Boarding the hyper bullet train from Los Angeles to the G.M.R.Z. was unrestricted. His diplomatic immunity granted him unfettered travel to various parts of the intercontinental states since he represented the People’s Democracy of the West Coast.

The train would take 2 hours and 27 minutes to reach Salt Lake City. Albeit fast, the diplomat was limited to only government permitted Scientology Network programing for entertainment and he had had his fill of it. There was no way to do any scientology work on the train since he had to be in person with an auditor to do so. He would have to be at a Church of Scientology building to do the auditing or as his mother used to say “soul cleansing therapy.” Luckily, Salt Lake City had a Church he could do some auditing in. Zacharias Bender set an alarm into his sleep aid app - meditation setting - and woke when the train arrived.

He waited in his seat for G.M.R.Z. security – the Helaman Force – to escort him as per their directive in the communications proceeding this meeting. As a diplomat, Zacharias did his best to adhere to local rules and order.

Two men from the Helaman Force came onboard. They wore printed blue camo uniforms similar to the old United States Navy uniforms. This uniforms however had larger patches and a shade of “Book of Mormon” blue. They said nothing. Following them, Mosiah E. Cummings, the Captain and Director of the Helman Force stood in-between the two me folded his arms, and faced the diplomat.

Captain Mosiah E. Cummings in his traditional blue cowboy duster said, “Welcome to the Greater Mormon Republic of Zion and its capital Salt Lake City. We thank you for coming to this meeting with the Prophet and will escort you to the Office Building.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

They exited the train and walked through the giant lobby with murals of pioneers from the days the Mormons moved out west and even museum areas with the old Utah flag from before the Second Civil War had broken the country apart.

“The train station used to be the capital building for the state, correct?” asked Zach Bender.

Captain Cummings responded, “Yes, it was. After combining the government with the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and expanding to the old Deseret borders, we didn’t want that relic of the past.”

“You are very knowledgeable, Captain. Weren’t you on the front lines during the Second Civil War?”

Captain Cummings turned to Zacharias Bender with a restrained face; his two guards behind him.

“As a political and military figure, it’s difficult for me to express my true feelings. Keep in mind that we see that ‘Civil War’ as our War of Independence. As a representative from the Church of Scientology, it is always wise to respect local beliefs. The West Coast may say you represent them but we understand who is really in charge.”

Finally exiting the building, they were met by an armored Humvee painted in blue camo. The solider on the left opened a door for the Scientologist Diplomat and followed him inside. Captain Cummings walked around to the passenger seat while the last soldier drove. There were no more words spoken as they drove to the west side of the LDS Church Office building.

The underground parking security guards let them through and they parked. Upstairs, Giant paintings of Christ ministering to people in the Middle East and ancient America greeted them as they entered the Office Building for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Passing by a giant statue of Joseph Smith kneeling before two floating statues suspended from cables came three men dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and blue ties. In the center was the Prophet of the LDS Church.

“Mr. Bender!” said the prophet as he extended his elbow. Zach used his right elbow as well to shake and greet the prophet. This custom had been present prior and during the Second Civil War.

“Your eminence, I am so pleased to meet you,” said Zacharias Bender.

“Eminence? I’m not catholic. You can call me President if you would like,” grinned the Prophet of the LDS Church, “By the way, this is Mr. Runson and Mr. Dillon who act as my personal security.” He gestured to each man respectively and turned his full attention towards the diplomat.

“My apologies, sir. My sources told me to call you Eminence.”

“No apology necessary, Mr. Bender. Thank you for telling me. Captain, you’re dismissed.”

The Captain of the Helaman Forces nodded his head, smiled; then walked away with his two soldiers.

“Come with us, Mr. Bender, to my office. We can speak privately and enjoy some refreshments as we go over our agenda. My personal security will be outside the doors.”

“I must have been scanned either at the station or here in the office building. I forget about G.M.R.Z. technology.”

“Or both!” laughed the Prophet.

With a forced smile the diplomat said, “It is pretty remarkable that you can show a level of peace even under heightened security.”

They left the lobby to ride the Prophet’s personal elevator to his office; Mr.’s Runson and Dillion maintained a distance between the Prophet and Mr. Bender.

The elevators doors opened at the destination floor; Zacharias was surprised at the amount of security.

“I apologize for the increased security. We have had problems with the Church of Scientology as we will discuss in our meeting.”

