A Short Story (Based on Matthew 18: 21-35)

Wendell Green’s stomach was on fire.

It may have had something to do with the breakfast burrito he nuked that morning but it was probably just nerves. He leaned back and loosened his belt to relieve the pressure on his stomach. When that didn’t work, he trained his eyes on the thick gold letters of his loan officer’s name placard. He focused on the first letter, the B. It made him think of boobs, which didn’t help. It kind of helped, but didn’t. He jumped to the next letter, the R, and almost laughed when the word ‘runs’ came to mind.

“Dammit,” he whispered, focusing on the other items that inhabited the desk. There was a blue tissue box, an orange aroma diffuser with a long black extension cord draped lifelessly over the side, and a mountain range of picture frames wrapped around the computer monitor. The parade of office supplies started with a large wooden bowl of peppermint patties on the far right and ended with a gray electric pencil sharpener on the left.

Wendell focused on the frames and imagined what the photographs might look like.

Friends, family, possibly a dog, maybe an exotic vacation destination. These were merely guesses, but based on the obscured side-angle view of his financial advisor and his shapely wife lounging at a winery, he figured the rest followed suit.

Another contraction hit his gut, then echoed into his pelvis.

Wendell glared at the fountain spigot of the aroma diffuser and bit his lower lip to combat the expanding inferno in his belly. It didn’t work, so he arched his back and looked at the ceiling. It helped, but not enough. He focused on the spinning blades of the ceiling fan, then took five long breaths. It helped some, but again, not enough.

His stomach growled, then settled as the burrito painfully entered his lower intestine.

Wendell wiped the sweat from his forehead and rested his gaze on the blue zip drive that poked out the back of the monitor. That looked odd. Most zip drives are plugged into the hard drive, not the monitor.

Wonder what’s on it?

Probably boring stuff. Receipts, invoices, clerical spreadsheets, private client information. And then, as expected, Wendell’s mind went dark.

I bet somewhere on that zip drive is a hidden folder full of por—

A new wave of discomfort shattered his train of thought, painfully stampeding toward the castle walls of his colon like an army of rapid insects. The main gates held them at bay, but that wouldn’t last long. The only line of defense, at this point, was to exhaust them.

He clenched his teeth, gripped his knees and watched his knuckles turn white. He checked the door. It was cracked enough to see some light and whenever someone passed in the hall. He recalled seeing a Men’s Room icon earlier but wasn’t sure where. Making it in time wasn’t the issue. Doing so without awkwardly stopping to clutch himself in front of the gorgeous twenty-six-year-old secretary was. If he had known this was in his future, he would’ve thought twice about flirtatiously giving her his business card.

Wendell leaned to the side and forced one out. It was slow and silent, but it ended with an audible squeak. He laughed, wiped the sweat from his neck, and comfortably leaned back.

But then it started to stink.    

“Sonofabitch,” he whispered, airing out his suit jacket. He crossed to the window, but the adjustment lever was behind a thick wall of glass. Wendell took off the jacket, twirled it around like a flag in a high school marching parade, then wrapped it around his chair. He checked the door again, then turned the air conditioning unit under the window to full blast.

He loosened his tie and checked his armpits, recoiling at the smell. He held up both arms to air out the odor, but that only spread it further. He ran a hand over his thinning gray scalp and tried to force out some more gas, but clenched when the door swung open.

“You good?” asked Brinker Hale’s deep voice by the door.

Wendell left the window. “Hope you don’t mind, Brinkley,” he said, fanning himself as the financial advisor in the blue suit got situated behind his desk. “I sweat a lot. Especially when I’m nervous.” He didn’t like that he said that last part, but it was too late. And less embarrassing than the real reason.

Brinker shook his head. “I’d rather you be comfortable. And call me Brinker.”

Wendell returned to his chair. “Give it to me straight, Doc?” Brinker moved some papers around, then gave an odd look. “I know you’re not a doctor, I just always wanted to say that.”

Brinker removed a ballpoint pen from the top drawer, clicked it twice, and then gestured to the papers on his desk. “Your income is good, Wendell. Enough to cover your mortgage, the Bentley payments, your wife’s alimony. You’re drowning in credit card debt though, and I’m not sure—”

“Yeah, about that,” Wendell interrupted. “I spoke with Chase and Barclays about lowering my rate or upping my limit, but they said no. Greedy Bastards. Wells Fargo kept me on hold for an hour, then hung up, so…”

“Probably because,” Brinker tapped the papers, “you’re at ninety-six percent utilization and only paying the minimum payment.”

“So? I thought banks loved that shit.” Wendell expected a chuckle in response, but the joke fell flat. He forced a cough. “Sorry, dumb joke. But seriously, I figured banks loved minimum payments because they earn more interest.”

“Sure,” Brinker nodded, then spread the pages out. “Your debt-to-income ratio is in the mid-60s, which is a red flag to most reputable banks. You’ve filed for bankruptcy twice in six years. You’ve defaulted on three loans, one for a $14,000 hair transplant that went to collections after four months, another for—”

Wendell slapped his scalp. “Yeah, it didn’t take. Why pay full price for a service that didn’t work how it was supposed to?”

