To which the prophet was heard by some in the front row to mutter under his breath:
What the fuck?

And the tax collector said:
You are old, but so am I. I was but a babe in my mother’s arms, when many years ago, you boarded a ship from this very dock, and left town in a hurry. And in the years that you lived here, you sure as hell didn’t pay any taxes.

And verily the prophet said:
It seems that rather than steering towards equilibrium, Adam Smith’s invisible hand tends to tip the scales, in favour of the greediest and the most ruthless.

An economy where all currency is created as a function of debt will collapse in the end. Such a system is geared to generate “wealth” without producing value. It can sustain itself only as long as it can suck valuable goods and services from elsewhere.

Such is the parasitic nature of empires.

At this the miserable boat people let out a communal sigh, and the boat itself creaked and groaned in pain.

And the prophet continued:
And in the end, everything will revert back into the hands of the bankers who have decreed for themselves the power to issue debt notes.

In short, dear friend, the system you represent is a sham. The money you seek to collect from me will soon cease to have value. When every last note has found its way home, back to the bankers, there will be no one left to honour the debt on the basis of which these worthless scraps of paper were printed in the first place. And your masters, the bankers, will be forced to relinquish their stranglehold on humanity.

This then appeared to be the absolute end of the evening, even as the tax collector prepared to make a public arrest. But what No-one realized was that at that moment, in the center of town, the large clock struck twelve, and due to a millennium bug, would not stop ringing.

And at that very same moment a deafening roar was suddenly upon them and a tsunami washed over the crowd, sweeping everyone off their feet, save for the prophet and his son, still clinging to the drum.

At first it was supposed, that it was the apocalypse that was now upon them. Then, quickly it was realized, that it was merely the migrant ship, which had finally broken in half and sunken like a stone. It was amidst this general confusion, that prophet and son made their getaway. Two hundred screaming boat-people sans boat were dog-paddling in the harbour. And some of the people from Orphalese were also swept out to sea, while others were swept right back in, with the next wave.
This second tidal wave took the rusty old drum with it, and No-one heard his father mutter to himself:
As the rising tide bids me leave you all, I shall not tarry.

And so they surfed the wave all the way into the town square, briefly getting tubed in the middle of Main Street.
But they had not counted on the tenacity of the tax man, for though hard to hear, and slow on his feet, the man was also a phenomenal swimmer. The clouds had by now completely lifted, and by the light of the moon and the stars, the old man was able to keep the bright orange drum, with it’s cargo of fugitives, locked firmly in his sights.

When prophet and son finally landed in the main square, where the clock tower was still striking midnight, the tax collector was not far behind. And when the dissipating wave finally ebbed into the gutters and back out to sea, the two old men crashed heavily to the ground, tax man on top and prophet underneath.

And bit by bit, the crowd began to re-assemble in the town center, as more and more people got washed along Mainstreet, and caught sight of the curious pair. For if there was one thing in the world, that the people of Orphalese could truly not resist, it was the spectacle two ancient men, engaged in a fistfight over a one hundred year old tax issue.

In the end, beat up and exhausted, the old timers called it a draw. And so the tax man suggested a truce, by uttering the following words:
Did you not once say: “And if this day is not a fulfillment of your needs and my love, then let it be a promise till another day.”

You have a good memory, conceded the prophet.
And then it was No-one who spoke:
Suffer not yet our ears to hunger for your voice. Tell us something, anything, of the meaning of life, so that these people here (a broad sweeping gesture) shall not return to their homes empty handed and starving.

And patiently the prophet raised his voice one final time:
My dear son. The meaning of life? Tell me, dear people of Orphalese, have I tonight spoken of aught else? But let there be truly no cause for suffering, for the meaning of life can be summarized in four simple – 2

To which he replied kindly:
Does it really matter?

But the hostile reaction from the crowd suggested that it did matter. The boy proceeded in accusing tones:
You keep letting us down.

To which he replied kindly:
I could say the same.

