The Material, the Commercial, and the Purity of Greed

Sean Durbin / senior

A barrage of droplets from the sky meet the concrete; a man wearing a bright yellow acid coat dodges the rain as it melts the sidewalks. His face is clean-shaven and his silvery hair is caught by the soft glow of a street lamp–his emerald eyes dart from left to right as he dashes across the road, the sound of distant cars music to his ears. He stops suddenly and stares at the dark gray sky–he sees the blinding light of the New Moon, a beautiful man-made display created to replace the lackluster natural moon of the past. Instead of a useless surface of rock, the New Moon stands as a shining example of industrialization, providing billions with internet and reception all over the planet. The man wonders what the sky looked like when it was marred by the ugly crater-filled orb of the past–how unfortunate people were before the days of the Syndicate when nature was left unregulated by man and areas were left barren of modern technology for no reason at all rather than to preserve their “beauty”--after

all, what is more beautiful than human ingenuity?

It is difficult to imagine a world where every city does not look identical, plastered with billboards, neon signs, and smog-spewing vehicles. He quickly dismisses this thought and continues to speed through the rain.

At last the man arrives home; his mailbox reads “John-18934 & Jane-17546 Smith” in shining gold symbols. His name is one of his greatest prides, for when a citizen reaches the age of 18, they shed their birth name and buy a new name from the Register and an accompanying number. Each number costs the buyer a fortune, the first indicator of a citizen’s prestige to all being how high of a number they are able to purchase if any at all. Those unable to afford a new name are forced to keep their natural name, an embarrassing stamp of their inferiority. John-18934 struggles with the door handle before it finally gives in and he stumbles in; his home is filled with objects of all shapes and sizes, the majority of which he cannot name or even describe. All that matters is that he owns them; John-18934 will boast to his friends of his worldly possessions, and they will marvel at his superiority: the worth of an individual, as everyone knows, is directly related to their material possessions rather than any arbitrary indicator such as “good character” or “actions” as they were in the Old Age. He takes off his acid coat and hangs it to dry by the door and sits down in his most valuable chair; he reaches over to grab his standard Syndicate-provided book: A History of the World by the illustrious leader of the Syndicate, Thomas M. Peters. He flips to his favorite passage and starts to read:

“Before the days of the Syndicate, humanity lived divided with no voice to guide them; there was no consensus on any issue and productivity had permanently stalled due to an obsession on what was “right” over what was most profitable. A reckoning was needed to save the people from their idle concerns and unite them under the purest Doctrine: materialism. And so, the Syndicate formed, a gathering of major corporations across the world with the sole goal of bringing this concept to fruition; they spread their message on every form of communication possible–and the world united behind these saviors. As the Syndicate declared the world an organized anarchy, they released the principles that guide our society today:

1. Taxes are abolished.

2. The success of the individual is the sole responsibility of the individual.

3. Possessions are the purest indicator of superiority.

4. The Earth’s resources are rightfully that of humanity”

John-18934 sighed as he closed the book; he called out to his wife by her nickname in his natural monotone: “46?” His wife appeared in the doorway; she had long black hair that fell to her shoulders and dancing indigo eyes that sparkled in the lamp light–but her most attractive quality, the reason why he married her, was her wealth. While many others had to settle for a spouse of a lower wealth bracket, John-18934 counted himself lucky to wed a woman of as high a status as he held.

“Yes, 34?” she replied, gently shifting her weight from foot to foot; 34 thought she seemed different today, like she was withholding something from him.

“I wanted to see if you heard the news today; the leading members of the syndicate have increased their wealth two-fold this year,” 34 recounted with a touch of enthusiasm in his voice.

His wife’s expression remained blank to his surprise, and he motioned for her to sit down next to him. “Is something wrong?” he asked. 46 hesitated for a moment, as if she was afraid of what she was about to say, before reluctantly starting to speak.

“Today...today I saw a homeless child. She hid from me as all the inferiors are supposed to, but, for some reason, I stopped,” 34 showed no indication of being fazed in the slightest and simply leaned back in his chair as his wife continued. “She looked so helpless, so pitiful. I laughed at first, knowing that her failures were her own fault and that she got what she deserved for her laziness. But then, something came over me, a sensation I have never felt before. I started to...” she paused for a second as if regretting what she was about to say next. “I started to sympathize with the girl. And then I did something that I am ashamed of. 34, I gave her money.” l Etched on the Head of a Pin

34 just stared back at her, saying absolutely nothing. His wife was an anti-materialist, the sworn enemy of every supporter of the New Age; she had blatantly defied one of the principles he lived his life by everyday. She was the one person he thought he could trust, who would never betray him; and now, like so many before her, she had chosen the wrong path. He clasped her pale hand and a single tear ran down his cheek, falling to the floor.

“You know what I have to do,” was all he said. His wife only nodded and buried her face in her hands. 34 slowly stood up and walked over to the phone, gently pressing the numbers 2-9-9 for the first time in his life–he then said one word into the receiver: “Compromised”. He heard a click and hung up the phone–he counted to ten as he waited before he heard a vigorous knock on the door. 34 walked to the door and opened it–in front of him stood six men dressed in black armor with the yellow letters SES printed on their breastplates: Syndication Enforcement Support. He nodded to them and they entered his house, handcuffing his wife and leading her out the door. She did not shed a tear as she was escorted outside, and did not even flinch as the rain burned her skin. One officer lingered for a second.

“You’ll be notified when her re-education is complete,” was all he stated; he then turned around and left 34 standing alone. 34 remained still for a minute before returning to his chair. He gazed out his window as the soft patter of the rain gently lulled him to sleep.