This time our truth teller finds his way to a debaucherous party in the desert, where he confronts the satanic host with the truth that no one wants to hear.
I’m cruising down a two lane desert highway in a black ‘69 Chevy Super Sport with a friend of mine. We’re on our way to a New Year’s Eve party at some filthy rich guy’s house out in the middle of nowhere. By some sheer act of will, my friend convinced me to come along for the ride, as normally I avoid NYE parties like the plague.
My friend asks, “Why didn’t your girlfriend come?”
I respond with a hearty chuckle, “Because she’s very intelligent and has a stronger will than I do to resist bullshit.”
He laughs and says, “Oh, come on, man. It’ll be great! You’ll have fun!”
I raise a disagreeable eyebrow and say, “What’s great or fun about New Year’s parties? Basically, it’s a bunch of zombies tripping and falling over themselves piss drunk, doing things they’ll regret the next morning, making promises for the New Year that they’ll never fulfill.”
“Ok,” he cuts me off. “Point taken, but if nothing else, you’ll be impressed with the dude’s mansion.”
“What does he do for a living?” I ask.
He answers, “He sells drones to governments.”
I huff and say, “Can’t wait to meet the guy. I’ll have some choice words for him.”
“Please don’t get us kicked out.”
“Fair warning, I probably will.”
An hour later and we see a twinkling and flashing off in the distance. My friend tells me that that’s the estate to which we are en route. I comment that the murder business must be good. He grimaces.
We come to a security gate halfway up the path leading to what appears to be a complex of mansions. Two jack boot thugs approach us and ask for the invitation password.
“Gladio,” my eager companion says.
The no-neck guards nod, gates open, dogs heel, and we make our way past.
“That’s some password,” I say.
“What makes you say that?”
“Never mind. Why are we friends again?”
We make our approach and a picture begins to come into view. A giant stone structure that would make pharaohs blush stands in our midst. Think that castle from Eyes Wide Shut. The cheapest ride in view is no less than 50 grand. Ten foot tall champagne bottles on ice flank various entrances. My core is shaking from a variety of bass emanations.
A valet driver comes and whisks away our wheels. We walk up marble steps and a blond in a diamond encrusted evening gown spills her drink on me and doesn’t even notice. I’m glad I wore khakis and a hoodie.
We walk into the gleaming monstrosity and our jaws drop. The ceiling appears to be higher than St. Peter’s Basilica. Most of the furnishings I don’t recognize as they’re not sold in typical slave stores. There’s a 50 foot Christmas tree next to a DJ and there is a makeshift dance floor packed with partiers strewn about this cavernous hacienda. So this is what being a middle man in satan’s army gets you.
Don’t get me wrong. Having nice things is fine, but how you get them? That’s what I want to know.
“So how do you know this guy?” I ask my friend as we continue to gawk.
“He’s a friend of a friend of a cousin.”
“Oh, so just a close knit celebration. That’s great. What’s his name?”
“Mr. Honeywell, I think.”
A waitress comes by and gives us drinks. I tell my friend I’m going to find trouble. He tells me that’s not necessary. Trouble will find me. I nod and we part ways.
I wander around for a bit and hone in on my first target. I dodge selfie sticks and designer purses. After making my way past a few stone pillars, I bebop my way outside. Lush gardens abound, multiple pools with plastic people splashing around. A guy puking in the bushes. Standard.
I approach a barbie-looking group of girls. They’re posing for each other and doing shots out of a bottle that looks like a vase.
I bump into the biological fembot who looks the most inebriated and act like it’s her fault. “Hey, I’ve never drunk out of a vase before, do you mind?”
She gives a sloppy grin and answers, “It’s a bottle of tequila, silly. Sure, go ahead.”
I take a swig and it melts like spicy butter down my pallet. “Not bad, but I’ve had better.”
She scoffs and says, “That’s Clase Uzul Ultra. It cost 7 grand.”
“That’s it? Like I said, I’ve had better,” I say as I wrinkle my nose and turn away for a moment.
I’ve got her attention. “Is that right, Mr. Hoodie? And what do you do which allows you such luxuries?” she asks.
“I’m the mad scientist that invented the technology that Mr. Honeywell sells. We’ve been murdering and spying for years.”
She giggles and burps. “Wow, that’s so cool.”
I smirk and say, “Not really. So how do you know Mr. Honeywell?”
“My dad works for a PR firm that does business with Mr. Honeywell.”
“Oh, so your dad’s job is to make Mr. Honeywell’s business look legitimate and less evil.”
One of her friends has a moment of clarity and says, “Hey, who’s this lame guy in the hoodie?”
