525,600 Hits ------------ The old man sat in his wheelchair and pondered the end of his life. This was an annual event he did every New Year's Eve. He knew he had less than an hour left to live, yet he could, or rather would, live another year. It was a cold night in New York, but that was typical for December. There were at least 3 million people in the Times Square Area. And they all were waiting for him, needing him. It was more than twice as many people as he needed. This particular time of year made him pause and reflect back upon his life. To try to sort things out. To figure out where he went wrong and what he got right. To try to figure out what is the most corrupting force: money, sex, power, life, or possibly some combination thereof. He mused about how he could walk away from it all. Walk away from the crowds. Walk away from the fame. Walk away from the fortune. Walk away from life. He thought about the difference between addiction and corruption, but couldn't decide which was the lesser of the two evils. Either way, he knew old habits are hard to break. Incredibly hard to break. ----------------------- He felt a cramp in his legs, or possibly just New Year's nervousness; anticipation, like a junkie waiting for the ultimate hit. After ignoring the cramp for a minute or two, he finally threw off the blanket, stood up and paced around the room a bit, stopping in front of the large window to stare out at the crowd below. He had barely been up for half a minute before one of his assistants happened to come in. His eyes followed Jeanna, a short, pretty girl somewhere in her mid-20s, who had been his loyal assistant for over 5 years. He had hired her because she was an excellent make-up artist. It was essential that he had the proper look for his adoring fans. Jeanna admonished him for getting up before she was finished, saying, "If you're not careful then you'll have just wasting the two hours I spent practicing my art on you." She added, "And besides, your hair is still not quite the proper shade of gray." ----------------------- He sat back down and looked up at her. Jeanna was a true-believer. Of all of the people doing various tasks for him, she was one of the closest in the inner circle. Others he controlled and owned through the more mundane means of money, drugs, sex, the illusion of power. Jeanna's loyalty to him was unquestionable. And it probably would remain so for another few years. She was still at the age where she could ignore most everything and focus on her naive beliefs that he really cared about her at all and would help her. She was cooing something about how this was the big night, how excited she was, and how important it would be. "Mmmmmm?" he said and then added, "Yeah, sure," dismissively. He only caught the last part of what she was saying. What little attention he could spare for her was spent admiring her chest. There were too many memories that were vying for his attention this night. ----------------------- This night always made him think about how it began, how he was sitting in a bar one night, talking to Guy Lombardo, the one who used to do his New Year's Eve gig at the Waldorf Astoria. He was a tradition. The old man recalled his words. "You're stuck in the past, Guy. That big band shtick ended over a quarter of a century ago. That era's passed. Me, I'm connected to modern music. Doesn't matter what it is, how it changes, I'm there. That's the difference between us, Guy. No offense, but you're the past. I'm the present. And if I have to change to adapt to the future, so be it. The kids know what's right." And he had been true to his word. Those were the empire building days, and he had forged quite an impressive one, both behind the scenes and as a front man. He learned that a good reputation increases in value more than gold, diamonds, land, or any material investment. And he had grown his investment wisely. Casey had a chance, but never cashed in. "You've got a golden opportunity, man! Play your cards right and you could be dining on caviar, not Scooby Snacks." But Casey was not a business man and never tried to play off of his reputation. In a way it was a pity, but the old man realized that it was probably a safer move on Casey's part. Had he posed a threat, the old man would've been forced to crush him mercilessly. Perhaps better they had only crossed paths, not swords. But the empire building days were over. There was no more land-grab and the existing empires would need to battle each other until there was only one standing. Then eventually it falls, and the cycle starts again. ----------------------- Jeanna was still talking to him about something, blissfully unaware he had not said a word to her in over five minutes. At some point, probably in another 5 years or so, she would wake up and realized the lies he told her. But there would also be the truth, what she could see with her own eyes. It would cause conflict and doubt in her pretty little face, and he would be able detect it. And then she would change from an asset into a liability. And then... He smiled up at her and said, "You know, it's amazing how talented you are, especially for a 22 year old." "26," she correct him, and his smile widened. She leaned over and kissed him on an unwrinkled part of his cheek, careful to avoid smudging her work. The true believers are always the easiest to control. She put the final touches on his hair, and wrapped the blanket back around his legs. Without saying another word, she left the room, stopping only for a moment at the door to look back and smile. She was one of the easy ones, for now. A true believer with talent, talent that can be used, is uncommon. And one with nice legs and a great set of tits is a rare find indeed. His business assistants tended to be easy to control, even