Multiple Helman Force soldiers were in the hallway staked to the floor like sentinels. Mr. Runson opened the office door to which the Prophet with a slight bow motioned for Mr. Bender to enter first. The Scientologist obliged as the Prophet closed the door behind them.

“I have soda and milk. We also have fresh fruits and nuts. Is there anything you would care to have while we talk?” invited the Prophet.

“A water and apple from those Food Silos would do nicely,” smirked the Diplomat.

“Take a seat, Mr. Bender, and I’ll grab an apple and bottled water for you,” said the Prophet as he pointed to a chair.

The furniture was of a highly polished wood unfamiliar to the diplomat in front of a wall of giant bookshelves filled floor to ceiling with many different titles and scriptures. Most seemed to be religious yet some books were self-help, business, and historical.

“Thank you for having me. In the elevator, it sounded like we already moved to the subject of religion. The Greater Mormon Republic of Zion claims to adhere to religious freedom yet you’ve outlawed the Jehovah’s Witnesses and would likewise treat Scientology. I have to be honest. It seems hypocritical,” Zacharias boldly said.

“We do have religious freedom. We outlawed the Jehovah’s Witnesses because we consider them to be terrorist and cult organization which seeks to overthrow our government. They are also outlawed by your government.

“We feel the same about your religion, Mr. Bender. We find it disturbing that the People’s Democracy of the West Coast works so closely with your religion. You don’t run it directly, yet the oligarchy in Los Angeles includes many members of the Scientology Cult.” The Prophet settled back in his chair and waited.

“What basis for outlawing our religion do you have? We have not attacked or threatened you directly!”

The Prophet leaned forward and firmly stated, “That’s exactly it. ‘Directly.’ The West Coast would love to attack us to obtain our food silos. We have evidence the Church of Scientology has covertly operated in our lands for the past year. These agents have even meddled in our territory in Missouri.”

Zacharias Bender needed to show his literal feelings as L. Ron Hubbard’s teachings had instilled. He stood up to angrily pace the office.

“The West Coast still has aspirations to unite the former states. It seems you Mormons want to keep your theocratic rule and prevent state reunification!” shouted the Scientologist Diplomat.

The Prophet shifted in his chair. The neutral lines of age on his face did not react to the change in the Diplomat’s tone.

“We have been resolute in uniting the former states; this is why we work with Texas and East Coast Governments,” responded the Prophet, “We would enjoy peaceful coexistence with your religion and the People’s Democracy of the West Coast as well. However, these recent events tell us you do not wish to cooperate. We have arrested multiple spies that tie back to the followers of L. Ron Hubbard, including two who were attempting to sabotage the food silos in Logan, Utah. That technology is proprietary and we only will share it with like-minded governments. That could have come in time with your government but sabotage is an act of war in the eyes of the G.M.R.Z. Weren’t Hubbard’s wife and other Scientologists arrested back in the 1970s for infiltrating the United States government?”

Continuing to pace, Zacharias Bender scanned the book shelves for an example from LDS history. And there he saw it.

“That was an egregious exaggeration. Didn’t your people murder innocent women and children at the order of Brigham Young?”

“Mountain Meadows? Yes, members of the Church did do that. However, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints gave it no sanction. Brigham Young explicitly told them not to but they disobeyed. We regret it ever happened and have publicly apologized. Your analogy is not valid.”

The Diplomat sneered. His left hand fidgeted; tracing the shiny silver trim on the cuffs and folds of his trademark Scientologist uniform. He tapped the pin of the coiled S and two triangles, a prevalent Scientology religious symbol.

The Prophet continued, “The Church of Scientology causes death and suffering. The ‘Rehabilitation Project Force’ labor camps were exposed before the Second Civil War and our intel indicates the program is still in operation. The Church of Scientology is more like the KGB, the Gestapo or the MSS as opposed to a legitimate religion.”

“And the G.M.R.Z. is the New Jerusalem, the Israel of America,” quipped the Diplomat.

The Prophet unfolded and folded his legs with no change in the tempo of his breathing.

“See it’s so unclear on who you exactly represent. The members Church of Scientology or the People’s Democracy of the West Coast Government? You had a religion of 40,000 members and it increased to a reported number of 23 million percentage of the People’s in the West Coast.” The Prophet had yet to change the tone of his voice and his movements were ever stoic and minute to the radical opposite of Zacharias Bender.

