Davos

Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction involving characters based on real, famous persons but with made-up or heavily distorted biographies. The story is satirical and has the aim to lampoon certain events and ideas. It has no intent to accuse real individuals.

January is a tough month. The holiday season is over and all that’s left is the cold and the sunlight deprivation. Indoor heating renders homes and offices too dry, giving us sinus problems, tight and itchy skin, and irritability. Our energy recedes. Deflated, we start questioning the meaning of life. We may start reading novels or philosophy. We may ramp up our substance abuse. Or we may go for a massage. One way or another, we all need some kind of a hug in January.

But none of these options are open to modern leaders, and especially not modern heads of state. Of course, they can’t be alcoholics or junkies. Massages? Forget about it; that’s how you get impeached for sexual assault. And even hugs from significant others are unbecoming. A president or a prime minister must not let himself feel or appear vulnerable. For idols in the entertainment industry, sure, but sex, drugs, or rock n roll are all off-limits for politicians and CEOs.

This is where the Davos World Economic Forum comes in. A renowned gathering of the world’s most important leaders, set up in a luxurious Swiss Alps resort town, WEF is a safe space for all the men and women making the world’s toughest decisions to come in, away from the rude rambling and screeching of the ignorant and open to each other. Listen to each other’s ideas and speeches. Stop, and appreciate. Davos is like a cozy, luxurious teepee in which the chieftains of the global village can assemble around the fire together and, in its intimate shadows, give each other friendly, lawsuit-free hand jobs that only they know about. Figuratively, of course.

Yes, the leaders must step outside the teepee and talk to the press too, give public speeches. Some wonderful PR maneuvers have convinced the mob that the speeches are the main event, but they’re in truth only a distraction.

The mob would normally never stand for their leaders taking such decadent breaks. “We elected you to stress about all the social issues and resentments and eat all the blame at the end of your term,” they would say, “not go off to rub cocks in some Bond-villain lair with the rest of them elitist faggots.” (The mob is very homophobic and hateful in every way.)

Thanks to the hard work of Herr Klaus Schwab, the founder and chief organizer of the World Economic Forum, the mob has been persuaded that Davos was necessary for tackling the challenges of a modern, globalized world. Old Klaus knows very well that the mob is neurotic and can’t be reasoned with using indoor voice. You can’t just sit them down and explain how Mr. President sometimes needs to feel special, too. You can’t tell them you’re off to a Swiss resort to spend some time with the grownups. That wouldn’t work! They’d just throw a tantrum and run out in the streets to picket.

No, you have to use fear. “The glaciers are melting, and we are all going to drown!” “Artificial intelligence is taking all your jobs and will kill your children!” “Some dictator is pissing on freedom and democracy again!” “What, you don’t want the fourth industrial revolution to eliminate hunger in Africa?!”

If you think that’s too alarmist, you surely don’t understand the mob. But Klaus Schwab understands the mob, and fear is how he creates the excuse for the world’s most stressed-out decision-makers to get a sorely needed winter vacation.

*

It was with such thoughts that Justin Trudeau was shaving in the spacious bathroom of his ministerial home. It was one of those mornings when he felt inspired, carried on the wings of the Muses, as it were. And he had a big reason to be in such a mood. He would soon be chauffeured off to the airport, from where he’d be flown by the ministerial jet to Zurich and then helicoptered to Davos.

The wife and the kids were staying home, which was a bonus. Justin loved them to death, but they all needed a break from each other. Especially after he discovered his oldest son’s alt-right browsing history.

“Boy, do I have to deal with that before the press finds out!” he mused. “Why are there so many conspiracy theories floating around nowadays anyhow?”

It was not until the helicopter ride that Justin began to get that warm Davos anticipation buzz. Looking out the window, he saw the fairy snow peaks of the stunning Swiss Alps. They reminded him of the class and warmth he was about to experience at the forum. The snowy ridges looked like so many chocolate blocks dipped in powdered sugar.

His helicopter landed by a golden-nugget-shaped hotel tucked in a wooded alpine hillside. The propeller wound to a halt and Justin hopped out into the snow and began walking towards the building entrance stuffed with a crowd of reporters taking photos and video footage. So excited was he to finally arrive at Davos World Economic Forum that he had to restrain himself from prancing and hopping towards the entrance like a little girl. Instead, he walked with a dignity befitting a world leader, grinning widely and waving his leather-gloved hand, his cashmere shawl in national colours fluttering in the mountain wind.

He walked past the pressing crowd and through a carpeted corridor, escorted by a couple of big barrel-chested security personnel. Justin liked bodyguards. They made him feel precious. People always say that big muscly men are anti-elitist rubes, so it’s all the more flattering when such men treat him like a delicate jewel, guarding him against the aggressive crowds, appreciating the importance of his person and of the historic work he does every day.

