Prison Wars: An Inside Account of How the Apocalypse Happened By Martin Sanger

Martin Sänger, John Kenneth Press

Description

In this third culturist book, John Press takes us to a world on the brink of destruction and shoves it over! With pulp fiction excitement on every page, we learn of Quentin Longus' plan to televise prisoners fighting to the death in games called Prison Wars. Proceeds go to the state. Martin Sanger publicized this event from its inception. When Les Christiansen starts to turn Prison Wars into a war between the genders, men rise and society becomes a battle zone. Corrupted by fame, Sanger's writing pushes sex parties, the end of Quentin's marriage, drug use, lawlessness, and violence to their thrilling cataclysmic end.

Sujets

• Social Science
• Sociologie, société et politique

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780978577735
• Langue: English

Extrait

Prison Wars
 
An Inside Account of How the Apocalypse Happened
 
By
 
Martin Sanger
 
 
Compiled by
John, K. Press, Ph.D.
For Social Books


Copyright © 2023
by John Kenneth Press, Ph.D.
 
Social Books
Published in eBook format by Social Books
www.culturism.us
[e-mail]
 
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
 
ISBN-13: 978-0-9785-7771-1
 
EDITOR’S PREFACE
 
A prison guard sold us the first twelve chapters of this manuscript. Social Books, the publisher, had decided to compile information on Prison Wars with the intention of releasing a definitive account for posterity. When it was safe to do so, one of our first efforts was to contact whomever might be left at Martin Sanger’s prison. It was upon visiting the prison facilities that we got word of the existence of this manuscript. We quickly began attempts to secure it.
We have no independent corroboration of the veracity of the accounts herein. But this manuscript surfaced only twelve days after the final Prison Wars games took place. The difficulty of fabricating such a detailed and personal account in so short an amount of time seems to validate its authenticity.
A gentleman brought us Chapter Thirteen five days after we secured and began publicizing the manuscript we had found in the prison. Martin Sanger did not bring it to us. The man who brought it to us was extremely guarded about how he happened upon it. Like the prison guards before him, he demanded cash and anonymity.
Not having publicized that there were only twelve chapters in the original manuscript, the additional chapter being numbered ‘thirteen,’ lends further credence to the authenticity of this manuscript. Furthermore, the continuity in writing styles indicates that Martin Sanger wrote all the chapters.
As of yet, Martin Sanger’s whereabouts are unknown. We publicly admit to the publishing the manuscript without his permission. Even so, throughout the text the author reasserts that he wrote this chronicle for the benefit of posterity. If authentic, we have no doubt that Mr. Sanger would want the contents disseminated.
When found, all of the contents herein had already been typed. Except for formatting, and correcting the more egregious punctuation and spelling errors (undoubtedly due to the haste of the writing), the manuscript has been published without alterations. We at Social Books believe that, after this preface, Martin Sanger wrote all of the contents herein.
 
John Kenneth Press, Ph.D.
Social Books
San Luis Obispo, California
July, 2023
CHAPTER ONE – FIRST IMPRESSIONS
 
