“I don’t know if we’re leading the way or getting cut off at the knees. Our information is that Jorge Tsuris is bankrolling a plan put forward by the Egyptian Minister of the Interior for a string of solar towers paired with stratospheric wind gyros starting from Tobruk in Libya, across the Sahara to the Oasis at Siwa and then on to Cairo, Gaza City, Dimona, and Amman, and eventually to Istanbul and connecting up to the European grid in Greece. Speaking of Greece, apparently Tsuris has enough to buy off every funny-hat-wearing Poobah within a thousand miles of the Syrian-African Break. But wait, as they say on TV, there’s more. Yusuf Gamal, aforementioned Interior Minister, for some reason known as Coffeepot, has options on much of the empty land the project needs. Quelle Surprise. And in a surprise an order of magnitude or two higher, Tsuris and Bono, who I understand is a musician of renown, Doug, Miriam, did I get that right? Thanks. So, the countries the line transits get desalinated water, electricity, and jobs. Egypt, for the second time, is leasing its cotton crop to, this time around, Sweden. The exchanges, ICE, CTX, CX, have pledged to pay the project the full 50 Euros per ton. Coffepot has a proxy corporation that will be getting processing power for rare earth metal claims along the line. If a sufficient number of people who were payed off stay bought, the shooting may go down to penny firecracker level. If the project itself works, we may be able to actually cool the planet. So, it doesn’t matter if our plan comes out first or second or third, or if it never comes out, or Coffepot’s plan comes out or doesn’t come out. What counts is that there’s movement.”
Miriam and Omar tried to look like they didn’t want to look at each other. Miriam had to look like she didn’t care about the other project, since her end of the operation was people pedaling tricycles. Omar was safe looking pleased at the news and did not have to worry about him having an ulterior motive or knowing that Coffeepot was his uncle. He went over to Junior Diaz and casually shook his hand and punched him on the shoulder, Bro style. Junior got up on the podium.
“I’m sure you’re all hungry; some of you are coming off pedaling shifts and some were doing signal duty. Bernie, fortunately, picked up enough bagels, lox, and cream cheese for everyone.”
Andrew Paul Grell lives in a park in Manhattan with Melody, his wife, and their Malti-poo puppy, Cyrus King of Persia. At 60, he is an “emerging writer,” author of the recently released science fiction novel SCAPEGOATS: The Goat Protocols. Andrew has been anthologized in American Writers Review, Surprised by Joy, Grumpy Old Gods 2, and What Sort of Fuckery is This. He also makes appearances in Writers Newsletter and is proud to be an Ugly Writer. By day he uses mathematical models to ferret out fraud, and he gets everywhere by bicycle.