For The People

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For the People

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

Dear reader,

Let me be clear right from the start: I did not write this book for publicity, for the money, or for some kind of mad desire to mind-meld battle with Rachel Maddow (though I totally love-hate her). Such petty desires fall well below my pay grade. As you will soon totally be stoked to find, For the People comes from a higher place. This is not some dime-store pabulum crafted by an Alaskan salmon-spawning media whore, or a public restroom floor reader penned by a googly-eyed delusional man-child who cries and sticks his tongue out for attention. That most definitely is not me.

In fact, I'm so above all that, that the name on the spine isn't even mine. "John Manrique" is nothing but a nom de plume—some hack I randomly plucked from oblivion who once wrote a novel because I guess he thought he could. And now I've bestowed unto this mostundeserving scribbler credit for probably the greatest literary treasure of the new millennium, an amazing tale of selfless courage I know you are totally going to love and passionately be inspired by. No doubt this ghosted writer will end up on Oprah's couch claiming For the People was born of his imagination, or some crap like that, but I don't care. Like I said, that's not what I'm about. May he savor my glorious crumbs while I preserve my identity among the shadows.

Unencumbered by the common man's lust for fame and fortune, the motivation behind sharing my story is simply to keep it real. While "real" isn't something I normally care about from my lofty perch in this world—like the price of milk or Tyra Banks's boobs—I put a lot of work and sacrifice into getting Barack Obama elected. For the sake of all the unseen average American little people my efforts could benefit, it would be a shame to see it all go to waste. It's like that Bible fable about teaching a guy how to fish versus just giving him old cans of Starkist out of your pantry, though I guess I shouldn't expose my foreshadowing so soon. And yes, I know, "That's what she said."

So we're going to get into all that, and what you do with it is what you do. From where I sit, that's pretty much the moral of the story—it's up to you if you want it to be. But again, let's not get ahead of ourselves.

For now, I just need to provide a bit of background in order for you to understand the truths I'm about to lay down. See, you need context to put all this perspective into, because where I come from you have never been. My world is cloaked in the shadows conspiracy theorists chase, the unseen force that influences most if not all of what you think, believe, and do on a daily basis. What gets dished at our country club potluck is the clandestine power that influences those who believe they wield ultimate authority. The "sovereignty" of our families rises above presidents and kings, far beyond names like Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, and Carnegie. We are untraceable, yet the powers of our persuasion thread the ages. To paraphrase former heavyweight champion Larry Holmes, "The Illuminati couldn't carry our jock strap."

To put it into the vernacular of the street, my grandfather is "The Man." My father is the answer to the age-old question of "Who's your daddy?" Our tribe, it ain't called "Quest." We are "They," you know, the folks responsible for such classics as:

• They say a glass of wine a day lowers blood pressure.

• They say a girl can't become pregnant if it's her first time.

• They say menthol cigarettes were invented to eliminate blacks.

• They say you need to drink eight glasses of water a day to avoid being dehydrated.

• They say wearing leather pants will lower a man's sperm count and cause chronic "shrunk junk."

Okay, the last one I just made up, but that's because leather pants on a dude are gay. Seriously. The others, however, were all spawned by the elite fraternity of which I number ... or should have if you want to get all technical. I mean, before this whole ball of shit string unwound it was just a matter of me finishing my senior year at the "manipulate the world" preparatory academy, and then I was officially on the roster. The Invisible Hand of Power is like a family business that way.

Which brings up another important point: as a family business, "They" protects its secrets (even those of an old douche bag "Uncle" who thinks he knows everything but really is just a frustrated tyrant with Gomer Pyle hair who suffers from Assheimer's). That means I have taken some liberties with locations, many of the character names are aliases, and some of the action sequences might be toughed up with an embellishment or two. Trust me, though, when I say all the sex stuff happened exactly as described. Exactly.

But that's the artistic license that drives my craft as an "Auteur" (not to mention, the mush minds of the Bruckheimer bourgeoisie need plenty of bang-bang, boom-boom, and booty-booty to hold their attention). For all the intense, verbal pyrotechnics, however, what you're getting here is the story behind the story. This is a glimpse behind the wizard's curtain the masses never see. I'm actually taking a big risk penning this tale—they are already quite unhappy with me, as you will learn—though I believe no pivotal moment in history should go unrecorded when it can further the progress of mankind. Sometimes the Pros just outweigh the Convicts.