“That is organic growth through outreach. We don’t just grow through birthrates!”

“Birth is the best organic growth,” said the Prophet rising from his chair, “While the Church of Scientology provided money, shelter, free ‘education’ and other good acts after the war to many states including Utah, those deeds still served to increase your numbers and influence. How many people are in concentration and reeducation camps in the People’s Democracy? Scientology’s elite, the ‘Sea Org’, runs those camps.

"In contrast, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints works in conjunction with the Secular Representation to govern the Greater Mormon Republic of Zion. All secular representatives are voted in and various parties are represented. Your government does not have direct representation of its peoples. You are like the enemies overseas which the East Coast governments and the Republic of Texas are desperately trying to stop.”

The Prophet’s voice had risen slightly but in no way close to the Scientology tone scale that Bender had fallen upon to help in diplomatic debates.

“Mr. Bender, we could use scripture from both of our religions and our founders against each other. In the end, we have evidence of tampering here in the G.M.R.Z., not to mention the harassment of Church of Jesus Christ members and the defacement of temples in the People’s Democracy of the West Coast. As the world prepares for war, it is crucial that we secure our borders and see to it that all the people of Zion are taken care of. The Quorum of the Twelve and the Secular Representation are in agreement on this: all citizens of the G.M.R.Z. will be asked to return to Zion within the next two weeks at which point we will end all diplomatic relations with the West Coast.”

The Scientologist Diplomat who had erratically paced the office of the Prophet stopped and approached the President of the Latter-day Saint Church. With his shoulders tight, neck shortened, and index finger pointed right at the bridge of the Prophet’s nose he let out, “That will DEFINITELY start a war between our peoples! I suppose my time here has been wasted then. What conclusion are we to come to if you aren’t going to even negotiate a treaty?”

This caught the Prophet by total surprise. He wiped his hand on the left side of his suit jacket and sat back down.

“What kind of treaty?”

“A Peace Treaty, of course,” said the Scientologist Diplomat as he sat back down in his chair, opposite the President of the LDS Church. The silver lining in his suit managed to catch the light from the window, shimmering with his announcement. The Prophet did not fall for it.

“Who is the treaty from?”

“Why, the Church of Scientology, of course. You can maintain your temples in the West Coast and we will allow individual worship within people’s homes; not in meeting buildings. They can have unrestricted access to Church of Jesus Christ websites but as citizens of the People’s Democracy some online areas will be limited due to their perverse and dangerous nature.”

The Diplomat paused. The Prophet remained unmoved so Bender continued.

“The treaty also stipulates that you release all imprisoned Church of Scientology members. We will also commit no more acts of stability or peace keeping reconnaissance if you grant us access to your Food Silo Technology.”

The Prophet remained unmoved.

“Is something the matter, President?”

“What if we do not agree to these terms? What consequences will befall the G.M.R.Z.?”

“Nothing would really change as it is.”

“So, it would be war then?” The Prophet concluded from unspoken threats.

“Only if the G.M.R.Z. wanted it,” said the Diplomat.

“Is your treaty up for negotiation?”

The Diplomat snorted, “What’s there to negotiate? What?! You don’t want to share the food silo technology with us?”

“No. We do not,” firmly said the President of the Church of Jesus Christ.

“Where is your Christian Charity?”

“We have had aid from us in the past. The People’s Democracy will not receive any more aid from the G.M.R.Z. until you have reinstituted basic American rights such as freedom of religion for all, assembly, and speech. We still have those things here. People can leave if they so please. The Church of Scientology will fall if it does not change. We are close allies with Florida and will continue to be. We will always respect Clearwater as long as you respect Salt Lake City.”

Zach Bender stood up again and took a step back and gasped, “You mean to tell me that you would attack Clearwater, Florida just because it is our headquarters!”

“Only as retribution if you attacked Salt Lake City. The same cannot be said for the G.M.R.Z. Salt Lake is essentially a city state within the G.M.R.Z. and I have complete authority here. The Secular Representation would have to come to a decision on what policy is with the People’s Democracy. The peace treaty would need to be drafted so I could present it to them. I will say they won’t let you have access to Food Silo Technology. If that is all the treaty is for, that would be disappointing.”

“We have people who are starving!”

“And so do we and the East Coast and Texas! You think five years fixes two years of massive bloodshed and destruction? It doesn’t.”