The corridor led to a reception hall where, under the ubiquitous eyes of the cameras – and the whole world really – Justin greeted other world leaders who had already arrived. They exchanged warm embraces and kisses on both cheeks. Klaus Schwab’s kiss was the warmest, as usual. The man’s moist puppy eyes, his turtle-like bald head, his fat-lipped, liver-spotted visage, his disarming, guttural German accent, his uncommon gift of flattery balanced with a charming down-to-earth attitude – all of it made Klaus so perfect for the role of the approving, encouraging grandpa to so many of the world’s most hard-working leaders.

“Herr Trudeau!” Schwab greeted Justin, “Zid you haff a kood rhide? You bropaply can’t wait to imbress us again wiz anozer priyant zbeech on tze gheat rheset!”

“Ah, good old Klaus, the brilliant ideas are all yours!” answered Justin as he gave Schwab a wet smooch on each cheek and then gripped his shoulders.

The reception was brief; it lasted less than twenty minutes, after which Justin was taken to his suite. There, he held a one-hour meeting with his PR team, who were accommodated on the same floor, but in smaller, less presidential rooms. After the meeting, Justin finally got some alone time. He used it to prepare for the speeches that he would attend in the hotel’s conference area that same evening.

The first evening of speeches was all about inclusion and positive energy. It was all about warmth, a theme that matched the cozy alpine hospitality of the hotel and indeed of the whole town of Davos. The array of speakers showcased a vibrant and glorious diversity of human struggle. There was an Indian woman, an heiress to boot, who spoke passionately about “women taking center stage.” There was a hedge-fund billionaire talking about the need for socially conscious market speculation. Some guy from Africa without an arm and a leg talked about the need for the international community to intervene in regional conflicts. They also had an American rapper talk about responsible AI development.

Inclusion is important. Giving voice to the marginalized is important. It can’t all be old white males pontificating to the world. Minorities of race, gender, sexual orientation, age, and other categories must all be welcomed because their unique voices count. There was perhaps nothing more heartwarming at Davos to Justin than watching grown, grey diplomats sitting in one of those minimalist green armchairs in the center of a stage and nodding pensively as they get harangued by little Greta Thunberg about climate change. He remembered fondly how the other year they did an off-camera debate between a washed-out rock star and a ten-year-old boy from Egypt who suffered from debilitating ADHD. Alas, the kid ended up walking up to the musician and suddenly attacking him: a sucker punch followed by a thrown water glass, then some hair-pulling and ankle-biting. The rock star needed several stitches. They decided not to repeat that debate on live TV.

George Soros was speaking that first evening too. Oh, he’s still alive, thought Justin. Of course, he was still criticizing the way Russian oligarchs get rich and insisting that his way of getting rich is so much more civilized and better for the poor.

Then, some Chinese entrepreneurs, who as a category were a rather recent addition, were put on the dais to ape Western neo-liberal visions of technological development. But it didn’t quite work – they had thick accents and they kept mixing in some strange, even suspicious ideas into their speeches. A bit cringy, thought Justin, but whatever. Truth be told, they were nonetheless applauded infallibly by a crowd of grinning, bespectacled dweebs who made up a big part of the audience.

Bill Gates also made his routine appearance. Justin could see that this year he was a bit edgier than usual. According to an intelligence officer, Bill was succumbing to his cards problem again. He had allegedly stayed up all previous night playing bridge with a local Greek restaurant owner and a couple of friends. He lost a few hundred thousand Swiss francs. Nevertheless, Bill was a great guy, a genius. Ever since he retired from Microsoft, he’s been looking for new industries to disrupt – healthcare, agriculture, utilities. He donates a lot of money to the WEF, and everyone likes to hear his off-the-cuff brainstorms about the world’s most complex and pressing issues. That evening, he was talking about agricultural reform in Africa, but a couple of times he edged towards condescension almost, using words like “stupid” and “reckless” to describe policies and reproductive health mores of certain African states.

After that first evening’s round of public speeches, which lasted about four hours, the crowds of journalists and observers dispersed to their less luxurious accommodations around town. The VIP guests would now be left to enjoy each other in a series of private receptions.

“Teepee time!” thought Justin, excited.

He hopped into a Range Rover with a couple of aides and was driven to a hotel on the other side of town to attend a closed-door discussion about the fourth industrial revolution. As his five-SUV convoy snaked through the alpine night, his aides informed him that the event would be attended by five European heads of state as well as industry leaders and leading public scholars from all over the world.

They pulled up to their destination and Justin and his aides hopped out through the car door held open by one of his security guards. The three of them walked through the snow to the hotel lobby. From there, they were led by a local security detail into a half-lit lounge. Most of the room was sparsely seeded with small, round standing tables around which attendees can network. Along its three walls were lined big dining tables for those who preferred to sit down in big groups, perhaps to conduct a deeper discussion or a negotiation. The fourth wall was set up with a small, elevated stage and a projector screen hanging behind it.

A team of waiters in black and white coasted through a thickening crowd of dignitaries and served wines and hors d’oeuvres. No press and certainly no cameras were allowed.

Justin had been to this hotel before and knew they had top-shelf stuff. He asked for a Knoll Riesling and grabbed from a passing tray a Togarashi seared ahi, a great pairing with the wine. One of his aides said the Pimento Croquettes were bomb, but Justin stayed away from those because of too many carbs.

