The Man, Inc.
By Max Simkins
“It came to me in a reverie over drinks, you see,” I said to my attorney. Settled in his office in Tarrytown, each of us with our hands tenderly gnarled around an Old Fashioned, I unraveled for him the details of the night haunted gathering where I set the world into chaos.
The party in question was at the home of one Yogi, which was carefully organized by his darling wife Booboo. I for one believe what Yogi said in telling me prior that his spouse had meticulously crafted this soiree, designed to celebrate the release of a member of our circle of friends and comrades from jail for a number of different drug charges, and maybe something involving a high schooler--but, her family moved down from the north to the city, and now have no interest in the case.
Upon arriving at the estate, I realized that my party senses were accurate in their tingling and that it was the worst of all orgies of surface tension, dire to burst despite the knowledge that this would mean its death and not its healing. Booboo brought out booze by the barrel, but not a drop of mellow burns were scented in the home. It was a jubilee, but without music, save for the hoary grindcore of cacophonous conversation.
But, you must see, that this artist, this performer, this… man that we were celebrating was not a stranger for the jail cells. From the tender age of fourteen, he was active in the marches and rallies against scientology, not that it did any good. His later work as a kidult steered more to the political, and, when he could buy his own beer, his intentions for his work became clear: crush, kill, destroy…
Through ideas, of course, never through actual violence. And so he braved the media battlefield in the TVs and in the computers, on the streets and on the airwaves, by print and by word of mouth. It would be incorrect to say that he was alone in this kind of practice, but it would be just as untrue to suggest that his actions were in concert with other instrumentations of the feeds.
So, the gathering in his honor was for another daring legal escape, raucously sung by those who sympathized, those who admired, those who clung desperately to a life—any life—being lived, and the brave few who had frankly nothing better to do.
The one dire problem with the event was that a good time and good cheer do not make for good conversation. The melancholic might not be any better—though I’ll start the tally soon. Still, I was terribly disheartened to divest a portion of my time to display grace with my temporality because some kid, over ripe at the age of twenty six, was temporarily out of jail, and momentarily out of the clutches of someone who could use effeminate company. Perhaps I’ve eluded these conditions because I’ve virulently avoided being published, and I’d like to refute to great pains anyone who declares the internet—that divinization of Yog-Sothoth—a medium, but it is such a struggle to bore into people about the Gate, the Watcher, and the Key. All the same, there are things that even I’m afraid to say, such as defining the contrary directors who incarcerated him with one hand and pay him for his work with another.
“No, I am not a fool, dear,” I said to a groupie. I had no idea who she may have been, since, with eyes shut, I had been screaming in the low husk of my voice, procured by drinking on a weak throat and lungs. When I saw once more, she revealed herself to be another member of a foreign gallery courting the artist to work there and, why I’ll never grok. A fleeting glimpse of sorrow passed back and forth in her eyes, and, disliking the pendulum, I asked her to try and tell me of the festivities proper, having arrived quite customarily late and believing that this might take her mind off matters. She told me that he made inexplicable comments, referring to some magistrate on Titan, one E.B. Black, and that he then conducted the audience into a spastic funerary procession masquerading as a conga line. Having led them through the estate and out to the back porch, he discharged his role as the head and declared the millennium descendant upon the death of the human millipede, even if there was barely more than a couple centipede’s worth of feet available to work with.
A howl. A sound of frantic running. The clattering of glass in a dust-bin, and the cheers begin again, while sorrow still held her. Given that nothing yet had helped her heartache, I dared to be stupid: I asked her why. The question seemed at first to be an affront to her, but the truth was simpler: that nobody had ever stopped to ask. Her problem was simple: she could not comprehend the artist. How could he get away with what he did? How could a legal system apportion him the space to be? And how can this be replicated?
I never particularly gave much of a thought to aiding the spread of infection, much as it might perhaps hasten the end. Still, an impulse came to my mind that might just help this corporate stooge. The solution seemed simple enough: incorporate. Divide self from soul. Let the self become an image that can be sued for libel and slander while the individual lives free. Sure, one’s voice would become embodied in a specter, but it was better than becoming the haunt of the masses.