Whereupon followed a scene of general unrest, that elicited in the mind of the prophet unpleasant memories of the stoning incident. Somebody set somebody else’s hair on fire and the angry boy started kicking the oil drum. And the drum responded by moaning deeply.

The booming reverberations so pleased the child, that he began kicking harder and harder, and No one and his father were hanging on for dear life. It seemed that although they were kin, their circus-like balancing act was hopelessly out of synch. They were somehow working at cross purposes, inspite of their common objective, trying to save the wobbly drum from tipping into the ocean.

Seeking to regain control of the situation, the prophet screamed out:
Please, people, please. With two notable exceptions, I have told the truth in all things.

What are the exceptions?

Come on people. You must think for yourselves. I cannot live your lives for you. When a dung beetle emerges motherless, into the dawn of a new day, is it confused and helpless?

At least tell us this much. Is there any hope for humanity?

Look, essentially life is good. What else do you want to hear from me?

But your own life is a mess, the boy screamed.

That’s uncalled for. I’m doing alright, thank you very much, the prophet insisted.
I’ve been reunited with a son who still loves me, and our oil drum has not yet toppled into the drowning waves.

The little boy took the hint, and stopped kicking at the can.
But what of truth?, he still wanted to know.

To which the prophet replied:
We all live in a society we didn’t create, in a time and place we couldn’t choose, in a world we didn’t ask to be born into. And no matter how bad the situation, it will likely get worse, before it gets better. And with a shrug, looking out over the vast black sea, he added:
Perhaps the truth is out there. We all do our best to be good people most of the time. Something Jean Renoir once said remains profoundly true:
“In this world, there is one terrible thing, and that is that we all have our reasons.”

Go ask the shy man if he believes in free will. For shyness is nice, and shyness can stop you, from doing all the things in life you want to.

And he answered by saying:
What could I say about love that has not been expressed more beautifully in countless lyrics from countless eighties pop songs. Long after the singers have ceased to blossom, the shriveling petals left behind are ever as fragrant:

“All I need / is just a little more time
to make sure what I feel / isn’t all in my mind
cause it seems so hard to believe / that you’re all that I need.”

Brilliant. Timeless. Or how about this?
“The next time I fall in love – I’ll know better what to do.
The next time I fall in love – ooh, ooh, ooh.
The next time I fall in love – I’ll know better what to do.
The next time I fall in love – it will be with you.”

Have you ever been in love?, the prostitute inquired in a tender moment.

Whereupon the prophet let out the most heart wrenching sob imaginable. No one in the audience would have guessed his heart to be so heavy, and they were indeed moved.

The prophet sighed:
Her name was Almitra. I called her “Betty”, and Betty, when she called me, she called me “Al”, called me “Al”.

No one gasped out loud. He could barely get the words out:
My mother’s name was Almitra.

And the prophet said:
Then I am your father, son.

And then there was much rejoicing, for the people of Orphalese loved reunions. Strangers gave each other tender hugs and joyful tears flowed in rivers into the sea. And the crowd cheered loudly as No one ascended the drum, next to his father, and gave him a bear hug. And then a collective sob arose from the crowd, to be carried far out to sea.

Tired and drained from his tirade, he replied:
The internet, pornography, procrastination, masturbation, loneliness – these are all one and the same. You people keep repeating the question. If you would doubt the quality of my advice, then I would fain bid you look first at the nature of your questions.

And though the prostitute had developed a thick skin through the years, she was stung by this prickly remark. Carefully, she tried again:
But you said the internet was for wankers…

Tired, the prophet could only nod:
There then is your answer. It is getting late, and we’re all soaked to the bone.

But the people of Orphalese were not yet ready to let him go. And the stars began to appear and sparkle off the gently lapping waves.

And the rabid prophet was just beginning to warm up:
Screw the internet. Just the other day I found myself cruising down the information interstate in search of another cliché, when I was overtaken by a webcrawler. Humiliated, I ducked into alt/all/opinions/matter where I slammed into the following post:
“When I was little, everyone told me I look like a young Natalie Wood. But then I grew up. Love Roxanne.”
My own website receives fewer hits in a week, than Mark McGwire gets in a single inning. It’s over-saturated. Nay, the internet is for wankers, and the Blair Witch myth makers of this world – a massive vacuum to suck this world dry of creativity and originality. Who wants to scream into the void? The vacuum carries no sound.

