“What if I could tell you exactly what my next thought will be? Would you believe me?”

Library orders came a few days ago, but I hear it usually takes an extra two weeks for the jail to put together our requested books and bring them to the section.

Dan passed me a book that had been passed to him and told me to read it. I’m a few chapters into Swan Song by Robert McCammon and I’m hooked immediately. I feel immersed in the wild apocalyptic landscape and alternating storylines.

I hop off my bunk around eleven o’clock to pee, and as I’m sitting there, Vaughn asks me an odd question.

“You ever wonder why football and America go hand in hand?”

“Probably because we’re tribal, competitive, and have a lot of stress in our lives, so we look forward to a common entertainment source that creates camaraderie among peers. That’s why,” I say, twisting my body to flush the toilet by pressing the button behind me.

He blinks dramatically while waiting for the roaring whoosh of the toilet to end, then gives a short chuckle. “That’s deeper than what most people think. Most just believe it’s a distraction, or it’s run by Vegas for gambling. But what I’m talking about is the system behind it, the whole operation with the thirty-two team owners.  It goes deeper than simply owning the franchises because they represent the pipelines of our country.” He opens his eyes wide before continuing. “Wanna hear something really wild?”

Wild? I think to myself how wild it is that I’m here right now living in this tiny bathroom with another human, with no concept of time. I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. In fact, I don’t even have another court date for three months. So what if I stay up until 2am listening to my celly ramble on? It’s a different world at night, one I’ve come to cherish. Because there’s a semblance of peace. I often listen to the resting quietness, except for the occasional distant chatter coming from a neighboring cell. Echoing voices, or a toilet flushing of course. Always a toilet is flushing.

“Hellllo?” Vaughn asks, pulling me back to the present and away from spiraling thoughts.

“Oh yeah, sure. Let’s hear whatcha got.”

He sits up on the bunk and starts rubbing his calloused hands together.

“K, so—”

“Queso? Is this going to be a wild story about cheese?” I can’t help myself that the puns come naturally.

“Don’t get smart with me right now. This is serious, and it’s not just about football.”

I almost mock his intensity but catch myself. I still want to be respectful, at least for now.

“And what exactly are they trying to preach, pray tell?”

“It’s allll about the C-word,” he says. “Control.”

Oh, it’s going to be one of those kinds of conversations. “Control of what?”

“Control of the people.” Then he drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And of course, their behaviors. Just look at the stadiums.”

“The stadiums?”

“The stadiums. They work as testing labs for just about everything. Think about the face scans at the gate, and how they use digital tickets to track your every move. And don’t forget about what is literally above everyone’s heads, just like out there.”

He points outwards towards the section. “Cameras everywhere, running their little tracking algorithms. They never have to blink either; they watch every motion of how eighty thousand people move. Then they run a bunch of mini tests that show peoples reaction times following commands, like when the jumbotron tells them to download the app for some slim chance at a prize. Think about it! It’s all social engineering in a controlled environment with willing participants. And I think what they’re doing, is preparing for the next time the peasants try and revolt.”

No doubt my celly here has been tripping balls on some LSD at a football game before.

“I’m pretty sure everything you just described is designed to squeeze maximum profit from eighty thousand peasants walking into those billion-dollar stadiums. Sports money is big money these days. By the way, have you ever taken mushrooms and gone to a football game by chance?”

 “Haha very funny, but no, after everything I know, there’s no way I’m ever going into any big sports stadium.” He shakes his head back and forth, his hair slapping him in the face each time. “’Sports money’ like you said, is just a drop in the bucket compared to what these guys have combined. Start with Jones and his oil ties obviously.” He pries his index finger out of a tight fist.”  The Walton family run all the supply chains.” Now he pries his middle finger out. “Kroenke’s in real estate, The Glazers, Krafts, Maras control banks, telecom, media.” After running out of fingers to pry out, he starts tapping the tips of every finger with his thumb. “Every owner’s got some organ or function that makes up the body of our once great nation.”

That last part actually gets my attention. This guy sounds a bit nuts, but some nuts are healthy for mental digestion.

“Keep going...”

He takes a sip of sink water full of trace metals before continuing.

“The media’s always spread the same story at the same time. Who do you think really owns Disney, Comcast, and AT&T?”

“Like the CEOs and shareholders?”

“Not so much the CEOs, but the shareholders yes. The all-important stock market, centered around the big three: BlackRock, Vanguard, State Street. They are absolutely everywhere with their majority ownership in every publicly traded company worth over a certain amount. Can’t you start to see how everything starts to connect!? The owners sit in those skyboxes with the same people who control the media narrative. They’re not rivals or even enemies! They all work together!”

I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to make foil hats out of Ramen packets next. Flavor: spicy cheddar and coo-coo.

“That’s a big leap over the nest from football to the illuminati you know that, right? I think the big money people are just really good at getting richer. There are too many moving pieces and too much competition for all those guys to actually work together. You know what I’m saying?”

