PRISON WARS!!!!!

Compiled by John Press

From Notes by Martin Sanger

© 2005 John Kenneth Press

Chapter One – First Impressions

Chapter Two – The Press Conference

Chapter Three – Home Life

Chapter Four – Prison Negotiations

Chapter Five – Meeting our Guru

Chapter Six – Prison Wars!!!

Chapter Seven – The Day After

Chapter Eight – The triumvirate Meets

Chapter Nine – The Movement Rises

Chapter Ten – Downward Spiral

Chapter Eleven – Wipe out

Chapter Twelve – Trials

Chapter Thirteen – Afterlife

Editor’s Note

The bulk of this manuscript was found by a prison guard. All Press Press had decided to compile information with the intention of releasing a definitive account of Prison Wars. When it was safe to do so, one of our first efforts was to talk to whomever might be left at Martin Sanger’s prison. It was on visiting these prison facilities that we got word of the existence of this manuscript. We quickly began frantic attempts to secure it.

We have no independent corroboration of the voracity of the accounts herein. This edition was released only one week after receiving the manuscript and two weeks after the events detailed in the eleventh chapter took place

The difficulty of fabricating such a detailed and personal account in so short an amount of time convinced us of its authenticity. The prison personnel claimed to have found it only two days after the final Prison Wars. Given the situation their story is highly plausible.

Chapter twelve was brought to us immediately after we started publicizing the release of the first eleven chapters of this book. Martin Sanger did not bring it to us. The gentleman who brought it to us was extremely guarded about how he happened upon it. He demanded money and anonymity.

Not having publicized that there were only twelve chapters, the delivered one’s being number thirteen convinced us of its authenticity. Furthermore, the continuity in writing styles provided further corroboration of both manuscripts being from the hand of Martin Sanger.

As of yet, Martin Sanger’s whereabouts are unknown. We publicly admit that the manuscript is being printed without his permission. After reading it, however, it will be clear that he intended its publication.

Regardless, given Mr. Sanger’s position, the contents herein are of undeniable historical importance. We are publishing it for the same reason we were searching for documents relevant to his incarceration and life; a historical sense of duty to the future.

We believe that is also why he wrote it and would be glad to see it published.

Except for formatting and the correction of some minor grammatical and spelling errors (undoubtedly due to the haste of its writing) the manuscript has been published as it was found. After this editor’s note, the text only contains the words from the manuscript we are attributing to Martin Sanger.

John Kenneth Press

San Luis Obispo

February, 2013

PREFACE

My name is Martin Sanger. If you’re an American you’ve probably heard of me via my association with the manslaughter case involving Quentin Longus. I am the guy that was up on manslaughter charges. To the young I largely need no introduction.

I worked for Quentin. I was his personal publicist and friend. My job was to keep his family sheltered from his coming professional turmoil. Boy did I fail. I blame myself for some of the splashes of intrigue and writing flare that fed his addictions.

You may ask why I want to retell the story of the now infamous Quentin Longus. Everybody knows more than they ever wanted to know about him. I want to tell it because I knew him before his infamous press conference that planted the seed of our destruction. Knowing him will help folks realize that the collapse of our society is a personal collapse. Character counts. All civics lessons should be personal.

You may hate Quentin Longus. Many people do. But, if anyone should hate him, it should be me and I don’t. He used me and destroyed my life. But hating him is too easy. It makes the problem external to one’s self. And though he ruined my life, I allowed him to. If our descent into barbarism and madness teach us anything - assuming we are ever in the state to learn again - it is that we need to look inside ourselves to root out the corruption in our society.

Like 9-11 or Pearl Harbor the Prison Wars have changed everything. Everyone knows that it was an excess of freedom that has caused the current riots, looting and general anarchy. We now know, anyhow. Had this book been required reading before the Prison Wars perhaps we wouldn’t be in the shape we are in now. But it hadn’t happened yet. Maybe next time…

I hope that you, dear reader, will read this book as a moral tale. If you read it without a sense of seriousness of purpose you will be just another salacious shallow egoist. Reading it for jollies will show that you are a part of the problem. To the extent that you do I blame you for all the chaos and ills that is sweeping the streets right now. Stop being scum. Read it seriously.

He is guilty of his crimes. I blame him and will soon try to kill him. But, more so, I blame the public that voraciously made up for their lack of insides by needing to consume tidbits of him; that demanded so much of him that he was uprooted from his inner moorings.

A public demands fresh crimes. Publics consume others in order to distract themselves from their lives of quiet desperation. His ugliness was in direct proportion to our carnivorous emptiness. We are to blame. He is just a symptom of us.

You close this book at your own peril. The unparalleled mayhem that has enveloped America had a history. It had a beginning. To understand what happened, and how to stop it from happening again, you have to know how such things start.

But I think I have said that several times.

I must apologize for the unfinished nature of this book. I am writing it as a prelude to an act of desperation. My act will be violent and rash and, most probably, a failure. I am going to try to kill Quentin Longus. If this act of redemption is to have any long lasting, curative relevance it must be done in concordance with an explanation. This memoir is the explanation.

Less important than providing a cautionary tale, this book will hopefully clear my name. I have done horrible things. I have tons of blood on my hands. Confessions are said to cleanse the soul. I want you to hear my side of the story so that I may redeem myself. Writing this, as well as my killing him, is meant to atone for my crimes. I write this with a sense of guilt. I prey that you forgive me my errors.

I don’t know what will emerge after the rioting stops. There may not even be printing presses. But, assuming that some order will reemerge, I consider it my duty to tell this tale. Thank you for reading it.

CHAPTER ONE – FIRST IMPRESSIONS

I first met Quentin Longus as a novice journalist working, on assignment for Fortune magazine in 2008. My assignment was to interview the top twenty young venture capitalists in America. Quentin Longus was the ninth of the twenty I profiled.

Quentin immediately stood out from the rest of that crowd. To begin with, he had a devilish surfer dude look. When I first met him his hair was, in fact, long enough that it hung over his shoulders. It would have easily obscured his vision had it not been combed into a part.

Those of you who have only known of him since his became famous would scarcely recognize him. But that is what makes my account so compelling. I knew him from the beginning. Of course the last time I saw him he had that now well known buzz cut. I never liked that buzz cut. It made his nose stick out so much that he looked like an alcoholic with bucolic disease. Try to imagine him with long hair.

Having grown up in Los Angeles and residing in the rich L.A. suburb of Malibu, stringy blond hair wasn’t extraordinary. He stood out from his fellow entrepreneurs because had an extraordinary non-physical personal beauty. It’s like they say about those with enlightenment not having any worries about judging the moment. His smile was exceptionally kind. It put me at ease at a level that challenged my self concerned, serious feeling about my missions and concerns. He radiated assurance that I took for spiritual depth.

All of the other venture capitalists seemed more to fit the common derisive label of “vulture capitalists.” Aware of the prestige a profile in fortune magazine carries, most of them sought to market themselves. It probably reflects the dichotomies of our democratic and capitalistic society that those I profiled either tried to market themselves as bigwigs or tried to appear very commonplace and humble. But, their hunger to be famous united them. None were comfortable with themselves.

Quentin, in contrast, seemed totally relaxed with whatever happened. On that first meeting he asked me to play tennis with him. I told him that I had a dead line and a budget. He actually called my editor and got me a later deadline! My editor was a hard ass. Of the group I interviewed, only Quentin could have finessed that. And though most people would now find this hard to believe, he was able to rearrange my deadline because he was a thoroughly relaxed person.

Panic over my nervousness over and worries about my deadline and budget weren’t necessary. His calm was, again, transformative. I felt being around him was like being around a guru. Everything was a game and for every problem there was a creative solution that, after he thought of it, he’d just manifest it. No sweat.

It was as if he was a best-selling fiction writer that was assured that no matter what plot twists he backed himself into, a fabulous ending would appear, he’d write it and it would be wildly popular. No worries dude!

For those of you who haven’t seen me, I am an average looking white male. I have brown eyes and wavy brown hair. My driver’s license lists me at 5’ 10”. I’m probably closer to 5’ 9”. Since the time that I’m writing about I’ve lost a good twenty five pounds. Partying and stress have been good for my figure! Having some muscles I used to be one of those guys who could kid themselves that they weren’t fat. But if I gained another five pounds I would have been undeniably big.

As a modern writer I compare everything to television and films. The Longus’ home was one of those perfect homes that rich people always have in movies and television shows of the nineteen seventies. Picture the driveway, long and curving. The front literally had plantation pillars. A woman with blowing luxuriant hair would drive a long red convertible up it in the seventies. Only their home had an SUV a Mercedes and a BMW at the end of it.

Quentin actually told me on that day that he had something huge in mind. Had I known what he had in mind and what kind of a path it was going to take me down, I would have run and hid myself. But sitting at the patio furniture, behind his six bedroom Malibu home I could scarcely guess that I was about to be sucked into the bowels of hell with this man. Had I known I might have run away in a panic and vomited out my remorse.

As it was I felt lucky to have met him and I was stunned to find out that he had read a lot of my work!

“Mr. Sanger, I like your writing. It has an air of panic about it.” He was wearing a sweat suit and tennis shoes. In these clothes he couldn’t say panic in a way that seemed to get the essence of the word across.

“Gee, thanks, I guess.” You can imagine how thrown off guard I was. No other interviewee had ever read my writing before I came, much less analyzed it.

“No. I really liked it. It the sense of panic means that you are conscientious. And still while faced with panic your writing remains calm. That’s because you know you’re basically competent.”

“Basically competent. Thanks again.”

“No. No. Don’t get me wrong. I really liked it.” That was the first time I saw Quentin Longus’ wide grin. It was captivating – all teeth. And it was accompanied by a light in his eyes that nearly sparkled.

“When I read it I felt that you had potential that was just waiting for a good story. And Marty, what I’m about to embark upon will be revolutionary. I’d like somebody to document my upcoming venture full-time. I think you’re the guy.”

“I’m extremely flattered.”

“But….?” His question implied hesitancy on my part.

“But…” I continued finished the sentence he started partially stunned by the accuracy of the intuition he had about my hesitation. “But I’ve worked my butt off to get where I am, I’ve just met you and I have no idea who you are or what your intentions are.”

“Well if you’re unsure about who I am, move in.”

“What! Aren’t you being a little forward for our first date?” He had just gotten my attention, but in the wrong way. My confidence in him plummeted. But my humorous attempt to defray the tension inherent in the rejection garnered another smile.

“Isn’t that a just little extreme and impulsive?” I asked with a blend of seriousness and coyness.

“Yes. But not as impulsive as you think, Marty.” He cocked his head a little to the side. “Can I call you Marty, Mr. Sanger?”

“Sure.”

“Marty, I do my research. I know your background and have read a lot of your writing. I’ve read the film reviews you did with that guy Tom for your high school newspaper.”

“You read that?”

“Yep. I’ve read that and a lot more.”

“Wow. Geez, strange.” I hadn’t thought about Tommy McD for a while and Quentin knew about him. “I thought this was going to be all about you today. I’m a little taken aback.”

“Yep, it probably is a little unexpected for ya huh?” His smile was as bright and wide as the Cheshire cat’s sans cat. “But this isn’t a job interview. You’ve got the job already, if and when you want it. I really like your writing. It is very conversational. We’ll work on taking that overly professional panicked aspect out. That’ll come with time.”

A laughing quizzical confused tone came out of me in my elongated one word response, “Okaaay.”

“Yep. I’ve read you stuff and like it and though we’ve just met, I’ve already pegged you as being the nice guy that is in your columns in real life. I like your energy.”

“Thanks again, but…”

“Look I know this is a bit extreme and will come as a bit of a shock. So why don’t you think it over. I know that I’m a good judge of character,” He smiled and leaned forward and squinted as he followed up on his compliment. “Even though I may not be a good judge of writing.” He had a great sense of dry humor that he was able to blend with seriousness. “But character is just as important to me...Even more important, than writing ability. And I think we could hang together. We could be friends.”

His smile and eyes brightened even more and mine did too.

“Thanks. I don’t know what to say.”

“I know it’s sudden. Why not think it over? In the meantime, I want you to cover my press conference next month for Fortune. It’ll be the second Friday of the month at the Sunset Hyatt.”

“I don’t know if I can get the time off or the assignment.”

“Okay. Rule number one is to relax. There are no problems, only solutions.”

“John Lennon.”

“Oh, really? I thought my therapist made it up.”

“Oh. So you have a therapist.”

“Yeah.”

“I can keep that off the record.”

“That’s okay. You can call him my spiritual trainer.”

“Anyhow, I love that saying. See, already I can tell you are the right guy for hanging out and documenting the venture. But regardless of source, I want to tell you a little life secret.”

“Okay shoot.” I said with the earnestness and tone of a reporter.

“It’s all about the dream. And we have nothing to fear but fear itself. I know who said that!” Again we smiled together. “And you cannot let fear stop you from making your dreams realities. That is how I got this house, my family, everything.”

Quentin seemed a little hokey to me. I who had worked so hard my entire life to get where I was, resented the glibness of the rich and spiritual. But smiling was becoming a contagious dynamic between us. He was charming.

“I know it sounds very Malibu. But that’s who lives here in these expensive homes - dreamers. And I think you know that and you’ve had the dream. You being a guy with no family members, who rose from a single – parent, middle class background; You, a guy from a home of no academic distinction who graduated from Yale with honors; You, Marty, must know about dreams.”

“Wow you have done your research!”

“And, I like the fact that you’re not upset. I know you’ve researched me too. But there must be a certain violation factor when a stranger researches and draws conclusions about you without permission.”

“No. That’s quite all right.”

“I love that! Many people would be incensed and defensive. But you have nothing to hide. You’re very open. That’s why so many opportunities – like this one – will open for you.”

“You do believe in dreams and spiritual stuff.”

“Right-ee-oo! You can believe that. And I sense that you know that the dream precedes the reality. And belief is half the battle. The rest is just sweat. But you’ve done it. Your dream has come true. And now I’m just asking you to believe in a bigger dream.”

Wow. This laid back mother fucker was smooth. Whether or not I was totally convinced or not, (I wasn’t) I was impressed.

“Okay. Well I you probably guessed that I’d need time to think about it. But I will be at your press conference for sure if I can get the assignment.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I’m a junior staffer and it costs money to get people places.”

“Hold on!” Quentin stood up and walked over to the other side of the room, reached over a bar and got a phone. He left the room. From the other room I could hear him having a conversation. What a guy! What a situation! I was somewhat stunned. This sort of thing was very out of the ordinary.

I was getting the feeling that he’d pay me whatever I asked, but I… Quentin came back into the room.

“Well?” I asked, suspecting, but not fully having the credulity to believe it.”

“I just got off the phone with your boss.” He really did it!

“Mr. Condaley?”

“That’s right. I told him I’d be willing to have you picked up in a private jet at the airport nearest the office if he would let you cover it. I promised exclusive first interviews for Fortune magazine on the announcement if he wanted it and to pay for your salary for the weeks you worked on the project.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“No I’m not. I’m really serious. I just don’t get worried. I only think of solutions and what my dreams are and you are it. He agreed to everything as long as everything you wrote about during the time you’re away belonged to Fortune magazine. I told him that was no problem.”

“Wow.” I was saying that a lot and felt kind of stupid for it.

“Wow is right! So your boss says you’ll be at that press conference. So you will at least do that for me, eh?”

“Sounds like it’s a done deal.”

“Definitely. You won’t lose your job. He’s happy. I’m happy. And I hope you’re happy and that all is well.”

“I think it is.” My intonation implied the definite yes my words didn’t.

“Feel that buzz? That is the excitement of living on the edge. Don’t worry. Be excited. Let’s play tennis!”

When I told him, near the end of our tennis game, that I had to leave to catch my flight back to Chicago, he laughed and said I had a long ways to go. A private limousine was going to pick me up for a flight the next day.

“Your boss won’t mind. Trust me.” At this point, having seen his workings with him, I didn’t. I allowed myself the freedom to brush off my normal nervousness about my boss’ state of mind. “Let’s go for lunch. I know a place on the beach.”

This was fantastic. My article profiling young entrepreneurs would have at least one with a strong element of private scoop. At lunch I continued the interview.

“How do you stay so calm?” I asked as the blond slender waitress placed my omelet in front of me. After convincing her that all was well, I continued. “You’re not like the other entrepreneurs I’ve met. You’re calmer. It’s in your breath, if you’ll permit me a writerly insight.”

“With my blessings, by all means.” So many of his statements were punctuated by broad smiles.

“Other entrepreneurs give off the air of being happy and self – satisfied, but they always have a deep need to be seen. Their posture is wolf-like. They aren’t really relaxed. But you seem genuinely relaxed.”

“Well. I do the usual. I meditate.

“Hence the breathing.”

“Good writerly insight.”

“I play saxophone to relax…” Looking back on it, this most auto-erotic of all instruments was perfect for him.

“Saxaphone! Do you play in a band?”

“No. Just alone. I was in a band in high school.”

“That’s not in your standard profiles?”

“No way.”

“What was your band called?”

“The Dorian Gray romance band.”

“Nice name. Very literary.”

“Thanks. Did you ever play in a band?”

“No. I’m not that kind of artist. But,” My continued with growing confidence, “This is my interview of you.” My jokes brought smirks, he was the master of broad smile evocation. “You meditate, play sax and what else accounts for your calm?”

“I’m not petty. I don’t worry about things. I see all these business machinations I get involved in like a television show or movie. It’s just entertainment. We all die sooner or later. There is no need to get to wrapped up in any of this stuff.”

“So you have a detachment from the world.”

“I guess so. If you want to put it that way. I never thought about it that way. It sounds kind of negative the way you put it. I more think of it as Buddhist.” He paused and closed his eyes. This was the first time I had seen this gesture.

“Yeah, maybe I’m dispassionate about everything except my family. That is the one thing that I take as real.”

“Right on!” I said. “A sax playing Buddhist with a therapist. That’s just the sort of thing that makes good copy.” Then I caught myself. “Oh yeah, spiritual trainer. I’ll keep that I’ll remember to print the right one. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t.” He shrugged and smiled and I believed him.

Such was my first encounter with Quentin Longus. My first impression of him was that he was like a guru. And I mean that in the best of ways. I am skeptical of such things generally. But he made it all seem real. His restful demeanor was genuine. He looked you in the eye with a sort intensity that made you feel like you could open up to and trust him. His presence was immensely transformative.

As can be expected he beat me badly in tennis. I’m sure his beating me was partially due to my not being an experienced tennis player. But it was also due to his inner calm. When he made a stupid mistake, he didn’t get flustered. His strokes and serves were done with amazing calm. The calm that he had developed pervaded him, his business efforts and his tennis completely.

That was what I took to be the first thing he taught me. Who we are and what we do are intimately connected. Frantic people get frantic results. Focused people get exactly what they are after. And I felt, perhaps it was a measure of my insecurity, that I had much more to learn from him.

His having mentioned the possibility of working with him made me feel lucky and nervous. I was anxious that it come true. But, I told myself, even if I should never meet him again, I should never forget his presence. That smile could calm people going down in a plane. And since I often felt like I was going down in a plane . . .

He brought mayhem upon America. History will probably call him a super villain. It will position him somewhere between Benedict Arnold and Genghis Khan on the infamy scale. That’s the reason why this supplement to history is so important.

Few knew the inner workings of this man. None but his intimates before the rise of Prison Wars could attest to the true nature of his soul. I trailed him through every significant part of the rise and fall of Prison Wars. I have insight to share that no one else has.

Perhaps he was an unwitting magician. He transformed America. On that day he helped transform me into a luxury expecting tennis player. And he taught me not to worry. His spirit was entirely free from bad intentions. He lived in bliss and thought of nothing else. Knowing what it lead to, perhaps there is a lesson in that for us. Ignorance is bliss, but it can lead to hell.

Chapter Two – Press conference

I told all my friends (both of my friends) about our meeting and how excited I was about it. But between the time of our first encounter and the press conference Quentin and I only spoke twice. A few days after I returned to Chicago, he called to tell me of the logistics; which hotel, flight, limo company etc. were to escort me. And right before my departure date, he called to confirm that I was coming.

Though I had his number I was too nervous about accidentally blowing my opportunity to call him. Both times he called me the same dynamic applied. In disbelief, and not wanting to blow anything, I tried to sound unexcited and businesslike.

He treated me like an old friend. He apologized for not contacting me more often. He had been really busy getting final negotiations and logistics ready for the big night. He promised we’d have some real quality time after talk after the press conference.

“Sounds great,” was all I could say. I was really nervous about blowing the opportunity to work with him. At the same time I was apprehensive.

Though I was honored and felt his warmth from our first hand shake, it is hard to trust. After each call I felt jaded, evil and dirty. He had love and I had skepticism. Had the world made me so gun shy of people? Was it my upbringing? It was almost unnerving to talk with him. My lack of love became so apparent to me. It was if I were being readied for a therapeutic I might not be able to handle. The tension filled me with the type of tension that precedes religious conversions.

I was intrigued by the potential of our relationship. Not having many connections with people--and those just being with run-of-the-mill folk -- friendship with him seemed like a rare and strange blessing. Like a beggar confronting Jesus, I wasn’t sure why I was worthy of such attention.

Looking back, perhaps he chose me because I was average. It is easier to trust folks that haven’t swum with big sharks. Perhaps it was out of an admiration for my writing. But I’ve never thought my writing was that special. Perhaps he just enjoyed bestowing blessings on good people that seemed to need love.

Such were the sorts of questions that besieged my worried brain in the weeks preceding the big event. Even after the limo picked me up, I flew for a second time in his private jet and I was dropped off in front of the Sunset Hyatt, I could barely believe that this was happening to me.

The Wilshire Beverly is a hot spot for conferences. Both of my previous assignments were to cover mergers being announced there. The Hyatt on Sunset had an entirely different atmosphere. In retrospect, choosing it was a stroke of genius. The rich meets poor, party atmosphere of this adult playground was perfect for the juvenile spectacle being announced.

The Sunset strip is Hollywood’s hottest street. This was the first time I had seen it at night. The whole thing is television. Though it was night, the street is lit as brightly as a movie set. The sidewalks were full of women that looked like supermodels. All of the guys look like they are top of the chart rock stars. Never have I seen such a concentration of people wearing tight vinyl and leather pants.

