Agent Cybele Reporting, Part 2

I really loved her but . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

August 8, 2007

Attention: Lord Zorac, Chief Administrator of the Round Table.
This is Agent Cybele reporting. First prolonged contact with the target kook today, my lord,
but first a few preliminaries. Ezra hasn't been as cooperative as hoped. He may be on to our secret
agenda. He said I wasn't quite the mail-order bride he'd expected. His rent is paid through September,
though, so he could be liquidated from the Game without deleterious effect. Some men can't be bridled.
As for this particular stadium neighborhood of Portland, my lord, I've had no difficulties navigating
through it and getting my needs met. Besides the coffee shop there are two mom and pop shops, a deli,
and the tavern that Matthew frequents all within three blocks of temporary base. As conveyed in the
last report, my game plan was to observe and access the danger of Mr. Primeau. I have, my lord. Mat-
thew Primeau is, like most, a slave to his rituals. Excepting weekends, his early work days, he arrives at
the Go Sports Cafe at the same time each morning, give or take fifteen minutes. I show up early to pre-
pare my mind and engage in a little jovial repartee with Dale, the friendly owner. Dale, from what I
gather, is a harmless acquaintance of Matthew's. He's a solid, hard-working, gun-owning, married man
with two adolescent boys in an ordinary suburban home. His mind is witty and quick to flirt, but not
given to serious questioning. He's a law and order guy. Our kind of guy. Now that I've made contact
with Matthew, of which Dale is humorously aware, I can safely plug this simple man for information
relevant to the mission. Dale plays devil's advocate to Matthew's ideas, and as such could be useful.
Now on to Matthew and his ideas. Until today's first conversation, I didn't have much to go
on. He spends most of his time at the coffee shop reading and writing, drinking coffee and micturating.
His friend and co-conspirator, Marcus, has been mentioned in Matthew's conversations with Dale,
but as yet this mystery figure hasn't shown his face. Apparently, Matthew doesn't engage anyone else
at the shop in a serious way. His joking with Dale is juvenile, at times self-deprecating, at times typi-
cally testosterone-fueled and demeaning to women. His humor is revealing, my lord. From it I've learned
that Matthew's thinking has deep narcissistic roots. Entwined with an ever-growing misogyny, based
on his shitty past relationships and an apocalyptic nihilism one can easily see why our intervention is
needed. His nervous laughter belies his confident social mask. Matthew is a highly intelligent misfit,
my lord, a man bitter to the depths, a man who knows he has no place in this world, and as you know
this automatically makes him potentially dangerous. During this observational period, Mr. Primeau ne-
ver directly communicated with me, but I sensed the heat of his eyes, and caught a few of his secretive,
leering looks. As the profile indicates he's initially shy with strangers, but today he passed by me with
cigarette in hand and noticed the book I was reading. "Kafka--nice!" he said, and that's all I needed to
make my move. With demure asian airs I asked if he had a light. He did, and we went outside to smoke.
His initial nervousness was obvious, my lord, but I was able to put him at ease enough to get him talk-
ing. The following is a verbatim rendering of the relevant parts of our conversation:
Matthew: (Lighting first mine then his cigarette, and after exchanging names) Kafka's interesting
and strange. The Trial's a circuitous neverending, never finished nightmare. His love letters are
the most tortured I've ever read. The man suffered terribly, but he was brilliant.
Cybele: (Still demure) My friend loaned it to me. I like to read everything.
Matthew: (With eyes lighting up, and smiling) So do I, Cybele. It's important to have an open
mind. Completely open (Gesturing with upraised arms to the sky). Reading is a pillar of my life,
as is writing (He ashes his smoke, and flashes his first serious look, his nervousness gone).
Cybele: (Opening up now, feigning fascination) Really? You're a writer?
Matthew: (In a strong, confident, intelligent voice, and while stabbing rhythmically at the air
with his lit cigarette) I'm writing a novel, Cybele. It's scathing social satire lightened with over-
the-top adventures of a humorous sort, cast onto a farcical sci-fi template. Does that make
sense to you, Cybele? Sometimes I confuse my listeners with my highbrow proclamations.
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Cybele: (Putting his hubris in check) Oh, I'm an educated woman, Mr. Primeau. There's no
need to dumb down your vocabulary for my sake. Maybe I could read your novel some time.
Would that be ok? (I smile again, melting his defensiveness at my reproach).
Matthew: (Confidingly, hushed) How open is your mind?
Cybele: (Acting unoffended) As open as you could find.
Matthew: (Looking around for overhearers) I can give you a chapter at a time, but it's a risk.
Cybele: (Looking surprised, gesturing fingers to my sternum) Oh, really! A risk?
Matthew: (Unperturbed and lighting another smoke) The risk of any writer in sharing his ma-
terial with a stranger is the risk of sharing intimate details of the writer's imagination. It's not
the same as a painter showing a painting, or a musician playing his music, though those medi-
ums do reveal a bit of the artist's soul. The writer uses words and only words, and even though
the words are employed in a fictional sense through fictional characters and a fictional narrator
the author's deepest predilictions and dreams do shine through. At least in my writing they do.
Consequently, I like to gauge a potential reader's readiness for my material. It's disturbing for
my friends to read, so god knows what a stranger will make of it.
Cybele: (Smiling warmly, and patting his shoulder) Maybe we're unbecoming strangers, Matth-
ew, and I assure you that I'm a well-rounded, well read, full-blooded and sensitive human being.
I won't judge you for whatever it is in your book that worries you.
Matthew: (Defensive) Oh, there's nothing that worries me, Cybele! When I'm ready I'll unabash-
edly share my work with the world. It's an incendiary work of which I'm proud.
Cybele: (Calmly, patiently) Then tell me what's so incendiary about it. I can take it.
Matthew: (Steeling his nerves) I systematically reveal civilization as the toilet it is. Through
my characters, and the situations they're placed in, I blaspheme against all that this sick sys-
tem holds dear: its unjust laws; its hateful religions; its mind-enslaving institutions; its mur-
derous leaders; its secretly designed origins from unseen hands. Can you handle that, Cybele?
Cybele: (Accepting a second cigarette from him) Yes, Matthew. I also think the system is sick.
That's why I fled the soul-crushing density of Hong Kong. It was mind-controlling. Automa-
tons everywhere smashed against each other in that tiny space! At least here in Portland I can
breathe and spread my wings and be an individual.
Matthew: (Still a bit guarded) Even so, Portland, one of the most liveable cities in the world,
is a seething shithole of human misery. Why do we accept these zoo conditions? Why do we
not seriously consider alternative ways of organizing our lives, ways that provide meaning,
ways that allow for true freedom of thought and expression and for the following of one's pas-
sion? Our system encourages conformity, not individuality; hard work, not leisure and imagin-
ation; obeisance to authorites, not free inquiry. My satire sticks a big middle finger in society's
face. My satire is a blasphemous attack against all that the controllers hold dear. My satire
encourages the reader to ask painful questions concerning who's really behind the curtain, and
who's really pulling our strings, and why. (Smiling with pride and pumping a fist).
Cybele: It's so refreshing to meet you, Matthew. I think we'll get along just fine. (Checking my
watch) I have to go now. Will you be here tomorrow?
Matthew: (Self-satisfied, containing excitement) 9:30 sharp. I'm looking forward to it. It's so
nice to meet you too, Cybele. I never expect to meet an uncontrolled mind.