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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Ideas / Discovery / Opinions
- Published: 01/25/2018
My best friend, Mr. X. The Final Chapter.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United StatesBloggers of all types, some with more than a million followers, some with only five, but still they were standing side by side. Along and among them, every major News Outlet in the world. All of the jostling to get as close to the Podium as they could.
Security was tight around the podium- a ring of SWAT police made a human moat about six feet from the podium. Behind the podium stood the private body guards of the Mayor, Governor, and both Senators from that State. Nobody wanted to miss this Press Conference, nor did they want anything to happen to the person about to speak. Secret Service had been detailed to him a week ago, when he said he would ”Go Public” on the following Monday.
The Hackers, Trolls, and Self Righteous Christians were the most vocal part of the crowd. They had signs, slogans, sayings, with enough venom and vile in both their body language and their voices to raise the hackles on any decent human being. They had brought down the mighty, the kind, the caring, and it made them Superior. They reveled in their power to be petty.
A larger part of the Crowd though, was made up of people that Mr. X actually helped. Some in big ways, with start up Capital or real property in excess of millions of dollars, others with just a washer and dryer, four new tires, or even bus fare. There were thousands of folks in that group, from every segment of Society, and every Nationality too. Mr. X did not see skin color, education, or financial status, he saw folks that needed just a nudge, or a smidgen of help, to find, follow, or fix their dreams.
Suddenly, it was Noon. Anticipation replaced anxiety as the crowd grew still, quiet, like the green sky before a tornado signaling a deathly stillness. Like that green sky, it was the harbinger of things out of our control. Or at least … his.
The door opened to the portico, and out strode a big mahogany haired man with giant hands. He was not yet thirty in years, but more than a hundred in age. He moved with a seriousness that was bound to the weight of sadness he carried. Sadness caused not by him, but by the small vocal group that just couldn’t stand kindness and equality. They had brought him here, this day, to reveal who he really was.
Smug does not convey enough pettiness to state how a few mean and shallow people, and Public Opinion, had shaped a life of charity into some kind of evil shell game concocted for his amusement alone. Spite is what they twisted into every tweet, blog, posting, or Blog. Yet spite was spit only from their lips, not his.
A few of the more vitriolic rabble tried to boo and berate the big man with mahogany hair and giant hands- uttering ugly, untrue, ungracious comments bereft of even a hint of truth or understanding. The big man just looked at them, not saying a word, as his eyes surveyed them. One by one they saw that look, wilting like mold in sunlight, his gaze was open, honest, filled with a pity that they felt as a palpable judgement on their lives and souls. They looked down, or away, in an effort not to see themselves.
The big mahogany haired man with giant hands placed himself at the podium and began:
“Most of you know me as Mr. X’s personal aide. A few of you (and he pointed towards the rabble that tried to represent themselves as reasonable people- and failed) did not like not knowing who Mr. X was. Mr X never wanted to be known. He just wanted to make a difference. So he did.
I am Mr. X.“
The rabble babbled. Jeers and smirks peppered their: “You conned us all. You are a cheat, a con man, an impostor.” The SWAT team notched their senses to full alert. They weren’t worried about anyone attacking the big mahogany haired man, they were worried that the large peaceful contingent of the crowd, the majority of it in fact, the ones that actually were helped by Mr. X- was starting to gel into a cohesive mass. One that looked at the rabble babble with a growing intent to do something to stop the rabid diatribes.
It was starting to dawn on the Trolls, the tweeters, the Bloggers, the Fake News makers, that the Truth was gathering to remove the rocks that the petty self righteous arrogant unforgiving had slid out from under. The guise of truth was about to meet the Truth- en masse. Even the dimwitted (which was most of the rabble babble) could sense that righteousness was rapidly replacing self righteousness in large numbers.
Fear, the weapon they used to bring down Mr. X, was now growing in them. People were taking their pictures, marking down their Social Media monikers- it was beginning to dawn on the rabble babble, so proud of itself just moments ago, to realize that people in glass houses, should not throw stones.
Like human crabs, they scuttled to get closer to each other to avoid what might be coming. What the big man with mahogany hair said next, did nothing to ease their growing fear that change was coming…and a future they didn’t see coming at all.