These days all I hear is cyber this and cyber that. “Cyber” has got to be the most dreadful prefix in all of creation. Science fiction is dead. Nothing is left unimaginable. Nothing that the future holds will surprise anyone, with the possible exception of a vast shortage of drinking water and the unwelcome return of bubonic plague.

And who, kind people of Orphalese, wants to log onto the ranting and raving ejaculations of lunatics?

Whereupon a front row listener did say:
With all due respect Al…

But the prophet, who on this cold December night had managed to work up quite a sweat would not now be silenced:
Silence. If the internet can help to one day bring about democracy, then I’m all for it. If the idea of freedom can topple tyrannies, then I am in agreement also. And if I can sit down in the evening to a few raunchy clips, then I’m not entirely adverse to that either.

A communal gasp escaped the people of Orphalese. The prophet nodded gravely:
Countless times.

You people are obsessed with fairness. You would fain blame each other when you have naught but yourselves to blame. And yet I would not have you blame yourselves either, for verily, blame is without meaning.

Do not be like the bankrupt broker who sued himself for greed and stupidity, and thus simultaneously regained and re-lost his fortune. Often times there is but no one to blame.

Once more No One’s head snapped to attention. He had, of course, been dozing, and was yet again relieved to conclude, with reasonable certainty, that he was not the subject of the moment. The prophet still spoke:
And if a mistake has been made, be forgiving, for accidents can and do happen. Does the river sue the beaver for negligence?

Bad things will happen to good people, just as good things happen to imperfect people. Ships will sink (the migrants avert their eyes, feeling all gazes suddenly upon them) and planes will fall. For it is just as much in their nature to fall from the sky, as it is in their nature to fly.

Shit happens.

Whereupon a meek yet firmly dissenting voice cried out:
But isn’t all of this obvious?

But the prophet was on a roll. He continued, beginning to foam at the mouth as he spoke:
You bet your sweet candy-coated ass, it’s obvious. All things are obvious. And yet, for all that I know, some twit with a loud voice will hold the opposite to be true. And to strengthen his defense, he will deem it obvious.

I look around and I get angry.

By now the prophet was truly off his rocker. He was stomping his feet like a spoiled child, and in a booming voice he began to sing:

I read a film review oh boy
About three lucky teenagers who made the grave
And though the review was rather bad
I just had laugh
And now we know what happens when someone forgets to turn it off
I’d – love – to – shut – it – off.

And I wrote a letter to the editor demanding the reviewer be fired, but it was never published, and the reviewer never fired. Another day I rode the bus and saw an ad. The ad was for a support group. And again I found that I had a clever opinion on the matter.

If you were to add up all the two-cents worth of opinions and advice I’d like to bestow upon my people, you could all buy yourselves a nice soothing almond milk steamer.

But where is my forum? My voice is being drowned out by lesser people, with lesser opinions.

And then I crossed the oceans in a rickety ship, loaded with two hundred migrants who listened but who did not understand. And now the government wishes to send us back (a gasp of horror), for we have no documents and the government is not getting any softer.

Sometimes, dear lord, I want to scream but I just can’t seem to do-diddley-do it.

How to vent this frustration? I’m just about ready to burst. (At this point nobody in the audience No One doubted the truth of this). How is one to let off all this steam?

This, dear people of Orphalese, is why I speak to you now, from atop this rusty oil drum.

The prophet was about to answer, but the young fellow who had regained his will to live now commanded the floor. In a bout of life-affirming enthusiasm he took it upon himself to answer the question.

When I fly with our national airline I receive frequent flyer points.
And when I pay with my credit card, I am collecting towards the purchase of a new car.
And I carry these plastic cards like talismen in my wallet, with me at all times.

