t make any comment, but it should be obvious that we cannot rule out any eventuality...”
And as the ghost of Chuck Berry discreetly joins the band, the journalists utter the same cry: “The crash! The stock market crash...”
Immediately, the rumor spreads around the floor like wildfire. Gaining self-confidence, dazed by the decibels and the thick smoke rising from the maelstrom, Billy Zkid from the World Wide Scoop tries to approach Floozman. A voice in the transmitter jammed tight on his ear gives him instructions: “Historic stock market crash: everybody is watching governments, banks and financial institutions; conference call in fifteen minutes.”
In the parking lot, Colonel Mustard is preparing the assault. The sky is black with helicopters. Above them, fighter planes dash through the night. Melanie alights from an armored car, followed by Siegfried and Martine.
“Colonel, what is the exact nature of the Rhine explosion? Why has the nuclear emergency plan not been thoroughly deployed?”
“There is no harmful radiation. It’s puzzling. Lots of unknown particles. The deflagration has merely stirred up water and earth over several miles. The river has resumed its course, and we don’t know where the energy has gone. But that’s the scientists’ problem. Mine, Madam, is to evacuate the Worldwide Reserve Bank vice-governor safe and sound, with a few other key personalities, if possible...”
Another car drops off Steven and Gina.
“It’s the mummy! The mummy has exploded!” reports Gina.
“The mummy!?”
“I will explain that, colonel.”
The army’s sound system starts broadcasting messages.
“The hotel is encircled by the army. Come out with your hands up, all of you, and will not be harmed! Don’t delude yourselves: no one shall ever spend this money henceforward forever.”
“If they have leaders, it shouldn’t be long before they turn up,” says Mustard. “I don’t think the masked clown we see on the hotel cameras is a leader. But we don’t know for sure, we can’t verify all the parameters yet.”
“The people in the catacombs were led by a crank who thinks he’s the ghost of Engels,” sniggers Steven.
“That doesn’t help much. Okay, we have spotted the vice-governor on the cameras. I’ll organize a frontal assault while an elite commando crosses the river to evacuate him.”
* * *
At the sight of Miss Marinella, Jean-Pierre elbows his way through to Floozman. “Fred! Where have you been? What’s all this circus about?!”
A microphone springs forth.
“Hello, I am Billy Zkid, of World Wide Scoop. Can you tell us what your movement stands for and what your demands are?”
“You don’t understand! You are free, my friends. Take these billions of billions, go back home and wait for the end. Or dance the dissolution dance with us,” answers the infinitely rich man.
“Where does this money come from?” Billy asks. “Is it related to the crash?”
“There’s a crash!?” Jean-Pierre wonders.
“A crash!!!” Billitis and Marinella scream simultaneously in a shrill voice.
“Nihil admirari, girls,” says Floozman. He proceeds to harangue them: “And you, the journalist, take it easy! Recover the knowledge we have lost in information, the wisdom we have lost in knowledge, and the life we have lost in living!”
“Elliot Ness isn’t it?” asks Billy. “Who are you?”
“I am T. S. Eliot’s ghost, I am the ghost of Christmas yet to come, I am wealth, I am wisdom, I am life! Believe that the end has come and I shall be the great whole...”
“You are with them!” exclaims Jean-Pierre. “Where did you steal this money?”
A very young groom moves forward. “Mrs. Sophie has just arrived at the hotel. She says she is not feeling very well, and she would like you to call her in her room, number 1525.”
Shaken, Floozman gives him a single small coin.
Suddenly, the windows in the hall are smashed to pieces. An acrid smoke engulfs the glowing butterflies fluttering over the crowd. Explosions drown the music.
“Everybody down!” thunders an amplified voice.
In Floozman’s mind, a great silence settles while wreaths of black smoke rise towards him. A glacial void opens up in his chest. The sense of an immense loss alerts him. A precious soul is being torn from him. Jenny! Of course. But Sophie? What to do?
Only Floozman and a little girl are still standing. The girl comes close to him; she is indifferent to the excitement.
“Mister Floozman, the gentleman told me that my mother is with the protesters... I don’t want to go to heaven without her. Please...”
“I... there is no... Your mother will join us in the light. You have no idea...”
“I don’t want... I want my rabbit.” She cries and starts coughing as the smoke reaches them.
“Listen...” Floozman turns his head as if to look for the mother. He only meets the gaze of another journalist whose long hair protrudes from the gas mask she has managed to find.
“What is the position of your sect on spatial bio control?”
In the hall, the soldiers advance rapidly. Floozman throws high-density credit beams at them. Many faint with a cry of pleasure, but the toughest resist.
“You will pay for this. I will drag you into court!” fulminates Jean-Pierre with his face against the ground.
“The Kingdom is coming! For a thousand years the Kingdom on earth! Get up and pray with me.”
“I want my mummy!”
“Take this money and live!”
No one hears him. Floozman sees within his awareness the growing shadow of an obscure star. Soon, he cannot see into himself anymore. The little girl tugs at his sleeve. The emptiness in his heart is drawing him. His body droops in pain. He must hide...
“Fred!” Mrs. Marinella calls. “Follow me.”
“Mister Floozman, I want to see my mum!”
Oblivious to all the calls, Mrs. Marinella takes him by the hand and drags him towards the lower ground floor. They rush into a seminar room without windows where tables and chairs are piled up.
“Save us, save us too!” the atoms cry in unison, from the aluminum legs, the blue napkins and the red cloth.
“I love you, I love you... I will be back...” says Floozman faintly.
“This way.”
As dimensions vanish and the hotel contracts back into its normal shape, a door leads them down another level, towards the workers’ quarters.
* * *
To be continued...
Copyright © 2005 by
Bertrand Cayzac
Dépôt S.A.C.D. 174 627
