Library orders came a few days ago, but I hear it usually takes two weeks for the jail to put together our requested books and bring them to the pod. Dan passed a book off to me that had been passed onto him and told me to read it. I'm a few chapters into Swan Song by Robert McCammon and I’m hooked. I feel immersed in the wild apocalyptic landscape and immediately find myself invested in the alternating story lines.

I hop off my bunk around eleven o clock to pee, and as I'm sitting there, Vaughn, whom I thought was asleep, asks me a strange question.

“You ever think about why Football and America go hand-in-hand?”

“Probably because we’re tribal, competitive, and have a lot of stress in our lives, so we look forward to a common entertainment source that creates comradery among peers. That’s why,” I say, as I twist my body to flush the toilet by pressing the button behind me.

He blinks dramatically while waiting for the roaring whoosh of the toilet to end, then gives a short chuckle. “That’s deeper than what most people think, most just believe it's a distraction. But what I’m talking about is the system behind it, the thirty-two team owners. You think they just own the franchises? Nope, it goes deeper than that, they run all the major pipelines of this country.” He opens his eyes wide before continuing. "Wanna hear something really wild?”

Wild? I think to myself how wild it is that I'm here right now living in this tiny bathroom with another human, with no concept of time. I don't have anywhere to be tomorrow, or the next day or the next. In fact, I don't even have another court date for another three months. So what if I stay up until 2am listening to my celly ramble on, read my book, or just sit and let my thoughts and memories play out like a personal theater. It’s a different world at night, one I’ve come to cherish, because there is a semblance of peace. I often listen to the resting quietness, except occasionally hearing the distant chatter coming from a neighboring cell. Echoing voices, or a toilet flushing.

"Hellllo?" Vaugh asks, pulling me back to the present.

"Oh yeah sure, let's hear whatcha got."

He sits up on the bunk and rubs his hands together.

“K, so It’s-”

“Queso? Is this going to be a wild story about cheese?” I just can’t stop myself from being so punny.

“Don’t get smart with me right now, this is serious and it’s not just about football." He waits to see if I can be silent for a moment before continuing. "The ritual starts every Sunday, like church, with millions and millions watching, all doing the same thing at the same time.”

I almost make fun of his seriousness, but stop myself because there is something in his eyes that’s sharp. Maybe he’s figured out a secret that I would benefit knowing.

“And what are they trying to preach, pray tell.”

“It’s simple,” he says. “Control.”

Oh, it’s going to be one of those conversations. I guess I’ll bite. “Control of what?”

“People,” Then he starts speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “And more importantly, their behavior. Look at the stadiums for a great example.

“The stadiums?”

“The stadiums. They’re labs for testing everything. Tech, surveillance, and the psychology of it all wrapped together. Think about the face scans at the gate, the digital tickets that track your movement, cashless concessions for tracking purchases, and above everyone's heads are the cameras with their little tracking algorithms. They watch how eighty thousand people move, how they react, how they obey the little prompts on the jumbotron, then download the app for their small chance at a prize. Think about it! It’s all crowd control training with social engineering in practice, and it boils down to a rehearsal for the real world!”

“I’m pretty sure everything you just described is just to maximize the money they get from eighty thousand people walking into those billion dollar stadiums. Sports money is big money these days.”

He stops and gives half a smile. “‘Sports money’ is just a drop in the bucket. Jones has oil ties. The Waltons run supply chains. Kroenke’s in real estate. The Glazers, Krafts, Maras run banks, telecom, and media. Every owner’s got a stake in another artery, and together they make up the body of our great nation.”

His last part about the owners as one big collective actually grabs my attention. The guy sounds a bit nuts, but some nuts are healthy for mental digestion.

“Keep going.”

He takes a sip of sink water, full of trace metals, before continuing.

“The media is always the same story. ESPN, FOX, CBS, NBC are all owned by the same companies. Disney, Murdoch, Comcast, AT&T. And over them? BlackRock, Vanguard, State Street. The same three names. You see where this goes? The owners sit in those skyboxes with the same people who own the media spitting out the narrative, they're not rivals or enemies, they're actually partners.”

