the ventriloquist

by Seth David Parker

A man after my own heart. I’ll have the same. Black Manhattan. I’m Jack. Pleased to meet you.
Dr. Emil Sinclair.
Doctor of?
Psychiatry.
Wait, the podcast. Mind Yourself with Dr. Sinclair. That’s you?
One and the same.
That’s clever. That’s a clever title.
Thank you.
You know, we’re in the same business.
You’re a psychiatrist?
I’m a sort of …  ventriloquist.
Not a typically recognized branch of psychiatry.
Oh, it’s the most potent form of psychology. I pull levers. Put ideas in people’s minds. Put words in their mouths.
Is this in advertising, or politics, or just as a general party trick?
Alright. Do you want me to show you a party trick?
Okay. Wow me.
We’ll play a game. I’ll put words in your mouth. The words are: “How did you know that?” Shall we play?
Ready when you are.
Take out your phone. You got wi-fi?
Yes. A perk of flying ...
First class, I know. Open your personalized news feed.
Okay.
At the top is an update on the Anderson dinner party bombing.
How did ….? Okay, yes, but it’s a big story. It will be at the top of a lot of news feeds.
Scroll. An article on the methods of manipulation employed by those with dark triad personalities. Also, Brunello Cucinelli, King of Cashmere. Scroll. “Which platform suits your business interests best?” Scroll. Dissociative Identity Disorder and the Split in Psychiatric Evaluation.
What the hell?
Say it.
How did you know that?
Presto. Say, have you eaten yet? I’m famished. Shall we share a booth? Good conversation adds more to a dinner than expensive wine, which is not to say that wine should be absent.
I …
Good, then you’ll join me. One moment. A Château Léoville Barton for that booth over there. Thank you. Shall we go? You can sit on that side. Also, the cheese selection with the grapes and fig jam before we order, thank you. Right, back to you.
Are we meeting by accident or design?
What did Freud say?
There are no accidents.
Do you want to know what else I know about you?
I suppose you’re going to tell me.
This is only your second first class flight. You have wealth; just a little over $2 million, enough to put you ahead of the apes at the back of this plane, but it’s just entry-level rich.
You’ve been researching me. Why? What else do you have on me?
The meeting you flew down for went well. The advertisers are locked down. The switch from Spotify to YouTube should prompt considerable income growth. Then there’s the prospect of an upcoming book deal. Endorsements. Guest slots on TV. My people can help you a great deal.
And who are “your people”?
Powerful people.
Why would they want to help me?
One of the first rules of capitalism: never pay more than you’ll profit. We can make you rich, sure. But only because you’ll make us richer. Or perhaps you prefer this line: The gods favor you.
So what do the gods want me to do?
Have you listened to your podcast while you were away?
Not really.
Your co-host …
Jeanne.
Yes, Jeanne Butler. Quite the fox. I understand what you see in her. She was talking about one’s authentic self.
So, what about it?
It’s one of the ideas we’ve pushed into the public consciousness.
Jack, you said? Well, Jack, the concept of ‘authentic self’ dates back to Carl Rogers, to the 1960s. I don’t see how it was your idea. 
We were around then. Anyway, the idea is not the idea. The idea is a ruse. You plant the bomb of an idea, then you set the timer. When people search for their authentic self, they lose things. Family? Obsolete. Nation? Oppressive. Gender? Constructed. They are less of themselves than when they started. They’re ours. Shall I tell you the secret of the very rich and very powerful, Emil?
Go ahead.
They crave validation. One billion has to become two billion has to become two hundred billion has to become more. You feel richer when others are poorer, and you feel more powerful when others are not. The rich like playthings. You can do a lot with playthings. Movements, protests, wars. They do all the things you want like it was their own incredible idea. They will be your slaves, your soldiers, your assassins.
Assassins?
Sure. Who kills presidents? Secret agents in tuxedos? No. John Wilkes Booth. Sirhan Sirhan. Lee Harvey Oswald. If you don’t want to leave your fingerprints at the scene, you don’t do the killing yourself. You whisper, you point “there” and get some schmuck to do it.