“And the climate-controlled wine fridge?” Brinker asked, his index finger pressing the document. “Did that stop working too?”

Wendell’s stomach growled loudly. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“What about the popcorn machine? And the Jacuzzi? And the Blackhawk drone that put you back about fifteen hundred bucks? Did all of those products stop working?”

Wendell hesitated. “Am I breaking the law?”

Brinker held his gaze. “No, you’re not, but—”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is you make little to no effort to pay off your debts.”

Wendell scrunched his face. “What? What are you…no, that’s not true.”

“What about…” Brinker trailed off, checking the list. “…the Mach 5 tanning bed.”

“That wasn’t for me, that was for my old lady?”

“Your old lady? You mean, Becky, the twenty-nine-year-old sugar baby…sorry, girlfriend, whom you’ve claimed as a dependent and are currently putting through art school?”

Wendell nodded. “She’s a domestic partner in the eyes of the IRS.”

Brinker ignored him. “What about the Gulf-star Sloop?” Wendell squinted back blankly. “The boat, Wendell, the $45,000 luxury cruiser that conveniently disappeared after the loan went to collections. I can only assume it’s either growing algae in the Flatwood Lake or stashed somewhere secret.” Brinker expected a snarky response, but received nothing. Not even a nod of admission. “You’ve defaulted on every card except one.”

“Yeah, the grocery card,” Wendell replied, “I gotta make sure to pay that one down.”

“So, you can pay, you just refuse to?”

“I prefer to keep the wife happy.”

“So, Becky’s your wife now? I thought she was your domestic partner?”

Wendell felt cornered. His stomach growled again, louder. “I just prefer to keep my lady happy.”

Brinker let out a deep exhale. “Well, I’m not sure how long that’s gonna last.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one, the banks don’t trust you.”

“Oh, come on, sure they do.” Wendell scanned Brinker’s desk and saw a document with the number 743 in large bold black font. “How come my credit score hasn’t taken a hit yet? The banks must trust me on some level, right?” Brinker shook his head. “So, why not open another line of credit, or several lines of credit, to balance everything else out?”

“You wanna kick the can further down the road?”

“It’s worked every other time.”

Brinker circled the 743 with blue ink. “This is from last year,” he said, then flipped a page. “This is your most recent report. 654 is the highest; TransUnion. Equifax has you at 627. Experian shows a 634. Congratulations, Mr. Green, you have the credit score of a college graduate.”

Wendell’s confidence left him. “That’s why I think we should activate another card, maybe one of the off-brand cards offered to the inner-city dwellers. I wouldn’t use it. I promise.”

“With an APR in the high forties, I would hope not. Besides, these secured cards usually require an upfront deposit, and that’s something we both know you’d never agree to.”

“I don’t know,” Wendell shrugged. “Kinda depends on how much—”

“$300.”

“Absolutely not.”

Brinker nodded. “These financial institutions have no incentive to help you. Why would a bank give…let me rephrase…would you give a loan to someone with a history like yours?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m good for it.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you gave a cash loan to anyone?”

Wendell thought about it. “Two weeks ago.”

Brinker didn’t believe him. “To who?”

“I would…prefer I not to say.”

“I can’t help you, Wendell, if you’re not honest with me.”

Wendell hesitated, squishing his lips together like a fish. “Becky.”

“How much?”

“Three.”

“Hundred?” Brinker asked, receiving a glossy stare. “Thousand?”

Wendell thought it over, then changed the subject. “What about that, uh, jubilee thing everyone’s been talking about? That, uh, that Nesara have-your-debt-wiped global event.”

Brinker’s eyebrows burrowed. “What is that?”

“You don’t know about Nesara?”

“That’s why I asked.”

Wendell didn’t know either. It was just something he had read in passing when scrolling Facebook before bed. “From what I hear, it’s biblical.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere, I think? Supposed to be good for everyone.”

“No, where is it in the Bible?”

“Please,” Wendell snorted condescendingly, “I don’t read that shit. I barely—” There was a black crucifix on the wall behind Brinker. It acted as a divider between his Finance diploma from Penn State and his Associate’s in Applied Science from The University of Missouri. He stifled his grin. “Social media mostly, message boards too. Apparently, the economy is fixing to reset, and will wipe everyone’s debt in the process.”

Brinker thought it over, typed on his keyboard, and hit Enter. “Ohhh, okay,” he mumbled, reading the screen. “I think I know what you’re talking about.”

Wendell’s eyes widened. “You do? How can we apply that to this?”

“Well, for one, the National Economic Security and Recovery Act was a—”

“Right, yeah, that’s it. That thing.”

