Secrets of The New World Order

It suddenly occurred to Judith that she was going to receive cash for providing Mr. Bagley with sex.

Her face reddened, and with a deep sense of shame she softly said: "Oh my God...I'm going to receive money for providing you with sex? That makes me a---"

"Personal Assistant," he interrupted.

"Huh?" she said with a quizzical look on her face.

"Your official title is 'Personal Assistant'," he smiled down at her.

He rubbed the soft flesh of her quivering buttocks and asked the pretty woman: "Have you ever performed analingous, Mrs. Strong?"

She cringed at his touch and replied: "No, I don't think so...."

"It will be required of you whenever we meet," he said with a grin, "I'll teach you everything you'll need to know..."

He felt his cock coming back to life as he led his beautiful new employee to the bed.

John figured he'd have just enough time to meet with the reporter and not be late for work. He was starting earlier than usual at 10:30 because the store would be closing at 6:30.

Today was the annual Flowerton 'Founders Day Festival', and the town square and adjacent streets would be filled with vendors, and just about every person in town older than fifty would be there.

Mr. Jensvold had learned thru the years' that business dropped off to zero once the festival began so he closed the store earlier.

He found a parking place two blocks from the Town Square. Cars would not be allowed around the Square so he saved himself from having to move it later.

'Elaine's Plus Size Fashions' was three doors down from the hardware store next to 'Mom's Diner'. The closer he got to the store the more his heart began racing. The reporter's coded message made him nervous.

Someone she didn't want to overhear her conversation must have been within earshot of her when they spoke. John felt like he was in a spy movie: a clandestine meeting with an intrepid reporter who might possibly have vital information that could help him solve his father's murder.

Quit being foolish, he said to himself. Calm down and focus - she's the only person who can help you.

He crossed the street and walked into the Square. The Town Square was a large park with trees and fountains. Workmen were busy setting up the stage where a band would perform tonight. He found a bench with a view of the stores and waited.

He flinched when the old courthouse clock rang out ten o'clock. Bile rising in his belly gave him a stomach ache. It wasn't very humid yet, but his hands were perspiring.

He watched as a silver Nissan settled into a parking space. As soon as the door opened and he saw a burgundy blouse, he almost ran to intercept the woman.

He knew the stores' owner, Elaine, and she would wonder why he was in her shop. He didn't want to have to try and lie to her.

When he was close to the woman he called out: "Miss McBride?"

The woman's head swiveled around; she was obviously surprised to hear her name.

John's breath caught in his throat. Her good-looks stunned him for a moment. He hadn't expected to see such a young, and beautiful woman. Not only pretty, he thought, but a great body, too.

"Mr. Strong?" she asked when they were a few feet apart.

She didn't wait for a response. "Good – this is better – let's go into the park."

They found a secluded bench where they wouldn't be seen from the stores.

"Do you have your father's papers?" she asked.

Her abruptness startled him. She was going straight to the business at hand.

"Uh, no – what papers?" he said.

The disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Damn," she exclaimed. "Without those papers we can't prove anything."

"What papers?" he asked, feeling slightly panicked.

She looked around as if searching for something or someone.

"May I call you, John?" she asked, he nodded. "John, your father had memos and emails that proved that Massengale Manufacturing was deliberately sabotaging their own business...."

"I don't understand," he responded. "Why would they do that?"

"They want to make a deal with Fidelity Investments from back East – they want to intentionally file bankruptcy so the shareholders would be left without anything...then they would sell the remaining assets to Fidelity and two or three people at Massengale would become very rich."

Then her voice trailed off as she said, "It's all about money...."

We both nearly jumped out of our skins when we heard a voice behind us.

"Ms. McBride, how fortuitous finding you here..."

A large woman appeared before us. If it weren't for her large bosom, and her hair tied into a bun, she could have passed for a man. A very strong man.

She wore some sort of uniform – maybe a security uniform. I saw a patch over her large left breast that said, 'Mellon Inc.'.

"Ms. Preston," I heard Jennifer say. Her voice quivered when she said the woman's name.