“I spent my life trying to be kind, helpful, enabling folks to reach a little higher for their dreams. I wanted to share my wealth with those legions that would never beg, ask a favor, or believe they were entitled to things they didn’t earn. I managed to do that by creating an untruth. Mr. X, my best friend.“
(The rabble babble cheered in a half hearted way, for they could feel more was coming, and outnumbered by thousands of Mr. X supporters, the cheers petered out with a sour pickle sound.)
“Mr. X is my best friend, for he is me. I learned to like me a long time ago, because I have to live with me all the time. Now Mr. X is considered …by some… (the pause was long, elegant, and the look he gave the rabble babble was not one of fear) a con man. A charlatan. A hoax. He was not, for he is me, and I am real.
Without anonymity, I can’t work with dreams like I used to. I can still give to research, or cancer cures, or disaster relief, and I will. But I can’t find the little tipping points in individual lives where I know the sharp edge of dream killers live. The dream killers think they have won. They have not.
I am announcing today, that I have funded the Mr. X Foundation. It has one goal, to expose the real truth to those that would twist it for their own goals. Trolls will be revealed, their names, addresses, and activities. If you state a fact, as a fact, it had better be one- for part of my funding will include legal action. I am also forming a Lobby to create laws that will make reporting both ethical and accurate.
You are welcome to your opinion, or beliefs, but not to ignoring, changing, or debating facts. I am working with honest folks to create an environment where “talking heads” or “reality TV” will be replaced by true journalists. The light of reason will penetrate the darkness of emotional shallow responses.
You will be held responsible for your words, deeds, posts, tweets, and blogs. Get ready to have your anonymity removed, as was mine. And remember, we will follow you, we will find your secrets, and we will expose both you…and them. It is payback time.
I am Mr. X."
With that, he walked back in the building.
Victory didn’t seem so satisfying to the rabble babble, the self righteous, for they understood that they weren’t perfect. They never expected the light of Truth to actually be turned on them. They were very wary of the way the much larger portion of the crowd looked at them now.
It was the beginning. Just the beginning.
My best friend, Mr. X. The Final Chapter.(Kevin Hughes)
Bloggers of all types, some with more than a million followers, some with only five, but still they were standing side by side. Along and among them, every major News Outlet in the world. All of the jostling to get as close to the Podium as they could.
Security was tight around the podium- a ring of SWAT police made a human moat about six feet from the podium. Behind the podium stood the private body guards of the Mayor, Governor, and both Senators from that State. Nobody wanted to miss this Press Conference, nor did they want anything to happen to the person about to speak. Secret Service had been detailed to him a week ago, when he said he would ”Go Public” on the following Monday.
The Hackers, Trolls, and Self Righteous Christians were the most vocal part of the crowd. They had signs, slogans, sayings, with enough venom and vile in both their body language and their voices to raise the hackles on any decent human being. They had brought down the mighty, the kind, the caring, and it made them Superior. They reveled in their power to be petty.
A larger part of the Crowd though, was made up of people that Mr. X actually helped. Some in big ways, with start up Capital or real property in excess of millions of dollars, others with just a washer and dryer, four new tires, or even bus fare. There were thousands of folks in that group, from every segment of Society, and every Nationality too. Mr. X did not see skin color, education, or financial status, he saw folks that needed just a nudge, or a smidgen of help, to find, follow, or fix their dreams.
Suddenly, it was Noon. Anticipation replaced anxiety as the crowd grew still, quiet, like the green sky before a tornado signaling a deathly stillness. Like that green sky, it was the harbinger of things out of our control. Or at least … his.
The door opened to the portico, and out strode a big mahogany haired man with giant hands. He was not yet thirty in years, but more than a hundred in age. He moved with a seriousness that was bound to the weight of sadness he carried. Sadness caused not by him, but by the small vocal group that just couldn’t stand kindness and equality. They had brought him here, this day, to reveal who he really was.
Smug does not convey enough pettiness to state how a few mean and shallow people, and Public Opinion, had shaped a life of charity into some kind of evil shell game concocted for his amusement alone. Spite is what they twisted into every tweet, blog, posting, or Blog. Yet spite was spit only from their lips, not his.
