Akihito the Prophet of the Outlands had been the leader of a pack of dissident Melic half-breeds who had seen it fit to assert their religious freedom upon arriving in the lands outlying the borders of the Republic. Invoking a sense of rage that had been passed down to him through generation upon bitter generation of his bloodline, this vengeful demagogue took it upon himself to defy the Melic interpretation of Morellan scripture, in favor of his own self-serving perspective. He, thus, proclaimed himself the living incarnation of God and proceeded upon a journey through the desert by caravan of followers and faithful Holy Swordsmen to put all lands to fire and sword, until all cowered as they knelt before the glory of His Eminence Akihito and begged for His infinite mercy and compassion. The tribe battled fiercely through the Outlands, picking up new followers and spreading the word of the religion along the way, until their cultural influence began to encroach inward from all directions upon the borders of the Republic.
Akihito, however, was not just a brilliant military strategist, but also a charismatic diplomat and, most important of all, a born salesman. Life amidst the Melic half-breed carnies had taught him how to spot a Mark and lean on him well enough that he couldn’t possibly realize that he was giving more than he was getting. It was, thus, that his religious cronies had come to sell Akihito’s Oil, a snake oil scam concoction he claimed would bring all, who anointed themselves with it, closer to God. It wasn’t long before Akihito had a sales force more formidable in its arsenal than even his legions of Holy Swordsmen.
In fact, many of the soldiers from his holy wars, left with no more battles to fight and no gainful employment, were recruited into the sales force, trading their armor and weaponry for suits and briefcases. They were made to look presentable with impeccably shined shoes, hair slicked back with scented pomade, and cravats of such remarkable elegance that one could scarcely believe, upon first glance, that any of these men had known the untold horrors of war. Being presentable was only the first step in their metamorphosis. Yet, without considering these sorts of details, Akihito’s Oil would otherwise be a hard sell.
The next step was technique. The men, most of whom were illiterate, were given a sales manual with countless diagrams and visual aids that served to model for them effectively the proper way to make the approach, the friendly greeting, the importance of the smile, the art of schmoozing, the segue from establishing rapport to getting the Mark’s attention, turning attention into interest, pushing the Mark to make a quick decision with an incentive or fear appeal, and thereupon moving firmly and confidently together with the Mark across that divide that separates decision and action. The sales philosophy was simple: get the Mark onboard and build his brand loyalty to the point of utter devotion, until nothing in this life could possibly make him happier than the prospect of selling the product to his family and friends. When this became possible, the Mark was effectively engulfed and further absorbed by the pseudopodia of the sales organism and the Buyer and Seller fused together to become a solitary and distinct entity, alternating evanescently between one state and the other, according to the demands of the environment.
Naturally, the good PR afforded by this self-perpetuating methodology only served to propel the religion to incredible success and increase the size of Akihito’s sales force a hundredfold. As the scale of the organization grew, the sales infrastructure became multi-tiered in such a way that the supply chain was maintained between the seller and each of his buyers, allowing those higher up in the ranks to benefit greatly from the efforts of even the least proficient bottom-tier salespeople. The supply of Akihito’s Oil, too, never seemed to be a problem, given that whenever its ingredients were in short supply, the formula of the concoction was modified in such a way as to keep the costs of production low and profit margins at their maximum.
And yet, despite its overwhelming success, the precepts underlying Akihito’s take on the Morellan faith were unclear to most and, very likely, inconsequential, as the distribution of the Oil to as many people as possible became the profit-motivated rallying call. It was, after all, as a consequence of the team-building and motivational sales tactics they employed that Akihito’s Oil was finally able to have its inevitable Placebo Effect realized: as the binding force—the Glue, as it were—by which this particular social faction achieved its collective ends, however unclear these may have been. This lack of clarity, too, was more than adequately compensated for by an unmitigated Team Spirit that allowed all suffused with it to feel a glow of pride toward their individual contributions to the whole, a sense of animosity towards those who either rejected the Oil or failed to see it for the piety it brought to them, and an unwavering feeling of pity for those lost souls who were still, as yet, beyond reach.
This sense of social unity was further reinforced as Akihito saw the need to branch out from the core business and organize promotional festivals, camp retreats, and motivational speaking events. Bunnu had, in fact, on one occasion, inadvertently happened upon one such event while on a business trip, decades earlier, when he was still working for the RavanAlloy Mining Company, prospecting the Outlands for the purposes of identifying certain mineral-rich areas that could be transformed into mining colonies.
They had been travelling for days by riverboat, when one of his subordinates, a particularly sycophantic young go-getter by the name of Hanuman-13, spotted their tents amidst the dunes of iron scraps and began yammering uncontrollably about networking opportunities. Before Bunnu could so much as utter a word of protest, this waifish, small-boned toady had already jumped ship and started swimming for the banks, to the annoyance of all, leaving them with no choice, but to moor the boat and see what was going on.