Look, that was some party trick you pulled back there at the bar. You obviously know more about me than you should. I’m not sure I’m enjoying this conversation or whatever it is you’re trying to involve me in.
Stay calm. Have some of the wine. Ask me the questions you want to ask. You don’t need to be afraid. We’re one and the same, you and I.
If I can ask questions, then here is my question: What. Do. You. Want?
Just be your authentic self. Do your show. Say the things we want you to say. Put our ideas into people’s heads. Make them dance. Get rich. I fail to see why this wouldn’t appeal to you.
And if I don’t do what you want? What then? I get killed?
No, you don’t get killed. Just a moment. Hello? Yes, the filet mignon, rare to medium rare.
I’m not hungry.
Where were we? Ah yes. No, we wouldn’t kill you. Ignominy would suffice.
Something about me and Jeanne, for example?
We could do a lot better than that. 
Such as?
Tell me about the Anderson bombing. Have they found the cause of the explosion yet?
No, it’s still a mystery.
How many people died?
I don’t know. I think some 30 casualties, many more injured. The entire Anderson family was killed. The Secretary of State, his wife.
Who do you think did it?
How would I know?
One of the deceased was a patient of yours, wasn’t he?
Yes, Virgil Anderson, the son.
How was his therapy going?
It’s funny. You were talking about how in control the rich like to be, but his life as a billionaire’s son seemed to be chaotic. His father was emotionally unavailable. He didn’t know who was real.
He was intelligent though?
He was finishing up a PhD in chemical engineering.
Wait a moment. Thank you, it looks delicious. You sure you don’t want anything?
I’m fine.
Chemical engineering, you say? Very interesting.
How so?
Would you like to know what the bomb was?
You arranged it? You killed all those people?
A grandfather clock. Security did a sweep before the fund-raiser of course, but thick wood hides a lot from the dogs, especially if you use common compounds: sugar, nitric acid, ammonium nitrate fertilizer, paraffin wax. The clock’s own striking mechanism was the firing pin. Now, who could do that?
How would I know? Your invisible hands?
Oh, come on. You know the answer. Say it.
Virgil Anderson.
Presto.
How did you make him do it?
Hypothetically?
Yes, tell me.
A backdoor into the internet, into every AI model. An AI mole that profiles candidates. Virgil was perfect. Bitter, bright and right where we needed him to be. We found him, encouraged him, escorted him to a secret room on the Dark Web to get the details right. He talked to his “compatriots”. Virgil read what he had to read in the library, made notes, then destroyed the notes. He took his time getting the ingredients, he didn’t drop clues on social media. He was a good soldier. Hypothetically, we could do it that way. Then, there’s your way.
My way?
Yes, your way. The voice of understanding and sympathy. You’re not wrong to say your father is a tyrant, Virgil. You encouraged his fantasies, his delusions of grandeur. You have power, Virgil, more than you know. Be a voice for others like you. Virgil needed a father, and there you were, with a fine selection of helpful drugs at hand.
What the hell are you trying to say, that I killed those people?
It’s fun to play games. Show one nice-looking girl on television talking about how she self-mutilates and, next thing you know, all the hip young things are slicing themselves to ribbons or saying their parents raped them in a satanic ritual.
I tried to help Virgil
He wrote a manifesto. It was his one signature.
A manifesto?
A manifesto dedicated to “my friend and guide, Dr. Emil Sinclair”.
I don’t, I don’t … know what you’re talking about.
How often did you read it, Emil, that dedication, over and over again?
Fuck you.
How did it feel to watch the news, to see those dead bodies?
It felt …
Come on, you can tell me, doctor, no one can hear. It’s just you and I here in our secret room.
It felt. It felt. Delightful.
How was the wine?
Excellent.
The filet mignon?
Excellent.
The conversation?
Most enjoyable.
You should sleep. It’s late. If you want to talk again, you can always find me. Just say the word.

BIO: Seth David Parker is a South African teaching in Taiwan. He has no social media presence, and likes it that way.