Have you ever entered a pub or a bar for simply a cold beer to quench your thirst and down the other end of the bar is a small group of people, all huddled around one man who is telling a story? The words he used were mesmerising even though all there knew there wasn't a truthful word being spoken. It is the rhythm and narration technique being used, which draw you in. He'd swear on his honour, that every word he utters is true, may God strike him down if they aren't.
The following story, I swear on my honour, is true, may God strike me down if it isn't.
Who am I? Think of me as your confessor if you are in that church, or the closest friend you've ever had, someone who you have known intimately since almost birth. The co-resident within the privacy that other people believe they have in their own thoughts. They don't but you're the only individual I have allowed to realise this. You, unfortunately for your own mental state, know otherwise, don't you?
What am I?
I am your worst nightmare personified.
You have no secrets from me as I read your thoughts as you have them. I observe all your deeds and misdeeds, which sometimes gets a little confusing for me. You are anything but logical or efficient in your thought patterns.
Why you? Good question, as I can do this to anyone.
You live near; below my lair. Accounting to my personal taste You are attractive. Think of yourself as my employee and hobby, something to keep me occupied when I'm not pursuing my profession.
That would be too easy.
Later, much later, we will discuss my Profession.
You've been coming to my lair for some eighteen months or so, and only now have I allowed you to realise that this isn't voluntary. You've done as I always have you do. You follow me around. You observe my habits, my needs and preferences, in a monkey see, monkey do, form of education.
As is my wont, I have not allowed you the freedom to fear, just to observe until, to your utter surprise, you understand that I have not done any of the terrors you were expecting.
Your late husband thought you were having an affair and that bus was only a happy happenstance as he began his violent episode. Or, that is, his latest violent episode anyway. Six months of marriage have made you realise that having me in here with you, is not necessarily a bad thing, just occasionally embarrassing and awkward.
I do know you; I know everything about you. I allow you to have that embarrassment because the embarrassment suits my purpose and helps you feel in control.
The others now see you as new young widow with healthy finances. The jackals are circling. The jackal can't see into your inner being and know they will be less than they were if they attempt what they have in mind.
I realise you think you are insane. What else would someone believe who has full conversations, verbal actions and reactions, questions and answers, sparing repartee with ripostes, within their own mind with a total stranger. But I'm not a total stranger ... am I? I have allowed you the freedom of questioning my presence but not fearing it.
You call me Sir.
I have what I think of as my radar, sweeping around my peripheral boundaries as I enter the office building within which I hold court. That radar is selective, as too many voices and visions would send anyone insane, so I have learnt to pick and choose with selective key words and visions only taking my interest. Ian Fountain, the security officer for my building, has detected evidence of an intruder entering into the securely locked rear entrance. I scan for an unwarranted presence within my viewing range, and find him secreted in the basement which is near the periphery of my effective range. He is expecting to hide until tonight and take the opportunity to ransack the business operation of all its secrets. He is a computer hacker of the first degree ... or that is what his mind is telling me he believes he is. He is self-employed and working under contract for someone who he believes is government security, either ASIO or maybe even he thinks, the CIA, who is taking an interest in this organisation, an up and coming concern; which no one has any record of it being created and its management has no solid stable, or traditional roots. That, alone, is cause for alarm in 'certain places'.
In addition, the management itself seem to be all talented rebels who have suddenly gone straight, without any logical explanation. There is no money, physically, in an operation such as this, as this is simply the conduit with which my income flow enters the local economy.
The hacker I might find useful. Instead of giving him a lobotomy I selectively format his frontal lobe and place him as my computer expert guarding from future attempts, inroads, shall we say, into what is no one's business but my own. He will operate directly under the auspices of Fernando Lopez, my computing manager.
The hacker has told me who his contact is, so we as a team, including Ian, will go visit that contact in the near future and close this enquiry source down; permanently.
I'll have payroll give Mr. Fountain a bonus and another employee who will walk the floor under his guidance looking for any other weakness within the building's security. Where there is one problem, there will be others.
We'll let the attackers, per se, discover our weaknesses for us and repair what is found, as they're found. My radar usually hunts them out but that is the reason the hacker is now my employee; after all, why have a dog and bark yourself?
The people in my employ, no matter who, or what, they think they are, are in reality just the clerks and general labourers to save me the time and trouble of doing the manual labour myself; human high school grade calculators, if you will, rather than top quality computers.
I don't have the Grand Office in the one hundred and eighty ninth floor of this building of mine. The display of wealth many would expect of someone with the powers I am privileged to own is not there.
I have the ability to tell all around me that I am not here, or there, if you must be pedantic, however the truth is that my powers are limited in the distances I have to perform what I do, so I am the office cleaner; allowing me to be all over the building and not be seen, being a lowly paid elderly nonentity. No one suspects the lowly, underpaid cleaning person.
My grand office is a little larger than the average broom cupboard, its main use. There are a dozen nonentities of this type within my employ and I, myself am not rostered into the company operations themselves, not even the cleaning ones.
Half of the night cleaners are now under the auspices of the hacker, as that was his first idea after his Suitable Modification He thought then spoke the thought aloud.
He is going to be an excellent employee even if he had a side thought that he can pull extra money from payroll as he has suddenly doubled his workforce with an unpleasant, though factual, thought of his management. Not me, however. I am his friendly nonentity, the cleaner. He's a venal little being but nothing if not inventive; so petty when he has so many better opportunities to gain income for doing very little. Even if I won't let him do those things.
Sir, if I'm going to be with you whenever you're home can I remain here full time rather than being in the flat?
Sir, I am here all day without anything to do, other than a small amount of housework. Is there something constructive you can give me to do?
She ... we'll call her Sally shall we, not her name, but it is a name with which to designate her humanity by; Sally met a woman today as she was doing a shop for groceries. As she looks on herself as my housekeeper, she shops for both of us. It would make her a very wealthy housekeeper even in her own mind and even I must eat, and frankly I'm a grub in the matter of my own house and personal upkeep.
The woman Sally met today is a few years older than her, most everyone is. Sally is only seventeen. They begin talking on what would seem to be an off chance meeting and Sally invited her home for a coffee. Her mind, Sally's mind, said you need company and you are alone most days, all day.
This is true but by my choice.
This visitor, this 'chance' acquaintance, keeps bringing the subject of conversation around to Sally's neighbour who lives above her in the mansion, whilst she occupies the basement floor, which is odd for this country. Basements are almost exclusively in commercial properties.