He was also eyeing a tray of Brittany oysters being passed around. However, the Chinese billionaire he had begun chatting with took one first and sucked it off the shell with such a loud, violent slurp that it left everyone in their talking circle in shock. Not noticing the fluster on the faces of his companions, the Chinese gentleman followed his beastly vociferation with a thumbs-up gesture and a grinning comment: “Aaaaaah! Very good!” Justin felt his ears burning with embarrassment.

The whole episode ruined the Brittany oysters for Justin, at least for the night. “How the fuck does a dude without even the most basic table manners become a fucking billionaire?” he thought. “I don’t get it. China is so weird. But we need them. They’re so goddamn loaded right now.”

He picked up another wine to calm down. He mused: “It took us ten years to hint to the Arabs that it’s not appropriate to attend WEF events with a personal entourage of Russian escorts. And just when they got that, when we solved that nuisance, we now have to somehow teach the Chinese how to use knives and forks and to avoid mentioning Marxism.”

Self-made entrepreneurs and businesspeople in general were a mystery for Justin. “They are so marvelously efficient,” he thought, “No one really knows how they manage to create all those billions and billions of value. Yet, at Davos, heads of state are the belles of the ball, and the corporate representatives are the ones who have to do all the pleasing. And if we’re being completely honest, public office is not at all about efficiency. It’s more about charming the mob, in the same sense one talks of snake charmers or lion tamers. And that’s a super-important skill too, and one that entrepreneurs sorely need.”

Talk of the devil. As Justin was grabbing his second Togarashi sear, he was approached by a pharmaceuticals CEO who started chatting him up about a “job dysphoria epidemic” in Justin’s country, Canada. Justin’s cabinet had not been aware of any such epidemic. The CEO reassured him that it was real; the scientific community said so, and he could forward Justin’s cabinet the research findings. What’s more, the CEOs company is about to release a patented pill that has been shown in clinical trials to significantly reduce the symptoms of job dysphoria.

After some back-and-forth, Justin began to think that there may be something worth exploring there. The CEO looked so earnest; talking like some kind uncle, his chubby wife’s arm locked around his. The man’s entire head positively shone with concern for the patient. It reminded Justin of those clips of younger Jeff Bezos staring all bug-eyed at his interviewers while explaining how much he cared about getting shoppers the cheapest book deals and the most optimal shopping experience possible.

“Not gonna lie,” thought Justin to himself, “I feel so flattered by this CEO guy, and it feels great! I’m the prime minister, man, I deserve to be flattered! It’s Davos, baby! Besides, if we can cure a motherfucking epidemic, that’s gonna look good in the next elections… And he’s making a lot of sense - I really like his idea that unemployment is merely a mental illness. I’m sick and tired of dealing with it and hearing about it all the time, and it’s nice to finally hear a fresh perspective on the issue.”

After the ahi tuna, he grabbed a couple of blueberry goat cheese flatbreads in the way of dessert. Just as he was savouring his last bite of goaty goodness melting in his mouth, the room lights dimmed, and a video presentation began to play on the projector. It was accompanied by a high-quality audio track dominated by a futuristic xylophone. Justin took a sip of his Riesling and settled in to watch.

For two whole minutes, the screen flashed a series of black-and-white shots of architecture porn: cutting-edge commercial buildings in odd, sci-fi-inspired shapes of steel and concrete; bulbous, glowing stadiums; meandering, tubular pedestrian bridges; grey staircases with glass panes and metallic bolts; offices with minimalist furniture emptied of human beings; shots of motherboards and switchboards; a Japanese Zen garden also barren even of plant life and strewn instead with rocks and sand. The only lifeforms shown were shots of wiggly, abstract, white tubes that looked like bacteria or protein strands, or something that vaguely recalled DNA. And there was one sombre-green school of fish.

After the visual intro, a purplish limelight shone up on the small stage and lit up Schwab’s cadaverous form. The founder of the WEF, however, spoke only a few sentences of introduction of his number-one protégé: Yuval Noah Harari, another bald, bespectacled turtle without a shell, albeit younger and more energetic, and yet another booster of transhumanism.

“You’ve all known Yuval Noah,” Schwab said in his thick accent, “az a fonzaful pehson. Our resident seer at WEF!”

“Shit!” thought Justin to himself, “It’s one of those nerd nights. Those are my least favourite. But who knows, something nice may happen, still. I gotta keep it teepee.”

Harari was famous for not mincing words. He walked over to the podium and got straight to the point in his presentation. He waved his bony arms around and nodded his vulture-like beak up and down as he insisted that humans are hackable, that there is no such thing as free will, that “we” ought to modify human genes, and that instead of some “God above the clouds,” it is “we” who should be gods using the computing cloud.

