Ernie came around to the office quite early on Wednesday. He was certain that his weekly shipment of Caney had arrived the afternoon before. After checking beneath his secretary's desk he was quite pleased to find the shipment secured there, in it's usual spot when deliveries were made in his absence. As long as there remained an adequate supply of vodka he knew he could trust her. Amy had no palate for rum, though if there were no vodka then perhaps she might. With all the new recruits filing in from the Ukraine in recent years there was little risk of that happening.
There was not much on his agenda that day. The office would remain pretty quiet for the next few hours, so he decided to crack one of those new bottles. After a minute of rummaging about he found a glass, then snatched up the daily dispatch from Reuters, freshly delivered via vulture courier. Hell's central offices actually receive these vulture-grams twice daily and have since 1916, when Reuters became a wholly owned subsidiary of Hell Incorporated. While the brand's luster had faded, the boss was, despite his malign nature, a true softie where it comes to certain traditions.
The US Presidential election had ended, this time in a day instead of weeks, thus proving that it could still be done. So Mr. Trump had earned himself a second term. Ernie could not for the death of him understand why he, or anyone else for that matter, would even want the job. It was a thankless task for a thankless nation. Ernie remembered Ike. He liked Ike. Now that was a President! The man had the good sense to spend most of his time golfing. If only he had not placed so much trust in those Dulles boys!
These Reuters reports didn't really provide any true value. Most of their stories were covering events to which the staff was already privy. In many instances these stories were a direct result of the hard work performed by some of Hell's finest agents. Reuters simply shaped the narrative for the flock. Thus it was, at least for Ernie's purposes, an amusement like the comics page in the Sunday paper.
Now here was a fine example! He had been seeing a number of stories on this lately... this thing they were calling "AI". Ha! Artificial intelligence indeed! They should have much need of such a thing topside, being so spare of natural intelligence. That wasn't a problem down here! These people were not here because they were stupid. There were exceptions to this, of course, but as a general rule? No. Statistically the damned were marked with higher IQs. Not that it matters. The damned are still the damned.
The second glass of Caney was bracing. It was just what he needed. As it turned out he was not to enjoy his solitude for more than a few minutes longer. He was to be disturbed at a much earlier hour than was the norm when his secretary, Ms. Winehouse, showed up at the office door. She did not act surprised in any way to see him there and they engaged in what was by then their customary greeting.
"Slag!"
"Prick!"
"What brings you in so early today?"
" I might ask you the same, but... just as well. Kinison's on the loose. Thought you should know that..."
"Is he? And this is my problem how?"
"Dunno guv. I'm fetchin' me vodka an' I'll be off." She pulled a bottle of Absolut out of a desk drawer and dropped it into her bag. " Be back later. Ta!"
Ernie raised a hand in a silent wave as she left and returned to the Reuters dispatch. He found that he could no longer really focus on the reports. Now he was distracted, wondering what their indefatigable HR director was up to. It was probably just another of his harmless rants, but one always had to wonder. For all of his other stellar qualities it was indeed true that the man was unstable.
It was only a short time later that he heard Kinison out in the hall. He was shuffling loudly in a Quasimodo fashion, his great key ring rattling like chains of bondage. Ernie could hear his voice, though indistinct. It sounded as though their HR director was arguing with...himself? He thought for a moment that he might go out into the hall to check on him, but decided against this. Kinison was almost certainly headed his way soon enough. The murmuring subsided and then there he was in the doorway.
"Hey boss! You're in early today. I was kinda hoping I might catch you. Is the, uh... big guy around?"
"No, Sam. Not sure where he is now. What can I do for you?" The news that the Devil was not in seemed to spell a sign of relief on Kinison's face.
"I don't know boss... I guess maybe I just need to vent a little. I mean I get the whole Devil thing, right? But does he always have to be such a dick about it? We're on the same team here, right?"
Ernie still wasn't certain where this was going, but decided he'd humor the man. "I assure you Sam, you have the team's full support. You have performed magnificently under extremely trying circumstances. What specifically seems to be troubling you? I can't make any promises, but maybe I can help." Kinison heaved a sigh and then the full flood of his grievance began to spill.
"I have been trying everything to convince those stupid assholes! I figured, hey! This will be a piece of cake, right? Heh-heh-heh. Just do what worked for Joseph Smith, right? We've got land; we're a self reliant community; you can have as many wives as you want, and... all the under age girls you can screw!"
"It's a solid pitch, Sam, I agree..."
"Can I confide in you, boss? I don't really give one single fuck about any of these clowns, ya know? Heh-heh-heh... I could just put all of them down the waste chute at the intake center. I HAVE that authority, don't I?"
"Indeed you do, Mr. Kinison! Care for a belt?"
"Aah... don't mind if I do. Thanks boss!" Kinison took a stiff one straight back, helped himself to another and then continued his rant. "I don't get what is so special about these twelve million people..."
"Is it twelve million now?"
"Twelve, ten... fifteen, who the fuck knows? I can't keep track of every single one of them! So the big guy just hands me this lot... says special handling. We need to keep them segregated. See if you can't sell them on the Utah Annex, he says. Well it's been four years now. As far I know the Annex is STILL NOT open and these assholes aren't budging anyway. What the fuck are they boss? Mormons?"
Ah, now there was the crux of it. Ernie refreshed his glass. "Sam? When's the last time you got laid? You seem really tense. Here, sit down. Have some more rum... Sam, I'm going to tell you something now that I am not supposed to tell. I know I can trust you because you're not a pussy. Those...twelve million, or however many they are... they're not Mormons. Well, maybe some of them are, but... Sam, they are the phantom voters of the 2020 election."
"Nah! You're shitting me, right?"
"Sam! Would I shit you?!"
"But... that means they're..."
"That's right Sam. They are a race of Golems. Soulless mockeries of flesh fashioned only for false ballots to inhabit. They are neither living nor dead."
"Hunh! Kinda like Biden has been president for four years, but he hasn't been the President."
"Precisely."
"Hunh. Kinda has a nice symmetry to it."
"It does."
to be continued... stay tuned for the exciting conclusion to the Utah Crisis on January 20
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