The bank of the river had no soil, per se, but rather consisted of a collection of junk iron scrap that had been discarded over the years and had, thus, piled up in what had once been the sea to create the equivalent of an unintentional landfill, a piled mass that was still habitable, but not for any sustainable period of time. Bunnu instructed his men to set up camp, while he investigated the situation. However, upon making his way over a dune of scraps, he was irked to find that Hanuman-13 had run out ahead of him and was now being suspended by the collar by an enormous ogre of a man, clad in a business suit and horn-rimmed spectacles. In the clutches of this refined beast, the young corporate carnivore squirmed like an animal desperately trying to free itself from a snare. As he did this, another suit-clad beast stepped over to them, removed Hanuman-13’s shoes and socks and proceeded to anoint his feet with oil.
“You’ll notice…” the beast said as he rubbed oil on Hanuman’s feet, “that the oil rubs into the skin of the feet rather easily. It doesn’t take long at all…and do you feel that cooling sensation? Well, that’s the menthol—now don’t that make your feet feel fresh?” He turned to Bunnu, as if noticing him for the first time, “Hello, what’s this? It seems we aren’t alone. How goes it stranger? You lost?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Bunnu said. “We’re on an expedition.” He pointed at Hanuman-13, “…and I believe you are holding one of my men. Would you kindly let him go, so we can proceed on our way with our business?”
The beast holding Hanuman-13 by the collar looked indecisively to the other sales beast, who appeared to be either a supervisor from a higher tier in the organization (and hence his supplier) or his client on a lower tier (whose success in this transaction would inextricably be intertwined with his own)—the delineation between the two, of course, being something difficult to determine in an organization in which power relationships extended in both directions. Bunnu, unconcerned by the chain of command, repeated his appeal and added, “We have a tight schedule to maintain. We cannot afford to lose time.”
The beast put Hanuman-13 down and dusted him off, while the other put his shoes and socks back on, saying calmly, “A slave to working world, eh? No problem. I understand. Used to be there myself…but let me tell you, ain’t nothing beats the feeling of being your own boss. Hell, when y
ou have an opportunity staring you right there in the face, you find yourself wondering, ‘What do my actions say about me?’ I could jump at it and take the opportunity, but what’ll happen down the road? There’s bound to be a risk involved. And most assuredly, there is…in anything you do really. But you never really know, do you? It might be worthwhile…” He looked up and flashed a bright smile at Bunnu. “The other option is to stay the course. What does that say about me? Well, I’m aware of the risks involved and I choose not to partake. Nothing wrong with that. It’s the more conservative route. You gain nothing, you lose nothing. But then, everything comes with a cost. An opportunity cost, mind you! You have to wonder if you are getting the most for your time and effort. A lost opportunity is a liability, in and of itself.”
“What are you getting at?” Bunnu pulled Hanuman-13 to his feet and put him in a headlock. The sales beast looked down at Hanuman’s head and back at Bunnu.
“I’m talking about freedom, good sir—the ability to determine your own destiny. Is that what you seek?”
“I dunno. I didn’t think that sort of thing was possible.”
“Well, try to imagine, then. You have your days to do with as you please.”
“What difference would that make?”
“Well…you said so yourself. You are a slave to the working world and-“
“I didn’t say that, you did.”
“Yes, well, you have a boss, do you not? Someone you have to answer to?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppo-“ the sales beast fell silent for a moment. He pulled a tiny notebook out of his pocket and a pen from the breast pocket of his coat. His eyebrows furrowed as he flipped through the notebook, scanning each page carefully. Finally, upon reaching the page he was looking for, he marked something with his pen and nodded with a smile. “Sorry about that, sir. OK…perhaps I’ve approached this all wrong. Let’s look at this from another perspective. Imagine I held in my hand the key to a safe containing enough money to allow you to live as luxuriously as you like until the end of your days. A limitless cash flow that only you would have access to. Imagine that…OK?”
Bunnu sighed impatiently. “Sure…”
“So, how far would you go to get that key from me? What would you be willing to do?”
“I dunno. Why do I want the key again?”
“You know…the money in the safe! You’re set up for life if you—uh…w-well…if you have that key.”
“So, I have to ask you for the key?”
“Well…hopefully we both want it bad enough that simply asking wouldn’t do.”
“But you have it…”
“Precisely…”
“OK.” Bunnu shrugged. “Well, it was nice meeting you. I think Hanuman and I will be on our way.” He smacked Hanuman on the top of his head and reprimanded him, “No more of these networking detours, OK?”
And so they returned to the boat.
Duty