Justin never studied natural sciences and he didn’t really know what to think of Harari. He had expressed his concerns to Schwab about the man’s authoritarian undertones. They had been sitting in Schwab’s office last spring, when Justin had dropped in from a Geneva conference on the war in Ukraine. Schwab was sipping a Duvel beer and nodding his head considerately as he listened to Justin’s concerns. He then licked the foam mustache off his upper lip and reassured Justin:

“Yuffal dold me in a brivate gonversatseeon,” explained Schwab, “that he is zimply faizing against obhessive dogmas – helijious and bolidiggal. And pesides, old friend, you must haff zome unterstanting for our friend Yuffal. He zdruggled az a youth – he foz draumatized! – by ghorrible helijious gonfligt in his gondry. He waz bullied for peeing a nerd! ztuffed in loggers, zat zort of zing – eksbozed to ze elements! You’ve kot to haff some vorgiveness vor a man like zat for treaming about hepairing his physical zortgommings zroo genetic hacking of his own potty!”

“I know Schwab,” insisted Justin, “but it’s all a bit too much. Too weird, man!”

Schwab took a deeper, less comfortable sip of Duvel then smacked his lips. “How are fee koing to adjeeve igualidy, zoo you zink? Zhenedigs is tse way to do zis, to adjeeve whattical igualidy!”

Justin saw the point, kind of, and he let it go. He had to, for relationship reasons. Old Schwab treats him like a prince – always gave him the best suites, sent him Swiss chocolates, complimented his ideas, gave him good governing advice.

Besides, Harari did seem a bit insecure. The guy was a total horndog, and it showed that very night. After he finished his speech about humans becoming gods, apparently pumped by his own rhetoric, he climbed off the stage and went straight to hitting on Prisha, the Indian heiress that had given a speech about including more women in corporate drudgery. Prisha was smoking hot. She reminded Justin of Priyanka Chopra, in looks that is; in terms of personality, on the other hand, she had all the versatility of an oscillating pedestal fan.

Alas, Prisha could not conceal her physical revulsion at the mere sight of little Yuval. Just like the oscillating fan, she would swing her face away from the would-be Creator God as the latter almost hopped back and forth, martini in hand, in an attempt to stand directly in front of her and make her look him in the eyes. This was made difficult by the fact that the woman was almost a whole head taller than him.

“Poor guy,” thought Justin. “I’m gonna walk over there and show him how to charm ladies.”

He excused himself from a conversation about the oppressive ban on butt plugs in Myanmar he was having with a couple of Swedish adult entertainment magnates and casually meandered towards Yuval and Prisha. Just as he got into the hearing range, he saw Yuval furtively grip the woman by the wrist and heard the latter hiss in an aggressive, fast whisper: “I don’t give a fuck about your New York Times bestseller! Leave me alone!”

“What a wonderful evening,” Justin smiled as he approached the two, pretending not to have seen nor heard anything amiss. He sounded all the more confident knowing that he was coming to aid a damsel in distress.

“Ah, Prime Minister Trudeau!” Prisha smiled at him. “How nice to meet you!”

“Hello Justin,” said Yuval, clearing his throat and looking at the ground as he was gathering back his cool.

“I’ve been following your education reform,” said Prisha, batting her eyebrows, “how brave of you – empowering pre-teens to challenge mathematical dogmas!”

Justin began to recount his vision of modern education and the challenges his cabinet was encountering on the way to making it a reality. Prisha was really into it, while Yuval nodded his head occasionally and smiled, his body language indicating that he approved, though he was not very impressed.

“That’s excellent,” Yuval finally commented. “It’s very important that we humans use the most progressive political tools to signal to the world that a new era is coming. Very good! But with the coming cybernetic evolution, we soon won’t need politics whatsoever! Everything will be done by algorithm!”

“Sure,” said Justin, “I guess in the meantime, chimp politicians like me will have to make do with the primitive tools of policy.” He smiled outwardly, but inside he was not ignoring the jab thrown his way.

“Who cares what that twerp thinks,” he thought. “He may have me beat in book smarts, but my emotional intelligence is incomparably higher.”

With that thought, Justin turned back to Prisha and ramped up his charm offensive. The two of them created a circle of attraction that most painfully isolated Yuval, whose overly technical interjections fell on deaf ears, and who eventually made an excuse that he must make a call to his husband and walked away.

Justin and Prisha were now given a proper teepee moment alone to charm each other. Justin told her about his last diplomatic trip to India and how much he loved the country’s food and traditions. They were only interrupted occasionally by the waiters coasting around with trays and offering bites, and that was a good thing because otherwise, they were going to stare into each other’s eyes a bit too much and maybe get noticed.

It was a good thing until they suddenly got a rude interruption. A big, tall waiter came around and stuck between the prime minister and the heiress a silver tray loaded with beef tartare crostinis.

“Beef tartare crostinis!” he offered.

“No thanks,” said Prisha, “I don’t eat beef.”

“Why? Hormones?” asked the waiter. He was a burly, animated blond with a flushed face.

“Excuse me?” asked Prisha.

“Hormones,” he repeated. “I understand your concerns: industrial beef is loaded with hormones that can cause depression and sterility. But don’t worry, this is from organically fed Swiss cows. I checked!”

