hi! my name is katch
aka nathan carson
aka streetarthustle
you can find me on the social medias.
basically, my life's quest is to figure out what kind of artist i want to be. for the past two years i've been paying the bills with paintings, but i find that i don't like the nuts and bolts of it. you have to be a salesman. you have to pretend to like people because you want to sell them paintings. and there's never enough time to write. which ended up being the answer to my life's quest. i'm pretty sure this time 😝
so now, i give you me, which is to say, my writing. it's my latest memoir. i call it:
VISA SLAVES
Dedicated on the 50th Anniversary to the 50th Anniversary of the 6 Day War
I woke up, turned on my phone. My mainstream feed was full of stories about Bitcoin, Ethereum, and Ripple. Prices were soaring. They had been for days. The overlords were finally letting the rest of their empire know what was about to happen.
Coney Island?
F!V3 messaged me. It was noon. It was Saturday. I rolled out of bed. We headed for the restaurant.
"You aren't allowed in America," F!V3 took a bite of his veggie burger, "unless you have a job." He dipped a fry in the special sauce, "And the overlords only give H-1Bs to people who work for certain companies. To get the jobs you have to go through staffing agencies. The staffing agencies take half your pay."
"Facebook is dependent on temporary workers," I picked at the fries F!V3 had bought me. My stomach groaned, angry to be woken up.
"Amazon, Monsanto, San Francisco," F!V3 had already finished half his burger, "All those fuks delegate the tedious stuff to foreigners. No one would work their shitty jobs if they didn't have to."
"Then they tax what's left," I poured another glass of water.
"Then they take half of the half that's left," F!V3 nodded.
"If 100% taxation is slavery, what is 75%?" I removed the top bun of my veggie burger. Slaves had snuck into my country and spent the most productive hours of their lives harvesting grain and picking eggs to make that bun, but it was too much food. I was throwing half of it away. "People should just stay home."
"The dollar is the world's currency," F!V3 took a sip of water, "you have to get them somehow."
We finished our meal and headed to the PATH station. F!V3 swiped me through the turnstile. He paid for his own trip with a MetroCard.
"The trains run slow on Saturday." I looked at the crowd lining the track. "What does that say about the overlords?"
"Waiting for the train..." F!V3 stared down the track, "...waiting for the weekend trains."
I connected to Steemit. Someone had replied to one of my comments, the action recorded on a blockchain. For attracting attention, the blog's writer was awarded a cryptocurrency called STEEM.
...I like the idea of being married.
In a world where you hardly find people that commit themselves to anything, it's the last romantic dream I have. Your argument about money can't change that...:-) ...
I understood the emotional drive behind her reply, but my issue was with marriage itself. I wrote back.
love is one of the best things. i hope u find it. if you do, i hope you do not register your relationship with the state. wealth, for men, is equivalent to being attractive to a woman…
I wasn't talking to her. It was a message to the unwitting males who, at 20, were signing lifelong contracts with their government.
...i have seen friends fall in love only to have their emotional and financial security taken, along with their children. this fate is not inevitable, in america you get a 50/50 shot...
The desire to breed was a powerful force, but as a government institution it was little more than an incentive to raise soldiers in exchange for tax breaks. Laws dictated that the male had to pay for the female's divorce lawyer. Custom dictated that the children be given to the female. Was it worth the risk? I didn't think so.
interested in reading more on this topic? check out 
The train rolled sleepily into the station, pausing for a few seconds before opening its doors. People filed into the the car.
"They're refinancing student loans," F!V3 pointed at advertisements on the vertical surfaces of the train.
"What's Sofi?" I read through the taglines.
"It started as a peer-to-peer lending service." F!V3 stared at his reflection in the window. "You only get those loans if you graduated from a big school." F!V3 pulled out his phone. "Banks are bundling safe derivatives and selling accounts they know will default."
The train entered a tunnel, passing beneath Newport, and then the Hudson, burrowing deep into the heart of Manhattan. "Let's get off at 14th, instead of 23rd," I stood up, "I have a friend I want to see."
We left the train and exited the terminal, emerging onto the busy street. We walked down 14th, past Marines with assault weapons, police in body armor, and a K-9 unit complete with german shepherds. New York's finest were putting on a show for Memorial Day, letting people know they were safe. "Welcome to the empire state," I ignored a group of cops in riot gear.