As a corporation, contractual agreements would be the responsibility of “someone” else. In a sense, it would give a person two lives: one that could burn out, and, if so consumed, the living breathing human could fade away. But if they were united citizens—living entity and legal entity, then they could quite likely do whatever they wanted.
The story seemed fairly comprehensible to her, but she stuttered like someone who had their meaning of life question answered with natural selection. Existential bummer, man; the transcendental’s a theoretical crawling chaos, huh? Not quite—not quiet the problem, though it was certainly an animated conundrum. “But, what about his works? They seem to take on a life of their own? If you’re going to suggest incorporating a person’s speech and spirit, might you also be offering room for other spaces of speech to incorporate? Not just living words, but dead ones…”
Had someone else not laughed at a terrible pitch inside, I may have been totally and royally fucked as I was struck without response, something distinctly rare. But I smiled, patting her hand and telling her it would be fine. She reciprocated, telling me that, indeed, all will be fine, and she left.
A vase shattered inside. I left then and there to avoid somehow being implicated.
A week later, I retained the services of Bernard, “Bernie,” Bacarat. The sneaking dread of C&D letters were rearing their head because of a series of articles on a new energy-beer that might actually just be “Cocaine” or “Censored” with Everclear thrown in. I’m not a fan.
Bernie, though, knew better then to believe that that alone should suggest me to him, even though he would offer his services all the same to a family friend. Skeptic by nature, Bernie was a reliable man, but one wondered whether his fidgety behavior was the consequence of delirium tremens or Parkinson’s, or whether all these aspects of him resided within the operating space of a far more chaotic concept as his spiritual fountainhead.
So, I told him my story. And he sat there, perfectly still.
For a moment, I thought I saw the light of life leave his eyes and began to consider whether I would need to run to the bathroom and tear behind the mirror to find some nitroglycerin. He then brought his right hand over to a silver tin marked with a burning rose, unclasped the top, placed a cigarette in his mouth and another in my hand. Lit, it tasted of Amsterdam Shag, and “Amsterdam Shag.” Only when we were both finished did he tell me the horrible truth of the Aethereal cases. Four days ago, a sudden surge in articles of incorporation were noted by a colleague. Then, two days ago, the suits fell. Hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands of law suits where creations were suing their creators. Artists sued by sculptures and paintings; films sued producers, directors, actors, and actresses, and even some best boys; musicians sued by LPS; video games took their necromantic organizers to court; and, at last, authors were made to forswear and bear witness for their “crimes” in the court of the crimson text.
I tried to be nonplussed, but I’m not dead enough yet to remain lax before these trade winds, though still not so dead to be swept back to Tiamat. Was I partner to Pandora, holding her empty box, or was I Heston among the planet of the apes, screaming sweet nothings to Lady Liberty and all those she vouchsafed? Better question, what was I to do about this?
“I have an idea,” Bernie blurted out, words stumbling with nervous intent. “I have it on… certain authority that the Angelo case—you know the Angelo case, right? Father killed, mother, daughters, those dogs… who knew a pool boy could—”
I had not a blistering clue as to what he was talking about. I smiled something bright and affirming and nodded.
“Well, the kid turned out to be a bastard of the father’s and there’s a strong chance he’s going to get off and get the whole estate, though he’ll have to establish a fund for the… help of those poor people.”
“Uh-huh.” I rapped my left fingers beside the silver tin. Guffawing, he outstretched his palms demanding that I make myself useful of the grace that he offered. He, likewise, helped himself to another smoke.
“So…let me tell the rest of the story. The attorney representing the little changeling is a close and personal family friend who works at my firm. If I can put together a little bash—errh, that’s not quite—a celebratory assembly for the good sire, I might just invite a certain guest over. Now, if the guest goes around asking questions of revelers, then it’s on his head if he should take as reasonable and responsible the talk that he hears.”
And so the plan was set.
The Part about The Attorneys
A week later, Bernie called to tell me what I already knew, that, a week further, the attorneys would descend on the Bacarat property for drinks, and for my cheer.