"Mr. Mellon would like a word with you," said the woman in a menacing tone.

"WHAT – Mr. Mellon is here? In Flowerton?" Jennifer replied with obvious shock.

"Yes, dear, and he's in the diner right now. I would suggest getting your cute little rear-end over there immediately!" she said.

I could tell it wasn't a request.

Jennifer's face turned a ghostly white. Without looking at me she offered a weak, "Good bye, John."

The way she said it scared me. It sounded so final.

I watched the big woman follow Jennifer all the way to the diner. I sat there dumbfounded. My hands began to tremble and my heart was pounding.

"What the hell just happened here?" I wondered out loud. I was bitterly disappointed our meeting had been cut short.

Most of the tables and booths were filled with customers when Jennifer walked into the diner. She stood searching for Mr. Mellon, the owner of 'Mellon Communications'. She'd only seen photos of him. She couldn't remember him ever coming to Flowerton.

Jennifer winced when she felt the big woman's hand grip her arm.

"He's over there," said Ms. Preston.

The woman squeezed Jennifer's arm tightly and pulled her to a corner booth where Mr. Mellon sat with Mr. Jones, the head of Security.

She stood before the table a short while before he acknowledged her presence. He was devouring his steak and eggs breakfast.

"Miss McBride, how nice of you to join us – please sit down," he finally said.

Jennifer was startled to see him in person. His photos showed him to be a stocky man with a round face and bulbous nose. She figured it was the camera that made him look like a troll. She was wrong.

The booth was small; she was forced to sit closer to him than she would have wished.

He began talking in a low voice; she had trouble hearing everything he said.

"Miss McBride, I understand you joined our company less than a year ago, straight out of school, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," she replied.

"Well, Miss McBride, while I admire your work-ethic, and your desire to write 'important' articles, I'm afraid the idealism you acquired in college, doesn't quite mesh with life in the real world...I know you fancy yourself an 'investigative reporter', however, that is not what my companies are about..."

She felt her heart sink. She knew where this was going.

"I want the public who read my papers, and watch my television stations to be informed, but not at the expense of entertainment. I mean what service do we really want to provide? I don't want the public to be burdened with depressing news – unnecessary news that they really aren't interested in...everyone has to work harder and longer hours these days, and the last thing they want to see on tv or read in the papers when they finally do get home are depressing stories – stories that really have no purpose or public interest other than the aggrandizement of self-serving reporters, such as yourself."

He swallowed the last piece of steak then sipped at his coffee.

"Entertainment is what sells advertising – it's what the public wants. If we spend two weeks covering a high profile murder case, or if a woman goes missing, or even abuse or neglect of children, it's because that is what the public wants to know about...they don't give a damn about local politics or so-called 'in-depth' feature articles – they want to escape from their mundane lives - not be constantly reminded of it!"

He coughed and cleared his throat then spoke directly at her.

"Miss McBride, from now on we expect you to report whatever the assignments editor gives you and nothing else. If you are unable to accept this, you will no longer have a job with my company...tonight is a perfect example, I want you to write a story on the Founder's Festival...I will tell your editor you have been given the assignment...I expect to read your story tomorrow on the front page. Do I make myself clear, Miss McBride?"

She felt a void in the pit of her stomach. She pictured a lifetime of covering nothing but festivals and flower shows.

A sudden chill gripped her body. A question popped into her head she wondered if she should ask. Of course, her reporter's instinct took over and she felt a need to know the answer.

"Mr. Mellon, how did you know where to find me this morning?" she asked softly.

A small smile spread across his lips.

"Why Miss McBride, I would have thought a sharp investigative reporter like yourself would know the answer to that...."

She blushed; she didn't know what to say.

"It's no secret that since the 9/11 the NSA has been 'monitoring' phone calls and emails...they run a software program that uses key words and phrases to seek out potential terrorists ...well, good news, Miss McBride, that software is now available to corporations, as well."

Jennifer felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight. She understood the dire implications of his words.

