They seem like such Nice people. They do yoga and charity work and they bike to work and eat holistic food and they’re kind to animals… and they do such Nice work too, or at least everyone says they do. You never really cared for their recent output.
Some people push you towards them – “We need to get you in good with the Nice people.” “You should totally see what you can work out with the Nice people, just get in touch.”
Instead you wavered as something held you back. At some point the Nice people get in touch with you. Small potatoes sort of stuff, and you’re flattered but secretly glad you can keep them at arm’s length, somehow feeling that you might need to give them a hard shove away. You still can’t really put your finger on it, but you don’t really like these people no matter how Nice they seem to be.
You think your reluctance is silly, but nonetheless, there’s an itch when you have to meet with them, a sense that underneath it all is something very very ugly. Holier than thou. Biting the hand that fed them in their first decade. Wiping their asses on their past, slapping their supporters in the face and crying foul over petty collateral damage. They like to tell incomplete stories, and you know some of the other pieces they like to leave out and it makes you wonder what else got squashed along the way.
And that’s just what is known as fact, though it’s commonly glossed over because they’re such Nice people and these seem like such petty things to complain about, even if there are a lot of them. There’s also the constant undercurrent of rumors, underhanded dealings, lies, plagiarism. Supposed miracles that just cannot be possible. Major fuck-ups swept under those lovely oriental rugs. And there’s something disturbing about histories that have no dates or timelines to give perspective.
You know some of your long-toothed friends seem to agree with you, for their hatred for the Nice people knows no bounds, but you can never seem to get them alone such that you can ask them about it without being overheard. And these long-toothed friends of yours are widely considered to be assholes, so of course they despise the Nice people, right? Well…
And so you are left with your gut feeling and the rumors.
In the end you find out a few more seemingly insignificant details and decide you will never work with the Nice people no matter what anyone thinks. You still can only barely justify this decision and you don’t dare discuss it too much.
One day your kinsman corroborates your gut instinct. He knows all about the Nice people and their dealings and the things they don’t like to discuss in their polite society.
Stay the fuck away from the Nice people and their Nice Work. It’s a trap, and they mean to steal your soul and give it to one of their soulless automatons.
Still the others push: “you wouldn’t work with the Nice people? are you fucking crazy?”
No. But they might be.