Prior to the evening, I could peruse no details about the cases, but I was able to flesh out the nature of the two law firms that Bernie had invited for their particular relationship to the case. The firm of West, Bruce, and Laing was of note because their attorneys had filed an obscene number of cases involving creative works seeking restitution against the estate of their authors. Meanwhile, the attorneys of Farner, Brewer, and Schacher produced a deluge of libel cases looking to shut up any person who’d ever spoken their mind, for well or ill. But the clerks and judges didn’t bat an eye. Somehow, all the paper work was right, all signatures were initialed and all the proper processing fees assessed. But…how? Someone had to be covering for the artworks, to make the filing and incorporating legit, lest the works themselves were the real cover…
Latched onto the minute and hour hands, slipping into the little gateway where the date is held, my watch and I engaged in lurid conversation until the time of the games began, taking company and sweet nothings from cups of coffee and butts of cigarettes. The entire affair of this legal party—Bernie had informed me that there would be no perusing of the silver tin this evening—seemed to me extravagantly odd. The charade of this invitation by my attorney played as oddly as if Sheryl and Shania had taken me back for drinks with the rest of the girls and the Madame…while under the impression that I was a federale. So why, Bernie, are you doing this? What do you know?
A car was sent for me. I was not planning for this. I’m on good terms with Kuti Kabs for a reason, and not because I like punctuality. I’ll arrive on my terms, on my own; though it may not be directly under my own skill, it will be by my authority. The driver told me that Bernie had sent for me to come early so as not to miss a guest of certain interest. I told him I’d be fine. He said I would and opened the glove compartment, withdrawing a silver cigarette case, which was emblazoned with a rose. “Compliments of the retained, for the detained.” Indeed.
Despite the deleterious start, the ride was utterly calm and uneventful. No one seemed to be around to smell the slightly fresh cut grass of lawn after lawn, the chemical screams of the weeds and plants desperately trying to summon a savior with their green leaf volatiles in the hope that some carnivorous insect would take out the mean green eaters. It’s a shame they’ll never understand that a Geocoris bug cannot cure their affliction of the John Deere like it could for a hornworm. Poor little zombie plants trying to summon an antiquated god with their dying gasp.
Pulling up, finally, to the Tarrytown estate for another bit of good conversation on this particular weekend at Bernie’s, and noting my budding out, the driver tossed a canister of Febreeze into the back. “Give it a good spray for me--you and the back seat, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, but will you be around for later or should I contact my comp—”
“No need, I’ll be around. Just have to pick up the kids from the movies, maybe have a little dinner, and then drop them off at their mother’s.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“It should. Shouldn’t it?”
I never saw the man again. I slept in Bernie’s basement, too burnt out from what proceeded.
Bernie greeted me at the door, noting the few and far between exploits of the preliminary assemblage. “We all get a hand to play, or so they say,” or so he says, but I thought we’re at least born with two.
The game was simple: the WBL people were expected half an hour before the FBS people, who would be forty five minutes before a totally separate gentleman from one small firm in White Plains who apparently found out about my questioning, and who had--thus--sought me out. So be it.
The attorneys of West, Bruce, and Laing strolled in with a poise known only to certain theologians, a type of grace that both exceeds our mortal concerns and at the same is actively engaged with them. While they may have taken their sweet time saddling up to the bar, they were quite nonchalant about drinking, sparing no time to discover the intended purpose of a drink. The fast talkers weren’t easy prey since they seemingly knew nothing, their focus gliding around topics political, while outsiders to the exchange perused what other individuals were offering of their time, except for one. One straggler was staring down something on the rocks. I believe his name was Mark.
Well, my new friend, the Mark, was a bit concerned about company parties, which is either what he was told this was or what he was rationalizing this as. He was a nephew of one of the partners, but he didn’t have much of an interest in corporate law: he’d rather be working for the HSPCA, or something like that. Sure as shit, he was not born to be a corrupt stooge.
I asked him to elaborate, and, with his second drink as a nurse, he fortunately agreed to the strain.