“You have to share that technology! You claim to uphold the Constitution by a thread but you can’t even spare us a human right!”

“Providing Food Silo Technology is not a human right. The hypercritical nature of the Church of Scientology is astounding. You mentioned prisoners but you have been on and on about the food silos. Do you even know who we have imprisoned? Do you even care about your members?”

Mr. Bender grabbed his suitcase and slammed it on the table in-between the two chairs. He sat down again and unsnapped the top button of the flap that closed his brief case. He pulled out a manilla confidential mailing envelope and unwrapped the red string that closed it. Inside were a stack of papers with the official S and Double triangles wrapped through them. The flag of the West Coast was not present.

“The treaty,” announced the Diplomat.

“So, you are open to other negotiations?”

“All out war doesn’t suit us at the moment.”

The Prophet stirred, “When would it?”

Suddenly, the office slammed open with Captain Mosiah rushing in.

“President,” he exclaimed breathlessly, “we caught an informant and he told us Mr. Bender is not only a diplomat for the West Coast and the Church of Scientology: he is also an agent for the enemies overseas. They are secret allies.”

The Prophet stood up and pointed to the door. The Diplomat stood up and grabbed the treaty and started to exit.

“Go back to your leaders. There will be no treaty and the East Coast and Texas will be informed. From now, Clearwater will not be safe!”

Zacharias Bender was escorted to the hyper bullet train station and was sent back home to his masters.

Except for Sundays, Jason Hawkins drove his diesel Dodge Ram emblazoned with his company logo, ABC DISPOSAL, scouring every neighborhood in the Salt Lake Valley. ABC, at the top of the alphabet, stood for Acme Bird Cleaner, or as Hawkins liked to joke, Assorted Bird Corpses, and Hawkins was hustling to snatch up as many dead birds as possible. Each bird brought him $9.00 if it was clean. If it was diseased, the bird fetched $15.00. His list of clients was growing and his new wife loved it that his perseverance was bringing welcome financial relief, paying down their debts.

The first stop was Piccadilly and Curl’s, a quaint, old-fashioned barbershop that did its best to keep its parking lot clean after recent upgrades to laser, wind, and solar tech. The adverse effects of these newfangled technologies resulted in more and more birds killed weekly. The numbers continued to climb, especially after local zoologists bred and released more birds to counteract their otherwise declining numbers. Yet, the recent Bird Flu in the east worried many. Quarantine suspicions grew, as did Jason’s wallet.

His watch rang. His wife’s concerned face was there and she said, “Jason, Aunt Jill called.”

Aunt Jill was the receptionist at a chiropractic office. His wife didn’t like to talk about work, so clearly the call was important.

“They need a bird cleaner. Today,” she said. “Aren’t you heading to Millcreek this afternoon?”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll fit them in. You told them our prices?”

“Yep. Sixty dollars a week, and that you dispose of the birds free!”

“I hope my clients never find out I sell the dead birds to Designer Corp to reuse. I’ve started to see some reanimated birds.”

“How can you tell? Don’t they all look the same?”

“They have a different shine to them. Almost like an oily sheen. Greasy in certain angles of light. They also feel different. Like paper that’s been recycled too much. They feel rich.”

“I think the word is oleaginous.”

“My thesaurus wife with the English degree! Is that big belly going to get the smarts from you, too?”

Jason Hawkins, Bird Cleaner, got out of the truck at Piccadilly and Curl’s and grabbed a shovel and five-gallon paint bucket. Anticipating the imminent arrival of their first child, he worked quickly. Every dollar of extra income would not only offset their debts, but would also help pay for the baby’s delivery.

“Honey, I’ve got to get to work. Love you!”

“Love you, too!”

Jason scooped up eleven birds at Piccadilly’s and Curls. One reanimated, two diseased, the rest clean. The usual gulls, jays, magpies. There was even one hummingbird. He was still awaiting a deal on reanimated birds, which were of an indiscriminately mixed species.

Driving from appointment to appointment could get boring. Yes, there was a constant playlist of music to listen to, but when even that got old, he had switched to podcasts. Though the flood of entertainment had its ups and downs, his inspiration for the business had grown out of that sea of free information. His self-appropriated learning and his burgeoning experience helped him grow his YouTube and Instagram pages as the leading voice in the Bird Cleaning Industry—an industry that a couple of years ago no one had thought of.

