Chapter 32
Morgen hands a copy to everybody.
We get letters from mothers and grandmothers and spouses from all over threatening to sue us over their sons and daughters losing their sense of reality after watching videos which they describe as “circus art” and “demonic athletic performances”.
Joselyn and I look to Morgen.
Morgen, standing, holding her copy of the document like a teddy bear.
She says, “Statistically speaking there’s more violence than sex on the site now.”
The VCO FFI channel stands for Fight for It. A site we purchased six months ago. You may have heard of it. It was formerly known as MHFFI, as in, Make Her Fight for It. Normally we’d get some sort of legal headache if we tried to rename a VCO under the accusation of attempting to obscure original intent and thus violating FMCA 18.2. But for this one, we tossed them a check and called it rebranding.
Joselyn says in a calm voice, “This we foresaw.”
Joselyn, who is endlessly focused, purposely makes these meetings at seven in the morning.
As the rest of us drag in she comes in with zero bags under her eyes and smelling of Clary Sage and jojoba oil.
All those who schedule meetings before ten in the morning should be neutered or spayed, so that such a diabolical sephelite may not procreate and spread their wickedness across generations.
Not everyone can live without sleeping. Joselyn forgets this.
She rolls her rings on the table. Joselyn says, “Where’s our star boy?” Clearly taunting.
I don’t look up from my copy and say, “You know exactly where he is.”
The PowerPoint slide on the paper. Our numbers have spiked.
I poke a tall column in a graph. I say, “What’s happening here?”
“You tell us.” Joselyn says.
Now I look up now. Both Her and Morgen are sitting arms folded staring at me. Joselyn had an I’m-going-to-fuck-you-up face.
She says, “John would weep if he knew how we’ve treated his legacy.” She makes it sound like John Dee was a personal friend of hers. I wonder how old she really is.
I say, “What about uploads?” We keep tabs on our highest viewed profiles so we can plan marketing slots for advertisers. I flick the stack of graphs on the table and say, “Are you complaining?”
“Where’s Everhet?” Joselyn says.
I say, “I don’t know. Probably in the West Estate. Do you actually care?”
“Sully.” Joselyn says in a way where she is both tired of my poutiness and concerned for my feelings.
But it didn’t last long.
I kept my arms folded without answering and Joselyn quickly didn’t seem to care for my nonchalant demeanor.
She cocked her head and without breaking eye contact with me she says, “Morgen. Thank you for the report. The meeting is over. You can leave.”
Morgen had been more receptive to Joselyn’s instructions since Hans passed his active executive board powers of ArtoVCOs to Joselyn. Which gives her double the amount of votes as everyone else. And with ArtoVCOs being our highest grossing arm of the conglomerate made all her decisions final.
Morgen exited promptly.
She was overseeing the global construction division which was borderline inactive. People were happy to stay at home as long as they had our devices. No one bought houses anymore. Shopping malls and food courts were empty. Outside of hospitals and schools, most places where people would typically gather seemed deserted.
She put an elbow on the table and tilted her finger slowly until it pointed at me. An invisible energy shot from her finger into my chest. She had a hold on me internally.
Her sugary sweet voice sung like the angel of death. She says, “Listen very clearly. I will say it once. If you, or that feral friend of yours, touches my mirror again, I am going to kill him. And I’m going to kill you.”
“It is unwise to fuck with things that are beyond your comprehension.” Then she points to the spot between her eyes and says, “Don’t be stupid.”
I couldn’t tell whether she was talking about the mirror or herself.
Joselyn stood up and left. Staring me down as she did. The huge doors of the drawing room shut with an echoing blast. I stayed there alone and worked out some karma.
James Jacob Hatfield is a displaced engineer, a painter, and many other contradictions. His work has appeared in X-R-A-Y, Maudlin House, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Barely South Review, Chaleur Magazine, Havik, and others. His ekphrasis poem “torrents of lahar, No. 36” was anthologized by the North Carolina Museum of Art. He is a Sterling Fellow and a Weymouth Fellow. He is the creator and curator of the Gemini Sessions Substack. He lives in Durham, NC.
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