“Uh, no,” said Prisha. “That’s not why I don’t eat beef. It’s against my religion.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the waiter. “I forgot that some of you international jet-setters are Muslim!” He smiled and walked away.

“What an odd man!” said Prisha.

“Don’t worry about him,” Justin comforted her. “I’ll mention him to Schwab. He looks like an idiot, and on top of that, he looks like he’s been helping himself with some of that wine.”

Sometime later it was time for a Q&A session with Harari. They brought out two minimalist armchairs upholstered in bottle-green and two glasses of water that they placed on a white coffee table in between. Harari sat on one armchair, and on the other sat a US mainstream TV anchor, a metrosexual man with regular, comic-book superhero features and a penchant for affecting thoughtfulness and intrigue. The two men sat down and crossed their legs and began a conversation.

The interview was about Harari’s latest book on the future evolution of mankind, an evolution in his view unlike any other because it will be carried out not by environmental pressures working in tandem with natural selection, but by the decisions of humans themselves and by human-created AI.

“So, what you’re saying,” said the American journo, “Is that in a few centuries, our descendants will be vastly more different from us than we are from the great apes.”

“A few generations, not centuries!” Harari stuck his finger towards the ceiling and pointed it up and down. “We are on the threshold of creating technology that will allow us to customize and enhance our bodies, either through biochemical agents that modify our genes, or by connecting them directly to machinery.”

“That scares me,” said his interviewer. “Who has this technology?”

“Who has it?” Harari was surprised. “Well, the scientific community. I’m not going to bother you with a reference list, but the information is all available online! But I will give you an example. Haven’t you seen those videos online of Elon Musk sticking those metal sticks into the brains of those orange monkeys?”

“Ah, you mean those videos where the monkeys are screaming in terror, locked in steel pillories as their skulls are sliced open by pneumatic circular saws?”

“Yes,” said Harari. “Those monkeys with those ‘sticks’ in their heads, as you call them, now manage their own Instagram accounts and have hundreds of thousands of followers. They are a scientific miracle admired around the whole world.”

“But why would we want to modify our genes?” asked the journalist.

“Why wouldn’t we? Do you want to keep humanity limited to its puny intelligence, to its irrationality and violence, to its arrogance and egoism, to its mortality? And to all the other faults of the human condition? Wouldn’t you want to be more intelligent, taller, more handsome, more physically strong and attractive?”

“Of course!” replied the interviewer. “I’d definitely like to be smarter. But not at the risk of playing God!”

“Ha-ha! There is no God, for the record,” laughed Harari. A few in the audience laughed too. “But you have a point. Of course, we must ensure that these new technologies are not used for nefarious purposes. And this is something that cannot be done at a national level. What we need is some sort of a world government to make sure about that.”

“Fold cobblement! Fold cobblement!” Schwab was heard laughing and applauding, alone. Several people in the crowd clapped after him, but it all died down quite quick.

The discussion was then opened to questions from the audience. The first word was given to a grave, mustachioed intellectual from a table occupied by executives from an assortment of developing economies.

“First of all, Dr. Harari,” he began, “I would like to say that I truly admire your genius…”

“Oh, you are being too nice!” Harari waved him off.

“Of course, he’s being too nice!” Justin hissed to Prisha. “Man, these people from poor countries, they are such suckers! Just because someone’s from a country with a richer economy than yours doesn’t mean they are smarter than you! If these people only knew how dumb my own electorate is…”

“You realize I’m from India, right?” said Prisha.

“You are different,” said Justin, “You are cool. But those suckers over there. Look at them! They put them all at the same table; they look like some chocolate box of different races. And they’re all supposed to be in awe of the Know-it-all Yuval.”

The mustachioed gentleman continued: “My question is one of anthropology. Your work is based on the assumption that we, homo sapiens, originated as utilitarian rationalists, and that this is still our defining characteristic. There are alternate views arguing that the first strides of hominization of apes happened through the development of ‘sacred’ and therefore irrational taboos aimed primarily at preventing rivalries and the murderous violence they entailed. And that consciousness itself was born out of the sacred, out of religion, in other words.”

“This is not true,” said Harari. “There was certainly murderous violence. And there still is – I mean, just look at all the nationalists we still have today! But ‘religion’ was most definitely not a way to control this violence. On the contrary, religion is the chief remaining source of violence in the human animal. Religion is the last remnant of our ape nature.”

There was some laughter in the crowd and Schwab could be heard saying: “Haha, nazionalismus ist for ze apes!”

“Indeed, very well said,” said the US anchor. “Let’s move on to the next question.”

“I got a question,” a loud, raspy American accent was heard from somewhere in the back. The contrast was so sharp with the lulled, bashful tone of the prior inquiry that many of the heads turned sharply towards its source. The accent, it turned out, belonged to the burly blond waiter who had interrupted Justin and Prisha with his comments on beef hors d’oeuvres.

There was an awkward pause, but Harari was quick to jump in: “Yes, of course!” He grinned and shuffled in his seat, satisfied with the opportunity to showcase his egalitarianism by rolling with the punches and allowing a random waiter to ask questions.

