For the Love of Money

Chapter 8

"Let me ask you a question: how do you engage a crowd of millions?"

I looked at the man and glared. Hell, I didn't know. Millions was a lot, a lot more than I could take it with a baseball bat. I knew when it came to speech-making, people were entranced by passionate, emotion speakers with perfect linguistics and syntax and whatever, but that was it. I didn't need anyone to help me with that. Especially not this guy.

We were in a large spacious room, with padded gray walls and a carpeted floor.
There were two lights: one was at the front of the room, and the other was at the back. Both were annoyingly bright.

After eating, I had still had three hours of time to myself, time that I spent doing push-ups, sit-ups, and falling asleep again because I was so exhausted. I awoke not in my room, but in here, with those stupid lights leaving imprints on my retinas. Most people would be upset and shake it off, but I was particularly pissed due to the fact that I hated to be moved without my prior knowledge. And the guy had been watching me, which definitely seemed creepy and intrusive. Being on the street does that I guess, but it made me feel invaded.

One thing was for sure, though. I was going to give this man a hard time.

I sat on a foldable chair and stared down the middle-aged man with a slight gut, my arms crossed. I decided not to answer.

Clearly uncomfortable, the man licked his lips and started to walk around. "Well, maybe you don't know. I wouldn't judge you, you know."

I didn't change my stance or answer him.

"I wouldn't, I swear," he muttered, gripping his glasses. "Not everyone is as open as they think."

"True. Especially not me," I said coldly.

"Well," he said, smacking his lips, "that's what we want to change today. We want to make you access the souls of every man, woman, and child you talk to. We want you to change lives. To inspire. To create allies." He lowered his head and stared up at me. "To make enemies."

"Because I definitely need more of those," I said cynically.

"There are three aspects you need to have to do that," the man continued, ignoring me. "The first is relatability. People will listen to you if they find you to be similar to them. You need to get on the people's level and make them understand that you and them aren't that different."

"We couldn't be more different," I said harshly. "They're rich, I'm poor. They're brainless, I'm not. I have to to salvage for food and maul men, they get everything they want and need on a silver platter. There is no way I can relate to them."

"That's not exactly true," the man said. "You have one thing in common: you're both smart."

"I have a hard time believing that they--"

"Wait, hear me out. I don't mean smart in terms of strategy and tactics. I mean education. School."

"So you expect those pigs to suddenly like me because we both learned that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell?"

"Work with me here, Devin. Why do those of higher status look down on people like you? I'll tell you why. Because they think you're beneath them. They see you as uneducated, violent animals who know nothing more than the basic human instinct to live and hunt and kill to survive. You're not like that. At least not completely." He smiled. "You are educated. You're conscious. You aren't like what they thought you should be. To them, you would be an anomaly."

"And somehow this makes me relatable," I said flatly.

"It does! You both have common ground. If they can hold on to anything from your speech to them, they'll hold to that. That you're not a fool. Do you agree?"

I shrugged.

"Okay then. Moving on, the second aspect that you need to have is consistency. You can't flip flop. You're one way and one way only. If you're not consistent, people are going to doubt you know what you're talking about."

I rolled my eyes. At least I could admit that I was pretty consistent. I don't typically deviate from what I believe, but in this case what I believed in spat on the face of what the pigs believed in. There was no way they'd accept me for being consistent, not with my message.

"You have to stay true to what you say. Don't deny something that people know you've said, done, or whatever. They will tear you up if you do that. At the same time, don't fess at something you didn't say. Defend yourself."

I sighed. "How does this relate to my speech or whatever?"

"Because your speech will spark controversy," he replied softly. "And people are going to start to bear arms and fight you. You have to know what to say, how to defend yourself. Or they will chew you up and spit you out. You have to know how to handle that."

"I watched a group of boys murder a kid once," I said flatly. "It was my birthday. I'd just turned nine, and I remember being so hungry that I could have passed out. My parents had left me, just a couple months before. I still wasn't sure of how to live by myself. So I started to trail this small group of teenage boys in hopes that they'd sleep and leave some food lying around or whatever, and one day, while I was hiding behind a corner, I saw them find a mother and son. I guess the boys were hungry too, because all I could hear were threats. 'Give me this or I'll kill you.' 'Throw that or I'll murder you.' 'Strip or I'll gouge your son's eyes out.' Eventually they got tired of the woman and just beat her to death. Crowbar...and then she was dead. Then they got to the son. Poor kid. He couldn't even move. Just kept staring at mom like he expected to her to wake up or something. She didn't. The dudes cornered him, beat him the hell up. Then one drew a gun and shot the kid in the head. Blam. Like that. He fell over like a sack of rocks."

The man was looking at me with nothing but pure horror in his eyes. "Why...why did you tell me--"

"So you could shut up about me having to be able to handle the pigs," I snapped angrily. "As if I couldn't handle people like them. I've watched murder since I was boy. I think I can handle some big-headed critic with nothing but time and hatred to spread."

He swallowed once, twice, and regained his composure. I had an urge to laugh. "Well, a-anyway, the third aspect you need is personality. Make yourself likable. Make the people want to listen to you. Make them want to help you, be friends with you."

"That's definitely going to happen," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Look, at least try to work with me here. You have tomorrow to prepare for this and that's it. We should be doing everything to make you ready to speak to the people. Please. Be open with me."

I scoffed and folded my arms. At the very least, he did gain the guts to comment on my sour attitude. I could give him that. "Well, the only little 'attribute' you named that I have is consistency. And since I consistently hate everything the upper class stands for, I think it works more to my disadvantage. What now?"

"That's not true. Not exactly. You do happen to have a little of every attribute. We just have to make them shine."

"If you think I'm somehow relatable, positively consistent, and personable to the audience, you must be as deranged as you look," I said in an attempt to be nicer. I wasn't good at that kind of thing.

"You are relatable. Like I said earlier, you have their education and wits, something they will have to respect. And you're consistent. Maybe not in the way they will like you to be, but at least you won't have to worry about flip-flopping. And personality...well, we can work on that."

I chuckled just a bit and folded my arms. "Let's get this over with then. I'm bored."