Free The Diabolical Conspiracy by Bryan Smith Page B

himself at war with the legions of spoiled, entitled assholes out there. Most of them figured they could get something for free if they screamed loud enough, and maybe they could if they lucked into talking to a newer--and more easily intimidated--rep. But Mike was a battle-hardened veteran of the customer service wars and would not put up with that shit. Every now and then someone would call in with a legitimate gripe. Those were equally easy to instantly recognize and, funnily enough, those people were usually far calmer than the sanctimonious, screeching pricks he had to deal with much of the time. He was happy to accommodate the people in this sadly smaller category of callers, and he treated them with the respect they deserved. But when it came to the screamers, he did not fuck around. He allowed them to scream and vent for as long as they liked--and often that was a very long time indeed--but he never budged from the position he knew to be right.
    It was a tough, hard-earned mindset.
    So it was a pity that mental toughness didn’t carry over into certain other areas of his life, such as dealing with the Diabolical Conspiracy. That was how he thought of it in his head, with capital letters--with the same emphasis all the other conspiracy members used when they spoke the name aloud. He followed their lead in that regard, just as he did with every other aspect of cult membership. But every day he wrestled with the urge to stand up and take some kind of action against the group. His conscience told him he should do something. Maybe even take his story to the cops, as daunting as he found that prospect.
    The mayor’s disappearance was big news and the source of endless speculation. The host of theories offered up covered a wide spectrum of highly unlikely fates for a small city mayor. Some posited that Donnie Wilkerson had been the target of a Jimmy Hoffa-style mob hit, while others said he had split town with a secret mistress and a stash of embezzled city funds. It didn’t matter that there was no evidence to support any of this. The media abhors an information vacuum--particularly when the vacuum exists at the center of a major story--so sometimes it simply manufactures “facts” of its own. Mike found it morbidly amusing that none of the wild stories circulating even approached the sheer insanity of the truth.
    He could put a stop to it all any time. Today, even. Right now. He was thinking of this yet again as he finally exited the call center and trudged across the now half-empty parking lot toward his car. Though there was a veritable sea of open spaces now, his car was where he’d left it early this morning, at a very distant corner of the lot. The first shift was always the most fully staffed and the lot had been nearly full then. There was a lot of noise and bustle in the morning as his co-workers hurried to make it inside and be ready at their desks before the start of their shifts. Now, though, all was eerily quiet. The dismal gray sky overhead and the slight nip in the air contributed to an atmosphere of oppressive gloom. It made him uptight. And paranoid. He glanced over his shoulder more than once, half-expecting to see Diabolical Conspiracy spies shadowing his every move. Which was absurd, but he couldn’t help it. Ever since that disturbing morning drive with Marnie following his first conspiracy meeting, a large part of him had felt like he was living in a deeply strange satanic version of an espionage novel.
    And, yes, he could put a stop to it any time.
    Today , he reminded himself yet again.
    Right now.
    Soon he would be behind the wheel of his car, engaged again in that most liberating moment of his work day routine. Ensconced once more inside his own vehicle, he would feel free again, unburdened at last of all the daily stresses that were part and parcel of his profession. He was no longer tethered to a desk. He could go wherever he wanted. Home. To the store for groceries. Or to a bar or a movie.