The excitement builds in the elevator. How fantastic you are is measured by how high you go. I remember predicting that the order of the passengers leaving. The couples all went first, then went the heavier businessmen, then went the sleek young businessmen, the scruffy partiers left and then we three hit the top.

Leaving the elevator I passed guards at a table and finally entered a large dark room with booths. I went to the wet bar in the left of the room. Drinks were on the house, but everyone was leaving five dollar tips in the tip jar. Against the back wall there was a stage where a disc spinner backed up a revolving cadre of strippers that went to topless.

The topless folk didn’t go too well with this media crowd. They looked too old to be titillated with such teenager type stuff. But they didn’t disregard the strippers. They weren’t shocked and outraged. They tried to look disinterested. I suppose the odd combination of elderly and youthful thrills is now a part of our youth worshiping culture. Showing anything but enjoyment would have made you appear bizarre and antiquated.

Not having anyone with me I scanned the crowd. One guy stood. He was tall angular, thick and dark. He had a bad-guy dartiness in his eyes and spoke to no one all night. It might have been due to my focusing on him as a character, but he appeared to take crowd pictures too much. Once or twice I actually felt my privacy was violated as they seemed to be pictures of me.

I was going to confront him when I noticed that there was an outside. Just how special the place I had the privilege to be in was immediately apparent as I first viewed the roof-top patio. It sported a bar and a full buffet. But beyond this it had a view to die for. There was a view of all the lights of Los Angeles.

Twenty four floors below I looked down upon the jammed cars that cruised the strip. They thought that they were hot. And I realized I was in the hotspot they were dreaming of. Damn! This was it. I was in where the in-crowd was.

Looking down from this fantastic height actually put me in the mind of achieving final glamour by jumping. Now that I was finally fulfilled I didn’t need to continue.

The glass wall that lined the roof made the danger of falling a repeating subconscious theme to all. Our fulfillment would have to wait.

And there, precariously perched on a riser was Quentin. The riser was so high that it lifted him above the glass partition. Behind him shone all the lights of the city. In front of him was a small table with a pitcher of water and a glass on it.

I think he must have been waiting for me. Because as soon as he saw me and gave me an uncharacteristic thumbs-up he launched into his presentation.

“Ladies and gentlemen I am ready to proceed. If I may have your attention I’d like to start by thanking you for coming here this evening. I hope you’ve had a good time thus far. And again, thank you for coming.

“Ladies and gentleman, what you are about to hear may disturb you. It may excite you. It may make you think that I am a madman. But it will happen.

What I am about to announce will be the single most important development in the history of television. I am not joking or exaggerating. Take me seriously. The contracts have been signed. The legality has been checked. We are set to go in approximately three months.

Please hold your questions until the end of my announcement. But know that Prison Wars are for real. ESPN has already bought the broadcast rights.

Prison Wars are what they sound like. Gladiator style games using prisoners as gladiators. We will have various battles in the courtyards of prisons. These battles will result in injury and perhaps death for some of the participants. The fascinating essence of all sport will be shown raw in Prison Wars.

Each battle will have different rules. They will be creative in costume and setting. Each contest will be a different spectacle. Each will require intense athletic training and ability. And, as it will be a real battle, you won’t be able to turn away from it whether you want to or not.

Murmurs among the journalists were getting loud. And several journalists started to vie for his attention. “Mr. Longus, Mr. Longus”

“Please no questions until the end of my announcement. I believe my presentation will answer many of the questions you have. And if you have others at the end of my presentation, I will answer them then. He smiled with an imperial sense of self satisfaction that quieted the crowd.

“You may be wondering how we can get away with such a brutal spectacle. We are employing the same legal contracts that are used in other sports. Fights in hockey and other sporting events aren’t punished criminally. Such altercations are within the jurisdiction of the sponsoring league. We have used the same business models. Our contracts require that participants waive their rights to prosecute those that inflict injuries upon them.

“The league is responsible for penalizing inappropriate behaviors. But we won’t. Giving the spectator everything he wants, without restrictions, is our mission. We plan to do so in a way that cannot be surpassed. We will not pull punches.”

Quentin sat even taller and continued.

“Legal objections aside, some folks may object to Prison Wars on moral grounds. We have taken two actions that will hopefully qualm the ethical concerns that may have.

“First of all, all games will be preceded by disclaimers, the full text of which will be available after the press conference. In addition the usual warning that the material is inappropriate for children, the lengthy statement will note that the participants are in prison because of their brutality. The disclaimer makes the very valid point that the desperation of the participants is proof that crime doesn’t pay. The best way to avoid such violence is to stay out of prison. I have every expectation that Prison Wars will be a deterrent to crime.

“Secondly, we will be donating twenty percent of the proceeds, before taxes but after expenses, to the state’s general fund. In addition, ten percent of the profits shall be put aside for payment of the participants in the contests themselves. In consultation with the Governor, we have arranged for fifty percent of the proceeds going to the State to be earmarked for education. The other fifty percent of the monies going to the State shall be earmarked for the State penal system.

“Prison Wars will be what we call a win-win-win-win situation. Prisoners will win. The attorney general’s office has agreed to adjust the participant’s sentences in recognition of their positive and valiant contributions to society.

“Children will win. The projected income will allow a reduction in the teacher to student ratio in the state. This will serve to keep kids out of prison and increase their ability to lead our state in this new century.

“Society will win. The funding the prison system will go a long way to alleviating our State’s perennial budget crisis. The prisoners will be paying their dept do society by paying societies’ debts. Who knows? We may even live to see it resulting in a tax cut.

“And we the viewers will win. I promise you a show that will create an unprecedented buzz. I promise you a spectacle that will be more gripping than anything you have ever seen before.”

Quentin paused to survey the assembled audience. They all looked somewhat ridiculous. Their faces showed a combination of distorted reactions. Simultaneously, surprise, nervous laughter, confusion and excitement occupied the faces of each of them. They wanted to talk, but couldn’t. A lot of round sounds bubbled out of their mouths. It was if they were trying to spit out tar.

“The design of the individual events will be interactive. We are working with groups of video game designers, sports enthusiasts, television producers and the prisoners themselves to make this a test of skill that will be fun to watch.

“At the end of each contest, we will have on-line polls and discussion groups. We will implement every one of the most popular suggestions at the very next contest. And nothing . . . nothing will be off the table. Weapons, sets, costumes, different rules and gadgets will all be considered. We are proud to say that this will be the first truly interactive sport. Our viewers will be in control. What ever the public wants, up to and including death and nudity, we will manifest.”

Several people made spontaneous outcries. These sounds were preverbal. They sounded like proto-exclamations and wails.

“Please, please, people let’s settle down. Again we will have time for questions at the end of the presentation.” Instead of continually asking folks to please quiet down, he just got quiet himself. He put his index finger in front of his lips while calmly smiling and made oceanic shushing sounds. He exemplified the state he wished to see. With patience, a look of extreme bliss, and no sense of anger at the sound, he waited for it to pass.

It took a few minutes for people to start shushing each other and for the air to be cleared again for him. And I don’t think that anyone missed the fact that he waited until the sound of the cars below and the breathing of those assembled were audible to continue.

“In short, Prison Wars will be the revolution in programming that we have all been waiting for. It will provide more financial aid to our society than all the telethons ever run combined. It will radically reform our prison system. It will provide the final leap to the collective interactive nature that television and computers have made possible. And it will take us to the extremes of reality and fantasy our psyches have always sought.

“It will be the single most important cultural event of our generation. Get ready for Prison Wars. Death and sex are expected. Nothing will ever be the same.”

Strangely, this shocking last string of sound bytes created no reaction at all. But still there was a nearly audible sound of thoughts racing. It was very dramatic.

“I am now open to take questions. Please, for my records, state your name and the name of the news organization for who you work.” The silence broke into the familiar frenzy of journalists vying to be recognized. Looking like he was having a lot of fun, Quentin pointed at one.

“Mr. Longus. Peter Fleming, Time magazine.” This man was very professional.

“Yes.”

“You must be aware that these contracts will be challenged in court. Do you really expect these games…”

“Prison Wars. Please refer to them as Prison Wars. Prison Wars will involve contests, not games.

“Yes Mr. Longus. Do you really expect that these Prison Wars will be aired. Won’t the courts tie them up for years, until the project is dropped?”

“These contracts are legal. No coercion is being used. If prisoners do not wish to sign up to participate in the Prison Wars, they don’t have to. The contracts we are using are based on those that other sporting organizations use. They are fairly standard.

“Besides law suits require plaintiffs. The athletes that participate won’t sue. If they don’t want to participate, they won’t.

“The network airing the program, ESPN, is a cable network. The FCC’s jurisdiction over them is limited as they use no airwaves. Believe me we have had a team of lawyers investigate every possible legal object to our project and we are contracts are unassailable.”

“Mr. Longus, Mr. Longus.” The crowd again burst into sounding like a classroom where everybody had the answers and needed the credit.

“Yes you.”

“Thank you Mr. Longus. Paul Salerio, ABC. It seems that this scheme, which frankly, I’m still having trouble believing isn’t just a hoax of some sort, would get high ratings.”

“I hope so. I’m banking on it.” All giggled a little press conference giggle with the addition of a little edge.

“It seems that this would create a sort of, race to the bottom scenario where the brutality would get out of hand.”

“We will not be outdone. Besides which, we have the exclusive access to the prisons that have agreed to host us. For the meantime, no one has the contracts and no one would host such events without my assumption of liability. But we are going to corner this market as long as we can. I don’t see any competition on the horizon.”

The crowd burst back into the cacophony of a thousand chickens clucking. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thanks. Marsha McClanahan, E! Magazine. Who will be announcing these contests? Have you lined anyone up?”

“This being a new sport, there are no experts. And I hope you understood that we are looking to be a legitimate sport. The rules we decide on will be complex and changing. As such the announcer must be capable of rousing both excitement and explaining details simultaneously.

We are currently in negotiations with several nationally known football announcers for both play by play and color commentary. But I’m sorry I cannot give you any names yet. I can only tell you that we aren’t currently interviewing anybody that you haven’t heard of.”

“Yes ma’am, you.”

“I am shocked and angered by this…”

“Your name!”

“I will not stand on formality…”

“Okay, shoot.”

“This is horrible. We’re talking about human lives. This is barbarous. This must be stopped.”

“Thank you for your honest concern. First of all, no one will be coerced into doing such a thing. We must consult the prisoners themselves as to what the rules of the contests will be and how they will divide their earnings. Winning teams may have access to privileges such as alcohol, conjugal visits, nice furniture, unlimited television and various other perks. All the prisoner’s premiums will be come directly from precedes of the contests at expense to the tax payer. Next question.”

“Peter…”

“No! No! No! You didn’t answer my question.” The woman who attacked him wasn’t done. “You are exposing America to horrible barbarous cruelty. It isn’t civilized! This is disgusting.”

“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me. Speaking of civility, you had your turn and it is now over.”

“I’m not done.”

“Look miss whatever your name is, these people are criminals. These are people in hardcore lockdown. Most of them are really brutal. If several of them get hurt or killed, I won’t lose a lot of sleep. In fact, I’ll sleep better.

This, again, is a win-win situation. If they get hurt paying us back I don’t mind. They are violent people. If you live by the sword you die by the sword. I’d hate to see someone I loved or any law abiding citizen hurt. But these people, they are dangerous to us.”

“Gregg Hernandez, the previous…”

“Mr. Hernandez, which news agency are you with?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m with KTLA channel five here in Los Angeles. The previous questioner was right in that this proposal is pregnant with ethical problems. What would you say to those that would worry about the effect this program will have on children?”

“I have two children under the age of thirteen. They aren’t who they are because of television. Their loving and strong family is the source of their values. I am hoping that they grow up to be civilized humans.

However, as an American, I am a lover of freedom. If, when they are old enough to choose, my children choose to watch Prison Wars I will watch it with them. Because I know my children, I have no worries that they will become criminals because of a television program.”

A rage for a follow up re-erupted.

“Yes, you in the back.”

“Chad Sirley, Fox. Sir I think that there is no doubt that such programming will be very popular, but don’t you think that it will have a deleterious effect on our culture as a whole? Isn’t it crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed in the interest of the public good?”

“Mr. Sirley, I don’t think that it will have a deleterious effect. I don’t think that I am capable of committing brutal acts of aggression, just as I don’t think that you are.” He smiled broadly, but the impression was that this gesture was meant to mask hatred. If not brutal acts, all could believe that he was capable of hate. He put his head down as though he was trying to remember something. Then, nodding his head, he came back beaming and relaxed again.

“People are born the way they are. I don’t think my son and daughter will end up in Prison. It won’t be much more violent that the video games that kids play today. My kids play those games and they aren’t violent. After they’re done they are just as sweet as ever.” His smile went back to its original, natural warmth.

“That said, no, I don’t think this will make for suitable viewing for young children. If my boy wants to watch it when he gets a little older we’ll watch it together. I’ll explain what it is and that these bad things are happening to bad people. I think, were my children anything but sweet and well raised, it could serve as a great deterrent to criminal activity to them.

“But I would definitely recommend parental discretion.”

“One last question. Yes you in the green hair!” His broad grin didn’t evoke the resonance with his audience that it had before.

“Justin Gabler, MTV”

“Yes Mr. Gabler, love your shows, watcha think?”

“Well, it sounds pretty rad!”

“Thank you.”

“But do you really think that mainstream sponsors are going buy advertising segments for such a program? Major sponsors are easily dissuaded.”

“Well, ESPN has already bought on to the concept. They are major. And let me tell you something you already know. Though corporations talk about corporate responsibility etc, it is just hypocrisy. They are following the money trail just like everyone else. As they would put it, ‘They have a responsibility to their stock holders.’ I think that they cannot afford to miss out on this prime target audience, males between the ages of 18 and 35. If beer, fast food and truck companies want to be popular, and they do, they’ll come around.”

“Ladies and gentlemen that concludes the press conference. Thank you very much for coming. I am going to be leaving the building, but I invite you to stay until the closing time of one a.m. Again our disclaimer is on the table near the elevator, and hope you give us some good copy. Enjoy the view and consumables.”

At that Quentin looked over at me and made the gesture of putting a phone to his head and mouthed, “Call me.” and was busily escorted away. Many people saw him gesture to me and I for the first time in my life I became the center of attention.

Looking back on it, I am surprised at how quickly I adjusted to the other side of the inquisition. I had been on the other side of many of these feeding frenzies. It had always seen very serious. But looking at all of these petitioners, they appeared comical. I felt a sense of superiority and power as I played big wig.

As I had seen many folks do I told them that I was not authorized to give them further information. I wanted to keep them interested by giving tidbits. I told them my name and that I was his official publicist. But they quickly figured out that they already had a huge story and that I wasn’t giving them much to augment it.

I’ve never seen a press conference clear out so quickly. This was a hot item and folks were all rushing to their outlet to make their report. My article due date, Fortune Magazine being a monthly, was weeks away. But I also left quickly.

I left because I realized I had a lot of thinking to do. No, it was worse than that. I was dizzy with confusing feelings. My first reaction to Prison Wars was terror and repulsion. The terror of the idea mixed with the lingering rush of the attention I had received, pride in the way I handled it, total disbelief that this was happening and a million questions about where this might lead.

The nearly painful sensation that there wasn’t room enough in my head, heart and stomach for all of these conflicting impulses didn’t die down for hours. Finally, I told myself that if I didn’t take this opportunity, it would be taken by someone else. I reasoned that leaving it would be running away from the biggest opportunity I would ever run into. As a human I couldn’t be a part of this adventure. But as a journalist, I had to go where the action was.

That was a fateful night. As a person who could see the potentially destructive effects and morally questionable nature of Prison Wars, I should have stood for my principles. But I cannot deny the fact that I sold out my morals for opportunity. I had no idea how horrible the outcome would be, but anyone with any sense could tell that it wasn’t a good development for our culture.

It turned out, my personal writing ability and sentiments are what have enabled this hopefully useful report. Saying that I saw foresaw my ability to write this as a justification of my efforts would be a lie. I just plain sold out my morals for opportunity.

I have blood on my hands. My failure to distinguish between infamy and fame, my lack of shame, by making money off of horror, the words I wrote and spoke without thinking about the ultimate implications of my words:::::: all of these things have tattooed my hands with indelible guilt that makes my failure to kill myself an affront to decency.

But, again, for this report to have done any good, you have to look at the blood on your own hands. Did you watch Prison Wars? Did you fight with people who did? How many times have you sold out your morals for convenience?

Anyhow, you didn’t know. I didn’t know. But, I pray that whatever social order finally emerges from the chaos that now engulfs us will realize the importance of distinguishing between health and pathology. I hope they tell their children about what happened to us.

Chapter Three – Home Life

I pretty much stayed up all night watching television. Prison Wars was the top story on every network within an hour. All night long, it dominated the new channel talk shows.

Callers asked all the questions you’d expect. About half of those who called in said they thought it was sounded like a great idea. Of this group about ninety nine percent were male. More than half of the commentators said that they were against it and thought we ought to do what we can to stop it. A significant number of people, I’m glad to report, expressed alarm

It was predictable that everyone would want to know more about the man behind the program. Some networks had slapped together bios of Quentin. Many, I’m proud to say, quoted my article in Fortune magazine. As will happen, old associates and lovers showed up to spill dirt.

It was now apparent why he was cultivating me as a publicist. Speculation was rampant for the next few days. Who could believe that someone could pull off such a seemingly impossible arrangement? Surely this person was perverse. But just as certainly he must have been rich and a genius (a combination that provides fascination for both men and women).

In fact, Quentin’s life had been rather unremarkable. He went to the same local high school, Palisades High, that his children were slated to go to. His picture in his senior year yearbook wasn’t distinguishable from all the other blonde, shoulder length, stringy haired boys of his generation and neighborhood.

At UCLA he majored in business and finance and graduated in the middle of his class. He did, he said, “Enough to not get kicked out.”

Following his undistinguished graduation, he started his own company. His company did have the strange distinction of mostly funding the development of products for the toy market. His was the company behind the “Radio Doll” and “Kiddie Credit Cards buying clubs.” Other than that, his career had been entirely pedestrian.

In response to all of the vitriolic condemnation of him as the incarnation of evil I had to produce sympathetic humanized depiction of him. This homespun-style spin about him was primarily intended to protect his family from attack. He really did worry about them being vilified.

But more practically, he saw his wholesome image as the best defense he had against his critics. I don’t think he anticipated the strength of the opposition to Prison Wars. He was certainly shaken by the response at the press conference.

His remarks about the inheritability of evil didn’t play well in the media. His seemingly flip remarks about the fate of the prisoners didn’t convince people that he cared much for individual lives. It incensed all the human rights groups at once. His rich children not going to jail raised the spotlight on the fact that the prisons are mostly filled with people that come from poverty.

The only shining light in his series of responses at the first press conference were those about his family and taking personal responsibility for them. A few folks had a bit of sympathy with his other arguments, but every responsible broadcaster agreed that family cohesion should be the basis of our morals. Even Prison Wars’ critics could see that his love for his family was real.

Creating positive spin about his having a warm and tight knit family wasn’t too hard to do. He had as normal and happy a family life as I had ever witnessed. His wife, Melissa, and he had been married 13 years when I met him. Their older son, Justin was an seventh grade soccer player and Samantha was a normal third grader with a passion for ballet lessons. They were very close to the ideal family.

Everything had always been alright for him. No major setbacks had marred his life. Well fed and cared for his entire life, he never had occasion to even develop a mean streak or an instinct for protection. His was a stress free existence. And this ease and uncomplicated sense of well being pervaded the feeling of his family.

Quentin’s laugh lines weren’t there due to smugness and they weren’t fake. People picked up on that. Early on I figured out that one source of his happiness was the extreme joy he took in small things. Quentin was truly happy. I miss and am still uplifted by thinking of how often he’d just pick little things up and look at them.

But I correct myself – these aren’t little things. He liked to breathe, to hear people’s voices, having eyes to see homes and shrubs. During every conversation his demeanor silently said, “Isn’t it fantastic to be alive.” His presence made you aware of how little you appreciated your own existence. I used this personal magnetism angle into nearly all articles, press releases and inquiry responses I wrote on his behalf.

My spin job was also intended to protect his mental sanity. As I had already mentioned, his charm came from his relaxed low-key demeanor. Outside of the moments of discomfort he experienced at the press conference, I never saw him worried about anything in the early days. The crevices of his laugh lines were never exposed; his laugh lines shown even when he wasn’t smiling. He had a permanent smile.

He prized his smile even more that his projects. He wanted both and expected he could have both. Unfortunately, my spin couldn’t keep him from his public image. Herein, lies an interesting dynamic and lesson::::: Don’t believe the hype. It will distort you until you are completely lost. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The morning after the press conference, when I arrived, we went on a beach excursion. It was a family only, no business allowed, beach trip. But he did have a personal goal that he snuck into the day. As his main publicity agent Quentin felt I had to know him and his family well. This was essential to my being able to paint a picture of him as a family man.

But, Quentin wasn’t scheming or manipulative. He was, believe it or not, one of the kindest and spiritually generous people I ever met. I think he could tell that I was lonely. My family had never been tight. I think that he knew that I needed a family and he wanted to help me be happy.

It wasn’t just me. Wherever he went he seemed to key into people’s deep need for love and recognition. Knowing him made one realize how lonely Americans are. Our professionalism hides a lot of pain. A large part of his charisma and power over people came from his extraordinary warmth to perfect strangers.

Beyond it just being Quentin’s nature to be loving. He hoped that by making me a part of the family, he would be able to conduct business without having strangers on his property. I was to be that fine line between his personal and professional life. Having no children or close family of my own, I was really happy about this part of my assignment. I felt like an adopted orphan.

The day after the press conference, a limo came to my hotel and dropped me off at Quentin and Melissa’s place. It was fun and unnerving to be in a limousine. I was really conscious that people must be looking at my vehicle and wondering who is inside. My first inclination was to roll down the window, lean out and proclaim, “It’s me, it’s me! I get to be in a limousine!” But that is silly. So I kept the windows rolled up and sealed myself off from view.

