The Tale of a Secretary, Interlude: Mr. Reed's Everyday Life

Prerequisites:
Committee report
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter I: Scenery of Salvation
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter II: Introduction to a Diligent Task
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter III: The Smiling Man

These anachronisms... I'm not sure how to wrap my mind around them. I mean, we have the Internets, yet no functional electrical street lights. One could almost believe that we're living in the Dark Ages, or at least some steampunk alternative reality resembling that period in history. It just doesn't make any sense. It oughtn't be this inconsistent.
Most of John Paul Reed's time was engulfed by issues like these. The great philosophical questions of the ages, the questions that any sound man ought to ask himself at least once during the discourse of his frail stay in The City.
As should be obvious to the reader, this man's unfathomable intellect eats these questions for breakfast. At this point in time however, his mind was occupied with far more worldly matters.
Damn this nastily clogged sink! Damn it to hell! I knew I should've hired a real professional instead of that old drunkard Mr. Penrose.

All extraordinary men have rather mundane moments of weakness. For all intents and purposes, this was one of them. From the immense depths of his philanthropic mind, he had chosen to give that man a fifth chance. In retrospect, it all appeared silly.
You can only do so much for someone who chooses to live by ignorance and denial.
Mr. Reed looked dejectedly at the sink and sighed. This problem did not seem to have an obvious solution. The mind, as you know, has a tendency to roam free when not explicitly and forcefully directed. His mind chose to stop at Amanda.
She has potential, she sure has. However, it's all up to her now. There are worldly decisions that need to be made continuously in order to cope with looking at reality through our piercing lenses.
Silence prevailed. The sink mocked him by staring back blindly. John appreciated the fact that it's quite peculiar how an inanimate object like a kitchen sink can seem to be so aggressive. As a man of thought and action in harmony, action came with thought antecedent.
Better call a plumber.

The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter III: The Smiling Man

Prerequisites:
Committee report
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter I: Scenery of Salvation
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter II: Introduction to a Diligent Task

The wooden chandelier swung back and forth, sometimes illuminating the three guests as well as periodically condemning them to the shadows. Like many a great past struggles between shadow and light, fortune tends to alter direction like a pendulum.
After time and again having been confronted with the vast abyss that is man's ignorance and finally submitting to it, Amanda had, following endless days of training in the utility of the sharp tools of intellectual combat, reluctantly kissed absolute certainty goodbye and finally embraced a tentativeness of mind. She was now supposedly a full-blown critical thinker.

In some ways this was a graduation celebration. Mr. Reed was however not occupied with the present; his thoughts were lingering in the past. Ever since that tragic incident involving the cold and milk-frothed coffee that resulted in the crippling of one waiter, Mr. Reed and Mr. Libel hadn't set foot inside The Brokeded Tower, or in any other of The City's taverns for that matter.
At that time, seemingly to complicate things, the City Guard's mandatory involvement couldn't be denied, but as soon as the case had been stated, they had no option but concur. We're living in a society. That's all there is to say about that. That incident however, now seemed to be ancient history.

Mr. Libel's thoughts were also wandering in the past. As fate would have it, the silly notions that we catch and ingrave as kids can come back to haunt us. Put differently, to argue for the practise of continuous reexamination helps to constantly inoculate us against falling into the pits of wishful and irrational thinking.
If he could point to the sole lesson of greatest importance in Amanda's training, it would be this: the will to believe is stronger than the will to discover truth. This is what we ought to affirm.
James was so deeply concerned with his musings that he almost forgot the reason for him being here.

* * *

The clock, it appeared, was frantically working its way toward closing time and since most of the regulars already had left, a sense of eerie abandonment lay down over the tavern floors. An exhausted waiter with drops of sweat covering his face was running errands across the room.
"Mighty fine coffee here, boy. Black as the night and strong enough to down an ox", Mr. Libel commended.
"Y-yes, Sir!", the terrified waiter hastingly replied, not even slowing down as he swerved by, just as if he was chased by something ominous.
James, apparently unaware of the cause of the waiter's distress, shrugged his shoulders and enjoyed another sip of the revered beverage, thinking that this ought to be what the gods are drinking, should they exist.

