For those who have suffered because of a Corporation, either through your paycheck, your treatment at work, (and in a macro way) lack of competition in many industries, overzealous and illegal foreclosures, privatized education, relentless pursuits of profits to the exclusion of all else, and on and on and on; I give you Corporadeus.
In other words, my new novel is for all of us. It fights our fight. I dare say, most Kos folks will really feel it!
I set Corporadeus in East New York, a real Brooklyn neighborhood, only a few miles from the gleaming new Barclay's center, and the adjacent mall of "big box" stores. I used my own dad's real story to enhance the backstory of Seth, my main character.
Corporadeus fights for us; with biting satire, and a little revenge.
From the back cover:
They opened the new arena and mall downtown and wiped out your old Brooklyn neighborhood. They just broke ground for some giant megamart on the Boulevard, and your little business can’t compete. Nobody’s can. They’re the largest goddamned Corporation in the world. Local wages are already nosediving from the power of the market. They also own a thousand charter schools and they’re taking over the world’s largest public school system. My God, they’re just getting started, but they already kicked your special needs kid to the curb. They just took your house in a legal reverse mortgage scheme. You’re on the verge of bankruptcy. Their payday loans are eating your guts from the inside, and they hold your checking account in an iron fist. And to add injury to audacity, the belching smoke from their giant factory by the park is bleeding your lungs.
And there’s nothing you can do about it.
Well, maybe there is a little something…
Please jump below the orange-flecked fold for an excerpt, as Seth attends a city council meeting.
I looked up and scanned the dais: all white faces, with one Asian, and one Hispanic dude who looked white. Corporate diversity on parade. I read the namecards, fancy on card stock, with colorful borders and swirly Company logos. There was the same design and font as the letterhead on the Black Cowboys’ eviction notice. Most of them were already seated: A long panel of city councilmen, sweating and stuffed uncomfortably into ill-fitting suits; and two executives from The Waltort Corporation, looking cool as ice and decidedly slick and polished and far more important. They were Caeli Foster, an Executive Senior Communications VP, and Terry Smith, her assistant. Neither one showed a hint of perspiration. Next to Caeli Foster were two obvious big shots: The National Communications Director and the Director of Corporate Relations and Communications from some Federated American Legislative Exchange Council, whatever in hell that is. Their namecards were embossed and bright, and the men behind those cards looked too cool for school and polished up and ready to get the job done, whatever the job was. They both wore razor-creased boardroom-striped suits; and one of ‘em sported a stunning shock of silver hair, all Vitalis-slick and perfectly tamed and combed with obsessive-compulsive vengeance. It was like they brought their own private air conditioners. They looked down on us from the dais, smiling smarmy, very much knowing. Seated behind those gentlemen were four guys in sloppier-looking suits, looking a bit lunchy, sweaty, and harried. They were all clutching decidedly heavy briefcases. Must be their legal team. That whole group of six was pissing me off somehow. I looked down at my own nametag, slapped hastily at a jaunty angle on my upper t-shirt: Hello, My Name is SETH KIMBALL. I had a weird thought that this nametag does not define me. How dare they make me wear it and reduce me to another one of the sheep, just another tagged clueless dupe, obediently waiting his turn to be heard and ignored. I’m sure those folks on the dais were dying to know my real name along with my real opinion on their new megastore. To please them, my tag should’ve read Hello, My Name is SUB-HUMAN RESOURCE. That, and maybe dancing a little jig would’ve done it.
As soon as the Waltort Execs deemed themselves ready for questions, one guy, a very pasty white, stood up from the middle of the room. He was about my age I guess, with a pattern to his baldness like Constantine’s laurel leaf crown. The bits of hair that made up the crown looked like bleached ivory. He spoke in a southern accent so strong I almost couldn’t understand him but for his fawning praise of The Waltort Corporation, and their commitment to the children. What the fuck do the children have anything to do with this?
A second guy piggybacked right off of that one, jumping out of his seat the moment the first guy moved to sit. I don’t think he’d jumped in a very long time. He also sported a lot of white, and he was very old. He had a Midwestern twang and wasn’t too steady on his feet. Even from 10 rows away, I could make out the holes in his sweater. He stood long enough to praise The Corporation and its concern for “Our children.”
That little parade of sycophants was about to end. I almost interrupted him, I was so quick to get up and spew my questions.
I cleared my throat and took a deep breath in-out to calm my nerves. It’d been years since I had an audience. My own voice was gonna quiver a bit. I just knew it. But I wasn’t sure if anyone else could tell, like when you look fat to yourself and your clothes fit like shit on a Monday. But does anybody else notice? Fat, average, quivery, or solid, I dove right in: “I have several issues to raise, that I feel are germane to-”
But Caeli Foster’s assistant cut me right off: “-We only allow one question per citizen. Now what is your question, sir?” Terry had an accent like from Chicago maybe, or somewhere Midwest. Definitely not New York. Yeah, this Mr. Smith goes to Washington…and corrupts them.
Fine. “Ok, well, it’s great to hear that you folks at The Waltort Corporation care about the children, but do you feel you have a tremendous responsibility to the people in this city, when you will soon – overnight basically – become the single largest consumer and retailer in the five boroughs? How do you feel about bearing such a great-”
Lucky Caeli, it was her turn to castrate this time: “-Sir, are you referring to the new Tortmart?”
“Yes, your giant store opening on Linden Boulevard,” I replied.
“Well,” Caeli responded, confidently, and with a little shake of her head, “We – myself and Mr. Smith here, are not affiliated – The Waltort Corporation’s educational subsidiaries – are not affiliated in any way with Tortmart. No sir, not affiliated legally, administratively, operationally, historically, or tangentially. Not affiliated nor responsible for actions or statements, persons living or dead including any and all facsimiles thereof in their entirety and made a whole or part. And certainly not liable, for any business conducted under the Corporate umbrella of Tortmart, which of course includes our- its- affiliates in warehousing, logistics, human resource management and management consulting concerns and all subsidiary interests thereof.”
I was still standing, but I wished like hell the floor would open up and assume me whole.
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Please enjoy my greatest creation aside from my daughter Jackie. Feel free to read it and review it, or just tell me what the fuck you think. Damnit, if even one person wants me to post more excerpts, then I certainly shall.
(To paraphrase Iggy Azalea, "I got one or two people asking how I does that!" Such is the life of the unappreciated starving artiste).
Please pardon me if I cannot be around until later this evening to respond to the throngs and masses and comments. (I do have to work for a Corporation during the day, you know).
Oh, and please be sure to check out the Snapple advertisement in Chapter 7. After all, when you down your favorite delicious flavor of cold refreshing Snapple, what do you do with the Best Stuff On Earth?