Being resolved just take my seat in the limo and reflecting on the night before shook my view of myself. I started asking myself, ‘Why am I in a limousine?’ ‘Am I special?’ ‘Different?’ ‘Aren’t I just that little guy from Nebraska?’

Since I didn’t describe it before, let me describe Malibu now. For those of you who don’t know, Malibu is an idyllic community North West of Los Angeles. Though definitely in the mix of Los Angeles, Malibu is cut off from it in many ways.

For one thing, it is a part of Los Angeles where the air is clean. It doesn’t strike one as a place where commerce happens at all. Facing a marvelous quasi-private beach, it feels like a tropical island paradise. Every home in Malibu has the perfection of homes in Better Homes and Gardens or Architectural Digest. Malibu is the sort of place that so lacks a dark side that it almost manifests one by an inconspicuous absence.

And yet Malibu doesn’t give you that other rich suburbs have. That’s because it is permeated with a very homespun, country nuance. Ostentatious homes tend to make us not-so-rich folks to feel like we should know our place. In many rich communities I am ever so slightly, but consciously, aware that if I don’t comport myself well, if I am not on my best behavior, I may be taken for a criminal or member of a lower order.

When I arrived Quentin and Melissa were having coffee on the back porch of their home. The white lattice woodwork and well placed ivy made is one of the reasons my description is so apropos. Their having enough money to create as great an approximation of heaven as they wished didn’t indicate anything but good taste and a desire to please you. I felt very comfortable.

As I approached, Quentin came up and embraced me! Melissa politely stood up and gave me a not too strong hand shake.

Melissa is a beautiful woman. She had a one piece bathing suit on that she had covered it with a plaid shirt. Her beauty is that of a country style natural sort. Her auburn hair is full and bounced all the way down to her chest. Her eyes are so light brown that her pupils really stand out. And you can tell that she spends a lot of time in the sun. But being slightly wrinkled, just added to her rustic wholesomeness.

“So. You are Marty!” She smiled and shook her head as though I was a really pleasant surprise. “Quent has really taken a shine to you.”

“Looks that way.” My reply was accompanied by a somewhat nervous glance at Quentin. His smile was so reassuring and they held hands.

“You must be a pretty great guy then.” She said staring right into my eyes.

“Aww, gee shucks.” My comfort level at receiving love wasn’t all that high and Melissa was really direct about relationship dynamics. That was a direct extension of her country robustness.

It really felt awkward to me. Awkwardly, as if to deflect it, I returned the compliment, “And he being such a good judge of character, I must also then be in the company of a really special lady.”

I realized that she had only been smiling with her eyes as the full compliment of her teeth came out.

“You work for Fortune magazine?”

“Yeah. But Quentin wants me to work for him. And with all this charm and love, I feel somewhat like I’m crawling into a spider web.”

“We don’t bite. We’re cool people. You should think about it.”

“I am.”

We all sat down together simultaneously and had some coffee while we awaited the children. She asked and I told her about my slow rise to being a Junior reporter on the Fortune staff.

“Hard work! Now that’s the way, eh Quent?” She shot out with a gentle mocking.

“Yes dear. Diligence and sweat are the most manly of ways.” They both laughed. He a short guffaw and she a twinkling snicker.

“I guess you guys think that’s the fool’s way up the ladder.” I querried.

“I don’t think Quent’s ever worked more than four hours a day. He likes ideas.”

“Other people’s ideas.”

“They do the work he smiles at them.” Their love was really evident. They spoke as one person speaking to themselves. They looked at each other with big smiles. The look she normally gave him was mixed with headshaking appreciation of his greatness. The look he gave her was always intense and somewhat silly.

“That’s the hard work of the venture capitalist.” He said with total joy and self-satisfaction.

“Speaking of hard work, where are we going today?” I had been saving that question for anytime. I was feeling a need for a change in discussion. That is a little reporter trick I’ve developed. Always have an ace question in the hole.

“The beach, Zuma!” Their simultaneous answers were the verbal analogue to the vines growing up their lattice.

“But I . . .”

“But you don’t have any shorts. We know, we know.” She was a great motherly type. They smiled at each other and then Quentin continued their thought.

“Then go into the guest house, over there, and you’ll find some new shorts on the bed.” I turned and visually followed the path of Quentin’s finger. There I saw a little guest house that had escaped my notice.

When I turned around, they were both smiling at me like parents from a portrait. She finished their thought, “And while you’re there, check out the house. That’s where you’d be staying if you accepted our offer of your staying with us.”

What does one say to such statement? “Oh, okay. I will. And I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time, families don’t move according to schedule.”

As I went down the home my head spin with questions. Were they really serious? Could I just leave my job and responsibilities back in Nebraska? What was my home going to look like? Would I be happy here with the Cleavers? Was this really happening to me? I came back to my decision to jump on this opportunity that I had arrived at the night before.

The guest home opened into a nice little living room \ dining room combination with an adjacent kitchen. The kitchen was separated by a bar counter with bar stools. The front windows opened up to the big house. I went to the other side of the room, but there was no passage there. Coming back, I went down the hall to the bedroom. And there on the bed were blue and red swim trunks on a king size bed.

This was true.

When I got back up the hill, feeling somewhat embarrassed to have my white hairy legs exposed, Melissa called the kids. “Kids, come on out, were goooiiiing.”

“So what dya think of the place?” One of them asked.

“Great. I could be happy living there.” I smiled broadly. This was not a mannerism that I traditionally had in my repertoire. But I was glad to feel that I was melting into their crowd.

“Fantastic.”

Then the kids came out. Justin was the older. He was twelve years old. Samantha was in her terrible sixes when I met her. She was a cute girl. She kept pulling her bathingsuit out of her butt the whole time. She must have had a recent growth spurt.

Justin and Samantha stopped flat on their feet to stare at this ungainly looking stranger.

“Kids, this is Uncle Marty.” Melissa smiled at me as she introduced me. She was mischievous. I smiled back. “Uncle Marty, this is Justin.” He held his hand out for shaking. “And this is Samantha” she held her little hand out too.

“Nice to meet you both.” Not having any of my own, I have always been a little uncomfortable around children. My parents divorced when I was seven and I didn’t have a lot of interaction with families growing up. Family dinners and such things are alien to me. I’m never sure what the protocol is.

“Ready for a day of fun at the beach?”

“Yeaaaah.” They cheered in response to my lame attempt at connection. They snapped out of their trances and piled into the back of the car. It was so easy! Their enthusiastic acceptance was refreshing. I had found the source of Quentin’s enthusiasm. The kids like him, made me aware of the energy lying dormant inside of me. I have been so groggy for so long. Being around kids would be healthy for me.

Quentin drove and Melissa sat in the back. That left the front seat, the seat of honor, open for me.

“I know we’re not supposed to discuss work, but my job so far is just to know you guys. So can I ask you when you two first met?”

“I’ve been in love with Quent since I was six. He took a little longer.”

“I loved you too honey. We grew up together. We got married when I was a freshman at UCLA and she was just going off at Indiana University. We wanted to cement our relationship before other’s intervened.”

“There were others, when he first got to college,” she rehearsed what must have been an often repeated little chiding between them. “But that drove him to me.”

“That’s right.” Quentin was seemed a little perturbed at having this little intimacy displayed so openly. She smiled at the little grimace he shot her via the rear view mirror. “We’ve known each other for maaany years.”

Melissa was thirty four when I first met her. Quentin had just turned thirty six. They had been married for twelve years. Justin must have been born right after the wedding.

Justin attacked Sam and she screamed. “Maaaaaam. Justin’s hitting me!” “I am not.” Melissa’s combining an admonishing, “Juuuuustin” with a stern look that had a heavy element of silliness caused him to fold his arms and turn his attention out the window. My sitting in the front had nothing to do with me as an individual. It was a family arrangement. Later I learned that Sam taunting Justin, his retaliating and her screaming for Mom’s help was a perennial situation. It happened at least ten times a day.

Malibu has a lot of spectacular semi-private beach side coves. Zuma was Quentin’s favorite. As we got ready to go down the path that leads to the beach, Quentin reached into the back of the van and pulled out his saxophone case.

The beach was lovely. We stayed about two hours. The kids made sand castles and swam and ran and walked. Everything they did they did together. All of us swam and played with the kids a bit. I played with them more than Melissa or Quentin. I wanted them to get to know me and I thought it would provide a good opportunity for them to have a little intimate romantic time.

They sat together for about ten minutes when Quentin grabbed his saxophone and went around a cliff to where we couldn’t see him. After playing a bit more, I sat down next to Melissa.

“Hey Melissa.”

“Hey Marty! I think the kids like you!”

“They are so wonderful. I’m usually a little awkward around kids. I don’t have a lot of experience with them. But they are so accepting.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely.”

“After playing with them for just a bit I figured out that my insecurities were only in my head. They are just about fun in the moment. They have no need to judge you. We can learn a lot from children.” I was trying to open up a bit and show that I could be a little sensitive and insightful in a spiritual kind of way. It was a far stretch for a boy from Nebraska.

“Bliss and peace are often accompanied by a strange lack of interest in judging others.” Melissa smiled at me. Wow.

“Too bad folks have to grow up.”

“In some ways, but I don’t think I’d like to live in a world of kids.” She didn’t look at me when she said this. I sensed a sort of sad distance in her that I hadn’t seen before. Just then I heard Quentin’s saxophone for the first time. It was a slow and spiritual at first, but he quickly broke into odds and ends of half remembered rock tunes.

“The profundity of complex mature visions has a beauty that kids are too young to see”. We looked out at the sea in silence for a bit.

As I stared at the ocean I felt the waves trying to wear down my constant thoughts. As they pulled back after a crash they dragged a lot of rocks back with them. I fancied that they we all saying shhhhhhhh.”

“I think I know what you mean.” I offered after a bit.

“I believe that you do.”

“Why do you think that Quent is doing this latest project?”

“I don’t know him well enough to even start to speculate.”

“But as a man. I don’t talk with many men. What is it that makes men so unable to just settle? We have peace and food all we need here.”

“Are you against it?”

“No. I just don’t understand it. I want him to do what he needs to do. He is happy when he is successful and driving a new project. I just don’t get it. That’s all.”

“We all have a need to be appreciated and useful. And men need to aspire to greatness and be top dog. We cannot rest well at the bottom. I know I’d like to achieve a lot more before I die.”

“Pissing in the ocean. We, mark our spot. The waves have a sadness that we should savor. I love it. It’s like the greatest classical deep in the moment realization available. It brings us close to the essence of what it is to be alive.”

That was the first time I ever had an inkling of feeling of being in love with Melissa. It was the only time that I ever heard Quentin play the sax. He said he did it to get a sense of peace. But it just sounded like random stuff to me. You could almost hear him thinking that he wanted to get his chops back and play in a band again some day in it.

After a couple more minutes he came walking around the cove, sax in hand, with a big smile on his face. He had had fun. When he got there, Melissa asked him if they could take a walk. He said “Sure”. He asked me to watch his sax and the kids and they took off. Walking down the beach she kind of went forward and he kept stopping to try skipping stones he’d found over the waves.

The kids and I played. I was getting to know them. She had a more concerned mind than he. Still, despite it, she loved him immensely and he her. I could tell. As they walked back they held hands.

Driving back we had an upsetting incident. Someone was waiting with a camera already poised for us as we drove into his driveway.

“That guy was at the press conference! I saw him at the press conference.” I exclaimed as the recognition registered.

“Quent, stop and tell him to buzz off. He shouldn’t be in our space like that.”

“No. God. I think that might just be a part of our life now.” As we went into the driveway the kid’s heads followed the tall gentleman in tweed as if they were radar locked on a target.

“Its not cool! It’s not cool at all.” She said.

“Lets keep our cool.” His reply was almost a whisper. As Melissa pouted a little he continued. “Look honey it has been a perfect day. We’ve had fun, haven’t we kids?”

“Yeeaaaah!” They cheered with the clean enthusiasm that kids in advertisements have.

“So let’s keep it happy and enjoy this perfect day. Don’t let anything out there dictate your happiness or change your breathing.” He stared into her eyes through the rear view mirror.

“That’s just it. I don’t need shit like that in my life. Our life is perfect.” Her eyes simultaneously communicated love, admiration and pleading. Then as if it were a matter of fact assertion she said “I love you.” With this she grabbed his shoulder.

“I love you too babe.” He replied.

That night I spent my first night ever at their home. We had dinner and watched some television with the kids. It was a lot of fun. I was, of course, self-conscious of the fact that I was a newbie in their family. I had to observe to know who went where when:::: who did the dishes, decided what to watch, broke the evening up and so forth. But everyone expected this much awkwardness. And there were many moments when I just enjoyed what we were doing in the moment.

As the weeks wore on, I got to add my own suggestions to the routines. Justin and I played cards to decide who got the big chair during our nightly forty five minutes of reading. It soon became routine for me to make Samantha laugh by saying I didn’t see something she wanted me to pass at the dinner table. In short I really became a member of their family.

When I think back to what has been lost, it will always be to those nights together. I was able to write from my place. Quentin and I played tennis nearly every day. We often had a fire in the fireplace. We drank a lot of coffee on the porch. And the kids were a source of endless fascination to me. My home life growing up wasn’t too great. It was the most contented I had ever been.

Chapter Four – Prison Negotiations

I picked Quentin up outside of his therapist’s office in Melissa’s SUV. “How was the session?”

“Good.”

It was a terse answer. I sensed that things hadn’t gone too well. I had to calculate. We were close, but our history wasn’t deep. On the one hand I knew that he was really accessible, friendly and open with me. On the other hand, I did have to remember that he was my boss. If I pissed him off I would jeopardize what was turning into one of the most interesting adventures of my life.

I was feeling lucky, but proceeded cautiously.

“No need to mention anything you don’t want to mention. But I’d say it doesn’t sound like it went too well.”

“It didn’t.” He looked a little sad and I gave him an empathetic look. “He’s given me a lot to think about. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” I said. We drove silently for about five minutes. It was kind of somber.

“Okay.” He said energetically as if he’d just switched brains. “Here’s the agenda for today. We’ve negotiated basic agreements with the prisons, but we haven’t negotiated with the prisoners themselves. Today we will pitch it to them en masse. They’ve heard about Prison Wars.”

“Everyone has.” I said self-satisfied.

“Yes. Everyone has. But now they are going to want to know what’s in it for them. It will be a combination of a bargaining session and a pep rally.”

“Wow.”

“Wow is right.”

“I’ve never been in a prison before.”

“I’ve never been in one before or negotiated with a group of prisoners before. I am just trusting in myself that I’ll be able to pull it off.”

“You must be scared.”

“Uh…Excited. It will be great fun.” He beamed like a mischievous child.

“If the guards do their jobs.” We both laughed. The laugh vented not a little bit of nervousness. How crazy was this? I was driving into a prison to negotiate them doing battle with each other. I could hardly believe it.

“What’s my role in all this?” I put forward.

“Well primarily moral support. It’s good to have a friend along for such an adventure.”

“Thanks.”

“And secondarily to write press releases about it. You will be the only media allowed on the premises. As the prisoners are hard to access and the prison personnel have signed affidavits saying they won’t talk about this event in any way, positive or negative, until after the first airing, you will be the spinmeister.”

“Got it.”

“Just be a fly on the wall during negotiations. Afterwards, I want you to start writing accounts that make it sound like just another program. We want to hype it. But, I’m afraid of ethicists or whomever, interfering, getting a last minute injunction. We’ve taken way more heat than I thought we would on this project.

“These negotiations are secret. The news about them will be kept under wraps until just a day or so before airtime.

“Even then, we want to make it sound like just another sporting event.”

“Gotcha.” This was my first real business assignment from Quentin so I tried to sound business like. “So I should also be aware of who is who then.”

“Precisely. Keep track of quotables, catch the names of sides, get the names of those who seem like they’d give good media interviews.”

“Can I get exclusive interviews afterwards?”

“Yes. You’ll have ten minutes with each of eight people of your choice.”

“Wow. Again, I am impressed with your planning.”

“Dreams need details.”

“I know how I’ll do this. I’ll choose them, interview them and get all that dramatic stuff that makes for good stories from their records.”

“Yeah. You can get all the details of their legal situations and records from the prison officials after the interviews.”

“Got it boss! Only they don’t have records.” Quentin waited for the other shoe to drop. “No?! He said urging me to continue. “No. They have player stats.”

“Excellent.” With that I started to think to myself about my assignment. I must have been doing my nervous gesture where I tighten my lips and squint, because Quentin figured out that I was nervous.

“Marty, I have total faith in you. I chose you due to your personal qualities, but also due to your writing style. You have the tone we need naturally. If for no other reason than trusting my successful track record at picking winners, you should have confidence in yourself.

“You are a really good writer. I have no fear or doubt about your abilities. Take pride.”

Seeing that his pep talk didn’t work, he intervened further. “Marty I want you to say it, ‘I am a good writer.’”

“I am a good writer;”

“Okay. Now say it twenty times to yourself silently. Its one of the things I do with my therapist. You saw me decide that today was going to be fun when I first got in the car. It works. Do it. You can trust me.”

I’m not sure if it worked, but I got absorbed in my work and forgot about my nerves. By the time I we arrived I had a whole list of questions entered into my PDA and a little spreadsheet set up to put the answers in.

When we finally saw the huge cinder block imposing cold prison fortress, we both gulped audibly and looked at each other. My nervousness had returned full force.

After getting through the gate and pulling up to the waiting officials, Quentin turned to me and said, “Confidence Marty. Relax.” Seeing my breathing was still constricted he said, “Marty let’s have a sense of drama and some fun in there! Are you ready for some memorable fun?”

“Yeeaah.” I cheered just like Justin does.

“Okay. Here comes a lot of memorable fun.”

We were padded down for weapons and went down several long corridors. The walls echoed. Due to their thickness, not even sounds escaped these corridors. The prison was also very cold. The smell alternated between smelling like fresh paint and a locker room. Only later did I fully absorb what a strange combination that was. For the moment, I was in an adrenaline filled sort of haze.

At the final door, the warden, who looked way too much like Don Knotts for my taste, blurted out with an ill fitting military style grunt, “Don’t worry about the inmates. Anyone that tries to start a fight or attack you will be promptly beaten and rushed back into their cell, if not shot.”

Egads. This guy wasn’t kidding either. He wasn’t Don Knotts. It became almost impossible to imagine him laughing about anything. That must have been his prison face. No one could live like that full-time.

“Anyhow, they know why you’re here and have been looking forward to it for a while. They won’t blow their only opportunity to negotiate about the only privileges they’re ever going to get. Even these animals will probably be able to keep it together.”

Ouch. Ugly.

On the other side of the door lay the main hall of the prison. A stage and bleachers full of prisoners awaited us. It would have looked like an opera house, but the bleachers pure metal folding chairs and the balconies were jail cells. The bleachers were divided into three parts. There was a person and every seat and a one in front of every cell. The repetitive nature of the patterns made it seem like the prison went up for infinity. We were in the heart of a State maximum security prison.

The Warden showed us our chairs and proceeded to walk to the lone microphone that waited front center on the stage.

“Prisoners please quiet down.” As could have been predicted, the microphone produced a little feedback as the warden started to speak.

“Hey ya animals shut up or we’re goin’ for lock down.” I’m not quite sure what that meant, but it silenced everyone rapidly. “Quiet down now. What we have here is a very unusual situation. We have a man that has come here to negotiate with you concerning a program that you have all been informed of.”

The warden was completely immobile as he spoke. I could only see him from behind. But having spoken to him and heard his voice, I’m sure his steel eyes were focusing tightly on the inmates. He seemed to have memorized his speech and the paper in his hand was dead still. This man didn’t have any nervousness in his person. I suppose he learned that it was a luxury he couldn’t afford a long time ago.

“I do want to remind you that this opportunity is strictly voluntary. No coercion by me or any representatives of the State or its institutions has applied any pressure whatsoever concerning the choices or commitments you shall make or actions you might take as a result of this meeting.”

I was impressed. But I should have guessed that he’d be good at memorizing legal formalisms to the letter.

“The purpose of this meeting is to negotiate prizes and terms. All of the provisions will have to be ratified by the lawyers. Any and all agreements that you enter into will be strictly between you and Sanger Enterprises as represented today by, Mr. Longus and Mr. Sanger.

“So, Animals, that means we have no responsibility for anything that happens to you. And you are totally free not to participate in Prison Wars. Though personally you know how I feel about your being injured.”

A small grumble that was magnified by the room’s cavernous concrete acoustics filled the hall.

“Here are the provisions with in which we are able to negotiate. These are the limits on what can be given away by Mr. Longus and his organization.

“First of all, the program cannot cost the state any money. All set up costs will be borne by Mr. Longus and his organization, Longus Enterprises.

“Ten percent of the profits after costs and before taxes have been designated for education. Fifteen percent of the profits after costs and before taxes will go to the State correctional system. And finally, ten percent of the profits after costs and before taxes can go to remuneration (that means payment animals) of prisoners; that is towards buying you what you might want.

“Secondly, all rights may be maintained, but the cost of those rights will come out of the balance of your ten percent. For example, if we need to provide medical attention to the losers, that cost will be subtracted from the monies the winners would have received. If you provide no medical attention then no money comes out of the pot of the winners.

“Thirdly, all monies that would have been spent on those who do not survive the games shall revert to the pot of monies that are allocated for the prisoners. So if it costs thirty thousand a year to house and feed one of you animals and that person dies in the games, their thirty thousand a year will go to the winners.

“Lastly, your sentences cannot be altered, only the provisions for them. Your incarceration needn’t be on site, but you will in no way or manner be free to go beyond the walls of whatever situation you earn. All the costs of the creation, of your new situations will be born by you. That is the costs will all come out of the ten percent of the proceeds that will be going to you. If they are off site, the extra security measures and personnel will have to be borne by you.

“We now come to the question and answer portion of the presentation.

“You will need to have the microphone to speak. Some of you will have trouble abiding by the rules. Look, take a good look, at the extra security, posted around here today. If any of you beasts gives us any trouble or is disruptive you will have your beastly ass taken out of here by being shot or clubbed until it is easy for us to take you out of here. If it becomes difficult for us to take you out of here, due to prisoner interference then we will shoot until it becomes easy for us. Cappiche?