"Was that really necessary, Brother?", Mr. Reed asked.
"Was what necessary?", James replied perplexedly.
"Come on now, that poor fellow's workmate was halfway across the Styx when they resuscitated him."
"Oh, that. Point taken."
Since Amanda had nothing to relate this conversation to, she was getting excruciatingly confused.
"What was necessary again?", she asked in a puzzled way.
"Long story. Perhaps for a later time. The moral however is: Ah, I forget. Something about purity control.", John explained.
"I think I see where you getting at.", Amanda replied.
Suddenly Amanda's eyes froze in terror, focusing on a dark figure sitting at the other end of the room.

* * *

"Amanda! Amanda!", a voice called out from the darkness. "Open your eyes, Amanda!"
When she did open her eyes she saw the concerned expression on John Paul's face.
"I was having this fantastic dream. The world was so strange. I could look into everybody's eyes and recognise their warmth, their good intentions", her words floated out of her mouth in a slurring fashion just like you would expect from someone returning from the land of dreams.
"Hey, John! What's going on over there?", James cried out from a distance.
"I don't know! She must've had a seizure or something. Get the nurse!"

James ran away to get Mrs. Dobsom, the boarding school nurse. John knew from experience that Amanda was not prone to getting these kinds of attacks, so naturally he was concerned.
"What is the last thing you remember, Amanda?"
"I was running over this hill and you were behind me. Then I... fell. These pictures, they were so real. I want to believe they are..."
The clouds were gathering. The rain was about to start pouring down.

* * *

By a table in the opposite side of the tavern sat a man. A remarkably slender figure with his bony fingers resting on the table. With all her senses sharpened the only audible impression Amanda could catch was a somewhat dampened and regular breathing emanating from the man.
Since John was facing her, and the back of the chair effectively cut off James' line of sight, she was the only one who could see him. Hence she was the only one who felt his presence.
A weak lamp was suddenly lit across from where the man was sitting, partially illuminating his face. The man was smiling.

"What's wrong? Amanda!", John cried out.
She was still paralysed by the simple yet complex facial expression. After a few more seconds, she regained control of herself.
"He...", she pointed to the place where the man was sitting.
Libel and Reed leaned forward and turned around respectively. The man had evaporated.
"What do you mean? There's no one there.", James wondered.
"I swear, he was there. He... approached me once before."
"You're an attractive woman, Amanda, and surely you're old enough to handle those situatio-"
"It's not that!", Amanda cut James off.
"Well what in the gods' names is it then?", John asked impatiently.
It was a short pause during which the only hearable sounds were those of the creaking roof and the storm outside.
"Nothing. It's nothing. Let's get out of here."
The three departed without a sound. When they hit the streets, the cloaks slowly vanished into the vastness of the abysmal night.

Paranoia and me

I have on several occasions said to Mr. Libel: “I’m thinking about writing something about <random topic close to my heart at the moment>”. However, these posts (with the exception of, perhaps, ‘The Fabled Conversations’) have not been written and, subsequently, posted.
I have hitherto only published such infringing things in an obscure and unknown (except to the venerable Mr. Libel, whom I – believe it or not – gain more respect for every time we traverse ye olde paths of communication) location. One memorable quote of mine is: “Humans really are sad, pathetic and lonely creatures (I’m no exception, no matter what I say… ever…)¹”.
I can quite see why several of ‘The Great Works’ have been written by people in an altered state of mind. The human brain really does complicate things.
To break this trend² I now present to you a post that should be published.

Anyways, to reconnect with the topic of this post I shall continue by rambling about paranoia. Be warned: Here be unfounded conclusions and bias, as should be in a proper rant.

