The crowd was restless awaiting the announcement of the
results. Who would remain on the roster and who would be kicked off were the
two questions reverberating in each attendee’s brain. After a year of
incredible news-making headlines, the under producers with lackluster
performances knew that their days of being represented by the agency were
numbered. The air in the boardroom was so thick due to the body heat emanating
from the collective throng’s overtaxed sweat glands racked with anxiety that it
could be cut with a knife.
“Attenzione! Attenzione!” a voice cried out over the loud
speaker. “Bee L. Zee has arrived.”
Everyone rose from their seats to welcome Mr. Zee’s arrival
out of respect and deference to the star maker. Draped in a black mink-trimmed
red velvet cape, Mr. Zee commandeered his way to the dais where a solitary
throne cushioned his landing.
“Please be seated,” Mr. Zee advised. “I will dispense with
the pleasantries as my roster is anchored heavily by weight that must be shed.”
Silence shook the room with the strength of an earthquake.
Many understood that Mr.
Zee’s proclamation meant that their D-list status would result in being voted
off the A-list island.
“If your name is called, please come to the front of the room.
Please read the list,” Mr. Zee instructed his first assistant.
“Al Capone, Marilyn Monroe, Jesse James, Bonnie and Clyde,
Frank Sinatra, Steve Jobs, Ayatollah Khomeni, Osama Bin Laden, Idi Amin, Mao
Tse Tung, Pol Pot, Helen Gurley Brown, Liz Taylor, Torquemada, Joseph Stalin,
Atila the Hun, Elvis Presley, Christopher Hitchens and Adolph Hitler,” the
first assistant chimed.
“If your name has not been called, you are safe and may
leave. Or, you may stay, relax and enjoy the entertainment. Those whose names
have been called have the best and the worst notoriety on Earth. I keep a tight
roster of nefarious troublemakers as residents here in Hell, and if you cannot
remain relevant on Earth, then you can no longer be represented by the
Notorious P.R.G.” Mr. Zee stated.
Cheers of joy (tinged with jealousy of those with the
greatest scandals who basked in the glow of Mr. Zee’s hallowed praise) erupted
amongst the crowd of names that went unmentioned without regard for those whose
necks were on the chopping block. Few left the boardroom, since there was no
greater theatre than that which played out annually in the blazes of Hades,
where its despicable inhabitants vied for the title of the most evil person of
the year. More often than not, Adolf Hitler was the odds on favourite to win,
but with each new underworld dweller arriving daily, there was always the
auspice that a new individual would acquire the crown.
“Allow me to introduce myself, I am Bee L. Zee. You may know
me by the colloquial nomenclature of Satan, the Devil, Angel of Darkness,
Lucifer or even the Antichrist. In this day and age, with the influx of so many
of today’s youth taking up occupancy in my soulless kingdom, I felt that it
would make me more relatable if I changed my name to something a bit more
Beelzebub 2.0.” Mr. Zee explained.
“Ahem,” muffled the voluptuous crimson-haired first
assistant signaling to Mr. Zee that he was becoming long-winded.
“I digress. Some of you are new to my little disco inferno,
so welcome. All of you neophytes are safe since your descent into Hell is at
its genesis,” Mr. Zee advised. “Osama – we’ve been waiting for you. I apologize
that you were lied to about the vestal virgins. Everyone here has had sex
before and then upon arrival with multiple partners, regardless of sexual
orientation. You may have cleverly deceived the world about what went on in
those caves, but you and I know the truth. Ms. Gurley Brown, I look forward to
the bacchanals you will organize, but please remember that I have an insatiable
fire in my pants so you had better keep things spicy. Liz, I hope you brought
some of your famous perfume with you, as it will offset the natural aromas that
bake down here. Mr. Jobs, your technology cabal is impressive and I hope that
you will help us automate some of our processes. For instance, our traffic gets
so backed up on the Styx that too many new tenants are waiting in limbo in
Purgatory. And last, let’s not forget you Mr. Hitchens – all that ‘God is not
Great’ chatter really pissed off the Big Guy upstairs! Maybe in your next life
you will believe in the Lord?”
The newcomers, having adjusted to the realization that their
work on Earth was not Heaven-blessed, were confused by the reality-show like
competition that was playing out amongst some of the biggest names in history.
“Excuse me Mr. Zee, but what is going on here?” Steve Jobs
inquired.
“Do not directly address Mr. Zee,” the buxom blonde second
assistant scolded.
“That’s alright,” Mr. Zee admonished, “they are entitled to
be confused. You see, Mr. Jobs, people with the greatest immoral
accomplishments on Earth, after domiciling in Hell, undergo my regimented
selection process and are siphoned off into two camps. The first being the
‘general population,’ who are condemned to an eternity of hard labour suited to
each individual’s nastiest transgression, and the second being those worthy of
being represented by my agency, the Notorious Public Relations Group.”