ones that weren't true believers. Hire a greedy bastard and you know what his focus will be. As long as he makes money, he's loyal, or loyal enough. The ones who watched the device were also easy. They had no idea what it really did, and in the end, for anyone who spent too much time too close to it, it took care of any problems itself. For the few other duties that required a personal assistant, when greed or adoration was not there, he would fall back on the tried but true methods: sex and drugs. The music industry made it simple to obtain either, or rather to use either as a method of payment. By finding the right people with the right flaws or addictive personalities, control of them was assured. The old man had a reputation as being someone who cared about the down and out kids, someone who gave them another chance. Many times he couldn't help but laugh about it. "High-risk youths" are, essentially, disposable workers. No one thinks twice when something untoward happens to them. He expresses remorse, establishes a fund in their name, and no one presses the issue any further. ----------------------- #The drugs were there, as always. He would try to make sure that they were #obtained indirectly, so they could not be traced back to him, but he knew #the risks. Typically, any indiscretions there could be fixed with money. # #And the sex...it was laughably easy. The industry was bursting with #up and coming starlets who would "do anything" just to appear on one #of his shows, or get recommended on one of his "hot lists." And again, #it was a matter of saying, "Now look, I'm not asking you to do anything. #It's just Joey (or whoever it was that week) is feeling a bit blue. He's a #great guy and I don't know how I'd manage without him. I just thought #you two might hit it off, you both seem like good kids. It's on me." #It was that simple. The old man was clean and Joey (or whoever it was #that week) got help with his "blues." And if Joey was happy, the starlet #got a break-through hit into the top 20, which led to a contract, an #appearance on the old man's show, which boosted his ratings and power, #and so on. It all fed off itself, and everyone came out a winner. #As long as you didn't think about it too much. That's not to say that the old man never sampled the wares. While never addicted, at least to drugs, he had sampled most of what, and who, passed through. But as time went on, he discovered that the same thing that protected him against addiction tended to make the high little more than a mild buzz. It was hardly worth it. He remembered staring down into Joey's frenzied eyes. They were seeing everything and nothing at the same time. Joey was lying on the ground, convulsing in agony, blood trickling out through his mouth, nose, and ears. The old man had challenged Joey to a game of "Japanese Gauntlet." "No fucking way, 'old man.'" Joey practically spat at him. Without getting up the old man set his wallet on his desk, lifted the syringe and then took 10 times the normal dose. Later in the day, he developed a bit of a headache and had to take a nap to sleep it off. Joey's manhood was challenged by this move. He matched the dose. His heart managed to run for 3 minutes of excruciating agony before it burst, and the massive hemorrhaging made for a ghastly mess. But Joey had been getting harder to control as his drug addiction grew and he had been the old man's assistant for almost 3 years. The police spent less than 15 minutes talking to the old man, 5 of which was spent telling him how much they admired him. Both officers left with personally signed publicity photos and no further questions. ----------------------- Few of his assistants left unscathed. But that says nothing about the millions the machine affected. The old man could say that the effect on an individual was miniscule. He was not even sure it wasn't like a transfusion, where the body replenishes what was taken after a day or so, though he really didn't believe that. He figured it was permanent, and more so, that if he did something extraordinarily foolish, and needed to lay claim to those stolen moments, that he would survive but the ones that those healing moments came from would pay the price for his foolishness. All part of the great cycle of feeding. ----------------------- But none of that really mattered to him. Like how he didn't really care how the machine worked. He had looked at it and tried to make sense of it, of course. At first he spent days in the warehouse, studying it in detail and reviewing Guys notes. But he had no idea if the ancient carvings, hidden behind all those light bulbs, were Egyptian, Celtic, or some strange moon-man language. And again, it didn't really matter. The machine worked. He knew how to make it go. He knew what it gave him. He knew what it cost him. It was that simple. ----------------------- As far as he knew, there was only one device, and he was the only one that used it. At one point, 20 years ago or so, he had been concerned that others used "his" gimmick. It took a lot of persuasion before he could get any information. And in the end, it was the offer of a spot as guest host on his count-down show that finally loosened Mick's tongue (so to speak). The old man was quite relieved to find that it was just a standard deal with the devil. "To tell you the troof, mate, I've been getting pre'y bored with fings too," Mick had admitted to the old man. "The only fing that keeps me going, the only fing that stops me from using that escape clause is Keef." "You mean, your friendship with Keith keeps you going?" the old man asked. "Like 'ell it does! It's that 'e USED 'is escape clause a few decades ago! You fink 'is complexion comes from staring at a bloody computer screen?!? Poor sod . . . bof of us." ----------------------- And