F!V3 put his phone away. "Later will be warmer." Cold air blew down the greasy streets. We followed a mass of people across sidewalks, past restaurants, and between taxis. The sky was soft. The air was cool. Springtime in New York, there was nothing better.
"I used to sell paintings outside old Gansevoort," I looked up the address of New Gansevoort on Google, "but they moved to a place where artists aren't allowed."
"If you move Gansevoort, is it still Gansevoort?" F!V3 dodged a young sparrow hopping across the sidewalk.
"The universe is composed of a single substance." Were other painters still setting up outside the cobblestone market? "We are all Gansevoort."
F!V3 pointed at a barricade of cop cars blocking 14th. "What's going in?" The busy street was wrapped in police tape. Clusters of portly officers stood guard, making sure no one stepped beyond their perimeter.
"Memorial Day Parade?" We passed more groups of heavily armed cops guarding the empty street.
"Tough job," F!V3 laughed, "I wonder how much their staffing agents take."
"Dude!" I pointed at a digital billboard. "I made that ad!" It was a picture of an actor pretending to be an MMA fighter. The actor leapt through the air, his body a violent blur of red and blue.
"How did you make that?" F!V3 read the wall-sized ad until the screen replaced my design with a promotion for Citibank.
"Photoshop," I pulled out my phone, waited for the ads to cycle, snapped a picture of the image.
"What are those?" F!V3 pointed at plastic table tents with blue numbers spread across the center of the street.
"Bullet shell markers," I looked at the cluster of forensic evidence. "Looks like someone got themselves murdered." A pack of tourists heard my explanation and began taking pictures.
"Time to invest in private prisons," F!V3 turned away from the scene, "they'll be arresting everyone soon."
We dodged the crowd and continued down the street.
"Here's Gansevoort," I pushed inside the market and filed past a pop-up shop. The vendors in the boutique mall sold goods ranging from gay ice cream cones to floral arrangements. "Is Johnathan here?" I asked one of the employees behind the counter at Chick'nCone.
"He's at Coney Island," a girl with massive hair replied.
"Fuk, bro," I turned to F!V3, "we came for nothing."
"No worries, bro."
We exited Gansevoort and walked back along the murder street, dodging groups of Naval officers in white parade uniforms. They were young, these Neo-Spartans, their faces freshly shaved, raised on G.I. Joe and Boy Scout badges, trained from birth to lead other children into battle. "We have 14 carrier fleets," I said loud enough for the officers to hear, "and one of them could level China." I thought about my country's power, about the satellites and missile silos, the drone fleets and tank battalions. The leaders of America's military controlled a global network of debt collectors spread across 800 military bases, soldier-citizens ready to enforce monetary policy with advanced weapons. But how long until these legionnaires wanted salt instead of dollars?
We made our way to the Metro station. F!V3 paid my passage onto the train. My stomach groaned, still trying to figure out why I had fed it.
"Music, starlight, and the ocean," F!V3 saw the pained look on my face. "These three things can heal any condition."
"Waves," I understood.
"Waves," F!V3 nodded.
"But they've hidden the stars from us," I felt my stomach kick, "only the sun's light can touch us now."
"Then we'll have to spend more time at the beach!" F!V3 laughed.
The subway arrived, pulling to a lazy stop in front of the crowded terminal. The doors opened. A burst of people spilled out, pushing through passengers waiting to board. An old lady struggled to exit in time, slowed by currents of oblivious passengers. I held the door. The conductor, suddenly in a hurry, hit the button to close the car. A steel door pushed against my shoulder, shoved me into the old woman. I pushed back, angry, violent, held it open, feeling the metal bite into my flesh. I glared at the conductor. The conductor glared back. The old woman passed between us. I stood for a moment longer, delaying the train, letting the overlord's pet know he was not in charge. The conductor hit the button again. The door shoved against my shoulder. I broke eye contact and stepped inside.
"They're writing loans for MetroCards now," F!V3 pointed at a new set of advertisements lining the subway car.
The posters highlighted the benefits of enrolling at CUNY, a for-profit college with franchises all over the world. The posters read: We've got your back, we've got your books, we've got your MetroCard.