“So you are our agent?” Liz Taylor inquired.
“Of sorts dear Lizzie,” Mr. Zee explained. “The lucky ones
who become my clients only do so to the extent that they are able to maintain
their relevancy amongst the living on Earth. If they can achieve that through
establishing everlasting wicked reputations that outlive them, then with my helping
hand, I assist in maintaining that significance and in return they enjoy the
incorporeal pleasures that Hell has to offer.”
“Respectfully, I still don’t know why I am here,” Jobs
advised. “My devices bring happiness to millions if not billions of people. I’m
a techno-saint.”
“Do you really believe that people are thrilled to bear witness to their gadgets becoming obsolete within months of their release? Honestly Jobs, the fact that I have to pay to connect my new iPhone 5 with legacy devices is tantamount to extortion!” Mr. Zee exclaimed.
“Do you really believe that people are thrilled to bear witness to their gadgets becoming obsolete within months of their release? Honestly Jobs, the fact that I have to pay to connect my new iPhone 5 with legacy devices is tantamount to extortion!” Mr. Zee exclaimed.
“No, extortion is issuing an IPO at thirty-eight dollars a
share for a social media platform that has nowhere to grow and cannot really be
monetized and then tanks leaving investors in the hole,” Jobs retorted.
“There is a special place in Hell reserved for Mr.
Zuckerberg,” Mr. Zee advised. “As for you, your ability to render society en
masse dependent upon and obsessed with the Apple brand is the best form of
addiction I have seen since the Columbian cartels began distributing cocaine.
Thus, you were given a first class ticket aboard the Netherworld express.
Aloha!”
“Perhaps we should get back to the task at hand?” the second
assistant hinted as she handed Mr. Zee a clipboard containing a carefully
prepared list of the malevolent deeds of each party named, ranked from bad to
worst. Mr. Zee perused the list while his audience carefully took note of his
displeasure or excitement of its contents, which was punctuated by the constant
change in the tonality and range of redness in his cheeks.
“Let’s get this party started!” Mr. Zee exclaimed. “Al
Capone, Jesse James, Bonnie and Clyde, the four of you are fired. You are all
practically extinct but for some bad Hollywood biopic flops, so you are out.
Cybercrime is what is hot, bank robbing is not. Auf wiedersehen!”
“But I’m the father of organized crime!” cried Al Capone as
the first and second assistants dragged him out of the boardroom. “Is this
because I gave a few ladies the syphilis?”
“Marilyn my darling – you will forever be on the A-list.
Same goes for you Frank baby and Elvis,” Mr. Zee crooned ignoring Al’s pleas.
“You know I can never lose my party people.”
“Ayatollah Khomeni, I am sorry but you have been voted off
of my client roster,” Mr. Zee said sorrowfully. “Osama Bin Laden is the new
black. And, with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s inevitable arrival, you have been
outwitted, outlasted and outplayed old friend.”
“But my fatwa on Salman Rushdie still stands and lives on in
infamy!” the Ayatollah exclaimed.
“Be real Kho Kho, the man does not live in fear of it and
the world laughs in your fatwa’s face,” Mr. Zee replied. “Das Vidanya!”
“I will wipe Hell off of the map!” the Ayatollah promised as
he bade farewell to his fellow inmates.
“Will the rest of Idi Amin, Mao Tse Tung, Pol Pot,
Torquemada and Atila the Hun please step forward,” Mr. Zee requested. “Each of
you really only remains relevant because of classroom history lessons. Were it
not for the fact that those lessons are re-taught year in and year out, you
would all be off of my roster! Go be seated with the rest of the audience and
think of new ways to remain germane to the land of the living.”
Joseph Stalin and Adolph Hitler remained standing familiarly
before Mr. Zee.
“My two favourite hellcats stand before me. Who will earn
top honours this year?” Mr. Zee squealed with delight. “As much as I love torture, I won’t
keep you waiting. Adolf, you’re my main man sixty-seven years running now!
Congratulations, you are the most evil person of the year.”
Fireworks lit up Hell’s eternal brimstone sky. Vangelis’
melodic “Chariots of Fire” cheered on Adolf as he ran his celebratory
self-congratulatory laps around the boardroom. The déjà vu was met with an
underwhelming sense of ennui.
“I’ve had enough!” shouted Joseph Stalin shattering the
merriment of Adolf’s repeated and less than triumphant moment of glory. “I am
so sick and tired of being the Susan Lucci of the ‘Most Evil Awards’.”