he thought about giving it up, every year, in fact. Walking away from it. From the job. From the whole industry. Just like Guy had. Guy had lasted almost a year on his own. But he had been 75 and in good health. The old man remembered telling Guy, "You're crazy for giving it all up, throwing it all away." Guy said, "I'm just sick of it all, the routine, the Waldorf Astoria, the works." "That's because you're out of touch. Unplug yourself from the kids of today and you wind up living in a museum. Hell, you become a museum piece. It's not the way to go." Guy didn't believe him. In a way they both were right. Both museum pieces, just different museums. ----------------------- #The coveted guest host, even the featured guest spot, were the old #man's crown jewels. An appearance could start a career or revive a #former one. Nearly 20 years after Britney's ass quadrupled in size and #her two main assets were setting on her career, an appearance on his show #had shot her "come back" album back up to the top of the charts and paid #for some much needed plastic surgery and implant maintenance. The public #bought what he told them to buy. Period. ----------------------- The old man had kept in touch. He knew the popular acts of the day from fluff to real talent. Buddy Holly. Elvis. The Beatles. Micheal Jackson. The Clash. Mariah Carey. Debbie Gibson. Tiffany. The Cure. The Police. Madonna. Britney Spears. The Beastie Boys. Kahanna Tranh. T'Wanga M'Kitna. The Step. Terri Holdington, Jr. Hell, he knew about Sushila Choi ten years ago when her "new" brand of music was nothing more than a rip off of the previous cycle of techno-latin ska with a Wubbie/Hawaiian beat added. And in truth, he preferred a classic, rocking Elvis song to anything, hands down. Keeping in touch had been one of the keystones in establishing his empire. But...had he seen it all? Or rather, did being in touch help him all that much. If it did, would he sit here every year and ponder his "option"? Did he want to keep it up or was it the fear of it all collapsing that drove him? Was it an addiction? ----------------------- He enjoyed living, even if it was at the expense of the life he stole from others. He could walk around, without his makeup and not be recognized. Just another young face in a crowd. There were no morals. He fed off people who fed off people who fed off him. One gigantic circle of snakes eating each other. That's how the world worked. It had become an annual tradition: thinking about giving it all up, but never doing so. Was it the thrill of the massive Infusion at midnight? While it was 'the strike,' as the kids would say, it wasn't everything. If it were just that, he decided, he could walk away from it. But the empire. The people that needed him. The people that used him. He was a spider -- trapped in the center of his own web. And unlike Guy, a veritable youngster at 75, he was old enough that without the Infusion his life would be measured in minutes, not months, beyond midnight. He had to admit, he'd prefer not to wither and shrivel into a rotting corpse in front of the camera in front of hundreds of millions of people around the world. Was that an addiction? ----------------------- Decision time was near. He would need to appear on the balcony soon. The answer would be the same this year as every other year: life. There was still more work to be done. Besides, there was always next year. ----------------------- I thought about that some and this is my inclination. You are correct, it's not guilt that makes him think about it. The life[force] he steals from the millions is pretty much a small sin compared to the other things he's done in his life. I think it all comes back to the addiction question. The main way he controls people is through THEIR addictions, be it money, drugs, sex, vanity (Jeanna wants to keep her youth forever, no great goals or schemes), or whatever. To him, it's a weakness, a chink in the armor. The big question then becomes, does HE have the same weakness, could someone exploit him and control him in the same way he (sometimes mercilessly) controls others. Breathing is not an addition, it's necessary for life. The same with eating (for the majority of people), even though they enjoy it. Many things work that way. If the Device is just another way he keeps living then he's no more vulnerable than if someone pointed a gun to his head. But if it's an addiction, a weakness, something that actually consumes him and redirects how he lives and thinks, what he lives for, then that is something that bothers him. He is forced to attend this ritualistic gathering of people every year. Act like a dottering old fool. Be the Queen Mum and do the royal wave. There might be other ways. A junkie doesn't have to spend a lot of time making neat little rows before doing a line of coke. The old man could probably host a few raves in the warehouse where the device is kept and in a week he'd be set for another year. But that's not the way it works. So he continues. And THAT'S what disturbs him. Guy was never like that. So he wonders, is it an addiction. Now, having just typed that in, I realize that wasn't really in the story. I hadn't really fully thought that through till now... > Perhaps end it with the actual countdown (not so far as him stepping out, > but the ball does start its descent before the final 10 seconds, I believe). Walking into the spotlights, or rather, his wheelchair coming out. > You still need a stronger explanation of what the mechanism is. You refer > to it very ambiguously--just come out and tell us that he's getting a little > juice from the ball as it falls which is drawing it from the crowd without > them knowing about it. I don't want to go into too much details, but perhaps Guy can tell him more in the bar.