For a lack of better subjects I have experimented (by what may pass as a circumstantial accident³) with sleep deprivation on myself. Even though my findings may not be remarkable or unknown, I can only conclude that a lack of sleep do make things more entertaining. I, dear readers, succumbed to unjustified paranoia without much effort. At one previous occasion I kept myself awake for about 60 hours and experienced general signs of uneasiness of mind, as well as physical nausea. While 60 hours may be extreme, only skipping one night of sleep brings on a certain fuzziness factor and set the stage for false conclusions, like the one I drew at work one day:

I was presented with a rather mundane task of recording some conversations on a digital device and then transfer these recordings onto a computer, for my superior’s evaluation. While the recording went fine, the transferring did not. The computer responded with BSOD’s and nasty hiccups as soon as I tried to move the files to the machine. As my work is computer-related, I came to the conclusion that this was all a test set up by my employer to see how I would cope with the situation. At the time, this seemed like a perfectly rational explanation. I mean, why else would it present such a problem? It could certainly not have been the cause of bad engineering by the manufacturer of the hard- and software in question. No, no, it was all an elaborate plan to show what I really was made of. A chance to prove my worth. After enlisting the help of the technical chief, who also wasn’t able to solve the problem of the mp3-madness, I was convinced that it was an all-encompassing conspiracy of mind-boggling proportions. As far as I can remember, I nourished that idea until I was at long last let home to a wonderful date with the Sandman.
          I have also experienced and heard countless tales of mirages as a consequence of sleep deprivation. You see things that are not quite there. A tree may change into a person staring menacingly at you and that innocent shadow just passing at the edge of your sight must have been yet another of their agents.
Not only do you see and hear things that are not there, you are also not in a position to dispute these impressions since the mind is partially shut down. You register, but do not comprehend and interpret in a meaningful way what you experience. The autopilot is engaged and all you can do is follow.

Afterwards it was rather obvious that this was all a delusion created by my tired mind. Especially when I heard that several of my colleagues had the exact same problem at that the procedure was dropped for another (less technically dependent) solution.

My point here is that no matter how firm your feet are planted on the ground, your grip on reality does not matter if your mind distorts your perception of said reality and creates false premises, upon which you then forge your conclusions.
So make sure you get a good night’s rest. If you don’t, you’ll fall easy prey to them. Don’t let them sink their claws into you. Go to bed, as I will now.
Sleep well, my wingless friends.



¹ Some typos (I was really, really drunk at the time, you see) have been edited, for your reading pleasure. The conclusions one can draw from the fact that I actually wrote such things instead of, say, passing out, I leave to you, dear reader.
²I do this just to spit the Deities of Unpublished Posts in the face. May they strike me down at their leisure.
³There are so many things do to instead of sleeping that seems like a great idea at the time. Like reading a good book, to name only one example.

The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter II: Introduction to a Diligent Task

Prerequisites:
Committee report
The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter I: Scenery of Salvation


South of the shady Lower Quarters lies the Docks, where sheds, warehouses and the worst kind of taverns make up the general composition of the hubbub. Throughout its alleys this part of the City features those who belong nowhere else: Smugglers, the overly zealous, the mentally deranged along with the rapists and the murderers.
If the Lower Quarters is a cauldron of misery, then the Docks is the fire that makes the stew boil. It is also here The Club has its headquarters.
         Twixt ramshackle houses and a pub called The Brokeded Tower lays a seemingly abandoned warehouse of particular interest. Was it not for the bright green curtains, which, in fact, does little to hide the light shining from a naked bulb one might be inclined to think the place utterly deserted. In is, however, not empty…

