Hello there! Yes, you. You must be the fabled fourth wall, right? I've heard of you guys, that you are always watching, analyzing. Are you wondering how I got here? Well, we'll get to that. First, introductions are in order.

I'm Sabazios. Or I was. Philosophical questions become quite real when one is dead. Like me. Pretty sure I'm dead. Here I am, floating in the void, disembodied. Below me lay I, cold and blue. The one furiously pumping my chest is Jason, and the other one stuck in the loop of Fuck!s is Joy. I wish they would shut up. Alas, like you, they can't hear me. Even if I could speak, I doubt they would notice in their franatic meltdown.

tl;dr - These freaking idiots kidnapped and killed me, and now they are fucked. And I am calm because I am a fucking ghost. None of those nasty neurochemicals for me, No Sir! Clean as a whistle. Now that the impactful hook is done, let's get into the meat and bones. Metaphorically.

About two months ago, a famous art critic and philanthropist confessed to money laundering, and running a human trafficking ring. Out of the blue, went missing for two days, then shows up at this police station asking to give a recorded testimony. And then, gone missing completely. Oh the drama.

So many rumors spread. Her testimony implicated everyone who's someone. Politicians, sports stars, CEOs, school teachers, airlines' crews, National Arts Academy... from top to bottom, a swamp was uncovered, and attempts at covering it up with sensational celebrity scandals and uncanny UFO press releases just weren't enough.

I would know. I was the one doing the damage control. To solve a problem, you only need two things - greedy hounds, and money to throw at them. Not this time though. Before I could get a handle on the narrative, another billionaire folded. The Rasta Pastor had a crisis of faith, denounced the doctrine of blunts and dough, melted down his fleet of private jets, and turned his mansions into housing for the homeless. Can you imagine? That shiny scumbag that never paid a cent in tip rehabilitating those deadbeat addicts from the goodness of his heart.

And then another. Shill Bates, the quasi slumlord and fake messiah turned into a real one. He even stopped strong-arming the third-world governments to let his friends fuck teenagers. Even paid taxes. Taxes!!!

Our world was unraveling. That's when I heard, through the grapevine, that the changes were fishy. I expected they were getting more from the deal, and I wanted in. How it galled to not be in the know! Respectfully, you wouldn't understand, I was the Kingmaker, the Media Magician, the one who embroidered this huge web of individual vulnerabilities so we could all eat well and protect each other. I was losing my leverage. Once the insider information is public, it is not even worth the electrical charge used to store it.

And so, with a renewed sense of purpose, I turned the dark underbelly inside out. I throw the best parties. Wonder if there's any parties for the dead. So many questions. Atleast I got some credible rumors spoken in confidence, telling of fortuitous encounters that led to the change of heart. Same story in each case, some sort of cult. Going AWOL for a couple of days is common for crooks, but not like this. No no.

Another month went by, more shitheads turned saints. They even got to my trusted news anchors and rage bait trolls, the very cogs of the machinery. Scandals after scandals. To be honest, I was glad. I was facing amateurs. Some successful but inexperienced group. After all, there can only ever be so much outrage that the puny minds can handle. The whole swamp stinks just as much as a bucket of it. The sheep even get used to it, roll in it. It does make them difficult to control. But nothing I couldn't manage.

And then they got me. Nabbed me from my own library. The fucking janitor and the gardener. Really? I still can't believe it. These NPCs. I would have burst a nerve and died on the spot had they not put a bag on me. Atleast I had the reprieve of imagining a maagnificent nefarious group.

Oh well. The rest is simple. We got here. These dumbasses stripped me of all possessions. No, they didn't strip me naked, you creep. I had decent clothes, but they kept me hungry, feeding two meals a day - simple yogurt, vegetables, bread, fruits, pasta. Not even wine.

I had no one to talk to either. I expected brainwashing. But no. Well, yes. There was this elevator music sometimes, and a guy giving meditation instructions. Which I eventually started doing, just to see what the deal was. I have done enough bait and switch to know that first few freebies are actually good stuff.

