Idolism (22 page)

I’m not claiming that I realized all these things right away, but I can’t deny that the moment I heard the cardinal proto-deacon utter Robert Maddock’s name, I felt an icy shiver creeping down me spine, and me brain was ready to explode. However, all me thoughts were stopped dead in their tracks when I suddenly saw our old friends Mario and Luigi breaking through the crowd. They pounced on Julian from both sides, grabbed his arms and handcuffed him before he even knew what was going on. He struggled, he stumbled, and he fell to the ground. Ginger and I immediately rushed to help him back on his feet before we were handcuffed ourselves. The last thing you can see on the footage Michael shot that evening is Pope Pius XIII standing on the central balcony of St Peter’s Basilica, waving to an ecstatic crowd as Luigi comes walking towards the camera, making the now already all too familiar gesture with his arms and saying, “Basta!”

I’m not sure how many policemen usually are on duty in Rome at 7 p.m. on a Thursday night, but my guess is they’re exactly two, and this time they weren’t going to let us get away with a warning.

This time they threw us in a jail cell.

Rock’n’roooollll!

The Second Revelation of Edward Pickle

Robert Maddock’s retreat from the airwaves was the ultimate jump start for MMC’s national and international operations. It was the spark that ignited the flame of our global success. But make no mistake, behind the scenes nothing really changed. Mr Maddock may have adorned himself with his fancy new title of chief executive officer, but it was still me who was calling the shots.

Every single day he would come to me and say, “Pickle, what are we gonna do about this and that?” and I would tell him to do so and so, and he would say, “Okay, let’s do it then.”

The secret was to make him believe that his decisions were indeed his decisions, even if they were mine. I did that by carefully filtering and selecting the information I let through to him. I never gave him all the pros and cons of any one issue. Instead, I gave him mostly the pros of the things I thought we needed to do, and I gave him mostly the cons of everything else. Mr Maddock ended up weighing those pros and cons against each other, and in nine out of ten cases he came to the desired conclusion for which I never forgot to praise him. It made him not only feel powerful, it also made him feel incredibly smart and business-savvy. That is how I created the illusory image of Robert Maddock as not only one of the most successful but also one of the most intelligent businessmen in the world. I made them all believe it—the whole world, and even Mr Maddock himself. Even though he was really just a tool.

It was a long and rocky road from the weekly two-hour show on a cable TV station in Alabama to the global media conglomerate that was MMC, but it was worth all the hassle, all the pain, and all the putting up with Mr Maddock’s horridly crude humour, his despotism, and his twisted morals. I will readily admit that like most Christians—I never was a firm believer, but I regard myself as a cultural Christian—I do rather enjoy my masochistic tendencies. No matter if it’s the God of the Old Testament or the CEO of the biggest media corporation in the world, one has to be willing and able to subject oneself to a cranky, neurotic tyrant. It takes a lot of strength—and some courage—to do that, but at the end of the day it’s an experience that can be as empowering and rewarding as it is humbling. It’s humbling, because it constantly reminds you of your inherent pettiness, your insignificance, and your own shortcomings. It’s empowering, because if you give in to your masochism, you know that you do so at your own volition. You choose to be a servant, and that ultimately gives you a feeling of power over the one you serve.

By the early 2000s, MMC was making such insane amounts of money that we started running out of ideas what to do with it. Even with virtually unlimited funds there were only so many newspapers, phone carriers, ISPs, and radio and TV stations you could buy. We were already dominating most media markets in the world, and most countries’ anti-trust laws prevented us from expanding much further. So what do you do if you cannot grow your market share any further? The answer to that is surprisingly simple: you grow the market.

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, the market had already grown considerably all by itself, due to the advent of the Internet. However, I was very adamant to ensure that MMC wouldn’t make the same mistakes that many of our competitors were making, and that was to throw billions of dollars at the emerging new media and pretending that the days of the traditional media were numbered. Everyone was so keen to take that huge leap into the 21st century that they completely forgot about the hundreds of millions of people in the developing world who—technology wise—hadn’t even reached the 20th century yet.

“Our problem in these countries,” I said to Mr Maddock one day, “is not the size of our market share, it’s the size of the market. In Zimbabwe we own 80% of the media, but we’re only reaching 5% of the population because most of the people can’t even afford a TV set, let alone electricity.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr Maddock said. “Poor souls.”

“And even those who can afford a TV set will never turn into loyal, long-term customers because they have a life expectancy of 37 years. The average person in Zimbabwe buys 0.12 TV sets in their lifetime. The average American buys almost a hundred times as many.”

“What are you saying, Pickle?”

“What I’m saying is that if we’re giving free or heavily subsidized cellphones to people in America and Europe so they can spend their money on using our services, then why not give free TV sets to the third world? And electricity. And better living conditions so they can live longer and remain our customers longer?”

Mr Maddock looked at me, still skeptical. “And how are we going to do that, Pickle? I can see how free TVs will work, but how do we raise the life expectancy in fucking Zimbabwe?”

“Education,” I said. “Education is the key to everything. Educated people will get better jobs, they will earn more money, they will be healthier, they will live longer, and they will be better and more profitable customers. We are making so much money at the moment. Isn’t it our holy duty as good Christians to help the poorest of the poor lift themselves out of their misery? Let’s build schools, let’s build wells, let’s build hospitals. Let’s build factories in the jungle and manufacture TV sets that are so cheap that even the labourers who assemble them in excruciating twelve-hour shifts for less than the minimum wage will be able to afford them. Let’s build our customer base for the next 50 years.”

“Are you done with your speech, Dr King?”

“Yes, Mr Maddock.”

“Good. Then shut the fuck up and get to work. Let’s do this.”

