The Visionary enters the room, referred to in hushed, cryptic tones as the ‘Creative Space’. It resembles a space-age laboratory, strewn with devices of unimaginable intellectual capacity. The whole scene is achingly futuristic, like a Tokyo teenager gingerly breaking in his new MasturBot.
He pauses and shares a loaded glance with the chief technician. They nod and agree on something unknowable. They are both here for one thing – the results. This mythical brainscape is the home of the manager’s harvested intelligence. Facts and figures are compiled into something labyrinthine, only for the data to be crunched and crumbled to a level of stark purity, the better to decipher answers.
Clarification is sought, and will be found. This is The Visionary’s mission. The data breaks down the very essence of his men. Numbers catalogue the sum of their efforts over previous years, a litany of truths validate their very worth. He wants his men to be reduced from living, breathing entities, to a body of clinical, factual perception. He will use these numbers to construct an army, fortified by the profound tactical insight usually the domain of arbiters of war, leaders of men.
His technician starts the machine. A mere flip of a switch triggers a fusilade of computers to whir and buzz, crackling and pulsing with the future of The Visionary and his army. The machine, the sum of the efforts of so many, calculates their destiny, and will shape the war to come.
A green light engages, and the machine ceases, falling to rest as the results emerge from a printed sheet, which the technician retrives with trembling fingers. He readjusts his glasses in nervous acknowledgement of the importance of the answers held in his hand.
“Well?”, The Visionary asks, “What does it say?”
“It’s as we suspected, Mr. Allardyce. We need to lump the ball up top for the big man. There can be no other way.”
The results are snatched away from the technician’s clammy grasp. The Visionary checks the sheet, and finds the answer to be true.
“Very well. You know what must be done now.” he adds, handing over a gun.
“I know. It’s been a pleasure to serve this club, sir.” His shaking hand is jolted straight by the force of the bullet, which sends his brain spattering in congealed synapses over the machine.
“Someone get this shit tidied up!”, bellows The Visionary as he leaves, newly armed with fresh weapons of invention.