- Merlyn
Justice - Clarity, Truth, Lies, and Unaccountability
Folliet Bard is facing some hard questions.
“You shot another guy? Seriously?”
“He was going to murder someone.”
“You're a forensic accountant, for fuck’s sake. How are you racking up these numbers?”
Special Agent Herbert makes a bit of a point. At four confirmed kills, Bard is now officially the FBI’s most lethal paper pusher.
Bard shrugs. “Sorry?”
“Don’t be sorry! You’re fucking awesome!” says Bro-Dog, a fellow accountant. “I can’t wait to dust some fuckers with you!”
Bro Dog is a new hire. He looks like he was kicked out of a frat for being too slow. That may be how he ended up here. The White Collar Crime Task Force has seen better days. The Regime has cut the majority of their funding, leading to massive lay-offs. Lotta empty desks.
Their boss, Special Agent Herbert, may have been Hoover’s first hire. A relentless lawman, he would have been fired with the rest of the old guard, but he has three confirmed kills and The Regime thought that was cool. He’s annoyed with Bard for shooting another suspect. He’s also annoyed with Bro-Dog for personal reasons.
“No one here is shooting anyone ever again.” He points to Bard. “You’re supposed to be gathering evidence. You can do that without perforating suspects.” He points to Bro-Dog. “And you’re supposed to be sitting quietly. I’m never letting you leave this office with a gun. You’re lucky to have sharp pencils.”
“Aw man, I gotta get in the action.” says Bro-Dog. “Can I help round up dangerous illegals?”
“Immigration enforcement is the purview of Homeland Security. We don’t do that.”
“We’re not securing the homeland? What the fuck are we doing then?”
“Investigating federal crimes. In a bureau. It’s all in the fucking name.”
“Great! Now all the whites are gonna get replaced!”
Herbert and Bard pause. Share a concerned look.
“That’s a lot to unpack.” says Bard. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
Herbert is even more blunt. “Are you a white nationalist?”
“No.” scoffs Bro-Dog. “I just think the government should take steps to preserve our white European heritage.”
Herbert gives him a sharp look. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No.”
“What do you think white nationalism is?”
“It’s like, burning crosses and shit.”
“Jesus. Look it up. That’s your job for today.” Herbert turns to Bard. “And you have mandated therapy.”
“You don’t have to mandate it.” says Bard. “I love my therapist.”
Herbert grumbles and leaves his juniors to their own devices. Bard’s a bit sassier since they fired everybody. There’s only three misfits left in an office built for a hundred white collar crime investigators. Not much point in using her mask.
“So what do we do now?” asks Bro-Dog.
“Want me to explain the concept of white nationalism?”
“Nah, I got an app for that.” Bro-Dog pulls his phone. “Yo Mentor! What’s the definition of white nationalism?”
//support for the perceived political interests of the white population, to the of other groups.
“Huh. I guess I am a white nationalist.” He frowns. “Technically. Huh.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Did ya learn something?”
“Fuck! I don’t think I like that.”
Bard laughs and leaves Bro-Dog to his existential blue screen. She has her own problems. The Merk world domination scheme may be outperforming white nationalism, but it’s not gonna purge itself.
With that thought, she pulls up reams of financial data, so she can do both her jobs.
The Merk Business Consulting Agency was created when Dr. Merlyn Oldfather - an expert in psychopathy, machiavellianism, and narcissism - noticed that the people running the world behaved an awful lot like her patients. Was she limiting their potential by managing their symptoms? Perhaps they’d be better off as political operatives, titans of industry, and merciless social climbers.
Some dogs must hunt. She re-tooled her therapy to treat their weaknesses as strengths. Narcissists were allowed to ruthlessly self promote. Thousands were streamlined into tech start-ups, so dozens could become billionaires that Merk harvested later. Machiavellians were retrained as business consultants. Released into corporate America to collect secrets and spread lies - allowing Merk to control vast sums of other people’s money. Various other crazies were put in support roles. The back office is full of Phobics. They’re plentiful and quite useful once they associate helping with safety.
It all works very well, except for the anonymity problem. Because, for all the strengths of the Merk plan, it relies heavily on secrecy. To function properly, no one can know how powerful they are. And sometimes their operatives, being crazy people, draw a lot of attention to themselves. Their egos drive them from manipulating the rich and powerful, to openly antagonizing them. Sadism may be a secret fourth point on the dark triad.