“That’s a big leap from football to the illuminati you know that right? I think the big money people are just really good at gathering more money. There are too many moving pieces and competition for all those guys to work together. You know what I’m saying?”

Vaughn doesn’t blink. “Then explain why the Pentagon sponsors ‘Salute to Service.’ Why the flyovers. Why soldiers run flags across the field. Football is training people to love war. You don’t get Iraq or Afghanistan without football warming people up for it every Sunday.”

The cell goes extra quiet. That’s an interesting point I’ve never thought of before, but it’s just a little too far-fetched for me to agree with. Instead of responding, I just squint at him.

“And now,” he says, a bit softer, “they’re using surveillance systems in the stadiums, not to make extra profits, but to stay one step ahead in ‘the other war’. The only war that they truly care about. The Class war.

I squint at him while my mind attempts to digest the almonds he’s feeding me.

“Hmm, not very classy” I joke. “Why tell me this though?”

Sitting on his bottom bunk, he leans back against the wall with a flat smile and sighs. “Because you’re listening, most people don’t. You do though, and you'll remember.”

His smile… He thinks that I know he’s onto something. What exactly that is, I’m not sure of yet.

I take a seat on the metal table in the corner and hunch over into a thinking man's pose with chin on fists.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s say all that is true. Let’s say the owners are coordinating, the media is funded with the same money, and the military is using football to warm people up for war.”

Vaughn is watching me.

“What about the majority of fans who never go to a stadium? Only a tiny percentage of people actually show up in person. Most watch from couches, apartments, bars, and phones. If the stadium is the lab, what’s the plan for the rest of the country?”

Vaughn is ready. He answers right as the last Y leaves my mouth.

“That’s the part that really sets things into motion," he says. “ You see, the T.V. experience with commercials tell the full story.”

He taps his temple twice with two fingers.

“You think commercials are about sales? Nope, they’re all about mood. Most of the time they shove messages into people without saying so outright. It’s all about your feelings. They program how people are supposed to feel about the country, themselves, and their neighbors. Ultimately they’re controlling what is thought of as ‘normal’.”

I know a thing or two about marketing and I think he is mostly correct on the feelings part.

“Notice how every commercial break follows the same pattern.” First ad: Pride. Family. Flags. Community. Togetherness. Warm music. Smiles.

Second ad: Anxiety. Insurance. Pharmaceuticals. Accidents.

Third ad: Alcohol. Beer. Light beer. Seltzer. Doesn’t matter. The message is the same: Here is you, here is some elevated stress, here’s your relief. Here’s how to cope. Every Sunday, people absorb it because they think they’re just watching the game.”

I’m trying to remember if what he’s saying is true. I’ve never considered the order.

“I can see the gist of what you’re saying man, but I found a hole in your process. Every insurance commercial is humorous, and when I think about it, almost every company with insurance is. Geico with the ‘it's so easy a caveman can do it’, Progressive with Flo and her gaggle of idiots, Allstate ‘preventing mayhem like me’, ummm what else is there?”

“You’re missing the main message though,” he quickly adds. “All of them talk about “switching” and “save hundreds with us versus them”, it keeps the insurance scam alive and well at the same time spikes that anxiety about bills leading to an overall sense that you just don’t have as much money as you think you need.”

“Interesting, very interesting. So what’s their real end game?” I poke because I’m curious to see what he comes up with.

Vaughn lies back down, hands behind his head settling into the thin mattress.

“End game? The same as always. Stability for them. Football being yet another one of the tools they use. But it’s the hardest hitting one because they can control way more with comfort than they ever can with force.”

The vent kicks on and I start feeling the chilly air blowing in, keeping us all from ever getting too comfortable.

“If they can use comfort as control so easily, why is it so damn uncomfortable in here then?”

Vaughn closes his eyes.

“Because it’s cheaper to use force after your rights are taken away.”

The cell feels smaller, yet only because my perspective shifted.