For all that pomp, however, the humble truth is that "We" (that would be the superpowerful almighty secret society I hail from) do not direct the course of human events; we merely shape them. Our covert actions provide the inspiration, and while this "motivation" is delivered in a very potent and convincing form, the choice is always yours. "Do what They say or ..." Recently, I became curious as to where that "or" might lead, and the result is the story we are about to embark upon.

So, with introductions complete, let us begin.

E Pluribus Unum, Voltaire July 4, 2009

Chapter Two

October 12, 2007

Wyoming has the lowest populous of any state in the nation for a reason. I mean, just Google "Wyoming interesting facts," and you will immediately see why.

The lack of intelligent life, even among the Homo sapien residents of the "Equality State," is why the twelve families that comprise They travel to this god-forbidden territory every other year to "rough it" and "get back to basics." It is our biannual North American Safari, which our parents like to call "a tradition," which pretty much is code for, "We were forced to endure this as children and now you will."

[BTW: Wyoming carries the "Equality State" nickname since it was the first to grant women the right to vote, in 1869. As my Wikipedia reliable research revealed, however, some historians believe the true motivation behind the legislature's passage of women's suffrage was an attempt at free national publicity to lure more females to the territory. At the time there were like 6,000 men and only 1,000 women, so I'm guessing the sheep were very tired.]

Anyhow, the typical ebb and flow of the weekend is that everyone jets in on Friday afternoon for a campfire cookout that night—about 150 people plus staff, of which over half are kids. While I'm an only child (when you meet my parents you'll understand why), the thing about They is that its members tend to be prolific breeders—everyone has like at least four kids. Rule of thumb for a ruling class: be sure you got lots of heirs to the throne (even if the sniveling offspring are a bunch of blueblood priss-bag fakes).

So we all get there, and a team of iron chefs is brought in to grill up a smorgasbord of animal flesh while Martha Stewart, Rachael Ray, or someone like that prepares s'mores. There's also stuff for the kids, like Stephen King telling ghost stories 'round the fire and a cowboy song sing-a-long with Willie Nelson. It's all so totally banal.

The next morning after that square dance from hell, all the old guys (aka "Old Guard") get up at like 5:00 am—no doubt awakened by their enlarged prostate pisses—and rouse us "young fellas" from the retreat of slumber's bliss to join them for "The Hunt." I'm the oldest of the "fellas" (males age fifteen to twenty-one ... there are like twelve of us), and I could do without all but two. Really the only guys I hung with from the They crowd were Law and Zuse (the computer geek, not the God)—you'll meet them soon enough.

Anyway, for this primitive ritual, our fathers and grandfathers dress all Daniel Boone camo couture, arm themselves with every form of long-range rifle imaginable, and we get chauffeured out in luxury SUVs stocked with espresso, brandy, cigars, and, of course, the always popular campfire omelet station. About forty-five minutes later we arrive at "The Hunting Grounds" (i.e. baited fields spanning approximately three square miles) where we spend the next six to eight hours trudging behind guides who point out opportunities to shoot homeless people.

Now, don't toss this book aside in disgust quite yet. As pathetic as shooting homeless people sounds—and is—they do not hunt to kill. The guns They carry are pressure-gauged, full-volume, combat-issue rifles that shoot tranquilizer darts, and as my father likes to point out, the twenty or so homeless participants brought in from cities across the United States to "join us" in the great outdoors would likely never have this opportunity otherwise.

"These are hearty, street-rugged, urban homeless," Dad will tell you in the haughty tone he adopts for such righteous justifications, "that are medically checked and vaccinated upon arrival, fed well-balanced meals, and comfortably sheltered before and after the hunt."

"And lest you forget," he'll further rationalize, "these homeless are not only cleaned and immunized before being released back into their communities, they also return with fresh cash to inject into neighborhood economies."

Cash comes from the $20, $50, and $100 bills spread throughout the hunting ground as bait. The morning of "The Hunt," participants are told they can keep whatever they find before getting zapped, and, man, do they scurry. I've been dragged along on this outing since I was fifteen, and I've never seen one of them come up with less than $1,400. "Broken Glass Ed," a spry bagman from Detroit, set a record at the last safari by snatching up almost $10,000 before Uncle Quesnay tagged him—it was kind of Ted Nugent, appropriate for the Motor City.

So, while I totally don't condone this, and it's like all über-horrible and stuff, the homeless do go "home" with a little wad in their pockets and a smile on their faces thanks to the massive dose of narcotics they get blasted with. But still ... orange fur hats and matching vests?