“Why so sad Stalin?” Mr. Zee asked rhetorically. “Did you
really think that this was you year to win despite the fact that Adolf broke
into India, a market that none of my followers has cracked in centuries? Not to
mention that his influence transcended from monster into mentor?”
“Just because some dumb schmuck named his clothing store ‘Hitler,’
he gets the award again? I should be more popular in India. I can see India
from my old house in Russia!” Stalin cried.
“We are not talking about one store. Hitler is a phenomenon
in India. In 2006, there was ‘Hitler’s Cross,’ a café in Mumbai. With a film
called ‘Dear Friend Hitler’ in development, he’s even been a source of
inspiration for Bollywood! Nazi memorabilia is huge business in the land of
spices. Notwithstanding all of these exploits, then Mein Kampf hit the
bestseller list in 2009 selling ten thousand copies in six short months.
Ordinary business students bought it for its inspirational value!” Mr. Zee
retorted. “Hitler has managed to become the Tony Robbins for Indian youth.”
“First, I took Germany by storm. Now, India. I will be bigger
than Ghandi. Listen, Indians gave peace a chance and look where it got them:
slums, a caste system, inescapable poverty and an overgrowth of call centers!
Hitler is the new stimulus package for India,” Hitler exclaimed.
“If it was not for me, there would be no Hitler! I am the
father of mass murder. Sixty million killed and they are still searching for
the bodies!” Stalin bellowed. “Take a math lesson Lucifer, sixty million is ten
times greater than six million.”
“I may have fewer notches on my belt, but Stalin bubbie, my
derivation of your initial operating system resulted in a recognizable
consumable global brand. Steve Jobs knows what I’m talking about,” Hitler said
defensively. “I am a triple threat: cultural and style icon, motivational
speaker, and captain of industry.”
“You, a style icon? You have no eye for fashion!” Stalin
yelled. “You copied my mustache.”
“Ha! Ha! Don’t make me laugh Joey. You call that rat under
your nose a mustache? Your untamed facial pubic hair is recognized by no one.
Everyone knows the Hitler ‘stache. I am huge during Movember,” Hitler replied
haughtily.
“All you did was trim the handlebars,” Stalin shot back. “My
manscaping is making a comeback!”
“What a joke! My mustache was the final solution to yours,”
Hitler laughed.
“Boys don’t fight, you’ve made Papa proud with all of your
achievements. Stalin, have you ever been in the bottom three? No. Have you ever
been voted off of the island? No. And are you out now? No. You are still number
two and if you asked anyone in the crowd, hell if you asked Al Capone or the
Ayatollah, if they would trade places with you, they would in a heartbeat if
they had one,” Mr. Zee cajoled. “Hitler and Stalin you are both exemplary evil
role models to emulate. Now, in the great winning tradition, Adolf will give
his acceptance speech.”
“Thank you Bee L. Zee, my fellow hell-mates, countrymen, and
Stalin for this wonderful and unexpected award. That you, my peers, all
recognize my achievements and hold me in such high esteem is an honour that makes
me feel almost as great as the buzz I get from using Zyklon B. I would like to
take the opportunity to thank Joey Stalin specifically for being my source of
inspiration, my motivator, the Wile E. Coyote to my Road Runner. My speech is
not about how you can celebrate me, but rather what can you learn from me. As
you’ve seen with my influence on India, the broad masses of a
population are more amenable to the appeal of rhetoric than to any other force.
And I give good rhetoric, regardless of substance. What good
fortune for me that the people do not think. He alone,
who owns the youth, gains the future. And I own the youth of India who clearly do not think before
acting. I ask of you as I queried the people of Germany, who
needs the truth? Nobody who wants to party with me in Bee L. Zee’s bastion
does. Just call me Hitler Houdini, for great liars are also
great magicians. Who says I am not under the special
protection of God? Bee L.
Zee, that’s who! Under his guiding hand, I have managed not only to stay
relevant, but I have remained a force to be reckoned with more powerful than
that of any living being. By the skillful and sustained use of
propaganda, one can make a people see even heaven as hell or an extremely
wretched life as paradise. Thank you Hades!”
Dumbstruck and awed, the audience sprang from their seats
with a renewed sense of evil aroused deep from within. Even the expelled and
ex-communicated D-listers, Al Capone and Ayatollah Khomeni who eavesdropped
from outside of the locked boardroom doors, had tears in their eyes upon
hearing the words of the omnipotent orator.
“Hitler, you give a nice little speech. Underlings, you
should all embrace a little more Adolf in your lives,” Mr. Zee advised.
“Remember my little reprobates, Notorious P.R.G.’s goal is to make each one of
you a recognizable everlasting universal wanton brand for the Earth-dwellers to
consume and copy! Now let’s hit the after party!”
© 2012. Naomi Elana Zener. All rights reserved.
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