“That should give you something to take your mind off your worries in here for a while.” He says, probably expecting a thank you from me.

But I don’t thank him, and instead climb up on my bunk and stare at the ceiling to watch my thoughts. I reflect on the cringy exchange between me and Officer Parker after my dropped pass. I think about how different my last two cellys have been, and how many more I’m yet to have. I think about what Vaughn told me and wonder if there really are powers behind the scenes that are directing society like sheep. I wonder if God put them in charge, or if their work is the work of the devil. I wonder if I'm going to hell when I die for all eternity because of the accident. I wonder what my brain is going to make me dream about tonight. That reminds me, I need to take my Zyprexa, otherwise how will I be able to sleep?

CLACK CLACK, CLACK CLACK

“You good?” I ask Vaughn as we rack in with yet another day coming to an end.

He responds, “All good,” so I close the cell.

“I can’t believe you’re getting out tomorrow, how does time move so fast, yet so slow?” I ask with wonderment in my voice.

Vaughn and I have been cellys for over four weeks now and his prediction about getting along just fine has stayed true. Almost every rack-in, he has some sort of conspiracy theory to share with me that distracts me from my reality.

He shrugs. “It’s not all good times out there. I still don’t know if my boss is gonna give me a third chance, he said he can’t afford to take another one on me, but he said that the last time as well, so who knows?”

“Oh boo hoo. Like you always tell me, don’t sweat the small stuff. You’ll be fine, not a lot of people can operate a crane these days anyways.”

He looks at me with a flat expression. “Listen kid, once you go to an interview and see what it’s like to have to tell them you’ve got a felony, then you can tell me about what’s hard and what’s not.”

“I would love the chance to go through that hardship over this any day. But I get it.”

I start making up two cups of coffee, one for me, one for him. I’m eternally grateful to my family for putting enough money on my books to have enough coffee to share at times and some food at night so I’m not starving. I would talk to them on the phone more, but the phones charge 21 cents a minute. Time really does equal money in here.

“I wish I had enough to make a cake for your last night, but money is tight after ordering another notepad and colored pencils.”

A ‘cake’ is what we call it in here and is composed of an iced honey bun with a tube of peanut butter spread over the top with crunched up candy bars as the cherry on top. It’s a diabetes dessert, but they are an instant mouthgassum.

“Don’t sweat it brother, I appreciate all the shots of coffee you’ve hooked me up with.”

“I got your back.”

I hand him the cup that he got his first week in here when he traded four milks and a bag of chips (which he won at the card table).

“So, whatcha got for me tonight? More theories about how apes ate mushrooms and that’s how we evolved into thinking humans, or what about how we never really went to the moon and the major governments are working together to keep aliens a secret?” I’m ready for another entertaining Ted Talk.

“Ask and ye shall receive young grasshopper, because it just so happens that I do have one last piece of the puzzle, and it’s going to tie everything together. Let me start with a question for you, who owns the money?” As he takes a drink of coffee, a little bit trickles out the side of his mouth.

“Anyone who owns assets I guess.” I respond trying to answer where I think he’s going with this.

“You’re not paying attention, I said who owns the money.”

“Oh, you mean like who makes it? Um, I guess banks. Wait, no, The Federal Reserve owns the money with paper being backed up with gold. Which, by the way, I already know is privately owned.” I say, satisfied with my own knowledge.

“Close, very close, but your ignorance has betrayed you in how you said it.”

He pauses and takes another sip.

“The Federal Reserve is really The Federal Reserve system that’s a public-private hybrid. You see, there is a D.C. Board of Governors and twelve regional Reserve Banks that sets policy tools, like the IORB rate, and uses QE/QT to expand and then shrink a multi-trillion-dollar balance sheet. Those tools affect interest rates and asset prices.”

I was not ready for all that.

“Hold up hold up, the IOR what rate? And the QET? What are those?” This is the part of the conspiracy where I can actually learn something from him.

“Don’t worry about that, there’s bigger fish to fry.”

“Oh what? Now all of a sudden you’re short on time? You know I’m smart enough to understand stuff like that by now if you just explain the gist of it.”