Inside the large building Mr. Libel sat at the Table of Conversation, eyes weary from searching through the files spread out before him. The sight of the City was shut out by the new curtains. Even though Reed and Libel had inhabited this warehouse for quite some time, the office hadn’t seen any of those until very recently. There were also some plants haphazardly placed along one naked wall. If there was a system to their positions, some underlying plan, it was lost on Libel.
“Bad feng shui, indeed…”, Libel muttered under his breath.
A homely clattering of dishes was heard from the now rather clean kitchenette and the smell of fresh coffee spread through the air. At least that hadn’t changed.
Libel cursed softly as he stretched his arms above his head to ward off the stiffness. Where the hell was Reed? Libel bent down over the table again and started to move papers randomly from one pile to another. His gaze kept returning to the plants.
“Feng shui!”, he sneezed.
“God bless you”, the reply came from the door. Amanda was standing there in her maid’s clothes that she had received in a parcel for her birthday by an anonymous well doer.
“He has tendency to do that, yes”. Libel said off-handedly and threw a glance at Amanda. She was holding a tray with three filled mugs. The contents of one of them was murky white, the other two pitch black.
         Good. No milk, Libel thought.
“Where’s John?”, Amanda asked.
“Busy, apparently”.
“Oh, well, he’s not one to miss his coffee. He’ll be here soon”, she said cheerily.
“He’s not too squeamish about drinking it cold either”, Libel sourly replied.
“I’m not?”, a hooded figure remarked.
Amanda jolted by the sudden appearance and almost dropped the precious brewages. Libel sat impassively.
“You’re late”, he said.
“The Elders were fretting about this new thing that corrupts our City’s youth. The Internets, I believe it was. They don’t like it.”
“Big surprise, John. Name one thing they like that they, themselves, did not invent”.
Reed pondered this for a moment and then shrugged.
“I think things will cool down once they realize the potential of these Internets. This new phenomenon ought to have some purpose”.
This was met by solemn silence. After a moment of consideration Libel nodded and motioned for Reed to sit down with a subtle gesture of his hand.
Amanda served the coffee.
“Ah, I notice the absence of milk in two of the cups”. Reed shot a smile in Amanda’s direction. “’tis good”.
“’tis, indeed”, Libel agreed and drank the coffee.

***

In another, much nicer part of town a meeting was held. Since one cannot trust appearances, it would be unwise to speculate as to what they were. However, regardless of what delusions one can have about the origins of species, there was no doubt about the purpose of the gathering. The foul air in the library where the five men sat in expensive armchairs reeked of sinister plans and secret gambits. If there ever were conspirators, this was them. They were old as the world itself and full of evil.
“She is strong when she is with them. We cannot let them influence her”, the first man said.
“Yes, she is too important”, stated the second.
The third was silent, for such was his ways.
The fourth said: “I know how we can make them cast her out”. With a dry voice he then told them what he had in mind.
And the fifth man smiled.

***

“No, Amanda. I don’t care to listen to my horoscope”, Reed said, looking up from his newspaper. Would this woman never let him have a moment of peace? All day she had been going on about what she’d read in her infantile tabloids: Who had done what with whom and who had carried out a coup against what silly establishment. And not to forget: Who had become what with which people by means of what passed for clever wits these days.
“Oh, please. Be quiet”, Reed said. “I need to concentrate. They hide their coded messages together with the regular articles, you see. I must try to find the hidden meaning”.
“Oh...”, Amanda said curiously. “Who hides it?”.
“They”, Reed replied matter-of-factly.
“Yes, but who are they?”.
“You know… the-ey. Them… The ones who steals all the cookies”.
Amanda looked confused. Granted, she was always confused to a certain degree, but now she was truly baffled. As various states of bewilderment played across her face, her glassy-eyed stare darted across the room. It came to rest on the lilies and daffodils she had so neatly arranged along the empty wall yesterday. A firm point of reality, at last. Something she was familiar with. Something she knew. Her glazed complexion left her as she took off again.
“What do you think about the flowers?”, she asked slyly, relieved to find safe ground.
Reed, who had not paid them much attention – barely registered their presence, to be honest – shrugged.
“They’re nice, in a flowery kind of way very common to most plants.”
“Yes… but can’t you feel how the flows of energy are different? More… powerful. I placed them where they would maximize the chi from the fire element. That affects the love-life [1], you see. Oh, and I also put this figurine in the bathroom. That’s your ‘rich corner’, if you didn’t know. Which you probably didn’t.”, she added. A brief pause and then she smiled tentatively. “We must be very careful to keep the lid closed so the energy – and the money! – won’t literary go down the drain [2]!”. Amanda chuckled at her own joke.
A weary thud was heard as Reed’s head pounded down on the table.