So that’s what we did. We set up the MMC Cares foundation, and we invested our profits in the future of the poorest countries in South America, Africa, and Asia. We gave them electricity and running water, we built hospitals, and we built schools. And when I say schools, I’m not talking about mud huts in the jungle with a few chairs and desks, a blackboard on a crumbling wall and a crooked sign above the door that read ‘School’ in scrawly letters. I’m talking about solid, bright, modern buildings with proper doors and floors and walls and windows, and with state of the art equipment that would put many a school in so-called developed countries to shame. I’m talking about a computer in every classroom, and I’m talking about the flagship of our education initiative, 92-inch flatscreen TVs—again, one of them in every classroom—with built-in access to thousands of hours of educational programming courtesy of MMC. We invested dozens of billions of dollars, but it was well worth it, because with those dozens of billions of dollars we bought our way right into the heads of a whole generation of hundreds of millions of kids and future customers. It went so well that we decided on taking that same concept to Europe and America. They get free computers and free 92-inch flatscreen TVs; we get access to millions of young, impressionable minds.

Mr Maddock and I spent most of the noughties travelling from one developing country to the next, him opening schools and libraries and hospitals, me staying in the background as always, pulling the strings and taking care of the business side of things. It was there in the background where I someday somehow dropped the ball, and the only reason I was able to forgive myself for dropping the ball was because my team captain picked it up and scored a game winning touchdown.

In hindsight the signs were all there. Mr Maddock insisted that every ceremonial opening of a new school or hospital he attended took place in the presence of a cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church. Local dignitaries, mayors, priests, not even bishops, were good enough for him.

“Pickle,” he said, “I’m not paying billions of dollars to have my picture taken with some obscure Ugandan parish priest.”

It always had to be cardinals he could shake hands with as he grinned into the cameras, and every cardinal he met he insisted on having a private dinner with. I wasn’t invited to these dinners, nor had I any interest in attending them. I was busy enough running our business as it was, and it didn’t occur to me that if Mr Maddock spent the evening with one of the highest dignitaries of the Church, these two old men would discuss anything else but the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. It didn’t occur to me that during all our visits to all those developing countries, Mr Maddock was not playing the Good Samaritan. He was running an election campaign, right under my nose, and I didn’t realize it.

It was a high gamble, bribing all those cardinals. Be aware that I’m using the word ‘bribe’ figuratively here, not literally, because there is no evidence that any of the money that MMC Cares spent went directly into the pockets of any of the cardinals involved. I cannot speak for what Mr Maddock did with his private money, but all our official payments are accounted for, and I can say with confidence that 100% of the money went into the building of schools, hospitals, libraries, and infrastructure projects.

We were making these investments with the future of the corporation in mind. At least that’s what I thought. Mr Maddock, however, didn’t care about the corporation. What he cared about was himself, his own future, and his own personal legacy. You’d think that if you’re running the biggest media corporation in the world and you’re one of the richest people on the planet, it would be enough of a legacy; that you’d be looking forward to sit back and relax and enjoy your retirement. But that wasn’t enough for Mr Maddock. He wanted more. He wanted to run the oldest institution in the world.

As I said, it was a big gamble, but it paid off. It just about paid off. After four weeks and five days, the longest conclave in over 200 years, Robert Maddock was elected Pope, and I became the new head of MMC which—I have to admit—helped to alleviate my anger over Mr Maddock’s coup. I had been running the corporation from behind the scenes for over three decades, so the only thing that really changed for me was my title, but I drew a great deal of satisfaction from the fact that neither MMC nor Pope Pius XIII ever would have existed if it weren’t for me and my relentless, dedicated work.

I had created a star, one of the biggest stars of all, and I found my greatest satisfaction in the knowledge that the biggest stars would inevitably come to an end one day in a supernova, a huge explosion that briefly but spectacularly outshines an entire galaxy of stars.

The Gospel According to Michael – 10

They locked us in one cell, Julian, Tummy, and myself, and Ginger in another. Four walls, no windows; a steel door, a steel toilet built into the wall, a steel sink, and two king-size mattresses on the floor; a broken neon light on the ceiling that kept flickering nervously all night long. They had stripped us of all our personal belongings; our wallets, our mobiles, even our belts and shoes. Only Julian was allowed to keep his notebook and a pencil after he convinced the guards that he wasn’t going to use it to stab himself.

 In broken English they had explained to us that the kind of public order disturbance we had created was a misdemeanour, not a crime, subject to an on-the-spot fine rather than a criminal charge. However, since we were all minors, they were legally obliged to keep us in custody until they had contacted our parents or legal guardians and someone came down to the police station to bail us out. We all gave them our parents’ phone numbers, got overcooked spaghetti in tomato sauce for dinner, and then we were led to our cells.

“I’m dead,” Tummy kept yammering as we settled down in our new temporary home. “I’m so bloody dead!”

We sat down on the mattresses on the floor with our backs against the cold stone wall, staring straight ahead. There was nothing else for us to do, except for Julian who fell into a frantic writing fit, scribbling down notes in his little black book.

“I’m so dead,” Tummy said again.

“You still sound pretty alive for a dead guy,” I said.

“Very funny, Michael. Your dad is smart. He’ll understand the difference between a misdemeanour and a felony. All me mum will see is that I got thrown into jail for disturbing a religious ceremony on St Peter’s Square involving the bloody Pope! I’m dead!”

“You didn’t even do anything. You were just standing there. You probably won’t even get fined. None of us will, except Jules.”

“Yeah, like me mum will care. I’m telling you, I’m
dead!
”

“I didn’t even realize I was singing,” Julian said.

I nodded. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sing when you’re not supposed to. Like, when we’re on TV and we’re just supposed to lip-synch and pretend-play our instruments for the cameras. You always sing along.”