Vaughn sighs. “Alrighty then. Banks are required to keep some of their money parked at the Federal Reserve right? Think of it like: every bank has a mandatory checking account inside the Fed. IORB is the interest the Fed pays banks for keeping money there-”

My attention starts drifting back to his tone from earlier. He must think I’m too dumb to understand interest rates. Sometimes he bothers me because he thinks he’s so much smarter than everyone else.

“-can raise or lower this interest rate to influence the whole economy. If the Fed raises IORB then banks earn good money by not lending. Loans get harder and the economy slows. If the Fed lowers IORB then banks make less by sitting still. So they go out and lend more. Loans get easier and so the economy speeds up. It boils down to The Fed saying “Hey banks, lend more” or “Hey banks, chill out.”

“Gotcha.. Okay see that actually makes sense to me. And the other thing?” I ask, trying to exercise my full attention.

“QE and QT are the Feds big climate control knobs. QE or Quantitative Easing: The Fed buys bonds, which pumps money into the financial system. More money moving around, lower interest rates, stocks rise, real estate rises, everyone feels richer. Or at least like something is ‘moving’. QT or Quantitative Tightening-”

It sounded like he said quantitative entanglement, I know he didn't but I wonder if he knows anything about spooky action at a distance? I'm always down for some Einstein talk.

“-sells bonds or even lets them expire without replacing them. Money gets pulled out of the system, interest rates rise so spending slows, then stocks and assets fall, causing people to feel cautious and anxious. There you have it, can I get back to where I was now?”

“Yep I got it! And I can already see where you’re going with this, I’m super intrigued.” Most of what he told me actually just went over my head, but I don’t want to admit that he was right.

He rolls his eyes before continuing. “So like I was saying, The Federal Reserve isn’t a regular government agency. The Board in D.C. is federal, but the twelve regional Federal Reserve Banks are structured kind of like private corporations that partially answer to the government.”

“Yeah, I remember that part.”

“Now do you remember when I talked about the NFL and its owners controlling everything about the country and the tone of the people? Well this is the other side of the coin. Because mind control is not just commercials telling you what to feel, it’s bombarding you at every turn and creating herd immunity to critical thought and reasoning. The Federal Reserve doesn’t have to manipulate people directly like the NFL does because it can manipulate everyone's moods indirectly. And that way nobody ever really blames the feds when there are already key phrases we’re conditioned to blame like the ‘economy’ or the ‘market’.”

“Hmmm.” Is all I add.

“It’s full scale control! But as far as the feds go, they don’t look at everything as gaining more-”

All this money talk has my mind drifting to my lack of commissary funds and I start to wonder what it would be like if my family were to stop putting money on my account every other week.

“-because stability benefits those already at the top. It keeps the systems in place that allows deca and ceta billionaires to exist.” He stops talking again and this time takes a big gulp of coffee. “The feds are just the legal puppets for the sinister agendas of the ruling elite.”

He’s back to painting the Us versus Them narrative. “Your tone paints everything in such a dark light. What if the people at the top, controlling everything like you say, are just trying to do their best to make as many people happy as they can, while making themselves rich in the process?”

“Simple. Look around, see the poor get poorer and look at the stats on how many starving children there are or people not being able to make ends meet. If the people in power actually had good intent and exercised philanthropy that actually helps, do you really think so many people would be so miserable over the small stuff? They could do something about it but they choose not to because they’re greedy and selfish.”

“Listen Vaughn, I know things are not perfect in our world and a lot could be changed for the better, but you sound like a hypocrite. Aren't you the one who told me you can't blame God for wars and starving kids just because he could intervene but decides not to?

“That is very different young man. God works in mysterious ways and it is not for us, as his children, to question him.”

“But what kind of loving God allows all these bad things to happen all the time. And if he’s all powerful, then why does he grant the devil so much power and free reign?”

“I cannot speak for God, but the whole plan of the Devil was not allowing for free will at all. In the end we do have free will, and it is our journey here on Earth going through all the trials and tribulations that will shape us into being more like him.”