"Those poor children," I shook my head, "they're going to be paying off those MetroCards for the rest of their lives."
"They're writing loans to people who can't afford the subway."
"It keeps unemployment numbers down," the ache in my gut intensified, "they've been doing it since Obama took office."
"The loans from 2008 are about to cycle," F!V3 read more about the benefits of attending CUNY. "Borrowers will have to pay principle and interest."
"The amount of sub-prime student loan debt is 10 times greater than housing debt before the bubble burst."
"And there are no jobs."
"And there are no jobs." The train came to a stop, opened its doors. People exited. New passengers replaced them.
"Eric's girl had to leave the city."
"No shit?"
"She's living with her parents and still can't afford the interest on her debts."
"At least she graduated?"
"Is it better to have no job and half a degree, or no job and four years worth of loans?"
My stomach churned. The veggie burger wasn't digesting. The global economy was on the verge of collapse. I had stopped paying my credit card bills.
"Student loans never go away." F!V3 sat down in an empty seat.
"Enjoy those MetroCards."
Our subway left the tunnels beneath Manhattan, merging onto elevated tracks, climbing level with rooftops covered in graffiti. We made our way across Brooklyn, stopping every five minutes to pick up new passengers. I received a direct message on Twitter from one of the members of the ZenCash team. We had been arguing for days. "Dude," I turned to F!V3, "ZenCash only has one developer!" I summarized the message, "Who were all those people at the party?"
"Marketers," F!V3 looked up from his phone. "That's why they held their launch party in Manhattan. They were hoping to raise funds from big investors."
"He wants me to help them," I laughed. "Me!" A week before, I had attended the launch party for the ZenCash token, but the cryptocurrency failed to deploy. I wrote a mean-spirited blog from the event and posted it on Steemit. A drunk reporter in attendance resteemed my attack without reading it. The reporter was famous in the cryptographic community. His friendly gesture earned my article more attention than it deserved. Members of the ZenCash team had been messaging me ever since. "You need to sell your ZenCash tokens," I closed the message and put my phone away. "If they're scared of me, their code is shit."
"It's good technology," F!V3 was a hacker. He understood digital tokens better than me.
I didn't care. If your party sucked, your token sucked. Time would tell which of us was correct.
The train ground its way through crumbling tenements and sweeping vistas. I peered through apartment windows, gazed back at Manhattan, and watched worried humans walk dogs beneath the track.
We reached the southernmost tip of Brooklyn. "This is the end of the line," a garbled voice announced over the intercom. "All passengers must exit the train." Magistrates in authoritative uniforms marched through the emptying cars, forcing everyone to leave, brass buttons and chrome badges mimicked the costumes of police officers. The conductors didn't have guns, their power was rooted in symbolism. Their uniforms were designed to intimidate bums.
Gray clouds hung low above the ocean. A chill breeze touched my skin. I looked across the street at the carnival by the sea. "Let's find Johnathan."
The beach was open for the first time after a mild winter. The boardwalk was packed. The beach was deserted. Winter still held audience with the waves. Crowds of people clustered around restaurants and amusement park games, the unwashed masses, strolling up and down the boardwalk, searching for a song to pass the time.
"I love humans," I passed a rollercoaster with high-tech innovations and ergonomic loops. "We build insane contraptions that go nowhere, and other humans pay to ride them."
"Variety," F!V3 watched the fancy roller coaster carry its passengers 200 feet into the sky. "New information. New ideas."
The roller coaster launched its riders down the other side, then shot them through a series of hills. The passengers, oscillating up and down like a photon, screamed with delight.
"I think those are the art walls," I pointed at a mural behind the rollercoaster.
We cut between amusement parks, threading our way past a line of black people waiting to enter a fenced enclosure, each one dressed in the latest fashions.
"Black people have better skin than white people," I looked at the giants on the sidewalk. Their arms were big, their breasts were were full, they laughed and joked with familiarity, unafraid of who might be listening. Many of them were ancestors of shattered African tribes, the best and strongest, stolen, their bloodlines mixed, an accidental evolution, a super race emerged. "Dark skin is softer than white," I had recently been tattooing black people, "it takes ink better, bleeds less, and you can make more passes before the needles do damage."
"Why?" F!V3 dodged an incoming selfie stick.
