Varlorg the Valium Dreamer (The final salt)

Do you know what it's like when a particular presence enters the vicinity? A cool breeze, an electric shiver down your spine and through your feet, a wafting of powerful fumes. He made good on all of the typical specifications, but took special note of his own personal space. It was his, he knew this, and no other person could possess it. This, as it was known to him, everybody was acutely aware of. So aware in fact, that tears of frustration were common. He wore a shirt that bear his name. Dr. Schimazal was responsible for his creation, and Karmichael P. Krammenheim was greatly indebted to him. They both spoke the 3 languages. The languages that are so often heard in each Starbucks and Crate and Barrels across America. The three languages that contained all of the known correct information. The languages that produced the modern idyllic children that we've come to depend on for our future. Some people, naturally, as with German, Spanish, Mandarin, etc., don't understand the language. They can't hear it. They get confused. The modern tribesman spoke their languages. They reversed it on occasion, to create a public spectacle mostly.

Karmichael entered his 6000 square foot home after driving through the relative maze of roads, meant to intimidate and bewilder potential opponents as well as deter non-speakers from entering his realm. He pushed play on his answering machine to listen to his 17 messages. He simultaneously drank fresh lemonade from an over-priced glass pitcher. He still maintained a land line and answering machine specifically so he could do this, and so that everyone who might stop by would see that he had accumulated a respectable amount of messages (sometimes as many as 50!). Sadly, only two messages were personal - one from mother and the other from John Weir, his patent attorney who had never actually been utilized. The remaining messages informed him of debt relief, boxes of staples for sale, and donation possibilities to the highway patrol. Karmichael went to sit down on an over sized sofa meant for 10.

He drifted off into a waking slumber and thought about the local intelligencia: the mayor, the neighbors, etc. He knew of several classes. The dumb, blundering their way through existence, attracting the prime attention of local advertisers and those seeking to bolster the amount of thought diversions in order to control them which they stood little chance to resist, the extremely intelligent, who fell into three classes themselves: those that absorbed a high quantity of information and pressed others into their molds, those that became sharers of information, and those that drifted apart from the rest in response to the general mayhem created by the others - the amount of absorbed information being too much for their psyche to handle comfortably. They knew too much. Karmichael sat at the top of this mess, or at the bottom depending on your frame of reference. His language was not universal, yet it held the most power. His language was the one that created the structure. All of his rivers would always remain. All those that proceeded would have to live by his example. This is the way it had always been. Past cultures without the ability have been imploded based on its simple but effective measures. He looked at his watch, then the symbol on the wall that completed his thought always. The hinge on his head, like new, opened automatically at 6:30 pm daily. A pipe extended down from the ceiling and dropped two doses of valium directly onto his brain. This put him back into his rightful position somewhere in the upper tier, and he opened his strategy book. Prior to Dr. Schimazal involvement, nervous breakdown was inevitable. Only now could he utilize his language and thus return to prominence. Varlorg the Valium Dreamer, forever snuffed out an otherwise miserable existence.