Here he held up his wallet and took out his Airmiles card for all to see. A murmur of deep understanding arose from the people of Orphalese. Emboldened, the young man continued:
And the other day, I was about to pay for my groceries, and the glamorous girl behind the counter said to me, “Do you have a points card?”
And I handed it to her. And she held up a jar of peanut butter, and said, “Are you gonna redeem your points for this?”

And not being able to read the magnetic strip on the card, I asked her how many points I had.
“Six hundred thousand,” she replied. That sounded like a lot to me, and so I decided to hang on to them. And she smiled, and said:
“Duh, like you better not redeem them.”

And here the young man paused and surveyed his attentive audience in awe, for it was clear that he had won their hearts. But after a while they grew restless once again and weary of the silence. And someone finally spoke:
And?
And the young man said:
And, like what’s up with that?

Whereupon the crowd fell into disorder in an instant and utter pandemonium was upon them. People began shouting out their questions at random, not waiting for answers, and a full-blown riot was not far off. The keeper of the Orphalese compost heap said:
Speak to us of the overeducated and under employed.
And someone else said:
Speak to us of diminishing native languages and the death of all pure sounds.
The loss of bio-diversity.
Speak to us of hurried recreation.
Parlez a nous de notre pays bilangue.
Speak to us of information politics, and information overload.
Silence!, shouted a chaos theorist.
And the chaos theorist said, Speak to us of law and order.

And the prophet responded in saying:
Surely order cannot be overrated, even as I fear for my own life, perilously perched on this rusty old drum.

For emphasis he stomped his feet which made a gruesome booming noise that carried far out over the waves. And the sound of this loosened the crowd a little, as it had been beginning to fuse, pulling ever tighter and tighter around the oil drum with the prophet on top.

It was now dark, save for the pale moonlight that had begun to filter through the parting clouds, for the rain had finally abated. The prophet resumed in a quieter tone:
Order is good.
I would hate to see this crowd get out of control.

And yet I would also hate for you to confuse order with beauty.
For sometimes there is true beauty in chaos, even though chaos itself can never be called beauty.
And of law I can only hope that it may preserve the public order and restrain you from pushing and shoving so close to my oil drum. For the ocean behind me is vast and I’m not much of a swimmer.

And the councilor said, Speak to us of apathy, not of procrastination.
And he said:
Don’t want to. Don’t care.

And a heckler spoke:
That’s lame.

And someone else shouted:
I think you’re the one who’s lame.
Whereupon a scuffle began to erupt. Someone pulled someone’s ear and another began to tug at her neighbor’s hair.

And the heckler heckled:
Come on. You gotta say this is lame.

And an honest soul now replied in place of the prophet:
What would you say, if I told you that through this, which you call lame, I have just now regained my will to live?

This silenced the stunned crowd, and those who had been tugging at hair and ears bowed their heads in shame. And quietly, under his breath, the heckler mumbled:
Will you listen to this pap?
But he did not leave.

The lottery is good, for it pays for hospitals and schools and public washrooms. And bingo is good, for even political parties must needs be supported.

But what is a lottery ticket, but a passport to a dream? And whither would the dreamer escape?

For if he can afford to pay for the ticket, then he is not in need. And if he be in need, then he would be more prudent to save his money and to search the gutters for a discarded winner. For the odds of winning are the same, whether you choose to buy a ticket or not.

One final word of caution, dear people of Orphalese. Leave the ostrich races alone. I do not recommend them at all.

And the rich man, impatient (for time is money) said:
Not chastity. Charity.

And the prophet began anew. And he said:
Oh.

One day the “Save the Whales” campaign made a pit-stop at my door, and I gave what I could. And then the “Save the Whale Hunt” people dropped in, and I did not shun them.

I gave to the environmental protection fund, and I gave to the urban development fund also. I like to give. Sometimes it’s good to give to both sides for it will keep them going. But I never give to the government if I can help it, for the government needs only deceit, bingo games and a barrel of pork, to keep itself going.

Taxes are the only charity I do not believe in.

Fortunately the old tax collector, still slowly fighting his way to the front, was spared this part of the discourse, for his fading ears transmitted naught but static.