“There will be a lot of cameras rolling when the games happen. There aren’t any cameras rolling now.

“Mr. Longus.”

Once seated, the Warden sat, but he never took his eyes off the prisoners. I saw no indication that he even heard anything that Quentin said after he thanked him.

The contrast between Quentin and the Warden were quite clear and deep. Quentin strode to his position as a candidate in a town hall meeting. He was formal, yet casual. He brought a chair up with him but used it as a prop. He started sitting but quickly stood up. At one point he put a foot up on it. But he never sat back down in it.

“Thank you warden.” Quentin’s smirk and slight shake of his head was meant to distance him from the warden. “Thank you for leaving your cells to come hear the general outlines of my proposals. Later you can meet in small groups and hammer out details. But today, I want to inform you of what kind of opportunities and dreams you might want to consider as you go into those meetings.

“Men, you have heard what we cannot negotiate. I want to now talk to you about what we can negotiate. Basically we can negotiate the format of the contests and the way that your reward money will be spent.” His confident nod at this juncture reminded me of a gesture a football coach would make. Quentin was masterful.

“First I want to talk to you about the formats of the games. You can negotiate, in fact I’d hope you’d help design, the format of the games. But as you do so I would ask you to remember some things as you do so. We can have safe battles. We can have two men come out and box with gloves on for fifteen rounds. The problem is that that won’t attract many viewers that way.

“Your collective take will be ten percent of the profits. So when making suggestions think of what you yourselves would like to see on television. Think of what a lot of people would pay to watch.

“I also want you to think without any limits. Without limits means anything goes. We have a blank go ahead from the State within the confines of what your warden has discussed with you.

“You can use any weapons you desire. We can use any rules you desire. It can involve killing, it can involve rounds. It can involve multiple teams, it can involve sets, barricades, whatever. Whatever you want is yours. The set up costs are mine. You, my colleagues, are the executive producers of this show. Whatever you’d like to see, we’ll have. Be imaginative.

“I also want you to be imaginative in terms of envisioning how you will use your earnings. Gentlemen, ten percent means at least twenty million. You not only are getting ten percent of the original profits, you get ten percent of the proceeds resulting from rebroadcasts for the two months following the broadcast.

“Now the merchandising rights belong to Longus Enterprises. But you will retain the right to exploit your name and image. Some of you, gentlemen will become international superstars. You will as big as any professional athlete out there. And you know what comes with fame. You will be able to shoot advertisements, markets lines of clothing, sell videos, whatever.”

Quentin paused and nodded his head a bunch of times as the audience grumbled a bit. He turned and smiled at me and made some gestures to folks out in the audience.

“With enormous sums of money in your mind, you should envision getting out of this rat hole. As the kindly warden mentioned, you cannot be free. But, I don’t know, you might rather be imprisoned in a sixteen room mansion with servants.”

At that there was quite a bit of laughing that turned into hooting. The warden stood up and made a gesture that caused a platoon of about ten guards to split off and go up either side of the bleachers. They stopped and put their weapons in the ready position.

“It’s okay warden. It’s okay. No one is leaving yet.” The audience laughed as Quentin smiled at him. “Okay, men,” he continued. “Let’s respect the institution.”

“You, cannot go free, but you might like to have a 40 acre ranch and invite a couple dozen of your old friends over.

“If she is okay with it, you might want to have a girlfriend or two over to your new million dollar mansion.

So think of game design that will attract audience, think of the revenues and how you’d like to spend them.”

“With that said, are there any questions?” Right away, many hands lunged into the air.

The warden was already on the way to my microphone. “You can come forward and speak at the central microphone, one at a time. Anyone approaching the microphone without permission will be subject to lockdown. Lockdown in solitary. Do you understand me animals?”

“Number One Zero Two Three Five come forward. He spoke this out as a quarterback calling a play from the line of scrimmage.

“Yes sir. My name is Jackson.” Jackson was an incredibly large black man with a geri-curl style hair due. Needless to say, he was in blue prison duds.

“Mr. Jackson.” Quentin invited him. He was treating them as the business partners he hoped they would be.

“Are you sayin’ that we kin get the hell outta here?”

“Yes. If your team decides on dividing your money paying for homes and luxuries, that’s what you can do.”

The warden took the microphone back.

“But remember you gotta pay for the guards and security systems that’ll keep you animals away from the general public. Next, number Two Se-”

“The warden is correct. The cost of hiring and equipping guards and your residences with security systems that are tied into the penal system would be borne by you. But with millions, I think you can hire some guards.”

Again, Quentin smiled a broad smile. Quentin was really currying favor with the inmates at the expense of the warden. I was worried that he may go too far. Quentin put his hand on the warden’s shoulder. “Sir, Mr. Warden, would it be alright with you if Mr. Jackson was allowed to ask any follow up questions he might have.”

“Very well.” By deferring to the warden for permission he kept him in the game. Wow. I was impressed with Quentin’s finesse.

“Mr. Jackson.” Now he was plaintiff and deferring to the prisoner in turn. Showing folk respect and care was one of Quentin’s greatest skills. He was treating everyone like the professional business partners he wanted them to be.

“Say some motha fucker gets his ass all blasted to shit. And I’m standin over that sorry ass mother fucker with a gun. Are you saying that I can just straight out execute him with impunity N shit?”

“If you agree to those terms in advance, the state has allowed you a special sporting exemption to cover that action. It will be like boxing. You aren’t allowed to hit another person, right? But in a boxing match you are. It’s the same thing here. You will all have to sign the same waiver in advance. And this waiver will stipulate, say, that you will not sue the state for any damages incurred during or as a result of the games. So, in short the answer to your question, Mr. Jackson, is yes.”

“Now then!” The warden was a little bit peeved and venting his authority. “Next will be number Two Seven Six Three Nine.”

“I just want to say in front of every body.”

“Your name sir?”

“Sorry sir, Henderson sir. I just wanna say in front of everybody, that this sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime and I am gonna smoke your nigger crip asses and Mexican thirteen barrio asses crispy.”

With that serious disturbance erupted and I got very nervous. And several inmates started to fight. But the guards on the sidelines fired their weapons straight up and that immediately stopped the noise. Still two separate fights continued. Guards moved in with stun guns. I had never seen a taser used before, but it was ugly. The men hit the ground and twitched and drooled for a good twenty seconds.

The warden took the microphone. “Okay you animals, that’s it. Show’s over, I don’t care how many goddamn questions you have.”

“Thanks to all of you for listening, and I hope, participating. I look forward to receiving your proposals. My assistant, Mr. Sanger, would like to interview the two gentlemen who spoke today. We will be dropping off contracts for you to read and many proposals for game ideas this week. Take a week to tell us which ones are your favorites and what modifications you’d like to see. Again thank you for your time.”

It turned out that the wardens had complied with a request Quentin had made to compile a list of trouble makers / leaders. The prison warden had salivated at the concept of having them fight each other to death. These were the people that he hated most. Quentin realized that these folks had already selected themselves as leaders. They would provide the celebrity core for our new sport.

I also asked if I might interview the people who had been fighting. Two of the people on the lists were involved in the fights. At first he wasn’t going to let me go ahead with my interviews of them. He said that there could be no hint of a reward for disobedience. We argued and he relented on the two, but we didn’t get to interview any of the other rowdies.

I waited to the side of the stage for those I was to interview to congregate. When the prisoners assembled they segregated racially. Each pod kept its distance from the others. And nasty grunts were thrown from each group to the other. The grunts seemed to balance each other out. I was sure that if any group had dared to add an extra grunt we would enter an escalation that would end in riot and death.

The more prisoners that approached me for interviewing the more nervous I got. Seeing this, the guards formed a circle around me and took me to a secure room where I could interview the prisoners in privacy. Even though four guards stayed in the room with me I was nervous. Each prisoner was easily larger than the guards that nervously petted their guns as they looked on.

This was the first time that I had been really close to prisoners. Prisoners are scary. On television, prisoners are all clean shaven. Though occasionally hostile, TV convicts are usually shown as intelligent and disgruntled, no chagrinned, about their captivity.

Not only are these guys huge and thick and tattooed, but they ooze a negativity that is hard to explain. It isn’t just the scary oppression of the prison environment. They had been so angry for so long that a chemical cloud of hatred actually surrounded them.

A few of the prisoners had good looks. But that wasn’t the source of their charisma. Their eyes uniformly intimidate. Even when they smile, their eyes intimidate. This, combined with a constantly threatening posture gives them an intense aura. These men were truly free in that they could never be controlled. There was no knowing what they would do. You know that these men are no afraid to die and take you with them. To look at them is to confront all of your fears.

Each and every one of them had the ability to completely dominate your attention. These men had enough star power to be famous.

This was the first time I met Freddy Jackson. You know him as a celebrity. I can tell you that in person he is way more menacing than on television. As friendly as we seemed when appearing on television together, I was always afraid of him.

The thing that immediately separated him from his peers was his insistence on speaking. You don’t interview Freddy Jackson. He talks about what he needs to talk about. Whether that happens to coincide with what you want to hear about or not is irrelevant.

He is also a genius. The gangs of every race respected that fact. For the two games he participated in he not invented the plays based on a disciplined study of the parameters of the game, but he taught his team many signals so that he could call them on the fly. This thorough application of his genius was behind every aspect of his meteoric multifaceted rise to international fame.

Freddy asked me a lot of interesting logistical questions. He asked me if these games were going to happen inside prisons or football stadiums. He asked me details about the distribution of the proceeds. He asked me if this first game would just be between people within the prison he was in. He was making plans.

He also told me a bit about himself. He said that he had been thrown out of the Marines. He previously ran a tri-city crack ring. His father had been killed in a drive by. He said that he had recorded six rap tracks. But at the time, his story didn’t stand out as more tragic than the other’s. In fact with two rapes and four robberies on his record, the feeling of awe I felt didn’t alter the feeling of disgust. His final crime had been killing a cop when they raided his home.

His life story didn’t stand out as being more or less tragic than any of the others I heard that day. What did stand out was that he was very consciously feeding me sound bytes. He checked to confirm that I was getting fodder for announcers. All gangsters deal in bravado. The others just trash talked. He gave me details that he thought would help position him as a commodity for the general public.

After I got the warden to agree to send me files on each of the prisoners, I left. Quentin was leaning on the car and smiling broadly. “Did we have fun in there or what?” I told you that was going to be great. Hey! Whatddya say we go out for drinks, eh? Let’s celebrate a job well done

This evening was a milestone for me. It was the first time I went to the Skybar. It is about two blocks west of the Hyatt (where the original Prison Wars press conference had been held). The Skybar is a very exclusive bar on Sunset. You have to know someone who is connected to get in. It is on the fourth floor of the Metropolitan building. Like the Hyatt’s roof, it is half indoors and half outdoors. Unlike the Hyatt, the outdoors half features a large swimming pool.

Half the women there on any given night work here. That burst my bubble a bit. But they buy their own drinks and are just there to up the ratio of women to men. And if their being friendly isn’t enough to keep you coming back, they are also model quality beauties.

Skybar has an air of class about it. The women don’t dress in a trashy manner. The men you meet there have generally accomplished something. It is a hive of record industry movers and shakers. And even if you aren’t one, just having gotten into the Skybar gives you and edge in the dating scene.

But in keeping with being classy, the women aren’t dressed like whores. And you always have an edge at the Skybar because just by having gotten in you are impressive. But that won’t get you all the way with a high percentage of the women there. You are in competition with some big players.

I’ve seen celebrities there, but saying who would break the code. Silence and privacy for the clientele is one of the most important attributes that the Skybar offers. If nothing else, it is a place where, even if you go bottom fishing with the sleazy partiers no one will ever divulge your secret. And if that isn’t enough, there are a lot of scene skating women there that are into good times. Will have fun for fun, might be their motto.

This was the first time that I had ever really hung out with my Quentin at night.

And it proved to be an interesting night from the get go. Almost as soon as we sat down, we were approached by a fairly short and sleazy looking young lady. And to my surprise, Quentin knew her.

“Marty, Sindy. Sindy, Marty.” He had his head down as he introduced her.

“Nice ta meet cha. It’s Sindy with an ‘S’” she informed me.

“Wow I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone spelling it that way before.” I usually don’t talk to women with as much assurance as I did with her, but she was young seemingly dumb and not the hottest number in the vicinity. I had no reason to expect anything could or would happen between us or to be intimidated.

“Can I sit down?” She purred flirtatiously.

“Not now Sindy.” Quentin said, “Marty and I really need to talk.”

“Oh okay.”

“But go get a drink or two on my tab and maybe I’ll see you later. Actually, Sindy, could you order four Patriots for our table while you’re over there?” She nodded and skedaddled in the direction of the bar.

“Wow. What a great place. I feel fortunate to know you Quentin. I’ve not quite sure why, but you’ve decided to and have changed the path of my life.”

“Nothing doing. You’re a great person and you’ve already done a great deal for me and my family that you don’t even realize.”

“Like . . ?” The waitress dropped four frothy red, white and blue drinks on our table.

“Like, for one thing, Melissa worries less about me when you’re around. She trusts you and so if I’m out late with you she doesn’t get worried or suspicious.” I removed all doubt that I was going to interrupt his flow or had any interest in doing anything but listening to him by taking a drink at every instance in which I might have spoken.

“The reason I’m stressed when I leave my therapists is that all we seem to do these days is talk about my problems with Melissa. I mean don’t get me wrong, I love Melissa to death. You can see that when we’re together, right?”

As I nodded I started to pick up my drink again.

“But we’ve been together since I was a kid. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a powerful fucker. And we’re different. I like to go out. I love staying home with the kids and all, but I just, I like to go out and meet people and have drinks and she gets worried when I do.

My therapist is always on me to do affirmations about each moment. And I do realize that I have the best life. And I don’t want to do anything bad. But after a night like tonight, I like to go out and…”

Just then Sindy came back. “Quentin can I talk to you by the pool in private for a minute.” Quentin just shrugged his shoulder in comical wonderment and they went off.

While they were gone I looked around this freaky scene. I wondered where it had been all my life. Anyhow, I am me. And I there is no way that I am one of these mover and shaker cowboy – junkie – hipster types. I just don’t move like that. I don’t think like that. I’m an information junkie. I do news and print, not hot talk and wild irrelevancies.

Quentin came back alone. Shrugging his shoulder, he said, “She wanted to borrow some money. I lent her some. What’s happening now?”

“I’m just looking at this scene and feeling like a foreigner. I’m a Nebraska boy. I’ve never been too social or socially smooth. But if I had the ability to flow with women, and such, this is the place I’d be.”

“Nonsense. You, my friend, can do anything you want. If you wanted any woman in here you could get her. I know I could. I can get any woman I see. I could have all of them at once. That’s how I do all my business, I get an idea and I just make it so. And that’s why I’m stuck, because I know that, without a doubt, I could do anything or have anything I can imagine. I’m a badass to the level where I’m about to revolutionize the world of T.V. You think I couldn’t get seven women to go to Maui with me for the weekend? You are my friend, so you are hot. You’re magic. You’re not here by accident. And if I can rock the world, and manifest anything I can imagine, certainly you can get girl to share her love energy with you.

“I’m just blocked by circumstances. That’s okay. I have all that I need and I love now. There are no problems only solutions AND all is better in imagination and nothing beats the pure love of my…”

“Okay Quentin I get it.”

“Hey hey hey.” Quentin flagged down a girl. “Hey. I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine. What’s your name?”

“Lindsey.”

“Lindsey this is Marty. Marty, Lindsey. We’re putting on a television show together that is going to change the world. And right now, he’s writing about me for Fortune magazine. Anyhow, Marty is pretty shy and I told him that it isn’t impossible that a girl like you would be into a guy like him. Isn’t that so?”

“He’s a definite possibility.”

“Please sit down.”

“When she sat down, Quentin said, “Okay Marty, here is three hundred dollars. I’m going to go home now.” He tossed three hundred dollars down on the table. “Don’t worry about the tab. Lindsey, he’s a great guy. Ask him about his life and tell him about yours. I haven’t touched either of my drinks, their both yours or whatever else you want you can have. That’s a rule. Stay here with her Quentin. I won’t take no as an answer from either of you. Give me the keys to the SUV and take a taxi home and I’ll see you in the morning.”

I handed the keys over with a look of someone who was sort of being tricked, helped and abandoned all at the same time.

All three of us said ‘good night’ to each other and quick as an jack rabbit, Quentin scurried out of the bar. Wow. I was speechless. Lindsey and I spoke for about forty five minutes. She couldn’t believe that I had interviewed prisoners earlier that same day. I walked her to her car. And we kissed there for about five minutes! It was more action than I’d gotten in about a year. I took a taxi back home and crashed out.

Chapter five – The Ethicists

Quentin was not a dumb man, just impatient of learning. He had no more than twenty books in his home and most of those were unread gifts and impulse purchases. As many business men, he wanted to know where the pedal hit the metal. The bottom line was, after all, the bottom line.

After being savaged at the press conference in which he announced Prison Wars to the public, he decided to work on convening a group of ethicists to guide him. He fully well expected that after the first Prison War contest the criticism would explode. He needed to be able to respond intelligently to the charges that would be leveled against him and his enterprise.

His reasons for convening a group of ethicists wasn’t however, purely a calculated business maneuver. He also needed help thinking through what were the troubling aspects of Prison Wars to him personally. If you’ve read this far, you realize that he was, despite what the media reports would have you believe, a real person with a family.

The meeting didn’t go well. I could easily blame the ethicists. Their confrontational style didn’t endear them to him. They didn’t sense his fragility. Despite his power and confidence, he didn’t like to be confused, belittled and mocked. I never saw him in deeper confusion and frustration than at this meeting.

More so, I think that their transparent maneuvering for power disappointed him. Quentin was a good judge of character. He didn’t get to where he was letting people put things over on him. Sensing their hypocrisy probably furthered his unwillingness to listen. He didn’t trust that these ethicists were ethicists.

But again, his temperament was average. Like most of us, he liked things to be easy. He was very much a consumer in this way. I’m not sure what emotional, practical or intellectual resolutions he wanted from this meeting. But I’m sure he wanted a simple solution. Beyond that, knowing that a person with advanced degrees had worked out the details would totally assuage his conscience.

But above all, I blame Dr. Les Christensen. At least that self-serving, hypocritical pig was honest about his depravity. There is a contradiction in that last sentence. But, his level of depravity was really more subtle than it should have been. His depravity would have been less costly to us all had it not been so refined.

I’ll let the record explain that.

The ethics meeting took place about a week after the prison negotiations happened. Quentin had, I found out, actually set them up even before the press conference. Quentin thought ahead. He should have though more deeply. It was something that he realized would have to be done.

We went to the meeting in his limousine. Had I thought about the level of privilege I was being exposed to I probably would have been less blaze about the whole thing. Me? Not much. Off to meet with the world’s leading ethicists, in a limo with the world’s most controversial billionaire. What an amazing experience.

What kept me level headed was the closeness that I felt with Quentin. We had both been working hard in the intervening days. I was trying to post editorials in and send letters to newspapers and magazines concerning Prison Wars. Now, simultaneously, I had to come up with twenty five professional profiles. These needed to be ready a week before the first contest.

But in between our respective toils we did do some things together. We played tennis mostly every day. Sometimes I’d go swim as he played sax. Actually, since my work could all be done at home, I was around more than he was. But he was almost always there for dinner. We had become best friends. So being with him lost all its aura of drama.

He said that he had meetings away from his home to separate his work from his private space. I don’t know when he got in at night. Melissa not complaining led me to believe that he was home at a normal hour. Suspicions aside, I admired his dedication to keeping his private space stress free. It certainly made for a comfortable home life.

Quentin arranged for this meeting to take place at the Beverly Wilshire. He thought its conservative reputation would help it attract more staid expertise. Actually he needn’t have worried. Money and the thought of influence on someone with someone was usually enough to get these guys to show up. In this case, however, the ability to meet the man behind the most talked about controversy of the age would have gotten them to come to a Denny’s restaurant.

When we entered the conference room the lively conversation stopped. Comfortable wasn’t the way I would describe the room. The hotel had done all it could to create a comfortable space for us. But there is something about long rectangular tables that creates immediate discomfort. The shape of the room and the half closed Venetian blinds made the room seem like a cross between a filing cabinet and the another prison.

The sudden silence and newly focused glares of these twelve or so distinguished looking men was a bit unnerving. I immediately recognized several of the men there from their punditry on television concerning Prison Wars. Everyone held their breath until Quentin broke the silence.

With uncharacteristically dramatic comedic pantomime he asked, “Oh my God! Marty do I still have coleslaw on my face?”

Everyone laughed and stopped holding their breath. The ice had been broken.

“Gentleman, don’t let me stop your conversation. We’ll start in about five minutes.” With that the crowded bartering market sounds revived. Quentin broke free of me and started to work the room. As I was with him, I had a bit of celebrity and commenced to work the room in my own way.

About half of the men present had tweed jackets on. The average age was seemed to be around fifty. And the younger members were more likely to just have collard shirts and slacks or jeans on. Quentin and I fit in well with the younger set. Great minds dress alike!

More than their names, I remember their universities. Not one of them introduced themselves without mentioning the name of their university along with it. I suppose that had a significance that I wasn’t privy to.

After about ten minutes, Quentin called the meeting to order.

“Gentleman, gentleman, if we may, let’s focus as a group. Everyone please take a seat behind your nameplate and we will begin.”

After the collective of individuals, collected themselves, he continued his fulfilling the role of MC.

“I think you all know each other, and you all know me.”

He gave one of his charmer grins. For the first time I realized what distinguished it from his real smile, he showed teeth when he smiled in public.

“I think the only unknown in the group is my friend and publicist, Marty. Everyone, Marty. Marty, everyone.” He snickered through his teeth with the others as I did a small wave with my wrist.

“Before we begin I’d like to thank Professor Weinberg for organizing this get together. Thank you Professor Weinberg.”

He used a dramatic pause to focus his thoughts and turn the mood solemn.

“Gentlemen, I have gathered you all here out of respect to your profession. You are also here because I need to learn about ethics. Partially, this need comes out of a desire for personal growth. But it also grows out of a need, frankly, to be able to articulate coherent rationales and defenses of my program in front of a national audience.

