Cons & piracy theories

Earl Fowler

Scene 1: A Foggy Night in the City

The camera pans across a rain-slicked street, neon lights reflecting off puddles like ghosts in a cemetery. Seen through wooden blinds evoking Dashiell Hammett, the night is thick with conspiracy theories, smog and aging hipsters. The voice of our weary, cynical detective, Marlowe, fills the air. It’s gruff. It’s tired. But it’s sharp as the edge of a broken hip flask.

Marlowe (V.O.)

You know how they say nothing happens by accident? That everything is connected? That the government is lying and nothing is how it seems? Well, in my line of work, I wish there were a little more accident and a little less connected. ’Cause here in the Naked City, everything means something, and the only thing that’s clear is that no one’s ever clear on what any of it means.

Cut to:

Marlowe (late 30s, trench coat, unshaved, holding a half-empty bottle of bourbon) sitting at his desk, staring at a pile of case files. His eyes are bloodshot. A steaming mug of coffee sits untouched in front of him, next to an empty cigarette pack. A cigarette dangles from his lips, though he hasn’t bothered to light it yet. He’s done this a thousand times before. Seems to be a man who knows his way around a Snickers bar. Any bar, really.

Marlowe (V.O.)

It started with a dame in a red dress, but then again, don’t they all? She walked into my office like the sea into a Caribbean littoral and begged me to find a missing cat. Or was it a dog? Maybe it was both. Hell, it might’ve been a gerbil. Nothing was what it seemed, and I had the gut feeling this case would end with more questions than answers.

The door opens. A woman walks in. Her silhouette looks like something out of a B-movie — Schindler’s B-list maybe — but Marlowe’s seen it all before. She has the air of someone who can see Russia from her house.

They say there are two stages in life. Youth and “you look great.” Her name is Miss Lynn Jones and she looks great.

Miss Jones

I need your help, Detective Marlowe. My … my cat’s been taken. Or my dog. Or maybe both. Definitely not a gerbil. Not since Richard Gere blew town. Anyway, I think they were pawns in a bigger plot.

Marlowe glares defiantly, like Dylan with his Stratocaster at Newport in ’65, not buying the melodrama. Or wearing a black leather jacket.

Marlowe

Sounds like a pretty purr-fect crime, sweetheart. What is this? Law and Order: Cuddle Victims Unit? But let me guess — this is no ordinary pet-napping, huh? Someone’s pulling the strings behind the scenes, trying to distract us with some cute little furballs while the real game is going down?

Miss Jones

Exactly. You see, it’s all connected. The Illuminati — the pedophile sex ring involving prominent politicians, billionaire donors and pizza parlours — they’re behind everything. They’re always watching. Are you just going to sit there, enjoying your life? Or are you going to do something about it?

Marlowe (leaning back in his chair)

You’re telling me the highest levels of the Deep State are orchestrating pet-nappings now? That’s a new one. Maybe I can add some emojis?

Miss Jones

They’re eating the dogs. They’re eating the cats. But it’s more than just the pets! It’s the food supply, the media, the subway tunnels, the traffic lights down on Rue Morgue Avenue ... it’s all part of the plan. They’re behind everything, Detective. You just have to check the boxes and connect the dots.

Marlowe chuckles, taking a swig from the bottle.

Marlowe

Yeah, well, honey, I’ve checked so many boxes in my day, I’m starting to look like a connect-the-dots puzzle. Let me guess. If I follow the right trail and my mind hasn’t been clouded by fluoride in the water system, it’ll lead me straight to Oz the Great and Terrible, the mastermind who wears sunglasses at night and orchestrates everything from behind a curtain by controlling the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund, fomenting gender confusion, inventing plan-demics and using wildfire-causing space lasers to spread the Chinese climate change hoax. Oh, and mustn’t forget — we’ve all been imprinted with mind-control computer chips shaped like the Star of David.

Miss Jones leans in, intense as a flight attendant on Buddy Holly Airways.

Miss Jones

That’s exactly it. It’s bigger than you think, Detective Sheeple. It’s always bigger. Ever wonder why the government never investigates missing socks? Why the Eiffel Tower looks like a giant antenna? Why Skinner gives up those beach ball rebounds? You have to wake up! The answers are right in front of you!

Marlowe stares at her for a long moment, trying to decide whether to laugh or just keep drinking. He takes another swig.

Marlowe

Yeah, I’ve had that feeling. But I’ve also had a lot of people come into my office telling me they’ve seen the Virgin Mary in their cereal bowls. Look, lady, I don’t know if there’s an Illuminati, a lizard people conspiracy, or a sock conspiracy, but I do know this: Whenever someone in the world tells a lie, Karoline Leavitt gets a royalty. Someone’s got your pet — or your pet’s cousin — and I’m gonna find out who.

Miss Jones seems satisfied for a moment, then narrows her eyes as if she just uncovered another secret.

Miss Jones

Whom. And you don’t get it. You’re not just finding a pet. You’re finding the key to everything. The missing link. The last puzzle piece. The Fibonacci Sequence. The only question is, can you handle the truth?

Marlowe sighs, massaging his temples. He’s starting to regret taking this case.

Marlowe (V.O.)

Great. Now we’re throwing in Fibonacci numbers, too. Next thing I know, she’s gonna tell me the pigeons in the park are monitoring my brainwaves. But something about her eyes, that burning look like she knew more than she was saying, told me I wasn’t going to get out of this without tasting both that lipstick and a conk on the head by a Colt M1911.