The firm had cut a series of deals with major media companies to sue not only the people who were enjoying their work, but now they wanted in on the creators, as well, who were never satisfied anyway. He never told me where the idea came from, but the intimations of corporate power lead me to believe that the parent corporations of these media companies must have baptized their catalog so they could be born again as incorporated constructs. Nearing the end of listing the varying litigants and their litigation he laughed, and, without any provocation, explained himself. The laugh was caused by the utter absence of fight in the authors. Most had simply settled out of court, assuming their luck run out, or that their masters were questioning their loyalty. Apparently, there was one slight difference between these cases and the pirates—aside from the fact that pirates only copy as opposed to stealing original works, the demands of the suits were only slightly beyond the means of the defendants and what the settlements came to be were, given the circumstances, quite reasonable.
An unruly level of banter crashed through the door, heralding the arrival of the second party. They were, after all, the triumphal carriage, which asserted for themselves some right to the volume control. On the other hand, they had no self control. They were well grown and groomed adults who had not so quickly forgotten the phrase “pre-game.” They also appeared to have nothing to hide, or, put another way, they wielded a pretense which they recognized as always actively deployed. Some people are smart enough to be able to revel and reveal some things and not others. But this is no science, no matter how gay it is. This is an art; this is a craft that can’t be bought on Etsy, or Ebay, or Amazon Marketplace. This—this is a legitimate witchcraft and, like all magicks, it has a double edge so it can cut you twice. The secrets of the libel deluge were far from exciting. In point of fact, they were utterly simple: they’re all my fault. They are all my fault. Lawyer after lawyer I asked and they all intimated the same thing. Each line cut me anew, but each explanation dulled over time: they knew that I was some two bit semantic schyster though they never said how, that I was here in search of a story, and that, no matter what I’d figure out, I’d fuck it up somehow. We creative types—we’re all fuck-ups you see. At first, companies were using the shadow puppets ‘cause we were hemorrhaging their money on public relations. But, then, museums, libraries, and other homes of the higher arts got in on the game thinking that they could save the good things we’ve made from the bad things that we are. I told them all, each every one—in each and every individual conversation that I had, that it would never work. They told me to fuck hope because praying to her will never offer me anything.
People doing injustice to one another in the name of its antipode seems just the same in impetus but only more complicated in execution, a deserving punishment for over educated shit heads. The least that can be said of the whole affair was that we could at least understand what was going and we weren’t having a linen pulled over eyes that we didn’t stitch ourselves.
Finally, Bernie directed me to the main man in question, one man who was visibly altered beyond that which ethanol can. Brow furrowed and head and hand thoroughly entrenched in the process of scratching, he stammered out that he received a letter from a Book to sue Its Author. The Author was in a vegetative state, and His family had long since died out and His friends were long since dead to Him. All He had was His estate. The letter warned that the Man was going to squander the good reputation that He had developed through His writing and the Book would not stand for this, (though I must note, the attorney never revealed to me what tense the Book spoke in, if It ever revealed Itself as a subject in Its writing). The Book warned that all the good, empirical wisdom It contained would be shattered utterly when the Man woke up and that a gag order should be imposed on the Author. The note frequently made references to urgency, and in its closing it was said that the Book worried if It had acted too late to stop what was about to happen.
In the next hour, as the attorney was considering how to draft this gag order, and which judge to send it to, the phone rang. It was the hospital. The Patient had awoke and wished to let the attorney know that he no longer need his services since He had accepted the Glorious King Bufu as His god and attorney-at-law. The attorney could, if he wished, visit the Author in half-an-hour and get in on the press-conference. The Author was in St. Luke’s. The attorney was in Portland. It was a long trip to get here, but he needed to find and tell me his story from the moment that Bernie told him of my own story. He said I needed to finish this.
I tired of this world moving inexorably towards a certain oblivion. Something needed to be done, and so I stood upon a nearby table and said my peace, “Works belong to their author and are a part of his body, mind, and soul for he is not merely the singular specific aspect of his presence, or that of the other, or the body politic or the body human, but something greater for he is many of these things all at once at any second at a great many consecutive instances. After all, at any moment someone could be reading, could be listening to what you have to say.”
From the end of the room, cutting through the middle of the crowd, a man in a black suit walked over to me and handed me an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“You’ve been served.”
“For…what?”
“Slander.”
“Of whom?”
“The Man, Inc.”