[1] No, I did not waste effort to check the ‘proper’ facts. I chose that at random, just like the professional feng shui gurus.
[2]That one I did look up (Swedish).

Abducted!

In this post I will share with you a terrifying personal account of alien abduction. Sit back and behold the story of how a skeptic turned into a believer. Let me first assure you that I am neither crazy nor a liar. That's a false dichotomy that many non-believers use when evaluating claims like the one I am about to make. I am not crazy, so believe me when I tell you that I really believe what I'm saying. For you cynical pseudoskeptics out there¹: this is not just another story fit for the trash heap of anecdotal evidence regarding visits from outer space. This is real, so allow me to mitigate your doubts.

Let me start from the very beginning. During the day it was business as usual, with no considerable deviations from my daily routines. After a demanding day of intellectual achievements at work, I was driving home on the interstate when suddenly two blinking bright lights appeared in the distance. They were hovering at a constant distance above my car, displaying an utterly quaint behaviour.
Indeed I was startled, but my immediate conclusion was of course not that I was stalked by Visitors From Outer Space - I gave it no further thought. At that time, I would've thought that it was an airplane or something.
I glanced at the clock: it was 8 P.M., give or take a minute or two. As I arrived at my manor, I took notice of a parked car outside. It turned out to be yet another member of mine and Mr. Reed's immense and rabid female fanbase. She sat just outside the gates, holding a cute parasol and patiently awaiting my arrival. In these situations, what alternative does one have apart from granting the ladies that which they seek? Apropos, I really do have nothing against our feline stalkers.

Next thing I know, I am lying naked on my bed with a pumping and agonising headache. On my nightstand I notice a half-empty glass of bourbon and two black fishnet stockings. Placed on the same nightstand is also an alarm clock - it says 9:30 P.M.. By this time I'm starting to get the creeps.
Missing time! As I've read and seen in contemporary popular fiction, this is an undisputable sign of alien abduction. Nevertheless, as a rational person, I'm was not inclined to accept such an extraordinary explanation without good reasons. If we are to apply Ockham's razor²: A simpler hypothesis (i.e. one that does not demand that we acknowledge the existence of aliens) states that the gosurori girl roofied and took advantage of me for the sake of her own sexual gratification. This theory is also flawed, since I would have given my consent to such activities without her having to resort to introducing foreign substances into my system. Alas, both theories rest on shaky ground.

Now to the rest of the evening. I put on my dressing gown and summoned my butler, ordering light dinner to be served within the hour. After finishing this meal, I withdrew to my study and surrendered myself to the physical comfortableness of my armchair, pursuing further groundbreaking intellectual inquiries. At about 11 P.M. I decided it was time to call it a night, so I initiated the evening routines.

While brushing my teeth, I heard a damp hovering sound outside the bathroom window. The sound was succeeded by a loud thud. Could've been anything, right? At least I initially thought so. Opening the small doors of the window overlooking a large rapeseed field outside my manor, I was puzzled to see some quite consistent asymmetries in the field. I couldn't distinguish exactly what they were, yet at a distance they seemed to have striking similarities with crop circles.³ You know, like in the movie (which I haven't seen) "Signs".⁴
I shrugged it off and assured myself that I'd investigate it in the morning. Come on, crop circles, only lunatics believe in extraterrestrial explanations for that shit, right? Since there historically have been numerous of instances of fraud when crop circles appear⁵, I felt somewhat reassured by my in my opinion sound skeptical stance.