Hawkins, wearing his hazardous material suit, arrived at Aunt Jill’s chiropractic office in the afternoon. It was clearly in desperate need of a bird cleaner. Dozens lay in the parking lot underneath wind turbines, several on grass with cut-off parts from the laser mowing service, and several fried from the solar tech attached to the roof and sides of their building.

The chiropractor, dressed in an untucked Hawaiian shirt and short khakis, approached Hawkins as he attached his face mask. He didn’t actually need it since he had the shovel and gloves and washed himself routinely. However, the COVID-19 pandemic a few years before taught him that the mere perception of cleanliness was a prudent business practice.

“You here for the birds?” asked the chiropractor.

“Yeah, I’m the bird cleaner.”

“Good, I can’t risk any of my patients getting sick from these things. And with the tax write-offs I might as well do all the environmental tech stuff. Who wouldn’t? It’s a good deal.”

Hawkins nodded his head since the man couldn’t see his cheek muscles hook his smile into a falsified grin of agreement behind his face mask. He got to work and shoveled up dead birds. It was almost the end of the day and he still had to drive to Designer Corp Labs in West Valley City to drop off his collection. Before arriving there, he stopped for a restroom and snack break at a local Maverick Gas Station, where he organized the birds between clean, diseased, and reanimated.

The laboratory’s campus was surrounded with a ten-foot brick wall with razor wire and glass on top. The secrets the lab held rivaled Willy Wonka’s or Apple’s. Security scanned the tag stickered inside his front windshield. He headed for building #26A—Birds.

Hawkins parked outside the loading dock and the bay door lifted open. Per routine, the lab operator, Hedge, was there to greet him. Like Hawkins, Hedge was dressed in a hazmat suit and facemask.

“If it isn’t Mr. Hawkins, our favorite bird cleaner! What do you have today?”

Hawkins, exiting his Dodge, responded, “thirty-five clean, thirteen diseased, and three reanimated.”

“Not a bad haul, Hawkins.” Hedge began to collect them in the lab’s hermetically sealed plastic containers.

“Hey, Hedge, I need to talk about money. I’m hearing from zoologists I can get the same fee, plus a tax write-off, if I go to the government, since they release the bred birds into the valley. Also, we haven’t agreed on rates for reanimated birds yet. I want $20.00 for reanimated.”

Hedge tightened his shoulders. “You don’t negotiate Designer Corp rates with me. I have no say. You know that.”

“I beg to differ. People learn about the trade from me, so you know very well that if I ditched Designer Corp and I posted it on social media, you’d lose a good seventy percent of your bird business. Look Hedge, we aren’t friends. This is purely business. I don’t really care for Designer Corp, and I know all about the whole Designer Baby project. I have a kid on the way that we did the natural way. So I think it would be in your interest to pay me a little of your tainted money.

Hedge pulled out his phone and typed into an app.

“Okay, it’s done. You’ve got a deal. Let’s take those damn birds off your hands!” said Hedge, with the same smile Jason didn’t have to expose behind his own face mask.

Stephen Hughes is a freelance percussionist in Utah who has written stories since he was four years old. Please consider purchasing this story in the collection "Getting Through: Tales of Corona and Community" on Amazon. All proceeds will go to the American Red Cross. https://www.amazon.com/Getting-Through-Tales-Corona-Community/dp/B086PLNMYB/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=getting+through%3A+tales+of+corona+and+community&qid=1586439943&sr=8-1

Her hair was like silk obsidian

Her skin, golden to the dark

Not tan from sun but an outline

Of her heart’s destination

In her dark eastern eyes lies

A deep knowledge of experience scars

An anti-medusa that woes the soul

And sends the love song crashing

Oh but the rocks of isolation and desperation

Hold no place in barrancas or notion

On such a deep romantic ocean

For you see examples: They can’t be popular; only ancient

Conclusionary steps include -

1) The honesty of clarity

2) The trustworthy of friendly

3) The reality of mythology

One would assume that the burning

could and would Never ever cease

To constantly lay fuel upon her

Aroma and taste licked up into gases

All to provide the energy transference

That we all routinely seek

However, imagine, if you will

A fire that is constantly doused

And then it dries and is lit again

Eventually, the fuel is ruined

And the pit is mud

Not a person would come by to it

Some can be extinguished forever

Because they are finite and quenchable

However, most of the time they die out

Without cooking the meal to completion

And the only thing you leave the site with

Was that sting of smoke in your eye

With clothes immediately in the wash

And the cow tree spread open of rot

Ready for the future planting crops

And a fresh hole for dirt

To burn away the wheat again

Colloquial Metaphor that astounds the wisdom

The advice laden trickling of the wannabe sages that

Proclaim aloud again and again

The importance of maintaining politeness

Correctness and obedience for talking heads

Paths walked and trodden for the better part of a decade

When you leave the country: You can always fly back!!