Moving on from that horrendousness, at day's end the families come together once more over a banquet in the lodge's grand dining hall to celebrate the hunt, check out the basket weaving or whatever Little House on the Prairie craft the ladies did while we were gone, and chat about the year ahead. Basically the rustic setting provides an excuse for the children to wield slingshots and the old folks to drink, reflect, and wax all philosophical. For young adults like me, it is just one more contrived family event designed to totally annoy and torture us (like having to call our elders "Aunt" or "Uncle" ... so Gilded Age ick). But share the pain I must, for this is where the story begins.

It was after dinner, and the children were scurried off to bed by a platoon of nannies as the ladies headed up to the lounge to enjoy an aperitif and cards. We young fellas were once again sentenced to tag along and be properly groomed by the old guys as they retired to the study for drinks, cigars, and to discuss "man business."

They are real old school that way, the men being dominant (at least publicly). See, the way it works is that these twelve families—four from Europe, four from the Americas, and four from the Middle East, Africa, and Asia combined, all with bloodlines tracing back to the original Twelve Tribes of Man—work together to wield and maintain total influence, power, and control over the world. So, while there are undoubtedly private conversations shared between husbands and wives, fathers and daughters, and brothers and sisters, about what's what and how to do stuff, only the men from each family get together to officially deliberate. And within that "gentlemen's club," only one male from each family has voting authority. Typically it's the male with the closest "blood linkage" back to the ancient tribe dudes, and in our family that's my grandfather. He's totally chill, like the unofficial Dalai Lama of They, and since he's my mom's dad, I'm like his heir apparent.

"Voltaire," Uncle Alexander addressed me as he cleared his throat and reclined overstuffed in an overstuffed club chair, "very soon you will be sitting on the gentlemen's side of the room, understudy to the greatness that is your grandfather."

"As you prepare for this noble transition, I must ask, are you ready to trade in your sippy for a snifter?" he said, guffawing, which earned a token chorus of grunts and wheezes from the rest of the Old Guard gathered around the massive river rock fireplace. Apparently, he wanted to get an early jump on new member hazing.

From my uncomfortable perch seated on the arm of my grandfather's chair I flashed a grin. "Sure, though I will miss you asking me to pull your finger," I said, and I paused a moment before adding, "sir."

"Voltaire," my father snapped while the others tried to stifle their snickers.

"That boy," Uncle Alexander said, wagging the offending finger my way as he attempted a good-natured smile, "is blessed with such a quick tongue. Perhaps with age, wit and wisdom will follow."

I was about to fire back with a hairline/waistline double-snap, when I felt grandfather's hand rest on my shoulder. Hard as it may be to believe, there were times when maybe I got a bit ahead of myself, and Grandfather was always cool in helping me keep my head in check. In the blueblood circle of our tight-knit society, Uncle Alexander was about as badass as you were going to find, and it was probably a good idea for me to not, like, get all up in his grill ... the little pond's big fish splashing into his shark-infested ocean. So instead, I backed it off and offered up a good-natured, deferential smile of my own.

Satisfied that I appeared to know my place, Uncle Alexander turned back to his Old Guard brethren. "So, gentlemen, in addition to the possibility of young Voltaire taking his place at our table this time next year, so too will we be preparing to bring a new president into the White House. As we get ready for the gate to open, how are we feeling about the horse race?"

At first only the crackling fire answered, the gathered slowly considering the question as they reclined like sea otters in their lounge chairs, single malts balanced on their insulated bellies like oyster shells. Finally The German spoke, his polished, bald, priestly dome twinkling in the firelight almost as intensely as his piercing, pale eyes.

"I don't think there is much doubt this is a race but for two horses," he observed. "It is Hillary against the Republican who is the most un-George Bush. For our candidate and interests this is good, particularly because it will be a muddy track."

"Onetime," agreed The Continental, the group's Michael Douglas-handsome sociologist from South Africa. "It will be a race, and we should see a more involved electorate than ever before. Communication technology has so advanced from where we were just four, eight years ago, hey? I believe this election will just as much be won or lost in the inbox as the ballot box ... might even top 45 percent voter turnout."

"Bang on," agreed Quesnay, horned glasses perched atop his crooked nose. With a shock-top mane of white hair haloing his head in the firelight, dear "Uncle Quez," as we youngsters referred to the old Irish salt, looked more the part absent-minded English professor than global economics puppet master.

"Indeed," grunted Alexander. "Mud in the trenches is just where an old soldier feels at home."

"The trick, as always," my father interjected, "will be to keep as much dirt off our man McCain as we can through the primaries so he is fresh-faced for the general election."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from For the People by John Manrique Copyright © 2010 by John Manrique. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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