Page 162 of Johnny

She shrugs. “I guess. I don’t really know much about what you bankers do.”

“Well, that’s what I do. They hand over a shitload of cash every month, I put it into hundreds of

different accounts. And then every month that balance winds its way down to zero, so I have another

money-making ceremony and collect more. Same thing happens. Every fuckin’ month. And when my

dad died I went looking for answers because I never understood this. What could they possibly be spending all this money on? What costs billions of dollars every month? And why are so many

charities controlled by the Way? I stayed up nights trying to figure that one out. And my dad, he didn’t

tell me shit about why he collected money, and after he died I was just expected to take up where he

left off. No explanation or anything. And we live on the top floors of this crazy office building in the

city. Seventy-five stories tall. But there’s vaults in the center of the top floors and inside the vaults are

boxes and boxes of shit.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Papers. Like newspapers. Clippings, and photos, and documents. Mostly just people’s personal

shit. Marriage licenses. Health records. Wedding photos. Nothing that really said, This is it. This is

why we do this crazy shit every month. But then I went looking for patterns. Like… why was this

newspaper, from this day, saved, and the next day wasn’t? And why all the war photos? Like

thousands of war photos dating back to World War I. And why these health records? Why these

people? Because some of them seemed too random. I just couldn’t make the connection until you told

me about your rat.”

“No,” she says, putting on her serious face. “I don’t think that’s right.”

“Why? What other reason could this stupid group of über-rich assholes have for funding wars?

Because I know that’s what they do. I’ve heard enough and seen enough to know that part is true. Why

do they need conflict?”

“Oil?”

“I thought that too, but most of the conflict happens in countries that don’t have oil. Oil countries

have money, which means they have armies, which means they don’t let people come in and fuck with

their good thing, ya know?”

“Umm…” She huffs. “Iraq, anyone?”

“Besides that. I think that was about something else, actually. But regardless, Iraq doesn’t count. I

didn’t find any pictures of Iraq. And only a few in Afghanistan. Mostly they’re dirt-poor places in

war-torn Africa and Asia. Places we don’t really hear about over here.”