Chapter Three

Rafael Salerni sat in a leather chair. He sat in a leather chair because he was a successful and utterly ambitious capitalist corporate executive. He was this way not because he was ingenious or well educated, but because he was unscrupulous enough to engage in the (very profitable) profession of manipulation and exploitation (known, alternatively, as business). Rafael did not consider himself an evil man; he respected his friends, he loved his mother, and he rarely took advantage of the opposite sex. He was, in fact, Catholic, though like most Catholics he was agnostic. No, he wasn’t evil—just industrious.

The conference room was located in the financial district of New York City, in one of the higher floors of some menacing skyscraper, several blocks from where the World Trade Center had stood. Rafael Salerni’s leather chair was positioned at the head of a massive oak table. An equally massive Coca-Cola logo was printed on the wall behind him. This masterpiece omitted, however, the room contained no decoration. It was windowless—windows, after all, might create distractions. Posted on the wall opposite of the company logo was a reminder to employees:

    MONEY IS LIFE. YOUR JOB IS MONEY.
    YOUR JOB IS IN OUR HANDS.

Seated around the table were Coca-Cola’s department heads. Amongst their ranks were the illustrious directors of the department of sales, the department of consumer relations, the department of those mysterious little random numbers on Coke cans (MLRNOCC), the department of departments, the department of scandals (which investigated employees regularly to ensure that they were corrupt), and the department of polar bears. The executives were all dressed in black suits, except for the director of the department of polar bears, who wore a yellow turban, a tunic, and cowboy boots. All the department heads might well have been nameless; they closer resembled machines—calculators, specifically—than humans.

It was 8:17 am. The conference had been called for 8:15 am, but had not yet begun. Rafael Salerni was, therefore, terribly irritated. This initial irritation was exacerbated by the gravity of the problem that was soon to be discussed, and amplified by the absolute failure with which the problem had been dealt thus far. These various aggravations and afflictions made for a very enraged and fretful Mr. Salerni. And had it not been for his leather chair, he may very well have snapped.

Salerni hated time. Conversely, he loved money. He also hated whomever first said, "time is money" because that didn’t make any sense whatsoever in his ideology. In addition, and quite naturally, he loved spending time with his money. He often felt that by making money he was cheating time; but, on worse days, he felt that time was cheating him out of money. Salerni’s entire mental enmity between time and money had, by this point in his life, escalated to a cognitive phenomenon. Dollars and clocks had so completely ingrained themselves in his psyche that they often appeared on opposite shoulders and counseled him on important decisions.

Currently, however, the dollar and the clock were quite agreed in insisting that Rafael Salerni proceed with the meeting.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The CEO of Coca-Cola stood as he recited the cordiality. Sometimes he hated himself for cordialities. If things were honest, ‘ladies and gentlemen’ would be ‘greedy bastards and bitches.’ But then, that’d be a bit hypocritical. He continued. "We are gathered here to discuss a recent and relentless problem. By now, I believe it’s safe to say that you all know what it is. We need not bother ourselves with formalities. What we need, my associates, are suggestions. So speak up. We need all the ideas we can get."

The problem itself was simple.

The history of the problem was more complicated.

It began in 613 BC. Some zealous Jew had inconsiderately written a book about Israel. He had (quite rudely, in Salerni’s opinion) done so without taking into account the tremendous inconveniences it would cause the executives at the Coca-Cola company. The book consisted largely of religious poetry—psalm-like babble that all seemed the same to Rafael Salerni. Included also were a few scattered paragraphs detailing historical events and celebrating various acts of God; delivering Israel from slavery, creating the world, saving mankind from a world-wide flood, and so on. The text was apparently called "The Book of Jasher." Men and women like Salerni, whose biblical education did not exceed a few half-hearted visits to CCD in middle school, could almost mistake the book for part of the Old Testament.

Almost. But there were the strange parts. On one occasion, for instance, the author rambled on and on about tree frogs and manna. This might have been considered an isolated anomaly—had it not been for the passage’s length of one hundred and forty verses. In other places, the poetry was almost incomprehensible:

The chalice of life does flow,

And it does swim and beat and smile;

Oh, yea, and behold the potency

Of the Lord on High, and of His holy

Ink. Oh beard.