Slamming the window shut, cursing the idiocy of such absurd beliefs, I went straightly to bed, looking forward to a long and undisturbed night's sleep. As is normal after a long day of arduous work, I dozed off quickly, travelling deeper and deeper into the land of the Sandman. I don't know the exact duration of the sleep, but I suddenly woke up paralysed, sensing an unknown (evil?) presence in the room.
To my horror, I saw that surrounding me were three small green, or possibly grey, men. Their terrible, huge eyes were staring at me and I was unable to even slightly move any given limb of my body.⁶ I tried to scream, but couldn't produce a sound. It was easily realizable that these men were indeed of alien origin, possessing what to us would seem to be powers derived from ESP^7,8, as they telepathically ordered me to "calm down, Earthling, you are in no danger".
After that I must've blacked out, because the next thing I can remember is lying in a pool of sweat on the floor next to my bed. The clock was now 5:22 A.M.. More missing time! Put together, all of these events seemed very unlikely to be purely coincidental.

As you would gather, I couldn't go back to sleep. Still in a state of panic, I gave Mr. Reed a ring, effectively waking him up. Surly as he is when woken up, he wouldn't at first listen to my amazing story, but after he realised the seriousness of the situation, he was all ears.
I tried to explain the experience as coherently as I could, but the memories were so vivid and frightening that I couldn't quite make sense of them. As I hung up the telephone, I remembered something. When I previously had researched alleged occurrences of alien abduction, I came across a few methods that abductees use to regain their lost (possibly erased) memories.
One of these methods is known as regression hypnosis, a form of hypnotherapy⁹ also prominently used to uncover the mysteries of past lives. No matter how dubious these practices are and no matter how much heat and discredit they've received from the Establishment, now was not the time for skepticism. All evidence appeared to converge to a sole possible conclusion - abduction by alien lifeforms.

Rummaging through the telephone book, I had no trouble finding a licensed hypnotherapist. This one even specialised in cases of lost/missing/suppressed memories! Since I was desperate to find out what had really happened to me I insisted on seeing him right away. In spite of the shameless pricing for his services ($25 a minute), I decided to book a 2 P.M. appointment.
When I arrived at his office, strangely enough located in the shabby district of Lower Quarters, I was excessively impressed by all the fancy diplomas hanging on the wall behind the desk in his reception. Couldn't quite make out what they were saying, though, but it was abundantly clear that this was a certified and cultivated man.
The therapist began swinging a pendulum in front of my eyes, while instructing me to take deep breaths. This procedure supposedly helps me to access my subconscious, releasing my consciousness from the oppressive grip of reality¹⁰, in order to tap into my inner potential, etc.

"I want you to travel back in time to last night. Try to remember the cause of your frightening experience. What do you see?"
"I remember waking up in terror. It's so unreal, almost like in a dream."
"But you're not dreaming, are you?"
"Well, I suppose not... Yes, it's real."
"You feel frightened and can't move. How many entities are standing by your bed?"
"I... well... three."
"What are they doing to you?"
"They're... doing weird things to me. I'm lifted by a bright beam."
"Are they abducting you?"
"Aboard a ship. A magnificent technological creation. I remember now. I see other people. They are being probed."
"Time's up. You may awaken from the trance when I snap my fingers. That'll be $300."¹¹
"Thank you, thank you! I feel so vindicated."
"You're welcome, back."

The doctor subsequently informed me about a abductee group therapy session. I haven't attended it, but I'm positive that getting involved with like-minded individuals will elucidate my vague memories. I wasn't aware that these things were so common!
At this point I submit that it wouldn't be controversial to call me crazy, but can you call a professor crazy? Pulitzer Prize-winning Professor John E. Mack¹² of the acclaimed Harvard Medical School was a believer up till his untimely death in 2004.¹³
The circumstances surrounding his fatal accident still remain clouded with controversy. Some Ph.D. conspiracy theorists have argued that they silenced his controversial voice. I fear that the same fate may soon befall me. In that case, this post is my living will. Should I perish from unnatural causes, you must make this fact known to the world.