"I don't know." Gospel, blues, country, rock, hip-hop, tap dance, break dance, whip, graffiti, comedy, actors, athletes, politicians- Picasso stole everything from African masks. "Black absorbs more light." I turned to admire a dog, "White reflects. Maybe they've absorbed more of the animating force of the universe. Maybe white people stole black culture because they had to. Maybe we can't create. Maybe we evolved to reflect."
F!V3 and I approached a wall tagged by How and Nosm, "These guys have a studio in Jersey City."
"Very detailed," F!V3 stepped closer to look at the orb of cubist forms radiating like ripples in a pond. Tribal art rendered in pink spray paint, echoes from the dawn of time. "We used to paint on cave walls," I said absently. "Modern humans are returning to this truth."
"Why are these bars here?"
Someone had erected a cage around the graffiti park. I peered between bars. In the distance, Jonathan's logo, white on orange, the decal attached to a shipping container. His employees ran back and forth, setting up waffle irons and deep fryers. "Johnathan!" I yelled.
Jonathan turned, waved, approached the fence. "Sup?" We bumped fists between gaps in the cage.
"What's going on here?"
"HennyPalooza," Jonathan looked at the long line waiting to enter.
"You look tired, man."
"I'm tired," Jonathan agreed. His eyes were baggy, his beard more gray than it had been at Christmas, "When I dropped off the kids at Gansevoort, the cops towed my car. Apparently it was a crime scene-"
"-Dude!" I cut him off, "we saw the murder numbers on the street!"
"It's been a rough day," Jonathan sighed, "and I have a feeling HennyPalooza is going to run late into the night."
Jonathan lived in the Poconos, a mountain range two hours from Manhattan. Like everyone, he was forced to pay obeisance to the empire, exchanging time for dollar bills, his face lined with worry, his family far away.
"Then it's back in the morning to start again…" A four hour commute for the privilege of serving fried chicken. His reward? Debit card swipes. Imaginary money deducted from one account and added to another. "I've been trying to find good employees, but the applicants are illiterate." He clenched his jaw, "I couldn't even read their phone numbers!"
"I used to teach painting at a college," I had a similar anecdote. "I had multiple juniors in my classes who couldn't read or write. The poor fuks were 21! What kind of monster wrote those loans!?"
"Of the 80 applications I received," Jonathan tapped his wedding ring on the bars between us, "only a handful were worth interviewing. One girl told me the reason I should give her a job was because it would make her baby daddy happy." The orange rollercoaster sped past, the raucous clatter mixing with rap music. "She was so young..."
"My colleagues kept passing illiterate students," We were talking past each other. We were discussing the same thing. "The department was too small. If a single student dropped out, everyone lost their jobs. The professors knew their kids couldn't read, but kept cashing their checks anyway. That was why I quit."
"I don't know how any restaurant staffs itself," Jonathan adjusted his hat.
"They hire illegals," I shrugged, "and pay them less than they're worth, and the poor saps have to sneak across the border and work because we wrecked their economy with a drug war. Do you realize how many restaurants politicians own!? The assholes in Washington know exactly what they're doing."
"I have to cart my friends' kids in from Pennsylvania just to staff my shops."
"Hire illegals," the rollercoaster zipped back the other direction, returning to its origin. "You can still be president."
"Right?" Jonathan kicked a rock. "At least illegals can read." A group of kids ran past, yelling and screaming with delight. "What are you guys up to?"
"Coney Island," I gestured at the carnival.
"We usually bring a volleyball net," F!V3 looked at the empty beach, "but today was too cold."
"Is Barney back there?" A man pointed into the cage surrounding the graffiti park.
Jonathan turned. "I'll check," He waved, "I've got to go."
"Hang in there, man," I gave him a parting fist bump between the bars.
"Thanks for stopping by." Jonathan went in search of Barney. F!V3 and I headed back towards the boardwalk.
"When prediction markets come online, artists will rule," F!V3 walked along the line of people waiting to drink Hennessy and eat Chick'nCones.
"Why?" I wondered what the world would be like with Lil' Wayne in charge.
"Because they see the truth. They will find the correct path forward, and get paid insane amounts of money for that vision."