Vaughn doesn’t get the subtle reference I slipped in there at the beginning. I love doing that to people like him in conversation, just to test how much they are listening, versus waiting to speak again. “Then explain why exactly the Pentagon sponsors the ‘Salute to Service’ with flyovers and soldiers running flags across the field. Football is training people to love war and violence as much as any Saving Ryans Privates movie.”

“Hahaha, I think you meant to say Saving Private Ryan.”  He has an interesting point I’ve never considered, but it’s just a little too far-fetched for me to buy into.

“No. I meant the porno.” He rolls his eyes. “Of course that’s what I meant.”

Instead of responding, I just squint at him.

“Call me crazy, but this is warfare. And you know what the only true war they truly care about?”

“Which war is that?”

 “The class war.”

I squint at him again while my mind tries to digest the hazelnuts he’s feeding me.

“Hmm, not very classy,” I joke. “But why? Why tell me all of this shit? It’s not like it’s going to change anything.”

Sitting on his bottom bunk, he leans back against the wall with a flat smile and sighs. “Because you’re listening. Most people don’t shut the fuck up or take the time to hear. But you do. I can see it in your eyes, we’re the same”

His smile... He thinks he knows me and that I know he’s onto something. What exactly that is, I’m not sure yet. I’m still confused just trying to understand how he leaps from here to there with such thin logic about who they are. I take a seat on the metal table in the corner and hunch over into a thinking man's pose, chin on fists.

 “What about the majority of fans who never go to a stadium? Only a tiny percentage of people actually show up in person. Most watch from their couch, or at the bar, so what about them?”

Vaughn is ready with answers before the last Y leaves my mouth.

“There we go, now you’re thinking!” The TV experience and the commercials tell the full story.”

He taps his temple twice with two fingers.

“You think commercials are just about sales? No way. They’re all about moooood. Most of the time, they shove messages into people without saying so outright. It’s all about your feelings. They program how people are supposed to feel about the country, themselves, and even their neighbors. Ultimately, they’re slapping on a label on what they choose to pedal as ‘normal’.”

When it comes to marketing, I think he’s mostly right about the feelings part.

“Watch how every commercial break follows a pattern starting with happy happy happy, family and flags, togetherness, warm music with a bunch of smiles. Then the second ad changes to anxiety and worry, showing accidents, insurance, or pharmaceuticals with a bunch of ‘you should talk to your doctor if’. Lastly a third ad about beer, wine, vacations, something to do with relieving stress. Because that’s the end of the mood control cycle that leaves you feeling a certain way for what they choose to show you next. And that next thing is not always a product to buy. Sometimes it’ a message.”

I try to remember if what he’s saying is true. I’ve never considered if there is an order like what he’s pointing out. And how does he find time to breathe when there is no space between his words?

“I can see the broad concept of what you’re saying dude, but I found a big hole in your theory. Every insurance commercial is funny, or I should say tries to be funny. When I think about it, almost every insurance company tries to make you laugh. Geico with the ‘so easy a caveman can do it’ thing, Progressive with Flo and her gaggle of idiots, Allstate ‘preventing mayhem like me’, and yeah... I don’t know man.”

“Look underneath all the humor,” he says, cutting me off. “All of them talk about ‘switching’ and ‘save hundreds with us versus them.’ It keeps the insurance scam alive while spiking your anxiety about bills, reminding you that you don’t have as much money as you think you need. The feeling still fits into the second category you know?”

Oh jeez, he can literally plug in anything just to fit his narrative. This is actually interesting just to see how someone can twist things to make evidence for what they already believe. But if he draws out the word “feeling” one more time, I’m probably gonna snap.

“Interesting, very interesting.”

Vaughn lies back down, settling again into the thin mattress.

“Control by comfort, my friend. They can control way more with comfort than with brute force.”

The vent kicks on and I feel the chilly air blowing in, keeping us all from ever getting too comfortable.

“If they can use comfort as control so easily, why’s it so damn uncomfortable in here then?”

Vaughn closes his eyes for the night.

“Because it’s cheaper to use force only after you’ve given your rights away.”

The cell feels so much smaller suddenly, all because my perspective just shifted after absorbing the impact of that last sentence.

“That should give you something to take your mind off your worries in here for a while,” he says, probably expecting a thank you.

But I only want to thank him for not saying the word feeling again. Instead of saying anything, I climb up on my bunk and stare at the ceiling, watching my thoughts swirl around. I reflect on the cringy exchange between me and Officer Parker after my dropped pass. I think about how different my last two cellys have been, and how many more I’m yet to have. I think about what Vaughn told me and wonder if there really are powers behind the scenes directing society like sheep. I wonder if God put them in charge, or if their work is the devil’s. I wonder if I’m going to hell for all eternity because of the accident. I wonder what my brain’s going to make me dream about tonight. Which reminds me that I need to take my Zyprexa. Otherwise, how will I be able to sleep?

{“You’re going to hell for what you did.”}

What? What was that? It just felt like there was someone else’s voice inside my head.

{“……”}

I hear Vaughn snoring, so I can’t ask him if he heard it. Either that voice came from another cell, or I am actually starting to go crazy. I think I need to pop an extra pill tonight.