A Davos Parable
By David Haggith
TheGreatRecession.info
January 18, 2017
Cirrus clouds wavered overhead like a circus big top billowing in a summer breeze. Sunlight filtered through, making it a warm, hazy afternoon for the kaleidoscopic disarray of people jumbled on the fairgrounds. A large banner that read “The World’s Fair or Bust” rippled above the ground and flapped in the breeze. Small groups of different race and social pedigree gathered on a freshly harvested wheat field. Large piles of threshed grain were mounded nearby.
The different groups of people shifted around each other and crowded together but never mixed. A small-but-important space separated skeletal figures, draped with rags, from plump women in flowing gowns, glazed with glamour, crawling with jewels. Denim men and women talked raucously of evenings, weekends, and retirement. Around them, pairs and trios of plastic-labeled, polyester business people chatted quietly of politics and stocks, while dignitaries in long wool robes and turbans pinned with ruby brooches passed out campaign buttons.
A ring of booths surrounding the people offered a grand selection of delicacies and pleasures. Smiling merchants attended tables draped with gold cloths and covered with rich chocolate eclairs, strawberry parfaits, goblets of chocolate mousse, and every other food that could be freely tasted with the eyes or lavishly consumed for a price.
Travel booths abounded, offering life in exotic places. One booth was even raffling off tickets for an orbit aboard a private space ship. Not even the sky was the limit. Velvet-covered chaise lounges had been provided for those with gowns too long and flowing or bodies too wide and sprawling to walk about. Opulence stretched lazily and seductively around the crowd like a fat whore.
The dignitaries trickled back and forth from handing out their campaign buttons amid the majority to dining on the chocolate mousse with those in the chaise lounges. The people began gathering around the fair’s main attraction. In a small arena in the center of this eclectic assembly stood what had the appearance of a judge’s bench. A large sign over the bench read “International Court. World Justice Presiding.” Between “justice” and “presiding” was a small hook where a placard with the name of the justice of the day could be hung. A hand was reaching up to hang the name: “Maximilian Cornelius Forbes.”
It hung somewhat crookedly; and being so long, it covered the better part of the word “justice” beside it. The hand belonged to Justice M.C. Forbes, himself, who cast a glance at his crooked name, tried futilely to balance it, then turned to the crowd.
Forbes’ white powdered wig spilled out from under his top hat and dusted the shoulders of his tuxedo. He wore a glistening gemstone on each finger, and his long manicured fingernails glittered almost as brightly as his rings. Puckered eyebrows arched high above his darkly tinted eyelids, and a black mustache curled closely around the corners of his scarlet lips. To his left was a small pan scale; and to his right, a brick of gold, a loaf of bread, and a small empty box. The justice straightened out the three articles arranged beside him then looked down at the milling crowed and cleared his throat.
The Rest…HERE