"Mr. Jones here, and his well-trained staff, enter words and phrases into the software program to search the data base to prevent theft, and even detect disloyalty to my company...it's an amazing breakthrough in technology...in your case, I believe the key phrase that enabled us to find you today was actually a name – 'John Strong'...the software scanned all emails and phone calls, and, sure enough, discovered your phone call with Mr. Strong."

Now she was petrified - for herself, for John, for the future of the entire country.

"I want to leave you with one more thought, Miss McBride," he said, lowering his voice even more. "Myself, and five other corporations owns 90% percent of the mass media in this country...if you should lose your job here, word will spread and you won't get a job anywhere in this country in journalism."

He suddenly moved closer to her until their thighs were touching. He leaned over and whispered in her ear.

"A journalism degree may have been a mistake in this day and age. Investigative journalism is dead – maverick reporters will not be tolerated...Miss McBride, if you no longer could work in the communications field, what job are you possibly qualified for?"

His hand suddenly began rubbing her thigh. When she tried to push it away he chuckled then gripped her thigh hard.

"Miss McBride, you are a very pretty young woman...I am certain you would have a bright future as a Personal Assistant – I know for a fact you'd earn more money than you ever will in journalism...if you decide to change careers, give me a call, I would offer you a very generous contract."

A cold chill ran up her spine. She knew full well he was threatening her and there was nothing she could do about it. Two years ago she would have filed a sexual harassment suit against him. Today, no attorney in his right mind would take the case.

He gave her thigh one final squeeze then said: "If you'll excuse me, Miss McBride, I must be going to the opening ceremony of the new prison, I mean - 'correctional center'. It will employ hundreds of people in this town, and God knows the economy needs that!"

She stood to the side and watched as Mr. Mellon left the diner with Mr. Jones. She suddenly became very aware of Ms. Preston standing close beside her.

"You know, honey, Mr. Mellon was right - you are a pretty little thing..." the big woman said.

And then, just before the woman left, she winked and patted Jennifer's buttocks and said, "I'll be watching you, sweet-cheeks."

John and Judith drove home in silence. Normally, the mother and son would talk of what they'd done and seen, but tonight was different - both were reflecting on the days' events.

For Judith, her day had begun well. She saw her daughters off to a two-week summer camp then received a ride from her friend, Mary Ann to the Festival. They were on the decorating committee so they had arrived early.

Everything was fine until she saw Mr. Bagley in the crowd then the unspeakable sexual acts he'd forced her to perform the day before flooded her mind.

Tears formed in her eyes and she turned her head so her son wouldn't notice.

She had always thought she and Jeffrey had a complete and satisfying love life until yesterday. Mr. Bagley changed all that.

The second time they had intercourse he'd made her stand then forced her head and shoulders to the mattress so she was bent over and he took her from behind. Like an animal; like dogs.

Then something far worse happened – she liked it. Not only liked it, but experienced an orgasm for the first time in years.

She was racked with guilt and shame. Deep in her heart she knew she had betrayed her husband, the man she was crazy in love with. She silently begged his forgiveness.

Dancing and having fun with Sarah at the Festival had calmed John, but he still couldn't get Jennifer McBride out of his mind.

He was greatly relieved when he saw her there, she didn't appear any worse off, but it bothered him when she said, "We can't be seen together."

Then to make matters worse, he eavesdropped on Mr. Jensvold and a couple other guys as they were discussing the new correctional center.

"...they say it can house over 25,000 people – how can that be? Why do they need something that big?"

"You can't see any of it from the highway – if it wasn't for the sign at the turn-off, you wouldn't even know it was there. And I thought it was supposed to be called the 'Anderson Behavior Correctional Center? The small sign they put up today says Region Eight Behavior Correctional Center – Region Eight? How many of these monstrosities have been built?"

Then Mr. Jensvold spoke: "You know what these private, for-profit prisons have done to this country? The U.S. now has the largest prison population in the world – more than Russia and China – the owners of these prisons have been paying-off judges for longer sentences, and bribing politicians into making tougher laws just to keep the prisons filled...it's another corporate scam where the very few get rich at the expense of everyone else."