A few of the more vitriolic rabble tried to boo and berate the big man with mahogany hair and giant hands- uttering ugly, untrue, ungracious comments bereft of even a hint of truth or understanding. The big man just looked at them, not saying a word, as his eyes surveyed them. One by one they saw that look, wilting like mold in sunlight, his gaze was open, honest, filled with a pity that they felt as a palpable judgement on their lives and souls. They looked down, or away, in an effort not to see themselves.
The big mahogany haired man with giant hands placed himself at the podium and began:
“Most of you know me as Mr. X’s personal aide. A few of you (and he pointed towards the rabble that tried to represent themselves as reasonable people- and failed) did not like not knowing who Mr. X was. Mr X never wanted to be known. He just wanted to make a difference. So he did.
I am Mr. X.“
The rabble babbled. Jeers and smirks peppered their: “You conned us all. You are a cheat, a con man, an impostor.” The SWAT team notched their senses to full alert. They weren’t worried about anyone attacking the big mahogany haired man, they were worried that the large peaceful contingent of the crowd, the majority of it in fact, the ones that actually were helped by Mr. X- was starting to gel into a cohesive mass. One that looked at the rabble babble with a growing intent to do something to stop the rabid diatribes.
It was starting to dawn on the Trolls, the tweeters, the Bloggers, the Fake News makers, that the Truth was gathering to remove the rocks that the petty self righteous arrogant unforgiving had slid out from under. The guise of truth was about to meet the Truth- en masse. Even the dimwitted (which was most of the rabble babble) could sense that righteousness was rapidly replacing self righteousness in large numbers.
Fear, the weapon they used to bring down Mr. X, was now growing in them. People were taking their pictures, marking down their Social Media monikers- it was beginning to dawn on the rabble babble, so proud of itself just moments ago, to realize that people in glass houses, should not throw stones.
Like human crabs, they scuttled to get closer to each other to avoid what might be coming. What the big man with mahogany hair said next, did nothing to ease their growing fear that change was coming…and a future they didn’t see coming at all.
“I spent my life trying to be kind, helpful, enabling folks to reach a little higher for their dreams. I wanted to share my wealth with those legions that would never beg, ask a favor, or believe they were entitled to things they didn’t earn. I managed to do that by creating an untruth. Mr. X, my best friend.“
(The rabble babble cheered in a half hearted way, for they could feel more was coming, and outnumbered by thousands of Mr. X supporters, the cheers petered out with a sour pickle sound.)
“Mr. X is my best friend, for he is me. I learned to like me a long time ago, because I have to live with me all the time. Now Mr. X is considered …by some… (the pause was long, elegant, and the look he gave the rabble babble was not one of fear) a con man. A charlatan. A hoax. He was not, for he is me, and I am real.
Without anonymity, I can’t work with dreams like I used to. I can still give to research, or cancer cures, or disaster relief, and I will. But I can’t find the little tipping points in individual lives where I know the sharp edge of dream killers live. The dream killers think they have won. They have not.
I am announcing today, that I have funded the Mr. X Foundation. It has one goal, to expose the real truth to those that would twist it for their own goals. Trolls will be revealed, their names, addresses, and activities. If you state a fact, as a fact, it had better be one- for part of my funding will include legal action. I am also forming a Lobby to create laws that will make reporting both ethical and accurate.
You are welcome to your opinion, or beliefs, but not to ignoring, changing, or debating facts. I am working with honest folks to create an environment where “talking heads” or “reality TV” will be replaced by true journalists. The light of reason will penetrate the darkness of emotional shallow responses.
You will be held responsible for your words, deeds, posts, tweets, and blogs. Get ready to have your anonymity removed, as was mine. And remember, we will follow you, we will find your secrets, and we will expose both you…and them. It is payback time.
I am Mr. X."
With that, he walked back in the building.
Victory didn’t seem so satisfying to the rabble babble, the self righteous, for they understood that they weren’t perfect. They never expected the light of Truth to actually be turned on them. They were very wary of the way the much larger portion of the crowd looked at them now.
It was the beginning. Just the beginning.
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