“Then eat your own words from earlier man, and realize that the ones who are running the show in our society may also have our best interests at heart, even if it is messy and through a lot of hardship.”

“Hardship that is not necessary. You will see I’m right one day, young grasshopper.”

“Nah, fuck that, don’t be condescending to me. Just because you know a lot does not mean you're right about everything. You can’t have it both ways. Here you are telling me how terrible the world is and everything wrong with it on one hand, and with the other you’re telling me how amazing the one who created it all is. You know what all this boils down to? Your perspective. I’m not going to sit here and get all riled up about being some victim of circumstances I can't control. I’ve read enough history to know that we are not living like peasants in a feudal system. I am thankful to my ancestors for crossing the planes with the Mormons, and before that, taking the risk of crossing the Atlantic ocean to get to America. And even before that, when our first ancestors traveled out of the African continent to travel to other distant lands where no humans had gone before! And you know what!? I’m grateful to other peoples ancestors as well, even if some of them clashed with my own family along the way. I'm grateful for everything my species has endured to create this incredibly privileged life I’ve been able to live.”

I’d like to thank the academy.

“And as far as the conspiracies you share with me each night, I have found them very stimulating, but unlike you, I’ve taken them with a grain of salt. The world is not out to get us, and just because times are hard for a lot of us, does not mean we have to point the finger and blame the other. Without all the extra dressing of Christianity, I do actually believe in living up to Christ's standards. Loving my neighbor as myself, forgiving others even when it’s hard, caring for the poor and sick, humility being more important than success, wealth being secondary to generosity, or is it being generous not greedy? Idk, same thing. Umm, don’t return violence with violence, and all the other things he stood for.”

After the last word spills out of my mouth we just stare at each other for a few moments.

“Are you done?” Vaughn asks flatly.

“Sorry I know that was a lot, I just feel like there’s so much hypocrisy being thrown about nowadays and little influencers who are trying to get attention for creating doomsday scenarios, and it sounded like you were on that plane.”

“What goes up, must come down, but what goes down…”

“Doesn't always come up” we finish the saying at the same time.

We both let out a pent up chuckle and the whole cell warms up.

“The dumber you are, the happier you’re allowed to be. No wonder you’re so happy.” He says to me getting back to our normal banter.

“No, you’re so happy!”

“What was that, fat boy who just got cake?”

I burst out laughing and he chuckles a few more times.

“Alright alight, so the feds and football are jerking each other off, and the Devil is playing us all like a fiddle. Got it. So what do we do about it? And you can’t say pray!”

“Hey, I’m just the one who has learned what’s going on, but when it comes to change, that’s above my paygrade.”

“More like your pray-grade! Haha! Get it? Pray-Grade? Like…”

“Oh I got it. Very clever.”

We keep chatting well into the night. He tells me the story of how the Titanic was commissioned by JP Morgan Chase and how for some reason the entire Rothschilds family, and others who were in favor of establishing the Federal Reserve System in the US, canceled their plans and did not embark on the Titanic journey. Interestingly enough though, the three most powerful people opposing such a system, died on said voyage, and because of this, he says, the Federal Banking System was able to be voted on and established the very next year.

Everyone in here is a story teller, some better than others. I just hope my next celly is not so long winded. Yikes, my next celly. I’ve been here long enough to know that whomever I have to share this 8X10 bathroom with, I’ll find some sort of annoying habits or traits. Although I think as long as they are respectful and not too dirty, I’ll be able to avoid any issues. I hope.

End of chapter 6

The Scalpel is The Knife of knowledge.

Sewing The Knife write into my back,

I’m using The Knife to dissect syllables.

Grasping The Knife with the tip of my tongue,

I’m using The Knife to speak in tongues.

Gluing The Knife to the bottom of my boot,

I’m using The Knife to protect my soul.

Squeezing The Knife with all four digits,

I’m using The Knife to finger out life.

Taping The Knife to either knee,

I’m using The Knife to mince my needs.