As usual, I kept my mouth shut. These guys sounded more like paranoid conspiracy theorists instead of the smart businessmen they were known to be.

It made perfect sense to me that with rampant unemployment, people were doing stupid things to feed their families, and once caught, there had to be some place to punish them.

Then a man I didn't know spoke in hushed tones and I listened hard.

"Gentlemen," he said. "This isn't a prison like we know...think of the name: 'Behavior Correctional Center' – what kind of 'behavior' are they going to 'correct'? We're located in the middle of the country, and we're Region Eight? That would suggest there are at least sixteen 'regions' in the U.S. Why are they dividing the country up into regions? What the hell is going on?"

I tired of listening to this crazy talk. The job creators know what they're doing. Every decision is made with the sole purpose of making capitalism more profitable so the wealth can continue to trickle-down to the rest of us. Case closed!

When we approached our house we both knew something was wrong. The lights were on – we always turned them off to save money.

I told my mother to keep her distance when I inserted my key in the lock. The door was unlocked. I took a deep breath and slowly opened it and carefully peered inside.

The living room was a mess. Our papers and books and dvds and trinkets were scattered around the floor.

I called out: "WHO ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU HIDING?" I didn't hear anything.

I rang the doorbell a dozen times – nothing. Not a sound.

My mother barged past me into the house and I quickly followed her.

"OH MY GOD – WE'VE BEEN ROBBED!!" she cried out.

We slowly, carefully inspected the house.

In every room the contents of drawers had been dumped on the floor. My mother's irreplaceable collections of glass figurines were smashed into a thousand pieces. My sisters' dolls were strewn about; some with their heads yanked off. All of the closets had been emptied and clothes were strewn everywhere.

My room had been torn apart. The sports memorabilia was scattered all around. My bed had been tossed and the mattress was on the floor.

I was overtaken by a creeping, sick awareness that nothing was missing. All of our laptops, tv's and other valuables were still here. This wasn't a robbery. Why was this done to us?

I called the police and described the condition of our house.

The sergeant I spoke with said if nothing was stolen, there wasn't a thing they could do.

"What about someone breaking into our house?" I asked. "That's trespassing!"

"Frankly son, we don't investigate trivial matters in your area anymore!" he said coldly and hung up on me.

I was in shock! I found myself screaming into a dead telephone.

Mom and I cleaned up the broken glass. That took two-hours and it was late and we were tired.

I got my room into shape the best I could and fell on the bed exhausted.

My head was spinning and my eyes were wired open. I replayed the days' events over-and-over in my mind.

Suddenly, I focused on something Jennifer had said to me.

"John, your father had memos and emails that proved Massengale Manufacturing was deliberately sabotaging their own business...."

HUH? MEMOS AND EMAILS??

I jumped out of bed, dressed and quietly went outside to the garage. I didn't want to wake my mother.

The sick feeling in my belly returned when I saw the lights were on in the garage.

I opened the door and saw the same kind of destruction. Tools, equipment, and personal belongings of my dad were scattered on the floor. My dad had so much crap, as my mother used to say, there was no room to park the car in the garage.

A cold chill shivered down my spine and I ran out to where my mother parked her car. It surprised me to see it appeared undamaged. I checked inside and out, and sure enough, nothing had been touched.

I went back inside the garage and looked up at the beam that supported our American flag. I found the ladder in the debris and set it up so I could climb up to the beam.

My father had built a small platform on the beam and draped the flag in front of it so it couldn't be seen.

My heart leapt with joy when I saw my dad's strongbox on the platform. It was heavy so I had to be careful climbing back down the ladder.

I told myself I'd clean up the mess in the morning and shut off the light and quietly returned to my room.

My father had recently given me a key to the box.

He'd said, "Never know when it might come in handy."

I sat on my bed and juggled the box on my lap. It contained loose papers, notebooks and what appeared to be legal documents pertaining to what should be done in the event of his death.

I found a notebook titled, 'Journal'. I took a deep breath and opened it to the last page.

The final entry read, "Meeting with LB early in the morning. Nervous and scared. Not sure how he will react when confronted with the evidence."