Misguided skepticism will not change reality. In reality the fact is that they are already here. What is now crucial is action. It's obvious that they (and they) have infiltrated major governmental positions. It's also clear that the popular maxim trust no one is pivotal for survival in this day and age, where technology runs amok and the only electable people are pathological liars and traitors to their fellow citizens. To save ourselves, we must unveil the truth.
The first step is to protect yourself. Obtain a tin-foil hat if you do not yet have one. Their shielding effect against the spy satellites' mind controlling rays have been scientifically proven.¹⁴
We must organise. Meet me behind the shed in two nights after the next full moon. May the power of the tin-foil hat be with you.

Notes:
1. Suppressedscience.net, "Some notes on Skepticism" (link)
2. The Skeptic's Dictionary, "Occam's razor" (link to entry)
3. Ibid., "Crop Circles" (link to entry)
4. The Internet Movie Database, "Signs" (link)
5. Scientific American, August 2002, "Crop Circle Confession" (online article)
6. The Sleep Well, Stanford University, "Sleep paralysis" (link)
7. The Skeptic's Dictionary, "ESP" (link to entry)
8. Ibid., "Telepathy" (link to entry)
9. BBC Health. Category: Healthy living -> Complementary medicine -> Therapies -> Hypnotherapy (link)
10. A social construct, according to some deluded people.
11. Podgor, Ellen S., 1999, Criminal fraud, American University Law Review, Vol. 48 (link to pdf article)
12. Ufopsi biography on John E. Mack (link)
13. John E. Mack Institute, "Passing of Dr. John Mack" (link)
14. Rahimi et al., 2005, On the Effectiveness of Aluminium Foil Helmets: An Empirical Study, Massachusetts Institute of Technology. (link)

This week's featured "The Simpsons" quote: The Springfield "Angel" Controversy

In an episode of the TV show "Smartline", featuring Lisa, about the recent Springfield "Angel" controvercy:

Kent Brockman: Miss Simpsons, how can you maintain your skepticism despite the fact that this thing really looks like an angel?
Lisa: I just think it's a fantasy, if you believe in angels, why not unicorns, sea-monsters and leprechauns?
Kent: Oh, that's a bunch of baloney, Lisa, everyone knows that leprechauns are extinct!

Source:
SNPP, Internet's finest resource on information related to "The Simpsons"

The Tale of a Secretary, Chapter I: Scenery of Salvation

Prerequisites:
Committee report


"'Tis a foreboding sky tonite, my dear Brother", the first cloaked figure remarked.
"Quite so. The City has long since crossed over from damp hope to quiet despair - and to this no signs of halt have appeared. We are merely Watchers", the second character deadpannedly echoed back.
In silent agreement and without a nod of acknowledgement the two figures continued the promenade down the reeking and dimly lit streets of Lower Quarters. These parts of town have for as long as people can remember been inhabited by the outcasts, the junkies, and those of extreme faith. In other words: a social cauldron with just the right ingredients for the cooking of misery, the very sort of cuisine these quarters are famous for.

* * *

Because night already has fallen, the streets are virtually empty. The dull people leave, whilst the more interesting and nocturnally active fellows prepare to seize the streets. This is their part of town, and their hour of the day. To combat the darkness, sporadic lanterns are being lit haphazardly along the sides of the streets, barely illuminating anything, as the dealers and whores prepare to make their living.
"We see this so clearly every day", he once again remarked, as if to instigate conversation. "This is what we are, mere consumers of mind-altering substances and the warmth of female bosom. Slaves to our brains".
"Yes, and will continue lest the world ends tomorrow. Perspective is so rare."
"I know, and as champions of reason, when we quit and submit, we, or rather, our cause dies."
"Perspective, so to speak. Know the things that make you tick. Relaxed control. We've been through this before. The principle-"
"Guard heart from stone, yes", the first figure closed the conversation.
Once again silence. Not the quote-unquote awkward kind, just plain cozy, clean sentience.