“My name is Alex Jones, by the way,” the waiter introduced himself. “I’ve been actually reading up a lot on your transhumanistic biotech enterprise, the Homo Trans Laboratories. Is it true that this lab is attempting to genetically engineer pigs with human organs, which would then serve as ‘organ cartridges,’ as your website puts it, for your customers?”

“Sure! And why not?” answered Harari with a down-to-earth tone reminiscent of a sassy doda dishing advice over coffee and baklava. “Why shouldn’t we normalize growing replacement organs? We already grow our nutrients, our fuel, our fabrics… Why not? One day homo sapiens will look at our era as unthinkably, unbearably primitive. One day, when one gets liver cirrhosis, or prostate cancer, or heart disease, one will simply go to the hospital for an outpatient procedure and replace the malfunctioning organ from their personal cartridge. It will be the same as what we do today with our cars when a part in our car breaks down.”

“Sounds brilliant,” said Jones. “However, how do the Trans Homo people feel about the idea of human-pig chimeras running around? I mean, is Mr. Piggywinkle going to be covered under the human rights charter? Or will he need another charter?”

“Good question, good question!” answered Harari, getting animated. “You are one hundred percent right. Humanoid pigs, or porcine humans if you will, pose a great ethical challenge. This is why it’s imperative that we have a trans-national regulatory body to ensure that all labs, like our Homo Trans lab, do not manipulate the human brain, only other organs. This way, the pigs remain essentially pigs, and we don’t have to treat them as humans. Just like we don’t treat them as humans in our era.”

“Yes, yes!” said Schwab from the front row. “Drans-natsional potty! Drans-natsional potty!”

“Okay, got it,” said Jones. “So can you also confirm that what you call your ‘humanized mice’ are also not really humanized, for the same reason?”

“Humanized mice?” Harari was taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about,” said Jones. “I’m talking about Trans Homo Labs buying dead babies from the US Food and Drug Administration and implanting their – I quote – ‘fresh, beautiful’ tissue into lab rats for, I quote, ‘very important and challenging research.’”

The room fell deadly silent. But Harari was not going to be.

“It’s actually lab mice, not rats. But okay, I see what’s going on here,” he said, “You’re one of those pro-lifers, right? You are one of those people who think that a sandwich of embryonic tissue has a ‘soul,’ but anyone who doesn’t agree with your arbitrary religious dogma doesn’t, and they must be restrained, including women who want to have control over their own bodies? And including scientists who are trying to do research on unconscious tissue in order to save and improve so many conscious lives? Am I right that this is who you are?”

“Oh, sir, but your laboratory isn’t interested in some processed baby McNuggets,” said Jones, “I have some quotes here.” He fumbled over his black vest briefly and produced a folded sheet of white paper from the inner pocket, and then unfolded it.

“Let’s see what these leaked NSA documents have to say,” he started scanning the sheet. “Homo Trans paid up to two thousand a pop for ‘eyeballs, livers, and brains of dismembered babies,’ so not sandwiches… A Down Syndrome 2nd trimester baby was chopped up and the ‘child’s limbs, organs and skin were sold at hundreds of dollars apiece.’ Well, well, Down Syndrome kids don’t have a place in the brave new world anyway, eh?”

“Stop saying ‘babies’ and ‘kids’!” Harari raised his voice impatiently. “These are embryonic tissues belonging to the body of the mother who decided to remove them!”

“Well, I must disagree,” said Jones, “One of your lab’s emails to the FDA complains how the baby parts from California abortions are too disfigured, and then… Here we have FDA apologizing and promising that they ‘will provide only the most beautiful and fresh, not frozen components.’ So, no ugly babies, only pretty, healthy babies is what they want.”

At this point, two bodyguards in Man-in-Black suits approached Jones from two sides and began gently lifting their arms to elbow height and trying to whisper something to the man. Jones, however, only began to talk faster and louder while repeatedly pointing his finger at Harari:

“Is it true that Homo Trans used baby stem cells to grow fast-growing lab protein? Is it true that your scientists conducted test studies where they sampled this protein in food?”

“Sir please!” one of the bodyguards was heard as he restrained Jones’ wrists, while his colleague gripped him into a bear hug from the back. Jones, himself a bear-sized fellow, began to sway as he resisted and, his face turning purple, screamed:

“Is it true that you eat babies! Babies!! You eat them! You fucking eat babies!”

A high table was tipped over as Jones scuffled with the bodyguards. The next moment he made a sudden, impressive lurch and threw both men off in one motion. He rushed towards another table and dove headfirst under it.

“Is he trying to hide there?” Justin exclaimed to Prisha. They were observing the scene from the back of the room. Justin was gripping Prisha’s naked shoulders in a protective gesture.

No, Jones was not trying to hide under the table. A couple of moments after he disappeared, the table flew up into the air and he emerged under it, fully erect and with an assault rifle in his hands. The two guards rushed him but, unfortunately, Jones gunned them down with a volley of bullets.

