The tiny Thomas Malthus Society didn’t have a web site or a mailing address. Its membership was one of most closely guarded secrets in D.C.
The society was based on the teachings of the eighteenth-century cleric and scholar, Reverend Thomas Robert Malthus — particularly his An Essay on the Principle of Population.
Influential in the fields of political economy and demography, Malthus believed that a Utopian society could never be achieved as long as the world’s population was allowed to continue to grow unchecked. The only way to protect the earth and improve the existence of mankind was to have less of mankind — something he believed Mother Nature would eventually deliver in the form of widespread famine and disease.
The anticipated population reduction event was popularly, and rather dramatically, known as the “Malthusian catastrophe.” It had yet to happen, but there were those who not only believed it necessary but who were eager to help usher it forward. They simply referred to it as “the event.” Some of those people lived and worked in Washington, D.C.
By custom, the dinner’s ingredients were locally sourced. Tonight, all of it came from Clifton. There would be fresh herbs, lettuce, radishes, sorrel, chives, and garlic, as well as farm-raised lamb shoulder and duck breast, foie gras emulsion, and goat’s milk and sheep’s milk cheeses.
The pièce de résistance was dessert. George Washington was an ice cream fanatic. In his honor, Damien served fresh, hand-cranked strawberry ice cream from an actual Washington family recipe.
There were organic wine pairings, an incredible vintage port, and the most delicious, fresh-roasted, certified free-trade coffee any of the guests had ever tasted.
The dinner party was a huge hit — as the guests had known it would be. Damien was a man of both astounding wealth and impeccable taste. It was the society’s best dinner of the year.
The conversation, as usual, revolved around domestic and international affairs, but also included science, mathematics, literature, the arts, and culture. These were incredibly erudite men and women. The depth and breadth of their intelligence was equaled only by their power — and that’s why Damien had selected them.
He knew a thing or two about power, small truths that others often failed to realize. Heads of agencies and their immediate underlings would come and go, subject to election cycles and political approval. The same was true of politicians. Their influence was only worth so much.
The truly powerful were those deepest inside the government. Like the Wizard of Oz, they were the ones behind the curtain. They were the ones who knew which ropes to pull. Their hands were on the very levers of power.
They could not only raise or lower the sets but also brighten or dim the house lights. They weren’t just inside the machine as middle managers, they were the machine. They knew the game. They knew the system. They had been masters of it for years.
Theirs was a modern Rome, Rome on the Potomac — an empire in miniature — a land in and unto itself.
New Rome knew no economic vicissitudes. There were no vacant storefronts, no depressed housing prices, or reductions in take-home pay.
Taxes, fees, fines, and lines of credit that stretched to the stars and back made sure that the treasury was awash in coin. Things in New Rome were positively booming. The future was bright indeed.
That didn’t mean, though, that the empire was secure. As its fortunes grew, it seemed to come under a more regular and more prolonged assault by the country class.
“Country class” had replaced “fly-over country” as the new contumelious term used to describe the great unwashed living outside D.C. or the nation’s other Megalopoli.
Through social media, a handful of sympathetic news organizations, and grassroots activism, the country class waged incessant guerrilla warfare, demanding that the New Rome be put on a diet and scaled dramatically back.
As far as the New Romans were concerned, it was an odd, stupid little war waged by odd, stupid little people. They were most definitely in the minority. All of the polling showed it. Instead of shoving their faces full of McDonald’s drive-thru and watching reality TV like the rest of the country-class Hobbits, they were strangely obsessed with what was happening in Washington and how things should be changed.
If they were so eager to dictate how it should be done in Washington, why were they sitting on their asses in Tennessee and Texas, Idaho and Indiana? Why weren’t they trundling their fat little children onto buses and coming to D.C. to help lend a hand? The answer was simple — because it was beyond them.
They had no idea how government worked, much less how important government workers were to its continued function. Without Federal employees, it all stopped — all of it. Fees at National Parks didn’t get collected, school lunch regulations didn’t get enforced, borders were left unprotected, and that was only the beginning. The inmates wanted to run the asylum. There was no way that could ever be allowed to happen.
Anything that grows is, by definition, alive. Washington, D.C. was no exception.
As a living organism, the Federal Government’s number one job was self-preservation. Any threat to its existence had to be dealt with.
When the country class came with its pathetic rhetorical torches and meddling electoral pitchforks, New Rome was ready.
It fought back with tools no one had ever seen coming. New Rome weaponized its own Federal agencies. The Internal Revenue Service, the Department of Justice, the Environmental Protection Agency, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms — they all swatted away each and every attack.
The country class could storm the battlements over and over. They didn’t stand a chance. Not only could you not fight City Hall, you couldn’t survive a fight with the Federal Government. New Rome could take every single thing you have and put you in prison. It wasn’t even a fair fight. (It wasn’t supposed to be.)
New Rome would do what it took to win, and it would do so every single time. Its responsibility to its own survival was bigger than any responsibility to its clueless constituents. If they really cared about Washington, they’d be paying much closer attention. But they didn’t, and so, New Rome proceeded accordingly.
The phenomenon was fascinating to Damien. Listening to the conversations around the table, he had been captivated. These were not evil people. They were actually incredibly compassionate, clear-eyed, and focused. In short, they got it.
They grasped not only what was at stake, but more importantly, what needed to be done. These were reasonable people.
Though not a religious man, Damien knew these people were meant to inherit the earth. It was why he had selected them.
It was a spectacular night. No one was feeling any pain, and no one wanted it to end. Breaking with their locally sourced tradition, Damien dispatched Jeffery to retrieve one of his best sauternes. It was a bottle of liquid gold, a 1934 Château d’Yquem. And he had been saving it for just this very night.
Its copper and orange hues reminded him of the magic bird the next phase of his operation celebrated. The seven-thousand-dollar dessert wine boasted rich crème brûlée, orange, caramel, flowers, spice, and butterscotch flavors, along with earthy whorls of cocoa, chocolate, and coffee.
It was delicious and the absolute best way imaginable to celebrate the rebirth of the world.
Of course, it was exquisitely painful not to be able to share any of this with Helena and be able to show her off. She wasn’t a member of the society, though, and thereby wasn’t allowed to attend the dinner. Instead, Damien had ordered in her favorite, Italian, and had set her up in the guesthouse. He would join her once his other guests had left.