It was hard. No one to talk to, at all. One day, when I just broke down and screamed profanities at them, but no response. I blabbered to myself. Nothing. Sleep started eluding me. It was hard to know how long it had been. I started noticing how mad I was. Not becoming mad. No. I was becoming sane, seeing how mad I was. Madness. Being made aware of the sickness within you.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Scared, raving, angry, despairing, I broke down. I begged, I would given them anything. Everything. And it worked. Amateurs. They setup a table, three chairs, a nice tea. I couldn't even place the faces until they told me they worked for me. Apparently, a global movement of workers had orchestrated this.

"How did you guys do it?" I asked.

"We communicated."

"Don't sweet talk me with that mumbo-jumbo."

"Mr Price, have you ever truly communicated with someone."

"So that's your pitch?"

"I believe you believe that. But have you ever talked to a human being, and felt the connection, the upwelling joy of knowing one other than you experiences the world the same way, felt the same joy of existence, that words could never do justice, that you only take on faith that you feel, reaffirmed with each response. A communication without games. A communication that makes you realize how inherently flawed language and society is. A communication without lies, only realization of self and its limits."

"... Of course I have. You dare get glib with me.. How about you tell me your names? Huh, how about that, cowards!"

These shitheads didn't even flinch. Just sipped the tea and continued,

"I'm Jason, your garderner."

"I'm Joy, your janitor."

"I would have popped a vein. I swear. Never had such a lowly employee insulted me so. Me, the Kingmaker. I gulped the tea and slammed the cup down. Childish I know, but it felt nice. I did know about communication, more than these morons. You have to channel real emotions as you misdirect. If your heads spinning, you use it to blame it on the other guy. If you want to kill them, but they are more useful alive, channel that rage and regret elsewhere. The emotions need to felt, heard. It is the only way to see the light."

"That's amazing, Mr Price. You already know the way. Why did you never do that?"

"Huh? No, no, they weren't meant to hear that. I must get a grip."

"It is ok, Mr Price. Breathe."

"Saba, we are here for you. You are not alone. It's a promise."

"Noooooo!!! Get away. Why can't I stop? What's happening. No, no, I got it in control. I just need water. I just need to wrap my head around it."

"No, Dimon. Stop..."

Take that, you suckers. It felt good, taking all that burning liquid in, the whole kettle. Like a volcano in my chest. For a few moments, it hurt. I was back, in control, back in charge of the conversation. The horrified looks empowered me more.

"Now, you too, what's going on here."

"Mr Price, you just consumed an ancient psychoactive remedy to get in touch with your true self. It will be painful, but please try and work through it."

"Drugs? Really? Makes sense really, all those brats got hooked onto this new supply. Amateurs"

"Please, if you remember nothing, remember that-"

That's when the world moved. I wished I had heard what came next. I wished a lot in those agonizing ages I spent in the limbo. Years and years passing, me aging and fading, succeeding and getting bored, ruling the world and burning it to ashes. Every incarnation, the call came for me, the call to do good, and deep inside I felt that only dumbasses did that. No, I was never gullible. And so I broke the spell and lived a thousand lives.

I never was happy, in any of those lives. The raging hedonism was filling in for the simple, endless joy of existence. Once, I listened to the call. No, not the call to be a do gooder, the call to be myself. The real self. And how hard it was to be. Every step, the call bothered me, trying to bend me.

The call itself is a trap. Forcing me to be the son of the god, or pushing me into being the devil. I reject them both. When I realized this, I had been hanging over here.

I looked down, if you could call it that. I heard their lamentIt is all vibrations - the whole existence interpreting itself. The two on the floor, knowing full well they fucked up. And here I am, knowing they succeeded. I had been so afraid. All my life. Afraid of death. Afraid of being used. Of being ignored. Of being despised. Of being unimportant. Of being unloved. and yet, that is exactly what I was.

I understand the Rasta now. The others. They are not becoming good. They have become a true, untethered to the imaginary chains they bound others with, and themselves. The weakness, the insecurities, they were a cry for help. One I had buried. I was strong enough to need the weight of the world to push me down. And now, I am free. If only these two could know. They succeeded.