One of my recent job interviews had been with a real estate firm. They wanted to know where the next Big Market would be. Their divining rod was the art scene. They wanted to know where the Williamsburg painters were moving. Artists were visionaries. Businessmen knew this and had been exploiting their gift for centuries.
"The age of the artist is approaching on so many levels." I turned left on the boardwalk, heading toward the sound of distant drums. "Human effort is the most valuable resource. That's why slavery is so profitable. We waste our lives working for others. People are more efficient when doing things they love. If all of mankind was focused on their calling, innovation would progress at an insane level. Everyone needs to pursue their art."
"The overlords suppress revolution by placing the most productive individuals in cubicles." F!V3 gazed at the empty volleyball courts, "they buy us off with retirement plans and vacation days, but the point isn't work, it's to keep you at work."
"When people realize what's been going on, they're going to be so pissed."
"Peace is the answer," F!V3 hated violence. He believed that WWIII could be avoided. "No one should be angry. Even bankers are doing their best."
"Bankers are writing loans to illiterate teenagers," there was rage in my voice. "Then the poor fuks have to work shit jobs for the rest of their lives to pay interest on books they couldn't read."
"Peace is still the answer."
"Cryptocurrency is the answer."
"Same thing," F!V3 shrugged, "but if our generation is to rule more wisely than our fathers, we have to make peace with ourselves."
We approached a busker dressed in black. He was wearing a red karate belt. His face was lumpy. His teeth had fallen out. At his feet, a marionette danced, controlled by strings connected to a set of wooden crosses. The puppet was wearing black. It had a red belt and a lumpy face. The artist had recreated himself, a brutal caricature, somehow more real than the man himself.
"See!" F!V3 watched the performance. "Artists tell the truth!"
The artist had cut to the heart of his own soul, then imposed what he found on reality. The golem, animated by the man's movements, danced and waved, somehow smiling, somehow more real than the artist, an extension of his ideal form.
"You need to scope this," F!V3 pointed at my cell phone.
I connected to the Intergalactic Network and accessed Periscope, pointing the camera at the dancing marionette. Members of my gestating hive-mind answered the call, opening cell phones, peering through the portal I had torn in space and time. I panned in on the marionette, exploiting the performer's energy, feeding off his creativity.
Return it, my brethren! I said beneath my breath, understanding that this moment would live forever inside the machine. Remember these thoughts imposed on matter, immortalize the moment. Collect your data, overlords, all actions serve a higher purpose.
The puppeteer glanced at me. A pang of hope turning to pain. He could tell I wasn't going to match the dollar he had pinned to his chest. He was homeless. He was broken. I was stealing his light. To have fallen so low and still be bound by the dollar. The overlords had created a mighty symbol. Even artists had to worship the mark of the beast.
I panned away from the puppeteer, taking in the carnival by the sea. Spinning tops and twirling lights, the forced grin of a forever celebration.
"Hey guys," I addressed the growing collective peering through my phone, "It's katch, and we're here at Coney Island. Why is it called Coney Island? Because it used to be an island full of rabbits, but they killed the rabbits and filled the inlet with trash. Then they paved over the trash. Now only the name tells us what it used to be."
We walked down the boardwalk, the gang of us watching the world through a phone, interacting with beams of light. We approached a shelter filled with DJs and speakers.
You should dance
Someone wrote.
Dance!
Another viewer agreed.
I pushed through the crowd of gawkers, stepped past a man beating a hand drum, and joined the happy group. They welcomed me, this cavalcade of humans. It was spring. We had survived another winter. Time to celebrate by dancing near the sea. Music blasted, waves of sound washed over the crowd.
G D C G
Mankind had named named these vibrations chords
G D C G
then repeated the pattern billions of times, seasoning the sequence with various poems, instruments, and drums.
The throng erupted in a spontaneous cheer. A hundred humans, dancing by the sea, celebrating the return of the sun. The current overlords had claimed this day for their own. It didn't matter. There was something deeper going on.
I left the circle and carried my palantir to the end of the carnival, showing the world what it was like to live in the capital city of a warrior clan. "Alright guys, thanks for tuning in. I'll katch you on the flip side." I broke our connection then checked the ratings. A hundred or so people had tuned in. It was a small number, but the scar remained, a digital wound transcribed on silicon, a record of the final days of man.
