than eight years, was another reading “SATAN LOVES SYCAMORE!” That was Amos’s favourite.
“SATAN’S SEED” and “MARK OF THE BEAST” were less exciting and did little for Sycamore’s cause, but “SOW A SEED TO REAP DAMNATION” and “DON’T MESS WITH THE FURY” were worth more to The Seed’s success than all of the paid commercials in the world. The threatening tone played right into Amos’s victim game and ensured even more priceless publicity than the launch would have received without Fury River’s presence.
Kurt’s long black car pulled up and stopped beside the few dozen protestors. He climbed out in front of them, bringing their rabid gesticulations to new heights. He fought a smile and tried to look shocked.
Terrance Minion, now seeded, caught Kurt’s eye from his position beside a group of reporters. Minion faced Kurt and sent him a Glance across the street. Kurt chuckled as the letters appeared in his vista as quickly as Minion could write them: “I always deliver.”
Amos emerged from inside the branch, feigning grave concern to usher Kurt inside. Only ten minutes remained before the scheduled 9am launch but Amos had other ideas. “I’m delaying the launch,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“For attention. I’ll say it’s unsafe to open the branch without more police protection. By the time the police get here, word will have gotten out and more people will have turned up.”
Kurt sat on one of the store’s fancy barstools and ran his fingers through his hair. “Have you really thought about this? If people think it’s dangerous here, why would they come down?”
“I don’t like diluting terms, Kurt, but those Fury River folks are basically terrorists. They are trying to use terror to get what they want, aren’t they?”
“You’re making my point. They’ll scare people away.”
“No… the point is that people will do anything for freedom. If freedom is at risk they’ll turn out to defend it. And if by some universal accident I’m wrong, we’ll blame poor sales on the crazies and count the money when Tasmart starts offering The Seed tomorrow.”
Amos exited the store before Kurt could reply. He walked over to where Minion had been standing and announced his intention to broadcast a live interview. The morning news crews in attendance gathered around his new position in the middle of the road, tactically selected for its symbolic placement between the terrorists on one side and the freedom-loving queuers on the other.
“Roll in five,” he said, “and no sooner.” He then shook his head briskly and began pacing. At the count of five he hurried towards the cameras with his hands in the air, the expression on his face mimicking that of a rabbit cornered by a ferret.
“Where are the police? Where is the government? Chasing oil in distant deserts while these homegrown terrorists try to intimidate us in our own city? Sycamore’s customers and supporters are sitting ducks if these maniacs turn violent! I can’t sanction the opening of the store with a clear conscience until real police protection arrives, so I regret to announce that The Seed’s launch will be delayed. We salute the brave people of this great country who share our commitment to progress in the face of resistance from raisin-brained luddites and their hateful demonstrations. Thank you.”
Irritated but understanding, the crowd applauded. Some hollered and whistled.
Amos climbed on top of Kurt’s expensive taxi and addressed his queuing customers directly, with jackhammer-like, staccato emphasis on every word. “We will not bow to pressure from these bigoted terrorists.” Then came his final cry of defiance, delivered with all the force of an affronted führer. “Not today!”
If the previous cheers had been loud, these were thunderous. And then, quite organically, the crowd began to chant. Amos was powerless to hide his glee as their message rang loud and clear: “Sy-ca-more... Sy-ca-more...
“SATAN’S SEED” and “MARK OF THE BEAST” were less exciting and did little for Sycamore’s cause, but “SOW A SEED TO REAP DAMNATION” and “DON’T MESS WITH THE FURY” were worth more to The Seed’s success than all of the paid commercials in the world. The threatening tone played right into Amos’s victim game and ensured even more priceless publicity than the launch would have received without Fury River’s presence.
Kurt’s long black car pulled up and stopped beside the few dozen protestors. He climbed out in front of them, bringing their rabid gesticulations to new heights. He fought a smile and tried to look shocked.
Terrance Minion, now seeded, caught Kurt’s eye from his position beside a group of reporters. Minion faced Kurt and sent him a Glance across the street. Kurt chuckled as the letters appeared in his vista as quickly as Minion could write them: “I always deliver.”
Amos emerged from inside the branch, feigning grave concern to usher Kurt inside. Only ten minutes remained before the scheduled 9am launch but Amos had other ideas. “I’m delaying the launch,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“For attention. I’ll say it’s unsafe to open the branch without more police protection. By the time the police get here, word will have gotten out and more people will have turned up.”
Kurt sat on one of the store’s fancy barstools and ran his fingers through his hair. “Have you really thought about this? If people think it’s dangerous here, why would they come down?”
“I don’t like diluting terms, Kurt, but those Fury River folks are basically terrorists. They are trying to use terror to get what they want, aren’t they?”
“You’re making my point. They’ll scare people away.”
“No… the point is that people will do anything for freedom. If freedom is at risk they’ll turn out to defend it. And if by some universal accident I’m wrong, we’ll blame poor sales on the crazies and count the money when Tasmart starts offering The Seed tomorrow.”
Amos exited the store before Kurt could reply. He walked over to where Minion had been standing and announced his intention to broadcast a live interview. The morning news crews in attendance gathered around his new position in the middle of the road, tactically selected for its symbolic placement between the terrorists on one side and the freedom-loving queuers on the other.
“Roll in five,” he said, “and no sooner.” He then shook his head briskly and began pacing. At the count of five he hurried towards the cameras with his hands in the air, the expression on his face mimicking that of a rabbit cornered by a ferret.
“Where are the police? Where is the government? Chasing oil in distant deserts while these homegrown terrorists try to intimidate us in our own city? Sycamore’s customers and supporters are sitting ducks if these maniacs turn violent! I can’t sanction the opening of the store with a clear conscience until real police protection arrives, so I regret to announce that The Seed’s launch will be delayed. We salute the brave people of this great country who share our commitment to progress in the face of resistance from raisin-brained luddites and their hateful demonstrations. Thank you.”
Irritated but understanding, the crowd applauded. Some hollered and whistled.
Amos climbed on top of Kurt’s expensive taxi and addressed his queuing customers directly, with jackhammer-like, staccato emphasis on every word. “We will not bow to pressure from these bigoted terrorists.” Then came his final cry of defiance, delivered with all the force of an affronted führer. “Not today!”
If the previous cheers had been loud, these were thunderous. And then, quite organically, the crowd began to chant. Amos was powerless to hide his glee as their message rang loud and clear: “Sy-ca-more... Sy-ca-more...
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