* * *

The two figures took a right on Central St. and continued the stroll down the connected Craft St. (colloquially referred to as Scoundrel Alley, because of the prevalence of certain kinds of street dealers). Sitting alone on the gutter was a young woman in a dirty and ripped knee length dress, decorated in black lace. She wore a hat and a small parasol was lying next to her. There was definitely something Victorian about her style. She was not older than twenty years old, but her face bore witness to timeless toil.
"James", the first figure exclaimed in a soft voice. "I think I recognise that girl from somewhere".
The girl's catatonic stare was not broken by the two characters approaching her. It was as if she had fled someplace. Perhaps herself was the only safe place for the time being.
"I can't quite put my finger on it, J.P.", Mr. Libel responded.
It grew abundantly clear that seeing her there was so out of context that to clearly correlate her face with memories of past experience was a task too unprepared to undertake in an instant. They stared at the girl for the duration of a subjective eternity. Suddenly, it struck Mr. Reed: She was the girl from the boarding school that he and James had attended some ten years back in time. A decade had passed, yet he could once again undress her naive eyes and see that not much had changed on the inside. Naked, simplistic, and still beautiful. And wasted, it seemed.

* * *

"Amanda?", John Paul tried to establish contact, hardly penetrating the sound of her heavy breathing. She had clearly done some running.
Of the few vivid recollections that John could make, what stood out most clearly about her past was that she had been orphaned at an early age, later to be placed under the ward of one of The City's finest nobility. What on Earth could have happened to her?
"The men... the men... they're... cmomning", she panted pertubatedly.
"Cmomning?", James wondered.
"Who, Amanda? Whom is it that you say are coming?", John said in a sympathetic voice.
"The-ey", she pointed to the end of the street.
Three distinct figures were approaching from the south. Dressed in black and without uttering a sentence they unflinchingly walked closer.
It did not take a long time for James to put two and two together.
"Don't tell me they're selling you as a gosurori prostitute?", he made no effort to hide his exasperation.
She started sobbing. The men were now just ten feet away. James looked over to John for confirmation. A nod of agreement was all that was needed.

* * *

"I see you gents have taken quite a shine to Sweet Princess. Tell you what, you can have her the entire evening for 200", the hugest of the three proposed.
A couple of seconds passed.
"How about", James said, "we take care of her, and you simply turn around and walk away. No charge"
The man altered his smug expression to that of an uneasy one. Turned to his fellows, and bursted out in laughter.
"I see you haven't realised the predicament that you've put yourself in", he replied after regaining his self-control.
"Don't bring a knife to an intellectual gunfight", J.P. warned.
The fat one signalled to his men and they started to approach the duo from each side, as he himself advanced from the front. James fingered the blackjack that he had kept hidden in his belt all along. Without further warning, he released the blackjack and made a fierce attack, knocking one of the goons unconscious. The second goon, barely comprehending what was taking place, was soon knocked out by one of John Paul's swift elbows to the back of the neck. The man collapsed like a house of cards. The leader of the pack froze in his footsteps.
"Please! You don't understand! I was sent by them!", the despicable man exclaimed.
James took two fast steps forward and swung the back of the blackjack into the man's diaphragm. The man fell to his knees, gasping for air.

* * *

John Paul lifted the man by his collar, slapped him in the face repeatedly, and screamed:
"Who sent you? Answer me or there will be hell to pay!"
"Th-they"
"Who are they!?"
"I don't know! I don't know. Please, don't hurt me! There was this man, see. Told me to take the girl, and then to find you and..."
"Find us and WHAT?", John roared.
"Teach you a lesson"
John gave another greeting to the man's gut. The man once again struggled for air.
"I promise. I never saw the man's face. He was dressed in all black", the pitiful man tried to save his skin.
John threw the man to the ground, gave him a kick to the pelvis and screamed:
"Tell them that we will never cave in and abandon the enlightenment! Now get your sorry fucking ass out of my sight"
The man ran like there was no tomorrow. Soon he was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

John returned to the gutter where James had started checking up on Amanda.
"Please, take me away from here", she whispered.
They helped her up on her trembling legs.
"Don't worry. We'll take good care of you", James assured her.
With one arm around the mens necks for support she staggered down the street.
"Thank you", she said in a soft voice.
As they slowly walked down the street, the lonely shadows played with the parasol left behind.