To these ends, I would appreciate it if you would each give me your frank thoughts for and against Prison Wars.”

The twelve men around the table squirmed a little uneasily.

“We can either proceed individually or we can have discussion. I leave the choice up to your collective professional discretion.”

“If I might sir...”

“Yes. Professor Sapolsky. Please, each of you. Speak as freely and liberally as you want to.”

“I just want to say that we, I think I speak for all of us, appreciate your convening us. Your proposed program raises many contentious issues that we need to look at as a society. I appreciate your taking the involved issues seriously enough to convene professional ethicists before proceeding. Furthermore, I’d like to say that truly hope that we may be of some guidance and assistance to you.”

“Jesus, what an obsequious ass-kisser you are Sapolsky.” Burst Professor Robertson.

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen,” Professor Weinberg asserted his authority. “How can ethicists teach if they do not maintain a respectful toleration for opposing views?”

“Sorry, I should tolerate your being an obsequious ass-kisser.” My adrenaline rushed a bit. I liked this guy. “Sorry. We’re in mixed company.”

Everyone frowned in silence. And when the peer pressure got too hard, he repeated himself with a shrug and a playful sarcastic exasperation you might hear from a fourteen year old girl.

“Saaawree!”

Professor Weinberg made a good effort to reassert a semblance of order.

“Let’s go person by person. When a person has finished with their statement, we’ll allow questions.” Without pausing for a vote or general assent he chose, “Professor Warbelt.”

“Thank you.” Professor Warbelt changed his posture radically. He leaned over the table and perched himself on his right elbow.

“Thank you. The problem here is that we must assert a complex answer to a simple question. It is a matter of explaining the tenets of idealism. For this to take place I must be permitted the time to put forward some proofs.”

“Please.” Quentin invited him.

“First of all the nature of the universe is to expand. Stop me if you disagree or if I’ve lost you. The nature of the universe is to expand. And there is also a direction seen in the tendency of life to creep into matter and out of matter. For example, man kind is mind in matter. When mind realizes itself…. Just a moment.” He was overriding Quentin’s raised hand. “When we see that mind goes into matter it presents us with a value system. One more minute I’m almost done. When life is seen to be positive, we can see that the movement away from conscious life fostering is a negative. Therefore, from an idealist position, I would argue that it contradicts the natural tendency of the world towards idealism to proceed with Prison Wars. Mr. Quentin?”

“No. No. You answered my question. I was wondering if your argument was for or against the idea of Prison Wars. You’re against it. Any questions for him?” Quentin was trying to be officious, but it was clear that he was over his head. He didn’t really get anything that the professor had said. I’m not entirely sure anyone did. But Quentin suddenly looked tired and a bit frustrated. He was relying on getting an answer that he could use at this meeting. That first answer didn’t make it seem like he was going be prepared for the media.

“Professor Warbelt, the problem with your conception is that it is hippy dippy.” He looked to Quentin for approval as he said this. Quentin showed the thinnest smile I’d ever seen him make. He was willing to entertain a hope. Professor Feyberand continued confidently.

“What we need is a solid material way that folks can disagree with Prison Wars. And I don’t think that your average Joe is going follow the argument you just made. Perhaps our natural aversion to cruelty being a part of our neuro-anatomical make-up would be a stronger basis.”

“We are against it because it doesn’t feel right is your basic argument?”

“Well not just that. I mean that it doesn’t fit with our evolutionary programming.”

“How can you start by saying that it is too hippy dippy and then start with talk of neuro-anatomy and evolutionary programming? That is not down to earth it’s a fairy tale, a just-so story. You cannot get ought from is. This is the main problem always for your thesis.”

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps, I’m only gratuitously showing the backing to my argument. But the point is, if you are going to argue against Prison Wars, you would do well to go against it at the visceral level. Exploit people’s natural revulsion.”

“You have no morals!” Professor Ingram, the only black professor, interjected. “If it felt good you’d be for it? What an animal you are.”

“That’s right I am an animal. You are an animal too.”

“And more. You are also more than an animal.”

“Get this guy a time machine; let’s bring him up to our age.”

“You should think outside of this month’s flav…”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Professor Weinberg tried to stop this downward spiral’s momentum. “We are hearing reasons, not hurling insults. Respect is the cornerstone of discussion.”

“Please sirs.” Quentin was taking the floor. “What of my arguments that I’ve made that Prison Wars will be good for the economy? These prisoners are paying their debt to society? No water there?”

This question was met with a general grumbling.

“Okay. Why is it wrong? Explain that to me.”

“Sir. With all due respect,” A professor Wayne started his response. “It should be really clear to you why killing for the economy is wrong. I mean, as the kids say, ‘Hello’.”

“Okay. I don’t need to be taunted and disrespected. I have built an empire that is valuable. I have done lots for many. And these people aren’t just people. These are killers and criminals that don’t have a lot of redeeming value as far as I can see. What is their value?”

“They are humans.” Professor Wayne said softly.

“So all humans are valuable? No matter what they’ve done? You all believe in that? ‘Cause I don’t believe in it. I think they are more valuable dead than alive. Valuable to society.”

“It’s just a horrible precedent though. We do not know for sure that they may not provide value to the world yet. And what if they aren’t guilty? What if we kill several innocents for the society at large who were just put into such a desperate situation that they felt they had no choice but to fight to the death? Can you imagine being in such a situation?”

“No I can’t. I’ve never been to jail.”

A Professor with a Southern drawl jumped in. “Wayne, it’s not about the individual. The sanctity of life creates a culture where there is respect. At the risk of sounding too Christian for you gentlemen, once you devalue life it leads to a debased culture. Your individualistic sentiments are undermining society.”

“Don’t you feel that by respecting violent killers you debase society?” Asked Quentin.

Professor Wayne completely ignored Quentin and went after the Southern Professor. “The vast majority of these folks are minorities who came from poverty. So they are being doubly victimized by society.”

“Precisely.” Blurted the Professor sitting next to him.

“But what of the others who didn’t do anything wrong that came from the same neighborhood? Why didn’t they commit crimes?” Quentin was a little steamed and trying to stay in the conversation these gentlemen were having. “When I said that I can’t imagine going to jail I didn’t mean that I didn’t think it could happen to me. I meant that I can never imagine being so stupid to commit a crime. I am not that kind of person. I have no criminal record and I never will.”

“All have fallen short of the glory of…” Professor Wayne replied.

“Whoaaa,” The Southern Gentlemen interrupted, “haven’t you criticized my works for using Jesus as a philosopher?”

“Okay. Maybe were not perfect, but Mr. Longus has a point. I haven’t committed a crime. These folks have. And we cannot be so individualistic as to not look to the character of our culture. The amount that have been convicted erroneously is negligible. The reason we don’t have Roman style executions is because it adds to the culture of death.”

“There but for the glory of God –“

“Don’t use the Lords name in vain. You post – modern ACLU lawyer type have gotten God taken out of public life, but show some respect around individuals like me who do believe. Be civilized!”

Quentin entered their battle again, “For the sake of the individuals involved or society I don’t think these vermin deserve to live. I mean what is the basis upon which we must uphold the rights of all terrible useless vermin that infect our society? Aren’t we better off with the lowered tax burden when they die and the money we get from publicizing it?”

“Vermin? I cannot talk ethics with a man that calls his fellow humans vermin. I don’t know who you think you are.”

“Fellow humans? If one of them raped your daughter you might change your mind. You think they care? You think I care about them? They mean nothing to me.”

Everyone went silent. Finally Professor Warbelt broke the silence by reasserting himself. “Again, as a Platonist, I should say that we should strive, to the extent possible we should try to cultivate beauty.”

“Cultivating beauty? I’m in the real world with criminals and traffic signs and …”

“It is sad to be so negative. I’d rather be a blind idealist than be bitter and lose such a chunk of my humanity.”

“I don’t know what having ideals and having humanity means to you, but being human means dealing with the droll and down as well as the spiritually elevated.”

“I don’t want to live in the ugly world you are trying to make. I want to live in the most beautiful world possible and you, sir, are symptomatic of a debased material ugliness.”

“Where the hell do you live? Welcome to our world. All of you, even you, Professor aren’t just made of beauty.

“Half of ya’ll aren’t talking because your taking notes. Are you doing it to help the discussion or because you want to make profit off of this conversation? You don’t care. You’re going to go back on television and reap glory off of Prison Wars just like me, just like the viewers, just like the rest of society. Only you guys are major hypocrites about it!”

I had never seen Quentin so riled. He was really pissed off. I really don’t think he was doing his usual acting out of a part he’d written.

“Has anyone got any other stupid reasons that Prison Wars is wrong? Is there anyone here that is for Prison Wars?” After the briefest silence he said, “Okay Marty lets get the hell out of here.”

Once outside Quentin was clearly still agitated, “Perhaps I am just too dumb to understand. Perhaps good and evil are beyond me.”

“Those guys were no help at all.” I was being a sycophant, trying to get on the right side of his anger.

Twenty feet from the limo we heard someone calling us, “Mr. Longus! Mr. Longus.” It was one of the Professors.

We turned around to see one of the tweed wearing professors running after us, with his briefcase in hand and tie waving. As he ran he looked like an antennae or something. He had incredibly broad shoulders. He ran pretty well for a guy in his fifties with dress shoes on.

When he got to us he was clearly hurting for air. “Mr. Longus. Mr. Longus.” He was having trouble standing and violently trying to catch his breath.

“Take your time friend. Catch your breath.” The instinctive friendly Quentin was shining through again.

While waiting for him to catch his breath, I took my first good long look at the now infamous Professor Christensen. Skinny and tan to the point of being withered, he had the look of a lizard with a goatee. You could easily imagine his intestinal tract. He always made me think back to dissecting frogs in my junior high school biology lab. His overflowing white eyebrows and salt and pepper inch-long hair contrast with his bronze skin. For a professor he seemed kind of gruff.

After he got his breath he stated his purpose. “Mr. Longus I’m sorry we weren’t much help to you. As a group there are a lot of political forces going on that you don’t know about and so you only see what the other wants to show in public.” Quentin looked a bit impatient but was still listening. “If I can talk to you privately I think I may be of help to you. I can give you the justifications you need to simply and convincingly explain why Prison Wars is ethical.”

“Can you give it to me standing? Because I’m going to have to give quick intelligible defenses for my program, on television, right after Prison Wars airs.”

“Yes.”

“Good man let’s hear it.” Quentin crossed his arms and looked at me seeking acknowledgement of his ability to pull rank and give orders.

“Quickly put, ethicists like that are the downfall of our society. We are getting soft. We need an infusion of manly values if we are not going to fall like Rome. Prison Wars will improve our nation’s character.”

“I like it.” Quentin, though guardedly, finally smiled again a little.

“Here’s another. There are other codes of life than ours. Prisoners have their own code of life. And, in a diverse and free society, they have a right to express themselves and live their dreams too.”

“And here’s another related one, I would also emphasize our rights and our freedom. This is different than the ‘prisoner’s code of life argument’. We also have a right to happiness. If this is happiness, we have a right to it.”

“Excellent.” Quentin now really focused in on our new acquaintance. “Any more?”

“Well, I have been watching your television appearances Mr. Longus, and you need to go more on the attack economically. Ask your opponents if they can close the deficit. Ask them which one they will cut, education or police. And if they don’t answer, don’t let up. ‘Education or police?’, ‘Education or police?’ You’re the savior of children; they need to defend themselves from the charge of immorality.”

“Excellent. Why didn’t you speak up in the meeting?”

“As I said, there are a lot of political forces going on there. For me it was better to meet you in the parking lot. Besides, I was enjoying their bungling implosion too much to interrupt it.”

Quentin’s face had gone into pure concentration, but snapped back to the public smile. “You enjoyed that, eh?”

“A lot! I could laugh at those pompous clowns attacking each other all night long.”

“Well speaking of all night long, we were just going to go out and get a drink. And . . . I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name. Professor…”

“Professor Christensen. But please, if I may call you Quentin, I’ll let you call me Les. Is it a deal?”

“It’s a deal.”

I guessed that if I were to be introduced I’d have to do it myself, “You bargained too easily Quentin, you could have held out for more.” I smiled though I was a bit miffed at being on the outside of their conversation. I put on what was probably an obviously false smile and shook his hand a little harder than necessary. “Marty, since you’re a friend of Quentin’s, you can call me Marty.”

“So, Les.” Quentin interrupted our developing cat fight. “You’ll join us for drinks then.”

“With pleasure.”

“We’ll all go in the limo.” The ethicist’s face lit up. There is no one who doesn’t get excited the first time they get to enter a limo. And I think that Quentin realized he was giving someone a treat when he let them ride in it.

“Sam, our driver, will take you back to your car here whenever you’re ready to go.” The three of us piled in. Instead of our normal positions of facing each other, Quentin and I sat side by side. Les sat across from us alone. This was the first time I ever felt like the limo was too small. Les was cramping my style.

“Sam, take us to the Skybar please.” Sam, our driver, nodded and closed the separation glass.

“Quentin.” Les said, sort of brushing me aside. “I almost blanch at calling you that because I see big things for you. You don’t realize it, but you could end of being a significant figure in world history.”

‘Oh brother’ I thought to myself, ‘this one’s a loon.’ I dared a look at Quentin to see if he had the same inkling. But Quentin was smiling and looking directly at Les.

“Quentin, I think I can provide you with all the ammunition you need to defend yourself against the naysayers and even develop a philosophy of Quentin. Once developed, this philosophy could give you some followers and you may be able to mobilize a bit of a posse to back you up.”

“I’m not sure I need a posse Les. But you are intriguing. Please continue with your ideas.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I have a tendency to get a head of myself. I do have a short term plan to resolve your immediate problem. We can start on memorizing the arguments that I gave you outside. And then, as you have time, we can investigate nuances and evidence for these arguments. We can spend as little or as much time on it as you’d like. But I can get you ready for your television appearances. In short, I’d like to be your personal philosophical trainer.”

‘I guess I could still be his personal buddy if not his trainer.’ I thought, again feeling more than a tinge of proprietary jealousy. But it wasn’t just personal. To the extent that I could separate out my feelings, I didn’t trust Les’ intentions from the beginning.

Quentin and I made gestures towards each other that seemed to say, ‘Well isn’t that interesting.’ Sensing that I must be a bit put off Quentin said, “I need approval from my best friend before I accept a personal anything.”

Wow! Quentin had never called me his best friend before. I’m sure he had many and was overly warm. But it was a great feeling to be called that by him.

“If I can be in on the sessions, I’d be happy to have you talk with Mr. Longus.” I smiled broadly. “I’m curious about something, Les.”

“Good!” Les seemed to pay a bit more attention to me after I was called Quentin’s best friend.

“You just threw out three separate reasons for Prison Wars being ethical. Do you actually believe in any of them or are you just filling a position?”

“Excellent question Marty! You choose your friends well Les. The truth is that I could have given you any number of ethical justifications to validate Prison War’s morality. After inventing a reason you find evidence that backs it up. There’s a lot of evidence for every belief.”

“So you don’t believe in any of them, you’re just getting a job.”

“Ouch. No, I’m not as banal as that. The truth is, that my beliefs are very complicated. I don’t think I can fully explain them in a limo ride to a bar. I have a lot of visions about sociology and political philosophy. But I do see truth as somewhat constructed and instrumental. The subject is in a position prefabricated…” Quentin must have shot him a quizzical look, because he seemed like he was about embark upon a lecture when he let the last words sit as a conclusion.

“The beauty about television is that it doesn’t have enough time for deep reasons. So you can have your backing or not have it. It doesn’t matter. It is a medium of assertions. So we can get by with just repeating a few simple arguments.”

“Hmnn, I never thought about it like that.” Quentin announced. And this was the first time that Les and I ever shared a smidgen of bonding. Our eyes saw each other’s laughing at Quentin’s lack of depth.

We didn’t spend a lot of time together at the Skybar. I saw Lindsey and we went and talked for a drink. Sindy, as before, came out of the shadows and interrupted Quentin and Les. He sent her away and not long afterwards came to ask me if I wanted to share a taxi home with him. I did.

That evening our basic dynamics became apparent. Les and Quentin, on some level, couldn’t make a connection. Quentin was impatient with any of the theory of Les’ ideas. And Les, who only drank a Coca-Cola, wasn’t really interested in bars or small talk. After that night, I was never jealous of their potential for closeness again.

Les and I developed some rapport. In retrospect, it is embarrassing that without Les I never would have figured out that Quentin was impatient with theoretical explanations. But, I like ideas well enough to discuss them. So occasionally Les and I would bond via the exclusivity of our club.

But that was it for Les and me. For one thing, he was much more into ideas than I. When we discussed ideas he usually took the position of the teacher. For another thing, I instinctively disagreed with much that he said.

I wish that I had learned more about philosophy in my life. If so I might have been able to have stopped Les. I didn’t even have a basic vocabulary with which to discuss the issues he raised. And I always knew that, before I had raised it, he had already thought long and hard about any objections I might raise.

As it was, I was happy to learn from him, and he respected my willingness to learn. But I was never the initiator of the topics we discussed. Our bonding was always over the esteem that came from my visiting his exclusive realm.

My first impression of Les was that he was nuts. His ideas and flatteries were too over the top. But that was an error. Just because someone is nuts doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t take them seriously.

Here is a philosophical truth that I learned: power creates sanity. Once you’re in power, you establish the norms. Then those that disagree with you are then nuts. Always be afraid of genius lunatics on the fringe of power. If you value your life, get intellectually prepared to do battle with them.

CHAPTER SIX – GAMES BEGIN

I am describing these tournaments for future generations. Future generations, and a very few people alive in our time, may have no other way of knowing what the Prison Wars contests were all about. There are lessons within the descriptions of the content. They may contain more valuable lessons then actually watching the footage.

The description is meant to be anthropological, not titillating. Please read it with a sense of pain. If you read it with glee, again, you will be as guilty as any killer in it. You will have become the worst kind of mass murdered; a slayer of beauty and civilization.

The stadium seemed huge to me. Having it outside of the confines of the prison yard was a marketing necessity we couldn’t get around. Prison yards just proved to be too small and too hard to work in. This was pay per view, but it was live too. 46,000 fans packed the Los Angeles Coliseum. This coliseum was the ones the raiders used for their brief stint in Los Angeles. It was also the one that Muhammad Ali had lit an Olympic torch in.

The stadium had been outfitted with vigilance towers for the security of the audience. We also had fifty two cameras set up. That was more than any other single sporting event in history. There were mixed game formats. Afterwards the fans were to choose on-line and via phone which of the formats to can and which to keep. We shattered the record for most Web site hits received in a twenty four hour period, week and month.

All of the normal sports trappings were there. There was the talking booth of three commentators, ala Monday Night Football. There were pre-game interviews featuring each of the players I had interviewed. Their bios were advanced to the media with full criminal records and crime descriptions. The announcers just had to replace their normal sports statistics with crime statistics. It was a rather painless transition for them.

Again, the fine line I spoke of in the first paragraph was crossed too often. It was never clear whether the crime descriptions, lurid in detail, were there to build up revulsion or admiration. Certainly, from our perspective, you wanted the public to get a blood lust for the death of these SOBs. Included amongst them were the worst of the worst. Murderers, rapists, drug runners and child molesters were all rapists. Hopefully you hated them as you hate Prison Wars.

These gruesome profiles also created a sense of awe. This gave them more magnetism than your average sit com geek. They had the darkness of being from a totally different moral system. Their from-the-street looks gave them a nobility of nature that our clunky, chunky law abiding population doesn’t have. These were humans that had seen the heart of darkness. They were dangerous and had no fear of death. There was no hesitation in their actions.

The crime re-enactments of the first Prison Wars were toned down. I thought that important. I had fought for it. Perhaps that is one way in which I can say to have been a good influence through out this destructive episode in our species longevity. Cowardly enough, my arguments was that we wanted to give the FCC as little ammunition as possible to use against us. What I was really thinking was that it was going to program people to commit crimes like those presented. I was scared.

Take Freddy Jackson, they showed his hometown – gangster cars moving in a blurred punctuated slow motion down a boulevard at night. But when it showed him committing his murder it was just as implicit; a gun going off, the leaning side of a man in slow motion with trailing effects and sirens. The whole scene played out with melodramatic sad hip hop music. It was designed to make you feel the pain of the tough streets and what it did to him. It was a deterrent.

But two of his other crimes had been a rape. And perhaps it was just me, but they were ambivalent in their presentation of this episode. The woman was, thankfully, plain. She didn’t really make your blood rise much. She also didn’t have on the slinky clothes that later girls always had on during rape segments.

She was wearing lumberjack clothes, jeans and a plaid shirt, as I recall. And she was walking down a street at night. It looked, again, like downtown. The area was scary in and of itself. The one shot I cannot forget was her turning around and staring at the car. It froze on her face and she had a real look of fear on it. It was as if the entire female species’ epochs of cumulative victimization and collective wounds were on this girl’s face. It was pale from fear. Her stringy dirt blonde hair and bad skin made it apparent that she was a real human, not a television actor.

As they showed her being lifted into the car, you could hear Freddy Jackson’s voice-over, “I just saw her N I wanted her. You know it was Satiday night and we was bored. She looked like we could have a good time wit her. We decided we wud. I’m real sorry for any pain that I caused her an her family.” The announcer’s voice-over concluded the cut-away segment. “Horrible, heinous crime and individual. Let’s hope he gets what he deserves tonight.”

They didn’t show the real victim of this crime, just an actor. Later episodes included the cutaways to the victims in attendance, especially if they had been maimed in the attempt. With signs that called for revenge, anger and tears the announcers would solemnly “hope they get what they came for.” For her they just said, “The young lady in question, declined to attend, apparently they messed her up really badly.”

Powerful stuff.

We arrived early that morning. We were there for preparations, talking with producers, camera men, set designers, announcers, the players - everybody. I had seen Quentin the father, the friend and night owl. But this was the first time that I saw Quentin the industrialist in full bloom. His voice deepened and he smiled much less. He wore a casual blue suit because he was going to be making the public introductions later. But his whole demeanor said black pinstripe.

