Chapter Thirteen

THE WHEELS OF REACTION

While gangleader Boss Eggers and the mysterious monied string-puller in the Black Hat have lunch together in a tony Manhattan restaurant, the Counterinsurgency plan intended to wipe out the Literary Resistance once and for all is implemented. Participating in the Plan, receiving directions from above, are a host of reactionary new lit organizations.

Such as: Blueblood Literary Alliance Haute (aka BLAH!); or, for those not blue-blooded enough, the Ultra Literary Trustfunders (ULTras), taking their name from aristocratic reactionaries during the French Revolution. Less well organized, and less serious, frankly, is the Mauve Hundreds, modeling themselves after the infamous Black Hundreds from the final days of Czarist Russia.

While Boss Eggers and his patron talk, and the leaders of the ULA vanish underground, the Mauve Hundreds hold their initial meeting at a fancy Manhattan bistro.

"Isn't this exciting?" one of them remarks while sampling jumbo-sized shrimp and sipping from a flavored martini. Inside the bistro, within the gaily-lit room, all appears to those gathered there to be secure and wonderful.

"We are going to wipe out the mosquitos!" a well-dressed publishing exec screams drunkenly, mauve mascara disarrayed over her mad eyes.

Hey, they overwork themselves into a frazzle for the garbage books they produce, and so are entitled to relax on occasion; loosening ties or corsets (the latest fashion trend); getting drunk or snorting high-priced cocaine-- only the best for them.

"Power to the Privileged!" a young man in a silk shirt and golden tie responds, thrusting his fist into the air. "All Power to the Conglomerates!"

The other partygoers look at him questioningly, wondering if he's being ironic. They are unused to anyone speaking UNironically, and can no longer tell the difference between genuineness, faux-genuineness, or pure snarkiness.

A hint of worry runs through them, as they remember why they've gathered. Can this possibly be one of the rebels? Does anyone know the person? Have the rebels crashed even this affair; done it to them again? Where are the bouncers, the bodyguards, the security people? They must throw him out to be safe!

After awhile they notice that there aren't hundreds of them gathered after all, but about two dozen-- those most committed to preserving things-as-they-are. (Given the lack of commitment from such people to anything but their own careers, this is actually a fantastic turnout, indication of how much the rebels have become feared.)

"Oh well," the mascara'd power-executive woman says while reaching for the drinks tray. "We'll be the Mauve Dozens!"

Longer-term literary reactionaries are already in full gear. One of the founders of the Lit-Blacklisters Co-Op is busily typing a novel intended to denounce-- in typically obscure fashion, with obscure but elegantly crafted prose-- the grubby band of rebels. It will provide justification of a sort-- at least, rationalizations-- for the hypocrisy, from such good liberal folks, of the Blacklist, and provide a framework for the Co-Op's existence, which after all is a Co-Op in that it's been fully "co-opted" by the establishment; by the minions of Mr. Black Hat himself.

The book's working title: "Sycophancy USA."