To make matters worse, the document had been altered through the ages. Various notes were scrawled in miscellaneous languages in the margins and in between lines. Some verses had been scratched out altogether. The book was infested with anachronisms; there were references to grandfather clocks, to manholes, and even to soft drinks. There were several paragraphs that seemed to predict the coming of a Messiah; but as far as Salerni could tell, the Messiah was to be a pencil sharpener. It just didn’t make any sense.

That was the beginning. The book changed hands through the ages; it had, at one time, been in the possession of a militant horde of nomadic Jews. They turned out to have been ambitious nomads, for it next made an appearance at a Buddhist monastery in Nepal. Somehow it then found its way to pagan Rome, and was, apparently, read religiously by Emperor Claudius. After Simon Magus had owned it for a short period, it was apprehended by Pope Linus. The Christian authorities in Rome managed to hide the text for centuries from nosy persecutors. At one time or another Jacque De Molay, the last Grandmaster of the Templar Knights, scribbled a few commentaries in its margins. Salerni could determine nothing more from the text.

On September 3, 1999, at about four o’clock in the afternoon, he had inherited the accursed volume from his recently deceased father. Unfortunately, his father had been both a Catholic priest and a freemason, so that whether the document had endured the rest of its history in the hands of the Church or the freemasons was impossible to tell.

None of this mattered all that much to Salerni. What mattered to him were the constant threats in the mailbox. A figurehead in the Ku Klux Klan—a grand dragon or high wizard or pink anteater or something of the sort—had threatened, quite vividly, to flay him should he deliver the book of Jasher to anyone’s hand but his. What the KKK had to do with any of this Salerni didn’t know. He had, however, received similar letters and emails from various other radicals. A Saudi Arabian sultan had declared jihad upon the Coca-Cola Company, an adept from the Bavarian Illuminati could allegedly infiltrate Salerni’s inner chi at any moment, and the President of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters was supposedly amassing his power. A thorough investigation orchestrated by the department of scandals had revealed several bugs in various offices—planted, interestingly enough, by both the CIA and the KGB. The investigation had furthermore unveiled a total of four Jesuit priests recently hired unawares. All four were immediately fired.

What made everything worse, as usual, was Pepsi.

The Pepsi Corporation had taken it upon themselves to fuel the fire. They’d cleverly fed each faction different "evidence" that the book of Jasher somehow applied to them. To the KKK they’d sent a (fabricated) excerpt from the book that supported white supremacy and the trade of Hebrew slaves. The Saudi Sultan had received "undoubtedly accurate" proof that the manuscript’s author mentioned the origins of a sect of ancient Muslims—and, furthermore, had included in his text numerous prophecies foreshadowing the coming of Muhammad. Pepsi had, as well, convinced the Illuminati that the text contained passages describing archaic Kabbalic practices. Salerni didn’t know what the hell his competition had sent the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, but it must have been something.

According to the department of sales’ leading statistician, the various problems and lawsuits associated with these threats and falsities had cost the company several thousand dollars to deal with. That meant something to Salerni. Time was costing him money. Again.

The first response was spoken at 8:18 AM, by the head of the department of consumer relations. She was a twenty-three year old Yale graduate with colossal test scores and innumerable recommendations. More importantly, she was blonde. "I believe we should seriously consider selling the book to one of the radicals. No doubt they’d pay a great deal for it."

"That may work," replied Salerni. "The Saudi Sultan, being the richest of them, might be our best bet. It’s said he owns over a hundred oil drills."

"And a harem, as well." The head of the department of departments was a miserly old man with a cracking voice. "Selling the document just won’t work. We sell it to someone, we anger the others. The last thing we want is a pissed off terrorist or some psychopathic occultist giving us trouble. Besides, selling a document like that, if done legally, leaves behind too many records. It’s too traceable. Every museum in the country and the press with them will be screwing us to the wall in no time."

The head of the department of TMLNOCC—a middle-aged woman with puffy hair, paralyzing blue eyes, and a coarse voice—gave another idea. "It may be advantageous to offer the book as a donation. To the Catholic Church, perhaps—it controls the most people. Such an action might enlarge our reputation as a charitable firm."