We sat in a box very close to the fifty yard line. For security reasons Quentin had bullet proof glass mounted along the wall that separated the players from the audience. About half an hour before the games began, Melissa came. She left the kids at home because of the violence and also because no one under eighteen was allowed in. And just as the games were about to begin Les showed up. I hadn’t realized that Quentin had invited him. But he had.

Quentin didn’t really relax until the spectacular was over. But you’d never have known it from his opening speech. During the anthem he stood with his hand over his heart and sang loudly. He was on the big screen twice during part of the anthem. Realizing that I might be on the screen too during the game, I sang louder when I saw him up there.

It was inspiring to see that the prisoners instinctively stood up and put their hand over their hearts for the anthem. None of them were bad Americans. They knew what to do in stadium games during the anthem.

Anthem over Quentin drove a golf cart over to the microphone abandoned by the black woman who excelled in the current emphasis on hitting the anthem’s last note and holding it as long as possible. She stood behind him as he spoke.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today for some very solemn games.” Steam came out of his mouth, dragon style, with each breath. ”Some will die today…and some will live.

“Solemn yes; but a celebration also.

Today is a day of celebration for the State, whose coffers will be stuffed by this event, providing educational funds for your children and mine. And we couldn’t have raised this much money for education without you. We thank you for that.

Today we also celebrate our freedom. We celebrate our freedom from the petty legal constraints that have tied up our social systems for so many years. This is America, the land of the free. Today’s event is a celebration of that democratic freedom we hold so dear.

Today is also a great day of celebration for the participants. Just like us, many of them have dreamt their entire lives of being in a major sporting event. And today they get to leave their cells and show us what they are made of. Today their celebrity may begin.

The prisoners have written most of the rules of this game. But due to my coaxing, they have also agreed to look up into the audience before they make a kill. And if you think the person has fought valiantly - valiantly enough to deserve a second chance at life and possible celebrity - please put your thumbs up and applaud wildly. The contestant will be swept out of the competition and be resurrected to play another day.

If you feel that the person should be put to death. You’ve read their rap sheets, their lives outside of today were an abomination; If you think their performance here was also an abomination, boo, hiss and put your thumbs down. This is democracy. The call is yours!”

Les, in the booth with me, lip synched these words as they left Quentin’s mouth. He smirked as he smiled, Quentin that is. I hadn’t realized that they had met since I last saw Les. It was then that I also realized that the influence that Les was starting to have over Quentin. He had succeeded in becoming his personal trainer.

“One last thing, you will notice that the teams are often divided by race. That is not intentional. That’s just the way it works in Prison. The prisoners have chosen their own teams. Please try not to be lowly like them. Don’t let race influence your decision for life or death. Call ‘em as you see ‘em.

With all of that said, let’s bring out the contestants, start this celebration and let the Prison Wars begin!”

The crowd went wild as the splashy instrumental hip – hop music played across all 412 speakers housed in the stadium. Quentin and the singer got into the cart and drove off. I had never heard such noise and cheering before.

The stage was already set for the first round. Scattered around the field, as you might find blocks on a child’s floor, were blocks. Only these were made of brick and between 5 and 12 feet long. Some of them were stacked in order to give a climbing surface. Others were so thin that you could barely get shelter behind them.

Each player was announced as they came out. They got their proverbial day in the sun. For many of them, the only thing they had ever wished for, the only profession they had seriously dreamed of was being a professional athlete. Well they got the full treatment; Lights, announcers and a stadium. Their American dream was had come true.

One team was dressed as police and the other as gangsters. I wasn’t there for the coin toss to see who would get to wear what. But I bet there was a lot of jeering afterwards. Or maybe prisoners just see dressing as a cop as wearing the uniform of an alternative gang.

I remember when we found out Les exclaimed “Yes!” enthusiastically. Seeing my perplexed face, he leaned over to me and said, “The fans will much more enjoy being in the minds of white police hunting black criminals than the opposite. I was hoping for that.” As per all modern mass sporting events, the costumes had the names of the player and numbers on the back. This helps the fans and announcers distinguish the otherwise interchangeable players.

This whole event was ripe for sociologists. I would have loved to know the demographic make-up of the audience. What would happen to crime statistics the following day. I was sure the American Civil Liberties Union, who were looking for reasons to stop Prison Wars, would be counting racial to see if there was bias in who got the thumbs-up and who got the thumbs-down.

“Ladies and Gentleman lets make some noise.” The stadium announcer’s sonorous voice said to the accompaniment of light changes. “The first round of Cops and Robbers is about to begin.”

“And ready, set, gooooooooooo.” The way he said it was to become an obnoxious catchphrase used by many across the country in the coming months. I think the popularity piggybacked on the way that soccer fans already said ‘goal’ in soccer matches.

Anyways, if you’ll remember, for the first game of Prison Wars, we used a format that never got voted out: Cops and Robbers. The criminal team had to try to get to the safe house in the upper right of the stadium. Of course they started on the lower left, and the police were dispersed throughout the blocks in between. When someone got to the safe house the criminals had won seven points and the first round ended.

Freddy Jackson was the head of the black criminals, supposedly the Los Angeles gang called the Crips, in this round. He was going against, Jim Turner and his mostly white ‘cops’. In fact, all but one of them was a member of the prison system’s infamous Aryan Brotherhood.

Freddie Jackson said, in pre-game interviews, that he was going to go up the middle, creating a wall of protection for the main runner. So it surprised everyone, including the police, when most of his men flanked out to the left wall. Jackson also sent two behind on the right wall to make the front lines of the police nervous. And they nearly got into the no-gun zone before they were checked.

As per all the games, the middle of the field, from the offensive to the defensive thirty five yard line, was a no-gun territory. That meant that you could neither shoot from or into that portion of the field. The penalty for this was a free shot from the same distance you had shot from.

The thirty yard area was littered with knives, maces, mace, brass knuckles clubs, broken bottles, trashcans and an imaginative assortment of other instruments that could be used in a fight. The no-gun zone is where the best action took place.

As Freddy’s crew was streaming up the left and the police reacted to stop them, two men were shot. Petersen, number 25 of the police and Butler number 36 of the criminals. Not sure what to do for a second, Freddy Jackson fell back and got his wounded man. He perched him up on top of a long beam where he could be a snyper, or at least make folks nervous. Jim Turner paid no attention to his dying comrade in arms.

We were in the middle of the knife zone in a protection box in the front row. We knew we were on television and so had to keep cheering the first time. But we were all anxious to see the audience’s reaction to the first kills. We were glad that they were just injuries. No head shots yet.

The crowd around us seemed to be polarized between the ‘can looks’ and the ‘can’t looks.’ The ‘can looks’ kept on prodding the ‘can’t looks’ to look. “Oh come on, look! Look!” Of course, I believe (all three of us were lookers), that the ‘can’t looks’ wanted to look. They were in the minority, which is uncomfortable, but they also had a ghastly sensation of wanting to see what one shouldn’t look at.

Quentin seemed to be a bit squeamish at first. But he had to fight through such tendencies as they were bad for business. And once he got the gist of it, he was cheering as loudly as anyone was.

With the first headshot, which was shown and re-shown on the East side big screen the stadium let out a collective “Eeeewww”. It was a bizarre spectacle. But as soon as it was off the big screen the engrossed fans started cheering again.

We, through my publicity, bios and countless faxes, had tried to get the fans to have favorites. It had worked. There were people in the audience with “We ‘heart’ Freddy” and “Go Jim” signs scattered through out the stadium.

The police that had made a flank up the middle to forestall a down the middle rush, soon found them selves sandwiched in between two groups of criminals. Turner, speaking through his headset microphone, ordered three of his men to “get the niggers in the back.” This remark, like the others, was broadcast on television. Then he ordered “three front secure the safe house. Everyone else try to take the left wall.

Jim Turner hadn’t written any real plays. If he lived to see it, he would have plays written the next time.

Getting up the left wall proved to be harder than anticipated and to the joy of the sponsors and creators alike, it soon turned into a one on one situation. Two defenders held two attackers in check on the back side. And each person on the front side shot at their own man.

Then the stalemate was broken when Freddy barked out “six, treasure, screen, three.” One of the two backside police was shot. As the remaining one frantically yelled ‘man down, man down’, one of the criminals went for it. As the criminal, number twelve, Washington crossed into the no-gun zone, a policeman shot him. Then a real policeman from a lookout tower shot the policeman that had shot the criminal.

This angered the crowd. Loud noises of disapproval were broken by the calming reassurance of the announcer. “Giles number twenty nine, in violation of shooting someone in the no-gun zone. Penalty, death.” This explained the first breech of game space by an outside force. They had all been told before that the penalty for breaking any of the very few rules in Prison Wars was being shot by a guard in a tower.

Anyhow, with the policeman down Thompson, 34, was uncovered. He ran around the backside like he was running for his life. When he started his sojourn the stalemate broke. Turner, the leader of the Aryan Brotherhood, yelled out “right four run back to cover the base.” Upon this command, he and a three other frontal players ran to intercept the criminal who was streaking up the right side of the field.

“Right guys divide.” Turner yelled out as his crew, streaming towards the back of the field, broke in half. I suppose he was thinking that one half would stop Thompson and the other two would have the front of the left flank defense. Meanwhile the fighting in the no-gun zone was furious. There were then two fantastic battles going on. The announcers were going crazy, they didn’t know what to cover. “Thompson is holding his own, Robertson stabbed but still fighting. O’Neil is running to cover Benning. O’Neil got him in the back he’s looking to the audience for direction. No clear direction from the audience, oh that’s gotta hurt! Right in the belly.”

That did turn out to be one of our disappointments. First of all it was really hard for the players to discern whether the crowd had mostly gone thumbs up or thumbs down. One could argue that there were a lot of thumbs up and a lot of thumbs down.

Our preference was for a minimal amount of off field interference. And the contestants seemed to interpret everything as a condemnation anyways. Though never disavowed officially, the voting mechanism became more like an advisory council. And the players were still instructed to look up at the audience before killing.

To his credit, O’ Neil did clearly look up into the audience. He wasn’t killed for violating the rules. But no one was ever killed for violating that rule. Giving the thumbs up and thumbs down became a popular thing in popular culture. But in practice it ceased to be important.

By the time Turner got to the back side of the field, Jackson had already taken cover. It was two on one. They were in the gun zone. There was no fear of running out of weapons, as they laid scattered all around the gun zone. But getting to them once you’d run out of ammunition could expose you to danger.

The brick walls worked to great effect. When hit a cloud of dust would emerge. After one shot, Jackson wasn’t directly, but a piece of flying brick cut his face. A close up showed that he was panting and glaring like he’d never been hit. This was a tough man.

Meanwhile, outnumbered, the left flank, where they were fighting with bottles and clubs had captured the attention of most of the audience. Thompson and O’ Neil were circling, when a shot knocked the bat out of Thompson’s hand. It was the injured man that Jackson had helped to a perch. He was immediately shot for violating the no-gun zone law. But it was too late for Thompson. He blocked the first bat swing with his right arm, but it must have been broken by the force. As he pulled his arm towards his belly to protect it in pain, O’ Neil made the decisive blow to his head. Then, cursorily looking up, he took a step back and with several swings to the cranium, bashed Thompson’s head in.

There being now, six against two in the no-gun zone, the white survivors fled back into the gun zone. From there it was a shoot out. But Jackson’s men pushed sideways, isolating one of Turner’s in the middle. With him picked off, the game was over. Shooting as they retreated Turner and Divac, number thirteen, went into retreat. The meaning was clear. Jackson was allowed to proceed to the safe house.

Round one was over. Jackson did his now emblematic, pump-up-the-noise motion. Jumping and waving his arms, as the bright spot lights created white reflective areas on his black face.

“Goddamn that was good.” Quentin said to himself and both of us. “Yeah!” Les was too busy cheering to be heard. I leaned back in my chair and laughed in astonishment, “you actually did it you crazy motherfucker you.” “We did it!” I joined in. It was a moment of celebration that was famously flashed on the big screen and reproduced when we started to achieve celebrity as a group.

In the moments following, I was standing and looking out at the cheering crowd when I saw the photographer I had seen outside of our house on the day we had gone to the beach. I didn’t want to upset Quentin, so I didn’t point the photographer out to him.

The second segment was just as good as the first. It was the jousting segment. Each team got three cars and four motorcycles and started in opposite corners. For this event, the black team was dressed like a modern day gangster and the white team ended up with the twenties style pin stripe three piece suit.

Turner’s strategy proved fatal to himself. He parked his car and took cover behind it. He never figured that Jackson and his men would be crazy enough to just hit it with a full frontal collision. He did it after all but him had gotten out of the car. His windshield was shot out, but he drove the car blindly from below the dashboard. The impact of his car hitting theirs must have pushed it back five feet. Immediately, several of the white guys were incapacitated.

The crowd went wild as Jackson himself crawled out of the driver’s side and sat back against the rammed white car with a machine gun in each hand. Whenever they rode out into view, to kill him, he had them first. Though one ricochet hit his shoulder, he was basically waiting and safe. The one white guy, Ludwig, who tried to get him by going over the top of the car, got shot immediately by one of the guys that was taking up the far rear.

The motorcycle battles were pitched and even. The goal was to get the keys to the car from the other side’s leader. But, even so, it seemed that the white team’s jousters were distracted by a blood lust for revenge. They were looking on their counterparts, not as adversaries in and of themselves, but as body guards for Jackson. And in their distraction, they sustained most of the casualties.

Jackson became an international celebrity after this contest. His status as a man of the people was first set by his decision to spend a significant part of his salary getting hospital attention for his “wounded brothers” that day.

That night was totally fun. Quentin had set up a street party in Hollywood to celebration of the first Prison Wars game ever. It was a huge mob scene. There were probably four thousand people there. An entire block had been cleared off and the weather was beautiful.

The entertainment centered on a large temporary stage. It featured bands until midnight. But the bands stopped playing whenever Quentin did an interview. The television programs were projected onto a huge screen behind the stage.

I had never watched television on an outdoor screen before. The colors were good, considering. They paled a little bit behind where Quentin was standing because of the portable lighting unit mounted on the camera. But they were standing so far off to the left of the stage so it didn’t make too much of an impact.

The audio system, being designed for a band, was great too. And one really fortunate boon came out of this set up. It was that the cheers and booing of the audience were doubled. Their reactions were live and amplified. Of all the interviewees only Quentin had a cheering section.

The first interview was with CNN. It is always weird to see a broadcast in a different context. It’s like when they show a television show in a movie. The ads always seem strangely comical. Case in point, the projection started with an advertisement for floor cleaner. It got huge laughs from the audience. After the advertisement came the familiar CNN theme music, a little update from the newsroom and finally, Terry Collier.

He introduced the segment with some footage from the contest. The crowd made much the same excited noises that it had the first time around. Then Mr. Collier introduced the speakers.

“Discussing this sporting event this evening, I have three guests. The first is the creator of Prison Wars, Mr. Quentin Longus who joins us from a street fair in Hollywood.” When Quentin’s head appeared it was accompanied by cheering. It was natural from our vantage point, but looked funny on the screen when Quentin smiled and waived past the camera filming him to the crowd and said “Hello.”

“Also joining us is Professor Blatsky and ethicist from Stanford University.” I remembered him from our ethics meeting when they projected his head. “And from Sacramento California we are joined by Congressman Jaime Fuentes of Los Angeles from Sacramento.”

“Congressman Fuentes, we’ll start with you. You have been an outspoken critic of Prison Wars in the State Assembly. What are your reasons for not liking these apparently popular new games?”

“Sir, the American dream is being perverted by these games. We’re concerned about a sport that glorifies criminals. These are not people that should be glorified in any way.”

“Are you worried that children will follow in their footsteps?”

“Exactly.”

“Mr. Longus, do you have a response?”

“Certainly, Mr. Collier. Congressman, I don’t know who you are to tell others how to live.” The whole crowd made a big ‘wooooo’ sound like television audiences upon hearing something juicy. Quentin smiled to acknowledge the crowd. “Sure, these are hardened killers and criminals; they live by a different code. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t great by their own values. Did you watch the games?”

“Yes, but. . .”

“Well you can’t tell me that Freddy Jackson isn’t an amazing person. Could you have done the same? No way. The man is incredible. I mean damn!!!!”

The crowd started chanting, “Fredd-y, Fredd-y, Fredd-y, Fredd-y.” Following someone’s eyes, I saw Les on the stage leading it. ‘Brilliant.’ ‘Brilliant.’ I thought.

Mr. Collier asked that Quentin control the crowd. “Okay. Okay.” Quentin said winking at them and feigning that he wanted them to be quiet.

“With all due respect to Mr. Jackson and yourself sir.” Intervened the Senator, “Mr. Jackson is a rapist a criminal and a bad man.”

“I’m not saying that he should be free. But within his own code he is a hero. And he should be given, just as you have been, the right to excel at what he’s good at. He’s locked up. What else do you want? Let him live his dreams.”

On cue, Les got the crowd going. “Let Freddy dream, let Freddy dream, let Freddy dream.”

Mr. Longus. Mr. Longus. Please, the crowd. I think the point that he’s trying to make is that people shouldn’t profit off being evil.”

“Does that mean that he won’t be cashing the checks from Prison Wars? Senator, will you cash the check? Will you cash the check?”

“Well, it isn’t. . .”

“Cash that check. Cash that check.” The audience started.

“It isn’t. . .”

“Mr. Longus, the crowd.”

“Sorry. But they’re his constituents. I for one believe that politicians should listen to their constituencies. Even if the crowd is loud, I believe in democracy.”

“Democracy, democracy, democracy. . .” Quentin giggled an evil appreciative giggle as he signaled the crowd to quiet down.

“Thank you for quieting them down. Mr. Blatsky, you have been an outspoken critic of Prison Wars, indeed you’ve got a book coming out on the topic. Mr. Blatsky, what is your take on this?”

“Well, Mr. Collier, Prison Wars is wrong in so many ways I don’t know where to begin. But, I do worry about the influence that idolizing horrible criminals will have on children.”

“Professor, do you really think that children will commit crimes to get into jail so that they can participate in Prison Wars?”

“It isn’t that. It’s that they will be confused about morals. They will not know the difference between good and evil.”

“What about the influence on morals, Mr. Longus, do you really think that there are good lessons for children in Prison Wars?”

“Yes. I mean, who is Mr. Blatsky to say what is beautiful and what isn’t. I think that Prison Wars was really beautiful. What do you think is beautiful?”

“Violence is not beautiful.”

“To you. But you don’t have to participate. Tell you what, you read books or do what ever you want to do, let us do what we want. We’ll leave you alone and you leave us alone, okay?”

“This will make us an uglier nation.”

“If you say Prison Wars is ugly then I guess I love ugly.”

“Ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly. . .” The crowd broke into a huge celebratory cheer.

“Mr. Longus, can’t you please control the crowd?”

“Sorry. They have a mind and loves of their own. We have a real party going on here.” At that, Les got the whole crowd to cheer and scream. “I’m really sorry,” he said with a smile and a wicked look left. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them.”

At that the crowd burst out laughing.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Blatsky, Mr. Longus has a point. Why is it that your idea of fun should be his?”

“They are having a good time, but murder isn’t funny, it’s sick. We punish it because it is wrong. Having murder broadcast as a fun sport cannot be healthy for our country.”

“We are the country.”

“We are the country, we are the country, we are the country.”

“Okay, that’s all the time we have for this segment. Thank you to all of you for joining us tonight, Mr. Longus congratulations on your success and enjoy your party in L.A.”

“Thank you.” And at that, the band started into a punk pop number and the crowd went wild. The other interview, on ABC, went similarly. Blatsky came back, but the Congressman suddenly had another commitment.

I was a little miffed at being left out of the creation, but I had to admire Les’ work. It was a fantastic bit of theatrics. By the next day, ‘I like ugly’ and ‘we are the country’ were being sold on the Prison Wars’ Web site.

Quentin, Les and I went to the Skybar at about one in the morning. Lindsey was there waiting for me. I’m not sure when I lost track of Quentin and Les, but I did. That wasn’t a bad thing though. Lindsey and I had a great time. We went to several after hours bars. I said good-bye to her from a Malibu house party and stumbled home.

Chapter 7 – The Day After

I got home some time after five in the morning. I tried to watch some of the coverage on television when I got home, but I was too dizzy. When I woke up, at around two in the afternoon, I was still dizzy. It had been the night of a lifetime and now I was paying. As the sun was going down there was a knock on my door.

“Come in!”

It was Quentin. And he looked about as bad as I felt. He had lots of perk though.

“Quentin! Hey, ole buddy, how the hell are you? You look great.”

“Thanks!” His old smile of confidence was still reassuring. “How’d ya do last night?”

“Do? Okay. Lindsey and I went out. We ended up at a party not too far from here. I walked home.”

“Did you finally fuck her?”

“No.” I said with obvious resentment at the question. “What happened to you?”

“I went out with Sindy and Les. We had a great time. But it sounds like you did too.” He didn’t sit down, he just kept moving. He was making me a bit nervous.

“Sit down, ya’ going anywhere?”

“No. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” He sat down briefly and then got up again. You do look a little tense.

“I’m not I’m fine. Have you got a beer?” “This early?”

“What is this, the third degree? I just want a beer. Is that such a crime?”

“No. No. Not at all. So what’s on your mind? What’s the haps?”

“Did you see the paper today?”

“No. I tried to watch some coverage when I got home, but . . . Wow Quentin. We really did it. It happened. It was magnificent. You were magnificent. I’m so proud of you. It’s unbelievable.”

“Thanks. I think this is only the beginning.” He smiled a half smile I hadn’t seen before and then he sat down.

“Look at this.” Quentin handed me the newspaper and I surveyed the headline, ‘Prison Wars Ignite Furor and Fans.’ While skimming the front page article, Quentin startled me by yelling.

“Fucking nosey bodies!” It was the first time I had ever seen him angry.

“Who?” I inquired somewhat in shock.

“This organization, ‘Women Against Prison Wars’.” They suck.

I was afraid to offer my true feelings on this issue. He was a fairly loving father. Certainly he had to see that this sort of thing would seem less than wholesome to some. I put my assertive feelings into an oblique protest.

“Are you surprised? Didn’t you realize that these kinds of groups would form to protest us? I thought you’d like it as free publicity.”

“Yeah, it is.” His smile this time was for himself. It was if this dialogue was taking place within him self. He was distracted and thinking of a few things at the same time.

