Public Relations By Tom Gordon "What the devil?" croaked Eddington Q. Wadsworth III, septuagenarian President and Chief Executive Officer of GloboCorp Industries, as the grungy male stormed into the boardroom. Then a light of recognition and hatred dawned upon his scowling countenance. "Zeke LaJolla! How dare you interrupt this crucial shareholder's meeting!" The unwanted guest grinned, winked at Wadsworth's secretary. "Well, hello yourself, crusty dude. I suppose a friendly cappuccino is out of the question?" The younger female executives tittered self-consciously; LaJolla was indeed handsome in a rock-star sort of way, sporting a mop of dreadlocks, an unshaven chin and a bulky leather jacket over a bright red t-shirt. "Insolent pest!" Wadsworth growled, pounding the SECURITY call button set into the oaken table. "We have important work to do here. Get out! Or I'll have my men DRAG you out. Yet again." LaJolla fumbled through his pockets, produced a state-of-the-art digicam, directed its lens towards a flustered, Armani-wrapped old man. "Not so fast, Grandpaw. You see this? It's rigged with a wireless modem. Right now it's transmitting everything you say and do straight to the Internet. You won't be able to bury the truth THIS time!" "The truth? What are you talking about?" "Why, Bueno Arcadia, of course! Or have you forgotten your pet project? The big, secret factory down south that GloboCorp's going to tear down acres of precious rainforest to build?" A murmur went up. Three or four elder businessmen stared wordless questions at Wadsworth. He turned five shades of crimson, sputtered in rage, then checked himself for the camera. "That... project... is still being negotiated. With the local government. My company will issue a relevant press release in due time." "Yeah, I'll bet. And then the public won't be able to do anything about it. So much for democracy." LaJolla's lip twisted with contempt. "What about the environment? What about the people whose way of life you'll uproot? Ever think about that?" "Now see here, boy!" Wadsworth bellowed. "I purchased that land with the intent to-" "Your intent means nothing!" sneered his young opponent. "All your company really cares about is its profit margins and building more sweatshops." Setting down the camera, La Jolla assumed an indignant pose of challenge and rebellion, hands firmly on his hips. "It's high time somebody stood up against your corporate greed!" "Ah. YOU again!" shouted the burly security guard, pushing his way into the executive boardroom. The youth leapt over the table, attempting to flee through an emergency exit. "Not so fast, asshole." A huge hand clamped down on his upper arm, twisted backwards. "Ow! You're hurting me." Zeke yelled. All over the world, people were watching his attractive face distort with pain. "Shut the hell up,"said the guard, snatching away the camera. "We really need to call the authorities on this one, Mr. Wadsworth. Piece of shit just doesn't know when to quit." For emphasis he yanked harder on LaJolla's wrist, eliciting another grunt from him, wide-eyed concern from the women. Eddington surveyed the scene. His partners were whispering amongst themselves, obvious dissent in GloboCorp's ranks. The chief stockholders were glaring at him, calling brokers... and attorneys. Old Man Harold, head buried in his hands. And a multitude of bewitched feminine faces, pining for Zeke LaJolla's well-being. "No. I think there's been enough damage done today. Just toss him out." --- Wadsworth retreated into his study, sat down upon his desk. The shaving mirror reflected his father's embittered features, curse his soul. The ponytail from Berkeley was still there, but now it only felt like a heavy weight. Where had he gone wrong? He thought back to his pre-GloboCorp life. A stint in the Peace Corps, years of volunteer work abroad. Time was cruel, it had blurred many of his most cherished memories, left the unpleasant ones untarnished. Wadsworth could still recall the squalor. Protruding bellies and eyes like bottomless pits. A lingering stench of death. Place names seemed to change -- Bangladesh, Ecuador, Ethiopia -- but the luridly visible human suffering was a universal constant. He learned the enormity of the problem, too quickly. Concluded his charitable efforts were noble but ultimately futile; a Band-Aid upon an unstoppable geyser of blood. That the only way to truly lift these people from the abyss was to change their circumstances entirely, utilizing the resources of a powerful organization. In a word: development. So he returned to business school, founded a corporation to be a means to that end: GloboCorp Industries. The prospectus was mundane enough. It extolled the virtues of streamlined management, waxed eloquent about the company's gadgets, promised high returns for willing investors. Clandestine humanitarian projects, however, were NOT to be mentioned. Damn LaJolla! The self-righteous brat embodied what Wadsworth despised most; a mentality that change could be effected with noisy protests and sabotage, but not creative effort. Wadsworth's Bueno Arcadia plant would've brought twenty thousand jobs to that impoverished region of the country. It'd have meant electricity and indoor plumbing for the nearby village, a new road to the capital city. Other companies watched GloboCorp, they'd have eventually moved in, too. "Sir?" It was his secretary. Her face was deliberately blank, a head waiting for a guillotine blade. Eddington Q. Wadsworth III drew out a sigh, tapped upon a nearby laptop. He felt old, slow and tired. "Lorraine. Tell our people down South to start packing their things, I'm afraid they'll be coming home. Oh, and see if we can't trace that leak, eh?" --- Smiling through the pain, Zeke managed to wave at his girlfriend and comrades-in-arms in the parking lot. The security guard chicken-walked him through the sprawling marble lobby and pushed him roughly through the side entrance door, followed by the shattered remnants of his digicam. "Y'all don't come back now, y'heah?" LaJolla brushed the dirt from his trousers, flipped a bird to the smirking rent-a-cop, walked back to the neon-green minivan. To receive the obligatory hero's reception. "You were great, man! We got it all!" cheered Carlos, an ex-hacker behind the wheel. "The Provisional Committee watched the whole thing come down the pipe. I think you could've heard 'em cheering from here." "Yeah, fuck Zeke, you were awesome! Really liked that Superman pose when you said Corporate Greed." squeaked Britney, the GendStud professor, through the shared victory toke. "So sexy." His girlfriend Chloe huddled close. He kissed her, buried his face in her hair. The van pulled away from GloboCorp's North American headquarters, merged onto the multiple-occupant autostrips. Carlos still bubbled with revolutionary fervor, describing the profound impact this Bueno Arcadia expose would have on the nation. How -- among the communities of disenfranchised and disaffected -- Zeke was destined to become a great leader. LaJolla only smiled. A great leader? Indeed. The gullible fools. Even Chloe. They would never understand him. They only saw the rebellious attitude. The hair, the fashionable clothes, the pre-packaged slogans ready for mass consumption. Not what lay underneath. Not his vision. Radioactive craters where dehumanizing cities used to be. Their glassy interiors overflowing with the discarded poisonous fruit of Civilization: a towering pile of automobiles, computers, and televisions rising to heaven. Millions of businessmen strangled with telephone cables, hanging from tree limbs, cellular phones jammed into their eye sockets. The rest to become involuntary beasts of burden for the People's Democracy. A vast palace of clay and mud built upon the smoldering ruins of New York City, where all may pay tribute to Zeke LaJolla's glory while preparing for the glorious planetary Cleansing that would sweep the old order of infidel machines and materialism away. Yes. It was going to be beautiful.