"And perhaps we should save the whales, as well. Or go country to country planting daisies and raising apple trees." The head of the department of departments chuckled. He was particularly witty this morning. "Donation won’t work either. The populace isn’t quite stupid enough to believe that devout Catholics run a multibillion-dollar corporation. Besides, giving anything to any organization—especially a religious one—is politically incorrect. The press will claim we’re a zealous, biased or--worse yet--right-wing organization."

Salerni decided to take a risk and throw one of his own ideas out to be butchered. "Then perhaps we should grant it to a museum. It is a historically valuable document. Such an action wouldn’t make us seem politically incorrect or falsely pious. It may even increase the popularity of our company. And God knows the thing isn’t doing us much good here."

The old department head checked himself this time. He was, after all, about to address the leader of one of the most gargantuan corporations on the planet--and more importantly, a man whose leather chair was more impressive even than his own. "That’s feasible, sir. And certainly an option. But I might advise against that action as well. When it all comes down to it, our problem here are the radical organizations across the face of earth who would, in a heart beat, declare war on our company should we deliver the document to anyone or anything but themselves. Granting the book to a museum would piss them all off. As of yet they’ve only made threats and managed a few petty practical jokes. In the future, however, much more may become endangered. There may be factory bombs, sabotage efforts, kamikaze pilots, shotgun-wielding kangaroos—you name it. There may even be assassination plots. Most or all of these schemes will fail. Regardless, they will be a tremendous annoyance—and a tremendous cost—to our company."

Before Salerni could respond, the director of the department of sales spoke up. "I believe that we’re exaggerating the predicament." He spoke with an English accent. A graduate of Cambridge, the director was in his mid-thirties—roughly the age of Salerni—with no facial hair, a calculated smile, and stagnant brown eyes shielded by a thick pair of glasses. All considered, he maintained one of the most boring appearances humanly possible. "We deal with million dollar lawsuits everyday. Costs affiliated with these fanatics total to less than six thousand dollars. Why even deal with the problem? It seems to me that we’ve got more significant problems to address."

"That’s ridiculous." The old department head was at it again. "There’s no reason for us to keep this book while it involves such a severe risk." He smiled a wide, toothy grin before adding, "especially not when this entire, nauseating situation can be turned to our benefit."

At this, the greasy, black-haired, rat-like, middle-aged man who was the director of the department of scandals stopped playing games on his cell phone and looked up. "How?"

"That’s the question I’ve been waiting for." The old department head leaned back in his chair. "Here’s my humble suggestion. We divide the document into various segments, each containing some of the more obscure prophecies and histories and whatnot. We send each section to a different group of radicals. Soon enough they’ll be warring with each other over the numerous pieces, having forgotten completely that the Coca-Cola Company had anything to do with the damned book in the first place."

Salerni was impressed. His department heads, who were nodding and chuckling happily, seemed to share the sentiment.

"I recommend furthermore," continued the old man, "that we send one of the segments to the Pepsi Corporation."

This caught Salerni off guard. "But who from Pepsi would willingly accept such a thing? And even if we did manage to pass the segment to Pepsi, who’s to say that they just won’t keep quiet about it and deny ownership altogether?"

At that moment the door swung open. That was serious. The door never—never—swung open during a conference. If a crazed man strapped with nuclear explosives entered the building, the door did not open. If the CEO’s entire family was viscously slaughtered, the door did not open. If Christ Himself, with all of the heavenly angels, descended to earth requesting an audience with Rafael Salerni, the door did not open. The realm within the door was to be treated as an environment so utterly vital and delicate that the slightest interference would cause the entire universe to unwind and the human race to vanish instantly.

It was no surprise, then, then when the door did open, the head of the department of polar bears drew a pistol and took cover under the desk. The rest of the department heads turned milky white.

In stepped a smiling, beautiful young woman armed with a clipboard and wearing an attractive business suit. This was Salerni’s personal secretary. Salerni would, at a later date, scold himself for not reprimanding her at once. But the fact was that at this point everyone in the room was simply too surprised to speak.

"I’m sorry to bother you all," she said. "I didn’t mean to interrupt. But the entire building is rather confused. You see,"--she checked her clipboard—"a certain ‘Red McGill,’ employed by…"—she checked the clipboard again-- "…the Pepsi Corporation, has mailed to us a winning ‘mystery prize’ bottle cap. The trouble is that no one in the entire building knows anything about the mystery prize."