F!V3 and I walked back to the station along the storefronts instead of the beach. Flashing signs promised booze, amusement, and hot dogs. Packs of overweight cops drove aggressively on motorcycles, their loud mufflers designed to warn the crowd of the consequences should someone step too far outside accepted norms. The century of America was coming to a close and the convoluted system required much enforcement.
"It's too cold for swimming and there's no volleyball," F!V3 stared up at a billboard with a year-long timer counting down the seconds until the next hotdog eating contest. The world record stood at 78.5. "Want to head back to Manhattan?" F!V3 looked away from the flashing lights.
"Sure," I had come to stand in the sun by the shore. I had listened to music and danced with other humans. The ancient rights had been observed. My body could now return to society.
We crossed the street and entered the terminal.
"Fuk!" My balls slammed into the locked turnstile. F!V3's Metrocard had failed to read.
"Sorry, bro," he swiped it again.
I pushed against the turnstile. It remained locked.
"I'm out of swipes," F!V3 headed towards an electronic kiosk to refill his card. "Returning some fiat in exchange for a ride," F!V3 slid a piece of plastic into the device. A call was made. A computer replied. Estimations of debt liabilities changed hands, a password was sent. We entered the terminal as the train arrived.
"It's already here!" I smiled at our luck.
In the train car, the posters asked us to sign up for a credit card. The signs proclaimed the superior number of frequent flyer miles one could accumulate using their innovative lines of credit. The images highlighted fantastic destinations one could reach by going into debt. The tag lines agreed, vacations were the best way to escape the office.
"They're letting people refinance their houses now that property values have reinflated," I scanned through my mainstream information feed. "The story claims that most homeowners are deciding to borrow against their mortgages and using the credit to remodel instead of upgrading to new homes."
"That's ah…" F!V3 searched for the word, "very responsible."
We laughed. The train turned a corner. Manhattan swung into view. In the distance, the spire of the World Trade Center shone proud and invincible. New York was the center of global commerce. Even the buildings represented this power.
We rode across the length of Brooklyn on elevated tracks, then plunged into the tunnels beneath Manhattan.
"Want to get lunch?" F!V3 asked as we exited the Metro.
"I'm not hungry," my stomach was still angry.
"For later," F!V3 insisted. "I'll buy."
"Wurd."
We exited the station and cut across Broadway, angling towards NYU. The sidewalks were lined with discarded lamps, luggage, clothing, electronics, and coffee tables.
"Is everyone getting evicted?" I stopped to admire a pair of golden nightstands sitting atop a pile of curtains. "Is this the beginning of the crash?" I looked back along the sidewalk, then across the street, then towards Washington Square. In every direction discarded piles of usable furnishings had been thrown away, seemingly in haste, as if the entire block was being evicted.
"It's the end of the school year," F!V3 glanced at the disorganized mess. "Everybody's moving out."
"God save us." The sidewalks were covered debt. Student loans had been converted into cheap furnishings and abandoned after nine months by children indoctrinated into materialism from birth.
A gang of fat cops raced down the overflowing streets on loud motorcycles, responding to chants and drums in Washington Square.
"We should see what's going on," I grabbed my phone and launched Periscope.
The trees cast dappled shade, the benches stood at half-capacity. In the distance, someone in a Pikachu costume was dancing. The drums stopped. The shouting stopped. I pointed the camera at a group of smiling protesters. They were young, dressed in black t-shirts and skinny jeans. They carried signs and wore Doc Martens. Their protest had just ended. They were leaving peacefully in the groups they had come with.
What is this?
A viewer sent a message.
"Vegan anarchists," I read their protest signs, my voice translated into electric signals. I pointed the camera into the square. Behind the vegans stood huge sandwich boards covered in handwriting. "Everyone is always protesting in Manhattan," I explained to my collective. "It's kool to talk about at the office on Monday."
At my previous job, feminists were always discussing the protests they planned to take their kids to the following weekend. The protests weren't serious, they were just a way for grown ups with 401Ks and vacation homes to pretend they were changing the system. I cut through a group of young vegans, and pointed my camera at the giant sandwich boards. They were covered in handwritten Bible verses. The double triangle of the Star of David had been added to the scriptures in place of paragraphs. The words were a transcription from the book of Zechariah, a fearsome prophecy made by one of Judaism's prophets.
