Having read the manuscript several times over, he was convinced that they had a winner. This Chris Banks was some writer, that was for sure. It was a cleverly crafted tale of a man tired of society’s ills, fighting against the notion to conform to what was "correct," and tired of the abuse he received at the hands of his boss. All he wanted to do was rest.
But one day this man decided that enough was enough, loaded his machine gun, walked into a McDonald’s restaurant and proceeded to murder 25 people. The story went on to explain the complications of the court case and it’s relation to the infamous "black rage" defense.
"Rhonda, get Mr. Banks on the phone for me." He looked at the time. It was but a quarter-past-two. He smiled at himself. This was going to be a big one and he would finally have something big to show for his ten years as "Jon Goldman, Publisher."
"Hello, Mr. Banks? Yes, why don’t you come down over. There’s stuff we need to discuss. What was that? Ok. Good. I’ll see you at four then."
Chris Banks was excited. This was his big break. Chris was a very smart man who had been plagued with bad luck. He did not finish his college education, honors student that he was, due to financial difficulty. As a West-Indian immigrant he was ineligible for student loans, and the tuition increase of 70% knocked him flat out. Having struggled for several years working odd-jobs, mostly under-the-table stuff, Chris had finally gotten one of his manuscripts read by an established publisher. Chris did his toiletry duties in a hurry, singing "what a wonderful day" as he showered. Chris Banks was excited.
"Chris Bank’s novel is a modern-day opera. It is woven with an incredible thread which reveals more than the story; indeed it tells of the inner workings of the mind of a genius. While it borders on the unrealistic, it is yet another indication of where our society is headed. Chris Banks is, indeed, the George Orwell of our times."
Frank Rizzo
NY Times.
"The Wilmington Massacre" was now number one on the NY Times bestseller list, and its sales were increasing exponentially. Chris Banks had, in less than a year, become a symbol of intellectual authority, explaining to all who would listen, the deeper nuances of a book; a work reflective of a society gone astray. And boy was he enjoying it.
It was better than he could have planned. All that remained was the final chapter, as of yet, unknown to the general public. He looked at the itinerary. What an irony. He was going to speak in a town called Wilmington. He knew the day would come. He was a bit nervous. He had a bad feeling about the trip, but he was bound by contract and couldn’t cancel due to intuition. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances. He was going to be safe. He looked at his materials and placed them securely at the bottom of his luggage.
The plane landed in Wilmington an hour after takeoff. It had been a bumpy flight, and this in no way made Chris Banks feel better about the situation. The good news is that it was a private jet. They’d actually rented a private jet for him. Yet he was uneasy. Maybe he should not go ahead as planned. But it was too late. Amongst a ton of others, the university student representatives were there at the airport to meet him. He couldn’t back-off now.
"Mr. Banks, hi, I’m Harry Matthew. I’m the president of the U of W Student Association and on behalf of the student body, allow me to welcome you and extend our deepest appreciation for your choosing our school as the site for your speech." Chris Banks grimaced.
He absolutely detested people like this. They were just spineless worms, looking to conform to something; looking for a cause to fight for. "Nice to meet you," he nodded his approval. After the customary short-talk, smiles and cameras, Chris was driven to his hotel downtown. How could a small town like this have a downtown, he wondered. It was just like three giant suburbs pushed together, Wilmington.
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