Now when narcissists go on the attack, it’s no problem for Merk. They are part of the plan, but not in on it. If they get themselves in trouble, they know absolutely nothing and are easily replaced.
But the machiavellians, by necessity, understand the workings of Merk in intricate detail. When they go rogue, it’s a danger to the entire operation. That’s where Bard comes in.
Merk’s Analytics Department gives her a list of the large financial moves they make on behalf of their clients. An accounting statement of evil, ranging from the outright criminal to the merely unethical (honestly, the truly harmful stuff is usually legal). Bard compares this list with what the FBI collects in their investigations. If there are discrepancies, then some Mach is lying to Merk, and Bard shoots them. Preferably anonymously, but sometimes officially as a federal agent.
It’s high stress work, but fear can’t hold you back if you can’t process it.
Bard’s real problem is that it all feels so pointless. Merk may be taking over the world, but they sure aren’t changing it. They’re mostly replacing The Regime’s murderous douchebags with Merk approved murderous douchebags. Meanwhile, the FBI is making an endless pile of evidence implicating the world’s worst criminals, but never gets around to arresting any of them. It’s frustrating. A lady needs completion. Also, where the fuck are the pharma files?
“Bro-Dog! Where the fuck are the pharma files?”
“I didn’t do them yet. Give me a sec.” Bro-Dog pulls his phone. “Yo Mentor! Download the pharma files from the FBI database and check them for corporate malfeasance.”
//okay Bro-Dog. There are 167 instances of corporate malfeasance in the pharma files. A list has been uploaded to the FBI database.
“Thanks Mentor.” Bro-Dog turns smugly to Bard. “All done. You're welcome.”
Bard is aghast. “Did you give a fucking random chat-tech corporation access to the top secret FBI evidence database?”
“No, I gave it to an AI. It's just a program, it doesn’t need security clearance.”
Bard starts to explain how fucking dumb that is until she realizes she doesn't care. This isn't her real job anyway. She’s slightly surprised to hear of Mentor again. She poked around with it after the Lucius incident and wasn't impressed. Just another sycophantic Ai chatbot - saying whatever bullshit it thinks you want to hear. Narc X may plan to use it for big business decisions, but that’s no proof of quality, because he’s an fucking idiot.
Not unlike her present company. “Are you using Mentor a lot? How’s that working out?”
“Fucking awesome. It gives the best stock tips. Gonna retire in two years.”
“Really?”
“Fuck yeah! Got minted. Also, check this out. Yo Mentor! Find me a hottie who likes to suck diiiiiick!!!”
This captures Bard's interest. Can Mentor succeed in this task? Because Bard is also a hottie who likes to suck dick. Not Bro-Dog’s, obviously. She'd rather suck a severed dick than Bro-Dog’s. But she’s interested in dick in general. If Mentor can facilitate her interest, it may have some use. As long as the dick isn’t attached to an obvious moron.
//okay Bro-Dog. Logging into all dating apps. Initiating seduction with the tri-county area. Two thousand prospects. Four hundred. Sixty. Nine. Success! You will meet Marta at eight pm for dinner, drinks, and dancing. At three am she will suck your dick. Statistically. Cheers!
One of the FBI printers spits out a picture of a latin hottie with an itinerary for a reasonably priced evening of dining, drinks, and live music.
“Excellent.” says Bro-Dog. “Thank you, Mentor.”
//to ensure successful facial sodomy, please utilize the following personality.
The printer rifles out another sixty pages of dense text.
“Shit. So much homework.”
Bard laughs. “Can’t you get dome with your own personality?”
“Ugh. Who has time for that?”
“Also, Marta’s looking pretty latina. Don’t you want her deported?”
“Why? She's obviously not a drug dealer. Though, that would be convenient. One less stop.”
Just shoot this guy, says the pressure.
But of course, Bard can't. Bro-Dog hasn't killed anyone. Also, it would be really hard to explain. Plus, she's pretty sure Herbert will shoot him soon anyway. It’s a good time to practice patience.
Bard’s phone bingles. She pulls it smoothly. There’s a text from Merlyn.
M - Hey girlfriend! Heard you gone crazy. Wanna talk?
B - God yes. Get me outta here.
M - Will do. In a couple hours. I got a thing. Find a reason to fuck off til then.
Bard thinks. She doesn’t feel like working. Kinda horny. Does this Mentor thing work? What the hell. She’s an investigator, right?
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