On that day I will make the clans of Judah like a firepot in a woodpile, like a flaming torch among sheaves. They will consume all the surrounding peoples right and left, but Jerusalem will remain intact in her place.
Beside the massive handwritten signs, two men were singing in unison.
"... and he shall reign over all the Earth. He shall reign over all the Earth..."
Their mantra was accompanied by the strumming of acoustic guitars.
G D C G
The chords predated Israel, the message had been taken up by Christians.
I pointed my camera at another of the signs.
...and the house of David will be like God, like the angel of the LORD going before them. On that day I will set out to destroy all the nations that attack Jerusalem.
"...and He shall reign over all the Earth…"
The men continued to sing. I knew the words to their song by heart. My parents had taught them to me as a child:
He shall gather the outcasts of Israel
The dispersed of Judah from all the Earth.
He shall stand as an ensign for the people
And His resting place shall be glorious,
And He shall reign over all the Earth.
It was a promise foretold 500 years before Christ. It was a war in modern Palestine.
"...and He shall reign over all the Earth..."
I turned my camera on the two men with their acoustic guitars. They had a music stand to help them remember the chords, to prompt them if they forgot the words.
G D C G
"...He shall reign over all the Earth…"
G D C G
"...He shall reign over all the Earth…"
Hanging from the front of the music stand, the modern flag of Israel, blue on white, the Star of David in the center.
"Jesus loves you!" One of the men yelled as another added a trash can ending to the song. "Jesus loves everyone!"
"What about the people He promises to destroy on your sign?" I pointed at the sandwich boards covered in prophecies of war.
"For God so loved the world that He gave His only son." The man quoted John 3:16.
"What about your big Bible verse?" Again, I pointed at the words promising death to the enemies of Israel. "It says He destroys them."
"Whoever calls upon the LORD will have eternal life."
"Oh! So there's an asterisk?" I jumped on the man's broken theology. "He only saves the chosen?"
"Whoever calls on His name!" The man repeated, raising his hands emphatically. His cohort continued strumming the final chord of the song.
I pointed the camera at the second man, "Only if you call upon God, then you will be saved?" The man, trying to drown out my question with plastic strings on a classical guitar, nodded. "Otherwise destruction, tho, right?"
"People destroy themselves." He repeated the justification of the teachings of his warrior cult.
"He passes judgement," an old lady sitting next to the pair joined the argument. She was shriveled, beaten, seeking hope in ancient texts.
"Your God is an asshole," I felt my anger rising. "I'd rather burn in Hell."
I turned and left the teachers to their propaganda. As a child, I had been raised in their tradition. I understood the power of the Christian narrative. It held most of my country in its grip.
As I left the park, I zoomed in on Pikachu, still dancing in the grass, glad someone understood the nature of things. We emerged on a street lined with vendors. Locals and tourists wandered in random groups, searching for the perfect gift to make their weekend complete.
What is this?
A viewer asked.
"A random market," I explained. "In New York everyone's a hustler."
The flow of shoppers spilled into Greenwich Village, depositing people, like sediment, back into the city. I carried my video feed past a basketball court. The flat pavement was tucked into an awkward nook, a place where buildings had failed to grow. A full court game was in progress with at least five players on either side. Crowds of people watched the competition through gaps in a chain link fence. "I love New York," I told my audience. "Because New Yorkers show up. They'll watch anything if it's free, even random people playing basketball." A young boy leapt into the air and missed his shot. The rebound found its way to the other end of the court where someone else failed to score.
I turned from the basketball court and glanced at a digital billboard. The image changed, switching to an advertisement I had made. It was the face of a man yelling. The man's face was exploding into echoes of red and blue. His teeth were protected by a mouthguard, the words on the mouthguard read: Navy St. It was the name of the fake gym the character owned. The character's name was Frank. In the series he was a nice guy. He only punched people if they deserved it.
You made that?
A viewer asked.
"I made that," I nodded. "In a corner office at 1 Rockefeller. It looked down on NBC studios." I remembered the fancy job, "I could see the Christmas tree from my desk."
"How did you make the colors?" F!V3 asked.