“Get behind me Satan! Get behind me Satan! Get behind me Satan!” he screamed over and over again.

He then pointed the rifle up and fired another volley into the air. White chunks of stucco from the ceiling rained on his crazed head as he repeated his orders to the Prince of Darkness. His face was purple, his eyes distant, and his fleshy cheeks shook with unhinged wrath.

The women in attendance were screaming. The men were frozen in panic. Justin looked to rush out of the place with Prisha but as he turned towards the exit, he saw another waiter, a gaunt man with long blond hair, standing at the entrance and pointing his own assault rifle at anyone considering walking his way. Looking around, Justin realized that all the waiters, maybe six or seven of them, were now holding assault rifles, which had all been taped under draped tabletops, and yelling at the crowd in attendance to kneel down on the floor. Justin and Prisha obeyed, as did Harari up on the stage. He had gotten off the bottle-green armchair and kneeled in front of it, his hands clasped at the back of his bulbous skull.

The commotion settled as most of the attendees - now hostages - were subdued and made to sit on the floor. Two of the waiters produced a plastic bag filled with zip cuffs and began to tie people one by one; one waiter would point his rifle at a captive while the other cuffed him or her behind the back. Meanwhile, a couple of other attackers dragged Schwab onto the stage with Harari. One of them began to video record Jones as he stepped up on the stage too.

“We didn’t come here to kill anyone,” Jones announced. “We only came here to finally force these two weasels to have a frank and honest conversation for once. We came here to get a confession. I know I’m going to prison, but goddammit I will be happy to go there once I get all I want to hear on the record.”

He then turned to Schwab and Harari. “Let’s start. Look, we’re not going to go over the killing and the eating of babies all over again – we’ve uploaded all the evidence to prove that on my website, Infowars.com. Let’s move on to other topics.

“For example: will you admit in front of the whole world right now that you’ve been receiving donations from several Wall Street hedge funds who are heavily invested in Homo Trans Labs and a whole network of other transhumanist labs in Europe and Asia that are developing mind-control technology?”

“Mind gondrol deggnology?” protested Schwab. “It is absurd! It is highly immoral!”

“I know it’s highly immoral, but that doesn’t seem to faze any of you!” said Jones, waving the sheets of papers he had taken out of his vest pocket. “I have a direct quote here from one of your researchers in Singapore: ‘Our brain implants will enable a radically direct medical care and medical intervention to be delivered to most high-risk patients through real-time monitoring of their chemical imbalances and ensuring they are never offset to the point that may lead the patient to harm or even suicide.’”

Jones then looked into his friend’s phone camera and continued: “They are not even trying to hide it, people. You have it here on black-and-white. A leaked email. They are building gadgets to put in your brain and use chemicals to control it how they see fit.” He then turned to Harari and Schwab. “Is this not so? What am I missing here?”

“You completely misunderstand everything!” said Harari, still hands behind his head. “We are trying to empower people, not to enslave them! Our labs are completely apolitical – all diagnoses would be based on scientific, objective algorithms, on benevolent AI!”

“There is no such thing as benevolent AI!” Jones screamed and shook his arms, his assault rifle dangling on a strap behind his back. “I know very well how control works, let me tell you. I know very well how it feels to be invaded, manipulated, controlled by demonic forces. Every day, every hour, every second of my existence I feel their invasion into my innermost being, every moment I struggle mightily, with the help of my Lord Jesus Christ, to shake them off!”

“I know Alex, I know,” said Harari. “It’s called schizophrenia. I feel for you. But you must understand, our technology is being designed precisely to help people like you. To make people like you free through scientific means, through correcting chemical imbalances.”

“It’s not about the chemicals!” Jones kept yelling. “They help a bit, but they don’t eliminate the root cause. You have no idea…” his breath was becoming heavy, “Do you have any idea how much coke I have to snort every day to keep my shit together? To remain functional? And yes, coke is a chemical and does help, but it’s only a Band-aid solution. It is not sustainable. My problem is not chemicals. My problem is people like you, and you, and you, and all the people here, who have sold their souls to the Devil, and who won’t stop scheming about taking over the world and enslaving humankind. I fucking hate you!”

“I can relate to you, really,” said Harari. “I went through the same problems my friend, believe me. We can talk about it. Let’s put the guns down. Have a seat. Let’s discuss this. Let’s have you as the next guess in our presentation.”

“You cannot possibly be anything like me, you fucking lizard!” insisted Jones.

“But I can, I can,” insisted Harari. “Didn’t you read my books? I too felt like I have no control over my life. There is no such thing as free will, for any of us! I too felt like the government and the institutions are oppressive. That’s what my life’s mission is all about – overcoming that oppression, fighting against it! You must be willing to change, and to fight, with all your willpower! And me and you both fight! We only have different means! You are a journalist, an investigator. And I’m a scientist. I – we – build scientific instruments to make all of us equally intelligent, equally healthy, equally empowered by technology, so that none of us can be slaves ever again!”

“Ids drue,” added Schwab. “He faz eggstremely gonficted as a youz.”