“But couldn’t they think of a better name? They sound lesbian.”

“Quentin mothers don’t sound lesbian to me!”

“Well why do they have to split off the female viewing audience? Why must it be a feminist thing? This will create more divisiveness than I want. In a battle between the sexes men will lose. Women will tell men not to watch if they want some. That’ll kill us.”

“Or men will become more masculine and our culture will become run by male brutes. That would be something like Les would want.”

“Yeah. But Les is a philosopher. I’m a businessman. I want ratings.”

“Well just speaking as a human, who wants to live in a world divided between the sexes? That connection is one of the most important things men have. It is our major civilizing force.”

Though distracted, Quentin was clearly agitated.

“Quentin…” I hesitatingly ventured, “Did you see this whole thing as a promoter of civic values?”

“No.” He said and paused. His entire being seemed to go inside. His chin hit his chest and he went a bit cross-eyed. “I thought it would wake people up to think about right and wrong. I thought it’d be fun and make me money. It would be a great adventure. But I didn’t think a lot about possible bad outcomes. It’s just TV you know.”

Wow! It was then that I realized that not only wasn’t Quentin a guru, but he didn’t think too far in advance. He was just a big surfer kid. How could any adult not think the implications of such an undertaking through?

For a moment I felt a little superior to Quentin. My bachelor’s degree was in Journalism. I had a clue about civics. The world was not a toy to me. I finally understood the source of his tranquility and success. He wasn’t tranquil, as I had thought, out of some sort of metaphysical realization. He was a rich kid whose stupidity had allowed him to intuitively understand the masses. That was the source of his riches. There was no zen here.

“Just T.V.? Quentin don’t you know that the T.V. is the major formulator of values in America today?”

“Hey smart guy don’t tell me about values. I have a loving family that I’m close to. If you know so much about values, how come you never talk of your family without a sense of anger and spite?”

‘Oh Yeah.’ I remembered. ‘He also got where he is by having a keen sense of people.’

“Ouch.”

“Hey sorry about that.” He said through a slight panting. “But you shouldn’t get smug with me. I’m not some little idiot kid. And I can smell condescension from a mile off.”

“No…I’m sorry. I respect you. You are successful both personally and professionally. I should respect you.”

We sat in a bit of silence for a while.

“That’s okay. Look,” He definitely had more aggressive direction in his voice than I’d ever heard before. He finally sounded like a businessman. I was seeing a new side of him and didn’t know if I liked it. “I have an assignment for you that I think you’re going to love.”

“Okay.” I said with a cautious sense of tentativeness.

“I want you to do some investigate reporting.”

“On…?” Though the answer was clear, I wanted him to say it. I wouldn’t want to be accused of having imagined someone would think such a thought. So I waited for him to say it out loud.

“On that damned women’s group.” After about two seconds of my looking agitated and confused he added on, “That is your assignment.” This time after less than two seconds he tagged on, “You’re a good employee and I’m sure you’ll have fun doing it. Anyhow, that’s your assignment.”

“Wow.” I was exasperated.

“Wow is right! And you’ll be good at it Marty.” He was closing the deal. Business 101. He was trying to strike the textbook balance of authority and being personable.

“Marty it isn’t just about TV or me anymore, it’s about power.”

“Power?” I did an interior eye roll. These were Lesisms. He had been hanging out with Les way too much.

“Power. I can’t explain it very well but…can’t you feel it? There is a movement starting to reclaim America.” Because of the little confrontation we’d just had over my condescension I kept a straight face on. But I was reeling inside. Reclaim America? Had he gone mad? Was he on drugs? What was going on with him?

“To reclaim America’s spirit we, we have become weak. There are lots of issues that we are not facing anymore because we have gotten weak and effeminate. We are, to put it not too politely, getting pussified.”

“What!?”

“Pussified! Come on Marty. Can’t you see what is going on? Take you for instance. You go out and you are scared to talk to women.”

I blushed knowing it was true.

“Yeah…” I was trying to reassure him that I was listening, not being condescending and not thinking he was totally mad.

“It shouldn’t be that way. That is a sign of spiritual rot. Men need to be manly. That is the essence of our being. We need to be a masculine take care of ourselves kind of country again.” He had gone mad?

“This group Mothers Against Prison Wars. They are symptomatic of the shrill nature of our society. They should be able to stand a little masculinity. Their children should be allowed to fight and face competition. It’s bad enough they want to protect their children from real experience, from their real selves, but they want to turn all us men, our entire society into dainty little girls. That is wrong.”

Wow. Too much. Les had totally bent him. He seemed like a man possessed. He had way too much energy and he was ranting.

I was totally speechless but thought I had to say something. “Is that why you want me to investigate the Mother’s group?”

“Yes. I want to know everything about them, especially about their leader. Her name is Karen Ashcroft. If we can find any dirt on her we will use it.” There was a knock on the door. The light knock gave it a way. Quentin politely getting very poised cleared his throat. “Come in Melissa.”

As the door swung open her eyes, laser like, locked onto Quentin. “Quent! You’re here! I was coming in to ask Marty if he’d heard from you.”

Quentin looked at me with a pained look. Wow. I realized that he came to see me before he went in to see her! He turned towards her.

“Honey, we just got up. We’ve been passed out here for hours, then we just got up and started talking.”

“Well you certainly did have a lot to talk about. God what a splash! Darling we are famous! When did you get in?”

The question was directed towards me. It was my moment of truth. What would I say? Would I lie to a woman that had been so decent to me, a woman that had been like a best friend and hostess to me, a woman that had housed me?

“About five.”

In retrospect, she hadn’t asked me when we had gotten in. She used the pronoun ‘you’. This implied both of us without stating it. But it was rotten. There was no excuse. There was no honesty in the answer.

“And you haven’t left this room since?”

“No.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No. Well dinner will be served in about sixty minutes. Will you join us?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh Quent. It was wonderful. The kids are so excited. I wish you’d come in earlier. But we’ll all share our excitement at six. See you there, right?”

“Of course dear. Sorry I didn’t come in immediately. I didn’t want to wake you. We got in late, drunk and in no mood to be quiet or go to sleep. We just talked until we passed out.”

“Of course. See you inside, soon.”

When the door closed we were quiet as we listened to her feet go down the path.

“Thanks Marty. Man, I wasn’t sure if I could count on you. I think you know what happened last night and I didn’t want to upset her.”

I’m not sure if his implication at that time included an admission to a burgeoning drug habit or just infidelity.

“You bet Quentin.” Was my weak reply. I felt like a beaten man. I was bewildered. From the height of elation, I plunged down into the valley of confusion. Betrayal, guilt, confusion - everything but elation and happiness – wreaked havoc inside of my head now.

Was Quentin mad? Had I just lied to a very kind woman? Should I make a stand? In retrospect I am proud that my job and home weren’t things that I considered. My friendship with both members of the Longus family and my value system were the contenders in this war.

Quentin could tell, as anyone could, that I was stunned. He calmed down. I finally felt his mania tuning down to a friendlier compassion. The old Quentin came back into focus for a second.

“Marty, I’m sorry that I just put you in that position. I know that you’re feeling confused and a sense of divided loyalties.”

“I’ll say.”

“You probably even are confused about my grand changes.” For the first time since he entered the room we looked each other in the eyes.

“I am totally changing. Les has helped me to see the world in a whole new way. It’s not that I’m mad, though I had a long night of passionate venting and discussion with Les. But I’m, for the first time in my life, starting to have some ideas about society and things other than my little happy life.”

“Well, I’d be happy to talk about social philosophy with you. But I think you also have to think about the individuals in the world. Look at what you just did. You just lied to your wife. You’re ranting at me. I’m not your wife, but I hope I mean something to you.” Little half smiles broke a bit of the tension in the room.

“I mean, you do to me Quentin and I’d hate to see you self-destruct. You have a lot to lose. And I don’t think that Les is a particularly good influence on you.”

“That’s just it buddy. It isn’t that I’m losing myself. For the first time I feel like I have finally found my self. A lot of my centered calm that was my goal in life came from denying my self, my desires, what I really wanted.

For years, my therapist has been trying to get me to get in touch with my desires. Quentin, I’m going to tell you something. Remember that girl Sindy at the Spacebar?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve had an affair with her.” He instinctually looked down towards the ground.

“Oh Quentin!” Mine was an exasperation mixed with disappointment. “And you lied to me about it too.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that buddy. But that’s just it. I’m not sorry about the affair. It was what I wanted. I am an alpha-male and I shouldn’t spend my life apologizing or rationalizing away my power. Men are men when they acknowledge their power. Women are attracted to power. I take care of Melissa in fine fashion. She has all she needs to play out all her womanly dreams. But she should also respect me and give me the space I need for me to be the man that I have finally come to accept that I am.”

He looked to me for understanding. I was silent. He let me have my silent space.

“Are you going to tell Melissa about this new vision of yours?”

“Well like you’ve said, you’re a good friend. You know us as a couple better than anyone else. And I trust you and your judgment, as I hope you’re sort of trusting me with my endeavors. And because I trust you I want to know what you think I should tell Melissa. I’m not the man she married. I’m changing. But I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt anybody. But I have to be me. So do I tell her?”

“I don’t know Quentin. To be honest with you, I’m not sure I’m really in sympathy with this new you. It seems kind of juvenile, very juvenile. That was hard for me to say and I hope that you recognize that it took courage. But I felt I needed to say that. I’m your friend. I think this whole thing smells.”

At that he looked a little perturbed, but got out a “Thanks. I know you’re a good friend.”

“But I also know that I can’t stop you. I mean, you’re your own man. I can argue with you, but it’ll probably just piss you off and drive us farther apart. So what the hell can I do?”

“You can trust me. You are welcome to come along for the ride of your life. But you’re right. I’m finding a whole new me and I ain’t gonna change it for now. No way. I’m having too much fun. Was that Prison Wars contest a blast or what?”

“It was a tad bit gruesome for my taste. But the rally and parties and hanging out afterwards. . . Ya it was a hell of a blast.”

“It was huge!”

“Yeah it was fun!”

“You bet it was. And for you to deny that is to deny a part of yourself. You’re a nerd. I know that.” I shot him a pained look. “What? You only get brutally honest shots? You’re a nerd and that isn’t bad. But you’re also a man. And you’re right, it was a rush being in the center of that thing. And if you thought it was fun being with me, imagine what it must be like to be me.

Honestly, I don’t want to lose an opportunity and I know you won’t either. And I love you brother.” Quentin reached across the space between us and grabbed my arm. He had a large presence. He was an alpha-male for sure. “So I hope that you follow me along on my ride, even kicking or screaming. I need real friends around me that can be brutally honest with me.” Without waiting for assent or reciprocal affirmations of brotherly love, he threw out the question again.

“So what about Melissa? What do I tell her?”

“What do you suppose will happen if you tell her everything?”

“Odds are she’ll flip. But she’s always been a bit of a devil, beneath her momliness. Perhaps she’ll give it a nudge and a wink. What do you think?”

“I think she really loves you. She won’t be as complicit in losing you or seeing you hurt yourself as I might be. Life is not a game for her.”

“It should be. I said I watch life like a play. Les quoted Nietzsche, have you ever heard of him?”

“Of course.” Without meaning to this made Les a little self – conscious.

“Well, anyways, he said something like life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think.”

“Don’t you love Melissa?”

“Of course…but a man’s way. A man’s way is different than a woman’s way. I’m just being brutally honest.”

“And your kids?”

“They should know what it is to laugh. Justin should know what it is to be a real man behaving manly.”

“Well perhaps you’re right. Perhaps there is a difference between manly and female love.” I was maneuvering him and thinking of protecting her. “So perhaps you shouldn’t tell Melissa about all this stuff now, because she, being a woman, wouldn’t understand.”

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps that’s the right thing to do.”

It was in this conversation more than any other I ever had that I sealed my fate. Worse than that, I sealed Quentin and Melissa’s fate and possibly that of the whole countries’.

What could I have done differently? I don’t know.

I could have been a more forceful advocate of an alternative ethical system. But I’m still not trained in ethics. I probably couldn’t out argue Quentin. He was super intelligent.

This whole story could have worked to counter his ethical bent. But, it hadn’t happened yet. I hope it has some effect on you. Even so, once around the bend, once he had gone a power mad and corrupt he might have wanted to go out guns a blazing in a destructive flame.

Leaving him wouldn’t have helped. I could have quit. But had I quit he would have continued down the same path regardless. If had done that it would have changed nothing and no one could have chronicled this important story all the way through for you as I have.

As we entered the house, Melissa beamed., “Well welcome home conquering hero!” In a sort of staccato crescendo cheer. She was holding a glass and toasted him with it.

“Thanks honey, hi.” He responded, leaning over and kissing her affectionately on the cheek. He was confident. He had none of the sheepish, been out the entire night before repentance air that he had had in the guest house.

“Hey Marty!”

“Hey Melissa, and hey to you little ones” I said messing up Samantha’s hair a little. Being so unkempt and feeling a bit dazed gave me a bit of guilt about my being there. Still it was such a warm and welcoming home I knew the guilt was unjustified.

“Hey Uncle M!” Justin offered. We’d become close enough through playing football and such, that he had given me that pet name.

The kids seemed nonplussed. I don’t think they knew what daddy had been doing the night before. It was a Sunday morning, so they hadn’t gotten the attention they’d be getting at school if word got around.

Dinner was beautifully arranged on a white lace tablecloth covering a perfect rectangle table. Quentin and Melissa always sat opposite each other. Justin sat next to my empty chair when we came in. Samantha sat waiting on her side alone. As usual, her chair was a little closer to Melissa’s than Quentin’s.

“So how was last night?”

“Did you see it on television?” Quentin asked.

“I taped the coverage. After putting the kids to sleep I watched it.” She was a great protective mother.

“Didn’t want the kids to see dad’s handiwork?” Quentin chided with a sense of accusation I hadn’t expected from him.

“Not really. That program was one of the most gruesome and ghastly things I’d ever seen.” She wasn’t exactly a passive ambassador of peace.

“It was pretty brutal. Sixteen killed; two out of mercy.” Quentin was relishing it in his mind.

“Horrible. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Powerful stuff.” I offered in a dopey kind of conciliatory way.

Melissa shot a look of repulsion and disappointment at me. “Let’s eat.”

“Hey, kiddies!” Quentin took a seat as we did. He asked them about their school work and week. Justin had gotten hurt in a soccer game.

“Well, Justin, you’ve just got to keep fighting. Don’t let the other guy see you cry. Next time you get him back.”

“Quent!”

“Well, he is a boy, he has to know how to fend for himself. He can’t go through life being coddled. He is a boy. Boys are violent and competitive. It’s in their nature.”

“But nature is often violent and brutal and stupid. That doesn’t mean that we should follow it.”

“But you can’t go around your whole life suppressing it.”

“Perhaps there is a happy blend.” My fear of conflict was pathetic.

“Yes,” Melissa said, “a happy blend.” She was perturbed but went about her making sure that the kids all got some of each of the foods and ate what they were supposed to.

“Quent, you’ve been away a lot. Can you start spending more time at home? I mean the program is up and launched isn’t it?”

“I’ll try babe. This thing is getting larger than I thought it would.”

“It is huge.” She smiled, relieved to be able to agree on something with Quentin. She seemed to cling to this moment of domestic bliss, in a sad somewhat desperate way. She was worried about Quentin. That much was clear. But I could also see that she, as I had been, was confused about how to navigate this unanticipated situation.

Quentin was no longer a docile doting husband. He was getting willful. I felt for her. She had more, much more, invested in Quentin. I could find another job, but… One could almost see them negotiating for power as if in a business meeting. Quentin was always the winner in such arenas.

“How about tonight? Can you spend today here? After all it is a weekend.”

“Sure honey. I’m really tired. Let’s rest together.” Quentin was a charmer and he was concerned. This wasn’t an arena where he wanted to be adversarial. “Marty how’s your energy level?”

“Fine.”

“There is a meeting of the group we spoke of this evening at the Century City Plaza hotel. I’d like you to go. I can’t, for obvious reasons, go. But bring me back useful information please.” Quentin was giving me an order, showing that he was in command. He was also letting all present know that he was in the middle of something that couldn’t take full holidays. It was a moving train that had it’s own priorities, whether we attended or not.

“Honey, Quent, you need to get some space between you and this project. I want to spend the night and tomorrow having family time. I really need to talk with you; to be with you.” She was plaintive now, bargaining for time.

He didn’t look up. This was a classic power move. “Sure honey. And I want to spend time with you and my little one’s too.” He made a really cute and funny look at Samantha who gave him a little girl, ‘I’m putting up with you and I love you’ squinch of her face.

“I’m not little anymore!” Protested Justin.

“Sure you’re not,” said Quentin with a more enthused version of a hair messing than I had earlier mustered for Samantha and a bright intense scary smile. “You’re a big killer! A wonton little mischief maker.”

“Quent Longus! Our boy is not a killer!”

“Sure he is honey.”

“Sure I am Mom.”

“Would you kill your mommy?” With a higher dose of anger and irritation than she normally puts into her playful bantering.

“Honey! Now whose being extreme? Of course he wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes and the sides of her lips smiled over an expression that otherwise looked like it revealed a headache.

“But we’d both kill to protect you. Wouldn’t we killer?” Quentin looked right to his boy.

“That’s right dad. I’d kill for mommy.”

“That’s it boy. Lemme see your muscles.” Justin, fork in left and knife in right, flexed both his muscles and, egged on by dad, they both growled, “Grrrrr.” Sam joined in with a little “grrrr”. I even grrrred a little and Melissa broke into a laugh that seemed like the beginning of weeping. But she quickly joined the rest of us, food in our smiling teeth, growling.

Will you be able to get some of that research I asked you about done this evening?”

“Yeah. I’m going to get right on it. I’ll make a serious go of it tonight and tomorrow.”

After eating Quentin went straight up to sleep. The next day, we all went to the beach. Superficially, it seemed that things were better between them. But the day trip to the beach had a kind of nostalgia handing over it. It was if they had already lost what they had. Both knew things would never be the same. It was a ‘once more for old time’s sake.’

But, honestly, because it may prove important, there was a selfish nature to what I did. Of course it didn’t end up being in my best interest. But at the time, I was curious, in a journalistic and salacious way to see where this whole thing was going.

I was corrupted as a journalist and as a human.

Knowing what happened, I guess I’m glad I stayed with it. Because of that, if society ever gets back together again, you’ll be able to tell this story to your young. But never think for a second that what resulted makes my actions right.

Corruption is called corruption for a reason. It will eat at you inside and out. Ravish your face, heart and, eventually, your civilization. It was on the very day after the very first Prison War that I was first complicit in evil. Evil is evil, but it comes in packages of different sizes. But full meals come in bite size bites. And you are what you eat.

Beware of evil. Be good.

Chapter Eight – The Triumvirate meets

The night of the beach trip Les, Quentin and I had a really important meeting. It was the first time I got a hint of what Les’ real intentions were. As we left for the meeting, Quentin promised Melissa he’d try to be home early. “Take care.” Was the last thing she said to us as we went off. I really loved her. Melissa Longus is a great woman and a caring woman. She deserves no blame for what happened.

Sam was waiting in the limo for us at the end of the driveway. The doors were open and we got in and closed them ourselves. “To the Skybar sir?”

“To the Skybar.” Quentin replied.

The journey to the Skybar is interesting. Out of Malibu, you just drive down the coastline to where Sunset hits the sea. You then go left, past the self-realization center, past UCLA, past Beverly Hills, onto the seedy Sunset strip.

The route itself always seemed like an analogy to me. You leave nature and the spiritual and even sail past the pursuit of knowledge on your way to money and decadence. The ride kind of changes you. As you wind up the windy famous boulevard, you feel like you’re entering a movie. You are transformed as if sliding down the batpole or something.

You emerge ready for action.

“I’ve missed you Sam.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard Quentin give anything but directions to Sam. I had a hard time believing what I was hearing.

“Thank you sir.”

They made a happy, mischievous eye contact in the rear view. Perhaps they went back farther than I had ever ventured to guess. I wasn’t going to enquire. Fraternizing with help…the whole idea of help, always made me feel a little uneasy. Waiters, after all, could be your family members. The wall that made them your servants always seemed contrived and artificial to me.

“And if you don’t mind my saying so sir, Prison Wars kicked some serious booty.”

“Thank you Sam.” Quentin’s tone said that’ll be quite enough. He nodded, winked and pushed the button that slid the glass partition that separates the passengers and drivers into place.

“God I love limos.” Quentin exclaimed as he stretched his whole body into one big ‘X’. “I’ve missed them. Do you like limos Marty?” His question almost seemed like an interview question. He wanted to know if I was going to be a full player or just a servant, another Sam.

“You bet I do.” I was answering him in a way that let him know that I wasn’t against him and that I wanted to be a team player. I was also searching to ascertain if I did like them and if so why.

I started to muse out loud. “I do like them Quentin.” The first name sounded a little strange after his conversation with Sam. “You know what I like most about them?”

“No, what?” Quentin seemed amused and satisfied by my playing along, my acting the part he was hoping I’d play.

“I like the insular feel of them. Limos have a feeling of power that is an aphrodisiac for sure. But I think a lot of that has to do with how well protected and supplied they are. Nothing can screw with you when you’re in a limo.”

“Exactly. You’re invulnerable. You can get whatever you want, whenever you want it and no one can touch you.” As he was saying this he pushed the button that made a small bar come out of the little table that separated us. He started to mix us Patriots. Being the favorite of both of us, this drink had bonded us.

“It’s a sense of smug well-being that makes one feel nearly evil. And that kind of security is a rush.”

“Yeah. It could almost corrupt you.”

“How so?” I asked with a plaintiff sort of immediacy that broke character. I was sort of hoping that the danger of corruption was an admission of vulnerability, a sign that he was going to be cautious or somewhat reform himself.

“It’s the sort of thing,” He continued with a determination to out cool my apparent panic, my apparent fear of the power of the limo. “It’s the sort of thing that could make you want to do evil, just to check how impervious you are. After a while that kind of danger would be a nice addiction.” At that he flashed his old smile. But it now represented a different sort of self satisfaction. It was a self-satisfaction with an implied violence.