Brinker held the silence, then continued. “It was a pipe dream proposed in the ‘90s, but was never formally introduced to Congress. It spawned fans, but no one of influence. It ultimately turned into a fairy tale among the conspiracy community who—”

“That’s probably what ‘they’ want you to think,” Wendell said, using air quotes.

Brinker gestured back. “Who’s they?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“I don’t ask questions for the sake of asking questions, Wendell. Who is ‘they?’”

“The global cabal, the secret government. Who else? What I heard was that Congress had secretly passed the bill and Clinton signed it, but it was later suppressed.”

“Suppressed by who?”

Wendell shrugged. “The Supreme Court, George Soros, Dick Cheney, pretty much anyone in the dark cabal. According to the internet, the bill was passed secretly in March of 2000, but wasn’t set to go into effect until September 11, 2001. And that’s not even the crazy part. All of that computer data designed to reset everything and abolish the IRS, apparently, it was destroyed when the Twin Towers fell.”

“Which one?”

“Which what?”

“Which tower?”

Wendell scrunched his brow. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah,” Brinker replied. “A claim without evidence is still just a theory. It’s like saying birds aren’t real because the cashier at Best Buy knows a guy who shot a wooden mallard decoy. It’s an interesting story, but it doesn’t hold weight.” He could sense these questions going nowhere, so he jumped to the next sketchy piece of the puzzle. “So if Clinton signed it in 2000, why wait eight months to officially push—”

“Secretly, yes,” Wendell added, interrupting. “He signed it secretly.”

“Sure, sure, but why wait until September 2001, eight months after Bush took office? Why not make it legit immediately?”

Wendell didn’t reply, he just blankly stared back.

“You can see how that doesn’t make sense, right?”

“Makes perfect sense to me.”

Brinker bit his tongue, then coughed into his fist. “Think about it, Wendell. Bill Clinton’s presidency was stained by the Lewinsky scandal, even his most loyal supporters admit that. Now, if what you’re saying is true, why not spill the beans on his way out? Why didn’t he, on his final day, hold a press conference and say something like ‘hey, everyone, you know all those credit card bills, mortgage payments and compounding interest fees you hate paying so much? Well, guess what? It’s all been forgiven. It won’t technically go into effect until September, but I’m the guy who made it law. You’re welcome.’ You and I both know that would’ve redirected that man’s legacy. So why not take credit for it?”

Wendell hesitated, then shrugged. “The Deep State probably had him by the balls.”

“So Dick Cheney had Bill Clinton by the balls? Why?”

Wendell didn’t have an answer, so he pointed at the monitor. “There’s a book on it, type in ‘draining the swamp’ or something along those lines.”

Brinker typed it into the browser, then hit Enter. “Draining the Swamp: The NESARA—”

“Yep, that’s it!” Wendell interrupted, excitedly pointing.

“Published January 1, 2005. One copy left. $3,500. Wanna put it on a credit card?” Brinker offered dryly, hoping Wendell would decline it. He did. “Good,” Brinker opened a new screen, expanded the image of the inside sleeve, and read it aloud. “‘Harvey F. Bernard writes about money, but is not an economist, writes about banking, but is not a banker, about law, but is not a—’” he stopped reading, then said. “Oh, that’s clever.”

“What’s clever?” Wendell asked.

“They’re openly telling you the author doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s a psychological tactic, revelation of method, a marketing trick. They’re showing you up front that the guy doesn’t have first-hand experience in these fields, so if he’s wrong and you still believe him, that’s on you. You see it, right? It’s a form of hypnotism. It’s a trick.”     

Wendell thought about it. “Who published it? Reputable companies don’t greenlight nonsense, right?”

“Except fiction.”

“Sure, but why would they lie? Why would they print something that isn’t real?”

Brinker studied Wendell. It was like talking to a kid who still thought babies were delivered by birds, or someone who believed Nigerian royalty emails were honest. “Cuz it would sell, and because most people are, no offense, either too trusting or too lazy to look into it.”

After a long pause, Wendell gestured to the monitor. “Can you just check, please?”

Brinker found it. “Published in 2005 by the NESARA Institute. Again, that tells me—”

“What else have they published?” Wendell asked, interrupting.

“Nothing.”

“What’s the address?”

“It’s a P.O. Box in Louisiana,” Brinker replied, “so unless you know them personally, we’re kinda up shit’s creek without a paddle.”

Wendell gestured at the monitor. “May I?”

Brinker shrugged, then swiveled the monitor. “Be my guest.”

Wendell studied the screen. “The second edition was 2005. The original was in 1996 by Allodial Publishing, look them up.”

Brinker did, then read the screen. “Started Dec 1995. Status: Inactive.”

“Type in the address.”

Brinker pulled up the most relevant link. A map. “We have a 3-bedroom, 2-bath home on sale for a little under $200,000. Nope, my mistake, it’s no longer on the market.”

Wendell’s hopeful expression turned sour. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You could start by selling the popcorn machine, the tanning bed, and the Jacuzzi.”

“No, no, that’s too much work. I mean, is there anything YOU can do?”

To Be Continued…