 
I first met Quentin Longus as a junior staff writer working for Fortune magazine in 2020. I had been assigned to interview the top twenty young venture capitalists in America. Quentin the ninth I profiled.
Quentin immediately stood out from the rest of that crowd. To begin with, he had a devilish surfer dude look. When I first met him his blonde hair was, in fact, long enough to hang over his shoulders. It would have completely obscured his vision had it not been combed into a part and held back by his ears.
Those of you who have only known of Quentin since he became famous would scarcely recognize him. But that is what makes my account of our destruction so compelling. I knew him from the beginning.
Of course the last time I saw him he sported his well-known short hair with the elongated wave on the front. I never liked that style. And the skinnier he got the less I liked it. Paradoxically, that cut made him look like a blond Hitler at the same time that his thinness reminded me of NAZI concentration camp survivors.
Having grown up in Los Angeles and residing in the rich L.A. suburb of Malibu, Quentin’s stringy long blond hair wasn’t extraordinary. But Quentin stood out from his fellow entrepreneurs because had an extraordinary non-physical personal beauty.
Quentin had the tranquility of an enlightened person who has no worries because they do not judge the moment. His smile was exceptionally kind. It put me at ease at a level that challenged my self-concerned, serious feeling about my life, missions and work. He radiated a sense of reassurance that I took for spiritual depth.
All of the other venture capitalists seemed to merit the common derisive label of ‘vulture capitalists.’ Aware of the prestige a profile in Fortune magazine carries, most of them sought to market themselves. It probably reflects the dichotomies of our democratic and capitalistic society that those I profiled either tried to market themselves as bigwigs or tried to appear very commonplace and humble. But, their hunger to be famous united them all. None were comfortable with themselves.
Where I saw panic, Quentin saw possibilities. On that first day, he got my editor to agree letting me cover Prison Wars and convinced me that my boss wouldn’t mind if I returned to headquarters a day late.
My first reaction to such suggestions was to generate a list of reasons why it couldn’t happen. But, Quentin’s enthusiasm about possibilities even captured my hard-ass editor. And though most people, knowing a later version of Quentin, would find this hard to believe, he was able to get people to sign on to his agendas because he was a thoroughly relaxed person.
Quentin made me feel that panic over my nervousness and worries about my deadline and budget were completely unnecessary. His calm was, again, transformative. Being around him was like being around a guru. Everything was a game. And for every problem there was a creative solution that, after he thought of it, he would simply manifest. No sweat, no problem.
It was as if Quentin was a best-selling fiction writer who assumed that no matter what plot twists he backed himself into, a fabulous ending would appear, he’d write it, and it would be wildly popular. No worries dude! How wrong he was.
For the very few of you who haven’t seen me, I am an average looking white male. I have brown eyes and wavy brown hair. My driver’s license lists me at 5’ 10”. I’m probably closer to 5’ 9”. Since the time when I first met Quentin, I’ve lost a good thirty-five pounds. Partying and stress have been good for my figure! Still I am a big man. I worked out a lot in my youth. When I met Quentin, having some muscles, I was one of those guys who could kid themselves that they weren’t fat, but if they gained another five pounds they’d be undeniably large.
As a modern writer I compare everything to television and films. The Longus’ home resembled one of those perfect homes that rich people always had in movies and television shows of the 1970s.
Picture the driveway, long and curving. The front of the main house literally had plantation pillars. In this seventies film, a woman with blowing luxuriant hair would drive a long red convertible up the driveway. Only, in reality, the Longus home had an SUV, a Mercedes, and a BMW in front of their home.
 
Quentin actually told me on the day we met that he had something huge in mind. Had I known what he had in mind and what kind of a path it was going to take me down, I would have run and hid myself. Had I known I would have shook in panic and vomited out my remorse.
But sitting on patio furniture, behind his six bedroom Malibu home I could scarcely guess that we would plunge into the bowels of hell over the next two years. At the time, I just felt happy to be interviewing him and stunned when I found out that he had read a lot of my work!
“Mr. Sanger, I like your writing. It has an air of panic about it.” Quentin had a light blue sweat suit and tennis shoes on. In these clothes and with his demeanor he couldn’t say “panic” in a way that really conveyed the essence of the word.
 
“Gee, thanks, I guess.” You can imagine how much this remark unsettled me. No other interviewee had ever read my writing before I visited, much less analyzed it.
 
“No. I really like it. The sense of panic means that you are conscientious. And still, while faced with panic, your writing remains coherent. That’s because, at heart, you know that you’re basically competent.”
 
“Basically competent. . . thanks again.” I nervously replied, unsure of where this was going.
 
“No. No. Don’t get me wrong. I really liked it.” At that moment I saw Quentin Longus’ wide grin for the first time. It was captivating - all teeth. And it was accompanied by smile lines and a light in his eyes that nearly actually sparkled.
“When I read your work, I felt that you had potential that was just waiting for a good story. And Marty, what I’m about to embark upon will be revolutionary. I’d like somebody to document my upcoming venture full-time. I think you’re the guy for it.”
 
“I’m extremely flattered.”
 
“But….?” His half-question probed the hesitancy on my part.
 
“But…” I continued finishing the sentence he started, while thinking about the accuracy of the intuition he had about my hesitation. “But I’ve worked my butt off to get where I am, I’ve just met you and I have no idea who you are or what your intentions are or what you’re talking about, really.”
 
“Of course, I guessed you’d be reluctant because you don’t know who I am. That is natural. That’s why I’d like you to live here, at this house, with my family.”
 
“What! Aren’t you being a little forward for our first date?” He had just gotten my attention, but in the wrong way. My confidence in him plummeted. But facially, my humorous attempt to defray the tension wasn’t accompanied by a smile, but, rather, a look of slight nausea. His smile just increased a bit on the sides.
“I mean, isn’t that offer just a little extreme and