Scene 2: The Conspiracy Unfolds

Marlowe follows a trail of seemingly unrelated events: a missing sock at a laundromat, a strange symbol etched into the side of a building that could be either a tie-dyed version of a pre-Columbian Space Invaders headcloth or a spot of extremeophile algae shaped like Pete Hegseth ordering a halt to cyber security operations against Russia, a random pigeon with a band on pink dinosaur feet bearing top-secret American nuclear codes. All the while, Marlowe can’t shake the feeling that everyone is in on something he’s not — something bigger, darker.

He stumbles across a shadowy figure in an alley. The figure is wearing an expensive suit and a tie with a symbol that looks like a cross between a dollar sign and an eye.

Marlowe

Doctor Moreau, I presume? Deep Throat? P.T. Barnum? You’re the one pulling the strings for the mystical Männerbund cult in the continuing Knights Templar struggle against soy, bossy women, migrants and low-testosterone “bug men.” Especially soy.

The figure smiles, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth. He looks like someone tried to whittle Joey Buttafuoco out of John Bobbitt’s severed member but gave up halfway through. He looks like someone who just kissed Fredo on both cheeks. Late-period Elvis comes to mind.

The Man in the Suit

Marlowe, Marlowe, Marlowe. Always one step behind. You think you’ve got it figured out, but you’re just missing the last piece of the puzzle. In America you call us the Alt Right. In Germany they call us the reason Grandpa moved to Argentina.

Marlowe narrows his eyes, holding his gun at his side.

Marlowe

Yeah, and what’s that last piece? A secret cult of pet owners? A hidden Illuminati base under the city? Or maybe ... just maybe ... that bloody pigeon?

The Man in the Suit

The answer’s been in front of you all along. Look closely, Detective. It’s the pattern. The food trucks. The traffic jams. The app notifications. The red thread on the pinboard. They’re all connected, Marlowe. Don’t you see? You’re part of the conspiracy, too.

Marlowe stares at him, blinking slowly. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks.

Marlowe (grinning like a madman)

Wait. … You mean the whole city is a conspiracy? Everyone’s in on it? The coffee shop guy, the bartender, the guy who sells hot dogs on the corner? No wonder I hate the Cirque du Soleil.

The Man in the Suit

Yes. And no one even knows they’re in on it. It’s a mind control operation, Marlowe. Manchurian candidate all the way. And you ... you’re the final test.

Marlowe (laughing bitterly)

Great. Just great. I always knew I was more than a gumshoe, but this? This is nuts. So tell me, Mr. Bigshot Cologne-and-Cufflinks Holy Barbarian, Pilgrim of the Absolute, what’s the first step to becoming an enlightened puppet of the Illuminati? Should I start by buying a pyramid-shaped hat or is that too on the nose?

The man in the suit smiles again, more cryptic than ever.

The Man in the Suit

No need for the hat, Marlowe. It’s already too late. You’re already in the web. And when you start to see it ... you’ll never look at anything the same way again. A man in your position can’t afford to be made to look ridiculous.

Marlowe squints, taking another drag from his cigarette and a swig from his favourite flask. He was of two minds about his drinking. Sometimes he thinks of something his old pal Belushi used to say about the purpose of drugs and booze: “To make things harder when life gets too easy.”

Sometimes he mulls an observation by Scott Fitzgerald: “The drink made past happy things contemporary with the present, as if they were still going on, contemporary even with the future, as if they were going to happen again.”

This wasn’t one of those times. Advantage, Belushi.

Marlowe (V.O.)

I should’ve walked away right then and there. But I didn’t. Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was the dame, or maybe my mom never breastfed me. Maybe she preferred me as just a friend. The only thing left to figure out was whether I was playing the game — or if the game was playing me.

Scene 3: The Great Reveal

Marlowe stands on a rooftop, staring down at the city below. His mind is racing. Every car, every pedestrian, every pigeon …  is it all connected? Is he connected?

He lights a cigarette, the smoke curling upward into the night, as the city buzzes below him.

Marlowe (V.O.)

Maybe the truth is out there, Agent Scully. But maybe I don’t want to find it. Maybe once you see the whole picture, you can’t unsee it. Every time I put my line in the water I say a Hail Mary. And every time I say Hail Mary, I catch a fish. You’re not paranoid if they’re really out to get you.

Or maybe there is no truth to be discovered. No RoboCop enforcers at the door or black helicopters hovering in the air. No men in black suits and earpieces in the service of what Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has exposed as “a pharmaceutical-driven, biosecurity agenda that will enslave the entire human race and plunge us into a dystopian nightmare.”

Maybe there’s just a million little lies by Russian bots and conspiracy theorists messing with our minds on the internet, strung together like a bad joke no one’s in on. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re all just looking for answers in a world that’s too busy lying to notice we’ve been played all along. Maybe we should have put a little more effort into Grade 9 science classes and a little less into decoding chemtrail grids.

But hey, I’m just a detective. I solve cases, not the universe. What do you have to do to get arrested around here?

He walks into the mist, the camera pulling back as the neon lights flicker and the city hums with its endless noise. Opens the trunk of his 1938 Plymouth Deluxe Coupe and a cat jumps out.

Simultaneously, across the ocean in Vienna, Erwin Schrödinger suddenly drops dead. Spooky action at a distance. There are eight million stories in the Naked City. Or maybe there’s just one.

Marlowe gazes up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He has won the victory over himself. He loves Big Brother.