The wickedness of experience coddles the student

The parents, teachers, mentors, and tribesman witness

That their lessons aren’t entirely prudent

Memories filed away in the loins and in the sinew

My gosh to think of all the times you catered

To the expectations of the ought

And the love for the non-existent business

The one you sought and failed to bought

Like a shining light; with gas can in hand

Standing on a new mountain’s precipice one see’s

The glowing liquid swimming slimey

Purge and purge and purge then binge

It is the first of many this Christmas

Oh what a beautiful sight, the burning of a bridge

Color splash on chain link fence

Lightening effects of blue and red

Tears of volunteers and careers

Moist mustaches and hearts of the unacquainted

Hands held to brows and hearts as sentinels in the still dry heat

Cars pulled over to allow the train of servicemen to drive forward

The black box in the middle of the guard; drones take video and picture overhead

Even now the digital eye is of the beholder but the truly penitent

Use the natural eye to watch and glean the few seconds drive under the overpass

A Swan in the distance moves her wings

Her height is indescribable: the perfect metaphor

But the Eagle’s spirit soars past his Swan and into the Heavens

For a hero died and was laid to rest and the nation sang praise and grace

For he died in another state away from his home

The marmalade of an ounce of truth

Subconscious droughts from the upbringing of a generation

“Why is it that I always have such a burning sensation?”

The mother asked with babe in arms

“To think so less of myself, when it does such harm?”

The rhyme and reason pervaded the mother

Judgmental looks from the strangers that knew her

Helped to fester the growth of the subconscious

Oh but what of it! Progress is to be made!

Despair and jellied donuts to soften the blow: That’s the mother’s prescription

Virus that has no vaccination – really what does?

A disease of incepted deception of lies/half-truths/the cold hard cash truth

Spectrums dictate the value and degrees of knowledge herewith known and seen

The mirror is your friend and also your enemy to the present

Video is the time capsule of the moment past

And your thoughts are the prisoned liberation of the future

Emulsify thy being and presence

Lick the embers of the sun bright day

Rain will soon come and melt the smoke into the hills

And the everlasting mountain top

Where Cowboys and Cowgirls climb to seek

From valley to canyon to peak

Mortal beings continue to strive and reap

There is no rest for the wicked or for the angels of God’s keep

Pondering the many random wonderings of the mind

To ascribe a title to one that correctly ascertains

The whole truth and nothing but:

1) The Miraculous Mandarin

2) The Manipulating Maven

Oh of alliteration that literary device taught in your Boy and Girl Scout youths

Only to be dismissed as amateurish and juvenile

So one has to consistently wonder: Why teach it?

But back to our two sided coin; the M & Ms

The artist demands creativity fluidity

Yet the entrepreneurial spirit craves justice and dominance

Is there but a way to combine thy choices into one frame?

One giant mountain peak in which to conquer during the mortal time zone!

Both of them hold one goal in common: Power

The transition of a great many stages from Boy Scout to Cowboy

To Teacher to businessman but now to Dominate Leadership

The dichotomous decision (a proper use of alliteration here!!) lies on your altar

Take the knife of thy life and sacrifice the being and partake

Consume and make a part of your whole: The essence of commitment

“What are the projections for customer support?”

“Within the home state where Café Max’s started, we expect a soft boycott to last for about two weeks. Everywhere else there should be minimal resistance.”

“And how much will we save again by doing all this?”

“There are obviously some tradeoff costs in this sort of switch over. Over the next five years, we project you will save a total of 1.5 million dollars per store. It would be higher but with the rising cost of maintenance and repair in addition to any potential welfare legislation you’ll have to save for, it’s a fair and conservative estimate.”

“Of course there will be legislation. The more people like me who turn to automation will help enlarge that class of people. Imagine if they actual lead a revolution. It’d be just like Mad Max in this god forsaken land.”