All winter I had worked, delicately Photoshopping Frank's face onto the bodies of various fighters, wrestling with colors, backgrounds, concepts, and critiques. I had worked with a team of highly-trained propagandists. Our group labored through Hanukkah, sacrificing time with friends and family in exchange for a shot at permanent employment.
In the end, they let me go. I figured my ideas weren't good enough. Now they were displayed on every bus stop in Manhattan. My superiors had given the six figure salary with full benefits to a different candidate, one who came to work wearing a yamaka, one who wouldn't stop talking about how Jewish he was. When I met him, I thought he was a buffoon, an idiot with medium talent who had gone to the right school using money his parents had given him. When they hired him, I understood why the designer had been so loud about his heritage.
Hollywood was a game played by quiet people with fake smiles. It was run by monied thieves with superior breeding who stole from artists and claimed the ideas as their own. If a member of the tribe could not be found, they hired an artist to do the work, but only temporarily. To get on the permanent payroll, one had to be family, or far enough removed that the overlords could point at you to prove their commitment to diversity. If you fell outside these camps, the best you could hope for was a temporary position. The New York Times had labelled this hiring process the Gig Economy. Every few months you found a job only to be laid off when a more suitable candidate was found.
But they had chosen my designs. My work was plastered on billboards all over New York. I had won the war.
"I made it in Photoshop," I answered F!V3. The ad cycled, replaced by a message from Wells Fargo. "Alright, guys, thanks for tuning in," I held the image on the billboard for a few more seconds, "I'll katch you on the flip side," and ended the broadcast.
"Kati rolls?" F!V3 pointed at a street lined with restaurants.
My stomach kicked, still dealing with the aftermath of my previous meal.
"For when you get home." F!V3 insisted.
We meandered into Masala Times, an Indian fast food restaurant that catered to students from NYU. The walls were covered in jokes about the differences between Hollywood and Bollywood. Collectively, the witticisms painted an interesting portrait of the two countries. Americans were violent, but only in the name of good, their dogs helped the hero determine the correct person to shoot. The dogs in Bollywood were obsessed with marriage and gave clues to their female leads as to which suitor was most eligible. The jokes were lighthearted, but the message was clear: Indians promoted love; Americans glorified violence.
"What do you want?" F!V3 asked.
"Potato Masala," I felt my stomach kick again, still confused as to why I had fed it lunch.
"You don't want two?" F!V3 pressed.
My pride rose. I didn't want help. I wanted to die, alone and impoverished, starving on the streets of New York, a message to the fat cops who discovered my emaciated corpse. I wanted them to find my family, to discover that I had gone to college, and done my best, that I tried to be part of the system, that I had been good enough to do the work, but not good enough to get the job.
"Mushroom," I ordered a second roll, the part of me that wanted to die overruled by genetic imperatives hard-wired into my anatomy.
F!V3 bought four rolls, we carried them to the PATH station. He paid for my trip back to New Jersey. We left the empire state, pushing through turnstiles, trying not to make eye contact with the soldiers who guarded the terminal, with the fat cops and their healthy German Shepherds, with the conductors in their brass-buttoned uniforms. We rode the train quietly, reading advertisements on the walls. Pictures of smiling police officers extolled the virtues of reporting aberrant behavior to the authorities, the taglines read: If you see something, say something. The posters were accompanied by pictures of real citizens who had turned in their neighbors.
We exited the PATH train at Journal Square. Trump had purchased the piece of land and built a tower on top of it. He had given the tower to Jared Kushner in exchange for marrying his daughter after she converted to Judaism. The bloodlines mingled. Trump's grandchildren would be Jews. Eight years later, he was sworn in as president.
"What are you going to do with the rest of your day?" F!V3 hit the button on the crosswalk.
"Write." I was already planning the words. It would be a story about Memorial Day, about the people who celebrated, and the reasons it was important. It would be about peaceful resistance, and the power of debt. I would make a case for cryptocurrency and post it on the Internet. I had been expelled from the vaunted heights of civilized society, but before I left, the bastards let me smell their rotten core. I would tell my fellow soldiers that the current regime was staffed by weak men with simple dreams, obsessed with power and family. My words, like all words, would be forgotten, but I would write them, not to earn value in a failing economy, but because the fight was worthy. The overlords had raised me to be a soldier. It was time to pay them back.