I sort of gulped. I was pale, taken aback. Wow. What an intense monstrosity. To be with him, to play at his level, an ordinary guy like myself would have to somewhat transform himself. He had always gotten what he wanted. He had always said that life was like a film he enjoyed. Now he had radically switched the channel.

I could feel that I was to be cast in a different part. I wasn’t sure that I could do it. I’ve never considered myself to be extraordinary. As a journalist I sought out and reported on many stories. But I had never fancied myself an actor in one. Now I had an opportunity to be in one, to star in one.

“I have something for you Marty.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a gift. A token of our friendship and business relationship. It was actually an idea of Les’. It was his idea that you should have one.” He leaned forward and took out a credit card sized little present wrapped in newspaper.

“Open it.” It was obvious what it was because nothing else is credit card sized other than credit cards. It had my name, ‘Marty Sanger’ above the words ‘Prison Wars Inc.’ embossed in gold on it.

“Thanks! How nice of you.”

“Marty, you’re off salary. That’s an e-ticket. You’re along for the ride ‘cause I want to have you along for it. That card will get you anything you want, when you want it. From your own limo rides, to helicopter rides, to women, to hotel rooms, you name it. That’s your ticket.”

“Wow thanks!”

“It’s nothin’. I love you brother. I want you to be part of the team. I’ve seen that you’ve had some tension with Les. He’s a good man. I want you to cool it with him. I want you to get on board. I want you to be part of the team.

You along for the ride?”

Wow, Jesus. What an opportunity. Again, I had to ask myself if this was this really happening to me, a normal working class guy cum journalist. “Thanks Marty. I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say you’re on board with us.”

“I’m on board with you with pleasure. The first round of drinks at the Skybar are one me.”

Quentin smiled and leaned forward. “You’re in a unique position between me and my wife and myself. Last night you showed me that you’ll always be honest with me. You are a superb publicist and I believe that there is even more to you than you realize right now. For all those reasons, I want you by my side on this adventure.”

“I appreciate it.” He nodded, smiled and winked in the way that conveyed calm warm acceptance he had always favored me with. He was an amazing guy, I realized, and I was super lucky to know him. His confidence, balls, imagination and calm under fire were amazing. “I mean I really appreciate the confidence, the card and the friendship.”

He raised his glass and we clinked them together in apparently mutual admiration.

Once parked at the Skybar Sam opened the door without a word. As we got out the energy of the Sunset strip seemed to pulsate. There is nothing light the night air at Sunset and Vine. We went past the line at the door in a way that we knew couldn’t fail to draw gossiping, admiring attention.

Inside, not out where the pool made everything too transparent, sitting at a cozy booth with a beautiful young lady, Les was waiting for us. She had a sort of Jewish look, a wide nose, big eyes and lips that wrapped around a smile that made one’s heart skip a beat. For a guy my age, mid thirties, it even felt like I was going to have a heart attack.

“Michelle, if you’ll excuse us, my friends have arrived.” She slid around the booth and looked me in the eyes as she smiled and skipped away.

Les rose up and he extended a firm grip to me. “Marty. How are you?”

“Great. How’s things for you.”

“Superb. Couldn’t be better.” He’d slicked up since I’d last seen him. His hair now appeared to be gelled. He wore a dark purple shirt that was unbuttoned to his sternum and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to give him an action packed look. Somehow he looked larger. His breathing, his presence had grown. He had lost his cramped little office look.

“Good to see ya bud.” Quentin started the move into seats. “What’re ya drinking tonight?”

“Patriots.”

“Beautiful, we already started on tequila sunrises in the Limo. We should probably stick with them.”

“Actually, Quentin, I think I’ll switch to patriots in the name of congeniality.”

“Okay, in the name of congeniality, I will too.”

“So when the waitress comes we’ll all have one and one for all!” We laughed, quasi-forced laughs. I still didn’t really trust Les and I didn’t think I was going to. But, if he was going to be my new partner in crime, I had to get along with him.

The waitress did come (I won’t describe her as the waitresses at the Skybar all look like supermodels) and we ordered a round.

“So, Marty, has Quentin asked you about doing a little investigative journalism for us?”

“Mothers Against Prison Wars? Yes, Quentin asked me to look into it yesterday. And after dinner last night, I started compiling records on all of their leaders.” It was a calculated bluff. I hadn’t done any such thing.

“My, my. That is impressive.”

“I told you he was great.” Quentin and Les made a spontaneous little mini-toast to me. Quentin continued the tremendously encouraging look of pride and joy as he turned his head back towards me. “Go on.”

“Well I will, I would, but I need to know what you want from me first. What’s the agenda here? What do you want to know?”

“Well my astute friend,” Les took the lead though, out of habit, I expected Quentin to answer. “We are on the cusp of a revolution in American culture and politics.” The source of Quentin’s new ideas was confirmed. “We are going to launch an organization that will be on the forefront of this revitalization of our country. The organization will be called, ‘Men for Manliness.’ It will start as an advocacy group for the continuation of Prison Wars, a sort of counter to ‘Mothers Against Prison Wars’. But we have plans for it after that. It will mutate into an organization that will tackle a host of issues that are important to men. Issues that are important to our country.”

Knowing that these men were not inept, but actually successful men; knowing that I wanted to be a part of this crew; I resolved to only stress the positive. There would be no doubts emanating from Martin Sanger. I wouldn’t mention the brown shirts. I wouldn’t mention the benefits of the rule of law.

“But our first priority,” Les nearly returned to the tone that preceded his crescendo. In the time this took, I tried to show my agreement by finishing his thought smugly, “…is to discredit the group against which we are fighting.”

“Not exactly. We have to think strategically, otherwise we’ll just look like lunatics.” My guffaw stayed in my stomach. “No we must milk the animosity between our group and theirs. We want to slowly bring society to a boil by festering this controversy into a long running feud. We don’t want a pyrrhic victory. We want a prolonged battle of attrition that causes everyone to take a side before the final battles are mounted. Conflict is good for us. We must maintain it.”

“Did I tell you he was good?” Quentin beamed. He was good. Some of you will have trouble believing that Les Jangus used words like ‘attrition’ and ‘pyrrhic victories’ in his normal speech, but he did. He was, after all, a professor of philology. Being macho and crude was a device he used for public appearances. In conversation he was much more refined.

“Wow. You are a strategist. You do have vision. Keeping the issues we want to address in the public eye will mean that everyone will have heard about them. You’re right, we want news stories about families torn apart over this. We want to bring up a culture divide that goes beyond the acceptance or rejection of the Prison Wars themselves.” I was trying on my ability to speak like an apocalyptic preacher. But I was very understated in comparison to Les.

“Precisely. Prison Wars will be our church. It will be where we come to cleanse and energize ourselves. Our juices and understandings will flow from it. But our battles will not be confined to the stadium. No we are talking about creating a civilization that has more of a competitive bloodlust. One in which people know their strengths, their weaknesses and their true nature.”

“I feel what you are saying.” His passion stirred my feelings a bit. He wasn’t the weak professor I had met earlier. This was a worthy partner. Whatever he was thinking, he was, like Quentin, thinking big. Like a moth to a flame (for selfish, not just journalistic interests) I wanted to be a part of this.

I consciously tried to reinforce his bonding to me by stealing lines from Quentin that must have originated with him. “Society has gotten very legal. Everyday people move around like little scared pawns in someone else’s game. So what you’re talking about is some anarchic release from the ties that bind.”

“No. Not a spirit of anarchy.” He petted his goatee and rolled his eyes up and to the left as he spoke. I was conscious of my trying to fit in. I think with him, acting had become natural. “That would be extremely dangerous. Rather, we need to direct the energy we are releasing. That is why Prison Wars is like a dream fallen from heaven. It is the perfect analog to what I wrote about in ‘Blood and Technopolis[1]’. Have you read it?”

“No. To be honest, I hadn’t…”

“No. You hadn’t even heard of it. I know.” He looked down as if burdened. For a moment he looked like a broken man at his end. But he revived quickly with a gleam in his eyes. “It rolls out what I feel to be the central issue of the times, the severing of man from his nature and that of the natural world, his being turned into a passive, consumer statistic.”

Quentin butted in. “Do you see how passive people have become? They are consumers in someone else’s advertisement. Prison Wars isn’t about violence. It’s about giving people back their voice. It’s about getting them to think and feel with a fresh energetic perspective.”

“We will give the people the ability, the permission, to shout down the status quo constrictions that hold them down.” My words seemed to strike a chord with them.

“Yes.” They both nodded and said simultaneously. “Yes.”

“I knew you’d see it our way Marty. It is so good to have you on board one hundred percent.”

“An excellent distilling; you are a quick study. Gentlemen, shall I propose a toast? To the future of the Men for Manliness campaign! Three cheers. Hip, hip – hooray! Hip, hip – hooray! Hip, hip – hooray!” We all drank deeply of our glasses.

Quentin took the next, “And to a long partnership that stirs up the world. Three cheers.” Hip, hip – hooray! Hip, hip – hooray! Hip, hip – hooray! We all drank deeply of our glasses again.

And sealing the circle, I offered my own. “And to our leader who got us the forum from which to operate - Quentin! Three cheers. Hip, hip – hooray! Hip, hip – hooray! Hip, hip – hooray.” We all drank until we polished off our glasses.

“Oh God, what fun! I really haven’t had fun since my youth. I’ve spent so many years of my life trying to figure out what’s wrong with society that I haven’t had much time to just enjoy nights like this. It feels good to be alive. It’s exhilarating to be back to being the real me.”

I was so engrossed in my own smile and drink that I’d almost completely forgotten what we were talking about. Then the thread of it crept back into my head. His ideas struck me as having some merit, but the implications. . . I couldn’t see where he was going with this.

“So what would you do with this energy once you’ve reconnected people with it?”

“Oh, I have ideas about that. But the first thing to do is to get people loud and shouting as a mob.”

“You’ve already shown your ability to do that! That night of Prison Wars. . .”

“It was fun. But think about the dormant potential in such a crowd. Such a voice could shake the lawyers in the bureaus of statistical human management - that’s what I nick named Congress. It would be a voice that they would have to listen to with fresh ears. It is a voice that would call upon a new type of leader. Out with the soft and in with the new.”

“It’s like Bob Dylan’s old song, the times they are a changin’ ‘they’ll rattle your windows and bang on your doors.” My speaking leaned towards singing as I got to the end of the quote. Surprisingly Les joined in on the chorus.

“For the times they are a changin’.” It was the first time that Les and I ever had a mutually concocted reason to laugh. We bonded a little on that chorus. The pronoun ‘us’ became appropriate for the first time (Especially as Quentin, though delighted, seemed to never have heard of the song before).

Quentin, then sealed the bond with a shrug, a quizzical look and a salute. “I’ll drink to that!” We all joined him.

“So you are talking about a revitalization of democracy.”

“Precisely. And yet,” He went back into his goatee fingering, this time with his eyes darting down for a second. “the mob is an unwieldy thing. It requires direction.”

“Enter us!” But this seemed a bit too much to believe and got no response. Thinking perhaps that the exuberance was getting the best of me, I added a question as a tag line. “Do you envision us as some sort of triumvirate?”

“Not exactly. But it was an impressive reference. You’re an intellectual Marty, you should read some of my books.” I blushed a bit accordingly. “There are things that make sense for a country and things that only bring chaos. I believe every man should reclaim his own mind as a man. We can be spokespersons. But the ideas must percolate up if they are to be pursued with energy. We can suggest directions. But they will only gain a following if they strike a chord with the mass of men.”

“Isn’t that demagoguery?” I was back to my journalistic self.

“No, only if it consists in pandering - redistribution of wealth and all that. I’m not for that. I think in much more personal terms. I’m thinking more of letting people have a collective voice in the running of our country. A healthy amount of mobocracy can strengthen the nation and the people in it. But I’m not into a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage pipe dreams.”

“Please.” I was being a tough journalist now. The evasion annoyed me. “Give me a specific.”

“A specific, my dear friend.” He showing his power and annoyance at my criticism. “Is Prison Wars.” He snapped my out of my aggressive journalist mode and back into the role I was vying for.

Laughing at myself to make light of the exchange, I rolled my eyes up signal that I thought I had been an idiot to miss the obvious. With a silly expression and a shrug I said, “Whoops, I forgot.”

“To Prison Wars.” I offered. And after that was met with approval and drinking, I offered, “To Les, a great thinker.”

“And, damn good drinker.” Quentin added.

“To Quentin.” Les showed his hand at buttering up.

And I was very glad, when they both turned and said together, “To Marty.”

We all drank and laughed.

Just then Sindy came slinking on over. I use ‘slinking’ so you can tell that I didn’t like her very much. What was there to like? She was a shallow user, a siphon. She contributed not one positive thing to us. Whatever she says is a lie. Don’t believe her or her agent’s hype.

Sindy wasn’t the hottest girl on the block. But she knew exactly what to do with it. And those who have watched television know what she looked like. But you have never smelt her perfume. And she always dressed conservatively enough that you were tempted to violate her and trampy enough that you thought you might have a chance. On this night she wore a red angora sweater that cut off just above her waist line. Not having a bra was the perfect touch.

Sindy, Sindy, Sindy.

“What you fella’s celebrating so loudly over here?” She had a certain wholesome quality in her skin that made the existence of her lips a miracle. By what right did intrude so suddenly into her baby soft skin? By the authority of pouting salaciousness.

“Well, well, well, stop the presses. If it isn’t Ms. Sindy with an ‘S’.” Les said, apparently recognizing her.

So here she was, the center of intrigue. Marty had told me about her. Well if he had to be guilty with someone. . . But what about Melissa? What of his new ambitions? Weren’t they all endangered by such trivialities? There was nothing I could say without going severely against the grain.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Asked Les.

“Glad to see you fellas again. It’s been too long. Saw you with Michelle earlier, Les. I know you’re taken care of. But hows about you Mr. Drools a lot? You with anyone?”

“Well I don’t see . . .”

“Leslie?” Quentin interrupted. “That girl is no good for you. Has she put out yet?”

“No.” I was embarrassed at his crudeness.

“You didn’t want to have sex with her?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“But nothing. You need to lose a lot of inhibitions. Sindy, do you have any friends here tonight.”

Without a word Sindy walked away with a wide swinging of the hips that couldn’t have become second nature without a lot of practice.

I vocalized my concern. “Les, Quentin, don’t you think this kind of behavior is reckless? Doesn’t it do damage to our righteous cause? Won’t it get in the way of our ambitions?”

Les responded, taking the lead more than I’d have liked him to. “Sir the medium is the message and we are the life. And if not for us, then for whom is our message appropriate? The weak present a danger to the strong. To lead people out of their stifled modes of living we need to stretch our own wings first. ”

“Remember when I called you a nerd and told you that I think you have a fear of women?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well I think it’s true. Sorry about that. But it’s only because you were brought up in a home that was, like our society, matriarchal. I really think it would be therapeutic for you if you followed your passions without fear. Try it.”

“Therapeutic? Okay sounds good.”

“Oh my God! I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you guys the big news!”

“What?” We both asked.

“I graduated from therapy.”

“How does one do that?” I was still smarting from the rehashing of the nerd comment.

“I punched out my therapist!”

“What?!?!”

“He said that I was getting lost and I needed to take a break from the confusing situations I had placed myself in. He told me that I had to clear the air so I could remember my true self. I told him that I’d been thinking the same exact thing, wound up and decked him.”

“Wow! That is impressive!” Les exclaimed. I was totally shocked.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I met that asshole. It felt so good. I felt really free and whole. He was a source of a lot of anxiety for me. I feel so much better since I did that – like a new man.

It was a total vindication of your philosophy Les. Thanks.

Marty, you need to get in touch with your manly aspects. Hunt some women for a couple of nights. For the first time in my life I feel like I’ve stopped being afraid of women. I feel free to be myself and it is empowering.”

A mental image of Melissa’s face, that I couldn’t say anything about, popped into my head when Sindy came back with one of the most exquisite young ladies I had ever seen.

“Everyone, Sheila. Sheila, everyone. And Sheila, especially Mr. Sanger.”

“Marty.” I publicly insisted through the lump of nerves in my throat.

“And if my work isn’t done here I don’t know how to do it. Quenty baby, come with me.”

“Then I to mine.” Les added. “Marty, you’ve got the tab, I assume?”

I smiled and nodded in stunned silence. Quentin answered for me, “Yeah I gave him a card, as you suggested.” Les gave a look of consideration that led me to believe that it wasn’t his idea. “Take care Marty. Explore, learn and grow. And if I don’t see you the rest of this evening, I’ll see you back at the house. And I expect to hear some good stories.”

As they left I felt like a drowning man that couldn’t call out for help. Sheila plunked down next to me. She had a red satin dress on. In the forties this sort of dress would have had sequins on it. Instead it just had a bow on the left, and only, shoulder strap. Ripples on the front of the dress all pointed to her nipples.

“Bet you don’t get a lot of dates?” She looked empathetic, through her thick lipstick and period curled blonde hair.

“No. Not too many.”

“I wanna do something. Let’s role play, okay?”

“Okay. What shall our roles be?”

“I’ll pretend that I’m a horny chick looking for a good time and you pretend you’re a really confident and macho dude.”

“Okay.” I was so nervous I could die. “I’ll try.”

“Start.” She said moving closer to me.

“Uh, I stumbled. How are you tonight?”

“Great. Don’t be afraid of me. Look at my body like you appreciate it. Do it. It won’t bite.” I looked down shyly. “Do it till it isn’t frightening anymore. Don’t I have hot nipples?”

I blushed. “Don’t be afraid. Describe everything hot about my body and what you want to do to it.”

“Well, you do have nice sized breasts.” She smiled a big smile. I had expected that kind of comment would cause a woman to hit you. I had always thought such thoughts, of course, in the presence of women. But I had never said anything like that before. She was still smiling in anticipation. Though still uncomfortable, I decided to challenge myself. “Your neck is like that of a swan.”

“Did you think my legs are nice?”

“Oh so.”

“Tell me what your exact thoughts are right now without censorship. Tell me what you’d like to do to me. Don’t be afraid of your thoughts. I won’t find them offensive.”

“I’d love to lift up your skirt. I have been wondering about your underwear since I saw you.”

“What do you fantasize they look like?”

“They are cotton and have little prints on them.”

“Like little girl underwear.” I blushed and looked away. “Why don’t you put your hand in my lap, lift up my dress a bit and see what you want to see?”

I shook as my hands ran up her thigh. I slowly lifted her dress. She had red silk underwear on. “Tell me what you want me to do. You can’t get what you want unless you ask for it. You know what you want. Tell me.”

“I’d like to see you bend over so I can see your nipples.” She bent down to where I could almost see them. “I’d like you to lick your lips.” She did. “I’d like you to put your hand in my lap and touch me.” She did.

And though I never ever thought that I would say such a thing to a strange woman, I mustered up the nerve to ask her to come to a hotel room with me.

“Only if you’ll completely dominate me and treat me like a slave.” She replied.

We left and went to a special hotel. It had whips and rope and other accessories. It was a transformational experience. It was the first time in my life that I ever got exactly and everything that I wanted. I found out that I could do things that I never thought I’d be brave enough to do.

Chapter Nine – The Movement Rises

Everyone knows what happened next. Men for Manliness exploded. We filled stadiums. We redefined the meaning of relationships. We completely transformed the culture. We gained so much air time and spoke so directly to the passions of the lower end of society that all other television seemed dead by comparison. We dominated America.

Along the way there were some now very infamous incidents. All of them were stage managed by Les Christensen. I knew he was brilliant; a methodical and creative thinker. But I wasn’t imaginative enough to dream of what he planned for us.

Traditionally dictators have slowly introduced more and more unacceptable issues so that none of them seems much worse than the preceding. Thus the country slowly gets used to atrocities. He also inched his way, subculture by subculture, into control of the masses. But he introduced his initiatives with an entertaining bombast. He lifted their oppressions in the name of freedom. He got people addicted to change for the sake of change.

Herein lies a lesson you learned a long time ago. We should always look for the ultimate implications when considering policy. ‘What if everyone did it?’ is not an illegitimate question. Your third grade teacher was right, ‘calling people names can lead to the holocaust’. But in this case, it would be more appropriate to say ‘not telling people that they have limits can lead to a holocaust.’

This story would seem unbelievable had we all not gone to this school of hard knocks together. I don’t think anything exactly like this has ever happened before. I hope it never does. But the lessons are hard to apply without a lot of forethought and depth of understanding.

Finally let me say, hoping that it provides a useful lesson, that this movement’s success was aided and abetted by the Supreme Court nominations of the early 2000s. We had, what was for us, a fortunate string of nominees that were all extreme advocates of state’s rights. We didn’t actually use any legal tactics. But, the absence of the law, the lack of willingness to enforce it, made things easier for us. Had we been seriously challenged by the government at anytime, our momentum might have been deflated.

It is hard to write this on the cusp of the destruction of our country, but there is a difference between what is right and what is popular. Democratically elected governments must tell their constituencies things that they do not want to hear. They must know that they are their wards betters. If they do nothing to stop mobs making bad decisions, they validate them.

Les and Quentin, of course, first got onto cable news advocating Prison Wars. Other issues were initially only addressed tangentially. Les’ said was that everytime an outrageous idea was put on the air, even if it wasn’t time to pursue it and it had no chance of being accepted, it is a victory. We planted a lot of seeds early on that bore bitter fruit later. The only vaccine I know against this is principled leadership. But that’s just speculation. I don’t know that anybody could have stopped us.

I wasn’t known it at the time, but Les was incredibly methodical. Nothing happened by accident. He had decided what he wanted to happen long in advance of the final conclusion.

He wrote up scripts for every interview he ever had. He was like a chess player. He studied his opponent, predicted what they would say and crafted speeches around them. Interviewees commonly do such things. But Les gained advantage by making his responses so off the wall that it left his opponents speechless.

I’ll never forget the first night he went up against, the very leader of Mother’s Against Prison Wars, Margaret Dilton. She was totally flabbergasted. It changed the tone of dialogue all across America. Les would later say that it, not only ‘planted some seeds’ but it ‘widened some parameters.’

When asked what he had to say in response to her decrying the just aired second Prison Wars, he launched into his script.

“You use too much lipstick, it