“Our struggle is one and the same,” repeated Harari to Jones. “We should be friends.”

“You evil vipers!” said Jones. “’By their fruits you shall know them!’ Your fruits are there for everyone to see. Mass slaughter of the innocents, cannibalism, corrupt dealings, war, false witness… and you are lying right now to my face about how you are the same as us, as hard-working and honest men and women of America? Of the whole World?… You must repent, you must repent right now, in front of this live-streaming camera, in front of the whole world! Repent!”

Jones swung his rifle forward and rushed towards the two WEF men kneeling on the stage. He pointed the weapon straight at Schwab’s head and yelled: “Repent!”

“I hepent, I hepent,” said Schwab. “Please don’t shoot. I hepent!”

“Go on! What do you repent for?” screamed Jones.

“I hepent for everything,” said Schwab, “everything you said.”

“What was it! Let me hear it from you!”

“I hepent vor eatsing babies. I hepent vor drying to take offa ze vold. I hepent for… for drying to gontrol ze minds of ze people.”

“I knew it!” said Jones, turning to the phone. He was getting very manic. He turned back to Schwab. . “I was right all along, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were,” said Schwab.

“Ha-ha! Ha-ha!” Jones began to laugh hysterically. “I was right! I was right! They are controlling the world! They are lizards! Ha-ha!”

He grabbed the guy with the phone by the collar and began to shake him. “They control the world, Bruce! I knew it!”

He then went back to Schwab. “Admit everything else! Admit that your people are behind 9-11! Admit that you are behind Waco! Admit that you are behind Syrian gas attacks!”

“But… I can’t,” said Schwab.

“Admit it or you are dead! You and your friend!” screamed Jones as he hit first Schwab then Harari with the butt of his rifle.

Schwab stood up from his kneeling position, his left brow leaking blood. “I cannot admiz to zat. It’s too much!”

“You must!” screamed Jones and started punching and kicking Schwab as the latter collapsed into a fetal position. “Admit everything!”

Jones ran out of breath. Schwab struggled to get back to his knees. He was now profoundly shaken, his face disfigured. He too began to yell: “Fine! I will admiz everyzing! Yes, I… we are behind everyzing! We are taking over tze fold! We aff already taken it! We kill children! … We gontrol woahs, we gontrol all the wealz… and we are about to gontrol your fery minds! We are monstahs… and there’s notsing you can do about it!!”

“I knew it! I knew it…” said Jones. He ceased yelling and began to heave. He bent over as he was running out of breath. “I can’t… You can’t… You won’t control me.”

“We already control you,” Justin yelled from the crowd. “I’m one of them too! We are all one of them! We control the world!”

Jones knelt with one knee, his other foot trying to lift his fat bulk back up. “You don’t… Shut up, all of you…”

“We control the world! We control the world!” Justin started chanting. “Don’t we everyone?! We control the world! Come on, tell him!”

“Yes, ve control vorld,” a voice in the back with a Slavic accent confirmed. “We control the world! We control the world!” others confirmed.

“Stop, you are driving me mad! I’ll shoot every single one of you! Aaah!” Jones threatened, but his voice was slipping, and he began to gasp and massage his throat with his hand.

“We control the world! We control the world!” the chanting was now resounding through the room.

“Come on say it,” Justin said to Prisha quietly, “this is our opportunity! Can’t you see that we’re about to get him! We control the world – say it!”

“We control the world!” Prisha began saying.

The chanting took on a deep and resonant tone of some eerie cultish incantation. Jones’s bulging eyes began darting back and forth from the stage across the room. His arms slackened and dropped to his side. He looked terrified. His other knee fell on the ground too.

Next to him on the stage, also still kneeling, Yuval and Klaus were fully synched with the crowd chanting “We control the world!” and nodding their heads. Yuval stared deliberately into Jones’ eyes, anticipating eagerly the man’s final breakdown, while Klaus could hardly focus on anything with his face bashed in and his front teeth missing – he was merely managing to grunt out “Fee gontrol ze fold!” again and again as a mix of blood and saliva spurted from his mouth.

“You are done, Jones! We got you!” Justin was heard yelling. “It’s too little too late! We are all part of it!”

“We are all in the cabal!” others started to yell on top of the chant. “We are all part of the conspiracy!”

“No… no,” grunted Jones. He gripped his chest with both hands, his cardiac arrest kicking in full swing. He collapsed onto the stage, belly up, and his big body became motionless.

There came a moment of silence. The other waiters were stunned and confused watching their leader collapse. They stared at his motionless trunk waiting for it to rise again, but in vain. Some of their rifles began to droop towards the floor.

Before any of them could decide what to do, before any could take over the mantle of leadership, loud crashes erupted from all sides of the room. They were instantly followed by a barrage of extremely loud gunshots and fizzing, fast-expanding smoke. Justin and Prisha instinctively dove onto the ground, as did most of the captives. Justin saw the waiter with long blond hair, the one now closest to him, get tackled from behind by a SWAT soldier. They were getting saved.