“He’s a mad scientist.”
“Oh, my God! Really? Like, can you like, get us, like, drugs and stuff?”
“You mean right now?”
“Duh!”
“Let’s take a walk,” I say.
So now I can get into any room in the “house”. I’ve got a blond and a brunette that will open any door. Not being sexist, just stating a fact.
We wander past movers and shakers. We see designer imported leather being debauched. We see a mosh pit. We see multiple pill popping and vomiting episodes. We walk past a door clearly labeled in block letters, “ORGY ROOM. INVITE ONLY. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT. NO QUESTIONS ASKED.”
I take their word for it and move on. We find a room in a dark corner with a stuffed suit standing guard. He eyes us up and down and tells us the room is full. I think to myself that he’s full of shit. My scantily clad companions whisper things in his ear. He goes in the room for a minute, comes back, says nothing, and resumes his position of standing there like a brick wall.
A moment later and a shrimpy looking character with bug eyes opens the door, scans us for a bit, and says, “Ok, they can come in.”
The stuffed suit says, “Ok, Mr. Honeywell.”
I think to myself, “Jackpot.”
We enter into a posh hall of mirrors and glass table tops. They all have two things in common.
1. Glass
2. Mounds of cocaine that make Tony Montana look like an amateur.
We don’t draw much attention as we take a seat with Mr. Honeywell at one of the white mountains. The crowd is too wired and blabbering to notice the newcomers. I intend to change that.
We make our introductions and I start up the small talk. “Nice house you have here, Mr. Honeywell.”
“Well, this isn’t really my house.”
“What?”
“I mean I don’t live here. This is just my party house, or, my pleasure palace, as I like to call it.”
I make a smug face and say, “Of course you don’t live here, it’s much too modest. Instead of pleasure palace, how about a different name? Like The House That Satan Built.”
The psycho twerp bursts into laughter and says, “That’s a good one! I like that.”
“Do you like it because it’s true?”
“Hahaha, yeah, hail Satan!” he yells just before hoovering a fluffy white rail.
“And what do you do?” he asks with bug eyes.
“He’s a mad scientist!” one of the barbie girls yells.
“Is that right?”
“No, it was a lie so I could have a chance at meeting you.”
“What’s the big deal about meeting me?
“I wanted to ask you a question. How do you sleep at night?”
“I usually pop pills and close my eyes.”
“You make a fortune by selling machines to governments so they can spy on people and murder people.”
“If I don’t do it, someone else will.”
“That is a fallacious statement and a feeble attempt to justify wrongdoing. You do business with criminals.”
“I do business with governments.”
“Exactly. Governments are, by definition, criminal.”
“I’ve had enough blow to make this tolerable and interesting. Please continue.”
“Governments are mafias. They hold a monopoly of violence which is used to coerce people. They use fear to steal and murder, both of which are criminal actions. So you sell drones to mafias. That makes you a criminal by association.”
He giggles and snorts another line. “Spying isn’t stealing. Besides, stealing and murdering is the history of the human race. That’s just the way things are!”
“It is the history of the human race, but it doesn’t have to be, and anyone who believes that is under mind control. Spying is stealing. It is stealing people’s right to privacy.”
“Privacy doesn’t matter. What does privacy matter?”
“Why do you have that door shut? Freedom cannot exist without privacy. So congratulations, you are helping to destroy freedom.”
“I’m destroying freedom?”
“That’s right. So you’re evil.”
“Evil is relative.”
“Another mind control tactic. Right and wrong is objective, not relative. Moral relativism is one of the tenets of Satanism. Did you know that?”
“Of course, I’m well aware that I’m a Satanist.”
“And so are most of the people here,” I say with a nod of agreement.
A roar of voices comes in unison from our high-strung crowd and shouts, “Hail, Satan!” Uproarious gibbering and giggling ensues. What’s sad is that most of the zombies who just shouted that were just joking, but in reality, they really are Satanists and don’t even know it.
“Well, I’ve had enough fun, I think I’ll be going now,” I say as I stand up and dust myself off.
Mr. Honeywell smirks and says, “Fun? You think what you just did was fun?”
“Speaking truth is the best high I’ve ever had,” I say as I walk out the door.
As I maze my way through the corridors of the House That Satan Built, I bump into a couple more stuffed suits who already have my friend in custody.
I look up at one of the muscular monsters and remark, “You guys work fast.”
No response, none expected.
We get escorted to my friend’s ride and are told politely to not return.
My friend revs the engine and asks, “What did you do?”
“I did what was necessary.”