The accountant and aid to Mr. Zimmerman removed his pad from the front of his face, smiled and asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

Mr. Max Zimmerman told him no and the aid left the restaurant while the technicians continued to work behind the counter. The head of Designer Corps robotics division walked over to Max and pulled up the PDF documents on his pad and began to walk him through how the automation process would work.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Zimmerman, sir, the customers will walk through the front door located on the left most side of the front and they will be led directly to the counter and walk down the line to build their meal just like before. The only difference is that they will have to interact with the touch screen pad to build their meal. Although, I do like voice command myself. The arms building the meals can easily be accessorized with realistic torsos and heads to bring in a friendlier atmosphere.”

“The touch screens are cheaper and less prone to mistakes which reduce my complaints.” After the slight sing-song answer, Zimmerman took a vaping pen out of his front coat pocket and began to huff on the blackberry mist.

“You must have some faith in your analytics team.”

“My accountant does all of that. He hired the analytics out as well as the marketing to inform the local communities of our changes. What of these arms though? Do you insist on the fake latex skin covering them? Disembodied arms could be scary.”

“Mr. Zimmerman, as we explained before, we do not want to risk food or liquid from the meal preparation stations to get into the actual bio-skeletal joints. That would cost a lot in repairs. Also, the skin actually seems to ‘wow’ people. So they make their sandwich, get salad or soup, dessert, a drink, and then they seat themselves.”

Zimmerman followed the line watching the technicians applying the latex to a set of arms while some others ran cables underneath hammered out tile to run to the mainframe in the back. Other men were taking out some of the sinks, chairs, lockers, and hooks for belongings to make room for the added tech.

“And what of the clean up? When they are done with their meals?”

“Ahh, well they grab their tray correct and pick up their drink as well. The island here with the fountain drinks will be converted into a 3D Print recycling station since drinks will come from behind the counter now. We don’t want to risk them making a mess out here.

“There will be holes for each type of dish and each tray fitted to an exact size to minimize mistakes. The island is essentially now a giant waste disposal. Even if there is a mistake, the laser reader underneath the island will sort out the mess. Any large scraps of food will be thrown into the compost bin outside which our gardener will use as fertilizer for the plants on each side of your entrance and exit doors. Just imagine how much you are going to save in water and soap. The government will give you a tax break for this. Did your accountant tell you that?”

Zimmerman pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to his aide and told the Division Head no.

“Of course, our man isn’t here today but at Designer Corp we will always have an armed maintenance man on site in case of any sort of immediate repair or security risk.”

“Security risk?” Max was shocked since he had not heard of such a problem before.

“The equipment here is, well um, delicate you see. It’s imperative that the normal people who come in here are monitored to help discourage any tampering or damage. Additionally, we still have proprietary equipment and some competitors are just dying to get into a restaurant like yours, Mr. Zimmerman, to compete with us and ultimately people like you, our customers.”

“What about the cleaning?”

“Well, you could have an automated unit put in to clean the floors and sweep. Really, it’s cheaper and fine if you have vac and mop rover dog bots constantly on and we have a spic come in and deep clean once a month. It’s still much cheaper that way.”

Zimmerman laughed and said, “Mexicans are always cheap labor.”

“Yes, even with automation.”

The two partnered businessmen shook hands and walked out away from the island and towards the exit.

“It’s that simple. Everyone will enjoy it. Ray Kroc started the vision with the McDonald’s brothers and Designer Corp has realized the American dining experience. We have finally arrived. That is, until, 3D Food Printers become capable of actually providing enjoyable palatable meals,” said the division head of Robotoics at Designer Corp. Mr. Zimmerman, no longer recognizing the restaurant he had started and turned into a national chain, left without a word; hoping to begin his investment in rental properties. The rumor had it that most people would need them after automation. He thought “might as well check another store.”

Three successful victories in ten days’ time

What a great average: The goal is to increase

Ghandi said it best in a simple epitaph

Which truth is undeniable; accuracy sublime

Continue straight forth and throw down stone walls

They may ignore and laugh and criticize – they wish to know

But eventually loss is gain in equivalent exchange

To choose the right and maintain a standard of excellence

Uphold a banner and wave it high and wide

Proclaim thy own truth: Progress today was made

Despite the hate and anger that had to be said aloud

Garnering attention and a crowd makes man fruition bound