4.Corruption in High Places

This chapter illustrates two of the fundamental principles in the use of corruption to facilitate efficient function of the society. It is paramount to realize that no segment of government is immune from its reach, and this is as it should be. Even the most insular segments which appear to function over and above the daily economic strife may be found to be useful under certain circumstances. Remember that the circulation of money stimulates all forms of good. Whenever profits may be realized from a new enterprise there will be associated employment, money to spend, and taxes for the government from which the good and welfare of the society flows.

Unfortunately, it is occasionally true that the immediate effects of corruption may inconvenience a small segment of the population, but it is the overall good of which we are speaking, and the flow of profits will in the long run benefit most of the people. A good example of this second principle is the necessity for unemployment in a democratic society. Although full employment is variously described as three percent unemployment in the views of the most optimistic liberals ( never as everybody working) we know that society functions best when the unemployment rate hovers around seven percent.(3) Although on the surface this appears to inconvenience seven out of every hundred able persons, actually it provides greater benefits to all.

This unemployment rate provides a premium core of jobless competing for positions, which guarantees sufficiently low income levels to assure profitable margins for business. This latter effect is, of course, desirable for the continuing successful functioning of a free enterprise system. The continued development of new goods and services will result in a better standard of living for the majority of people and in addition provides the stimulus which is necessary to enhance the dreams and aspirations of everybody with a television set.

The taxes provided by such a stimulated society provides enough money in unemployment insurance and welfare benefits to those fortunate enough to lack a job, so they can continue to function. They probably make more than would if fully employed at a low level job commensurate with their experience, — if they had to pay taxes. This is borne out by the large number of employables who would rather have unemployment insurance and relax than work anyhow.

In summary, therefore, the two principles elucidated are:

1.  No level of government is immune (or should be immune) from corruption.

2.The inconvenience of a few, particularly if temporary, is acceptable in the face of a good profit.

 ³Harding,W. How a Society Functions Best Little Brown & Co. Publishers, 1932 Boston, pp 68 – 69.

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Weathering the Storm

Pete Lorillard was known as a ‘ wheeler dealer’ among his associates. Somehow each of his projects had managed to furnish a neat profit, part of which frequently served to stake his next deal. Whether he was into stock transfers, real estate or restaurants made no difference — everything seemed to work to his advantage. His latest ploy was arranging jazz festivals, and the quick profits were huge.

Pete sat quietly in his penthouse office contemplating his latest project. He looked out on a magnificent view of the rivers uniting at the lower corner of Manhattan, flanked by other large office buildings and apartments. He loved the twilight best, with twinkling lights beginning to appear in many windows, the large ships docked along the wharves and the silence of the sky threaded with thin wooly clouds variously covering golden segments of the setting sun. The city was quiet at this time in anticipation of a new exciting night alive with restaurants, clubs and discotheques filling slowly with happy people — the livers who knew the best New York had to offer.

He wondered sometimes about his constant drive for success, for money. He couldn’t resist a temptation to organize a deal which smelled of success, even if the odor it bore was only a faint trace. His mind wandered back to his blue-eyed, blonde high school sweetheart who had jilted him for that fat dental student. No class, he thought, no style. Maybe he invite them for a dinner at his private table at Rouge et Noir, the best new French restaurant in New York.  Drag her out of her Westchester kitchen so she can see what she’d missed.

His valet stood at the bar preparing a large scotch over ice and a few dry roasted peanuts in a small dish. Pete called him “Cato” after the Green Hornet’s sidekick, but his rather muscular frame and Brooklyn accent guaranteed no confusion with the original.

Pete’s most recent project had begun to develop in April with a few scattered posters announcing a post summer rock festival. Interest was slow at the start but began to grow with the passing months and further advertisements. He had already banked 450,000 dollars in advance sales with an outlay of $50,000 for the farm, $100,000 for the rock groups, $50000 for promotion and audio, a neat profit of a quarter of a million already, and anticipated continued sales of at least another 3 million. What a snap, he mused.

Cato looked up. “Boss, I’m worried.”

“Forget it”, replied Pete, A”this thing’s a snap, can’t miss.”

” We ain’t got no leeway this time. Labor Day’s the last day of vacation for most of these kids. If we get rain they ain’t goin’ to trek out fifty miles to hear some kooky music. It’ll kill the last minute ticket sales.”

“Cato you worry too much. You know me better than that. It’s not going to rain. We’re going to have sunshine. S u n s h i n e. We’ll clear another half million in sales by show time.”

“You can’t fix God. If it rains the place will be empty. If we don’t get a turnout there’ll be a demand for rain checks. That farmer ain’t going to give us the place again. It could be a disaster.”

“Cato, calm down. Pour yourself a long one and relax. It’s taken care of.”

Pete leaned back in the leather recliner he used for a desk chair. He let his feet rise slowly so he could savor complete relaxation. His fingers closed gracefully around the icy glass as he sipped the cool scotch. He gazed out on the city below, the warm glow of evening rising by stories up the concrete giants lining the river.

“What a town,” he thought.

Sunday, September 6:

Louis Johnstone entered the long paneled office on the ninety-eighth floor of the Empire State, shook his umbrella, unhooked his rubbers, quietly removed them and sat down at the head of the long polished oak table. What an awful weekend, he thought.

He glanced slowly around the wood paneled walls covered with maps and charts. The large gleaming barometer sat encased in a crystal cage near the door. “Already dropped a full inch since yesterday.”

The door opened and in twos and threes the other members of the panel filed in, took their seats and began intimate conversations in soft cadenced tones. Four soft bells tinkled and brought the group to attention.

Johnstone waited a moment, fingering the white formal papers before him, assuring absolute silence. He began to read calmly, gathering a certain rhythm as he became more animated.

“Gentlemen, things look bad for tomorrow. There’s a heavy low pressure area moving in advance of Hurricane Filomena (“who on earth selected that name,” he thought) with winds increasing to forty knots by the morning. The barometer is at twenty-nine inches and still falling. Weather stations in the Carolinas and South Jersey have reported heavy rains heading our way with gale force winds. Two ships off the coast are foundering at the periphery of the storm but there’s no sign of it heading out to sea. We’re in for it.

He glanced at the stiff white bloused Vassar graduate who was taking notes, rose from his chair and turned to the large curtain behind him. With a flourish of his arm he grasped and pulled at the long cord. The heavy curtains parted revealing a huge picture window facing the bay. Splattering droplets danced against the pane, leaving long trails of minute rivulets on the glass.

“Okay I suggest we move ahead to the final prediction for tomorrow. I would suspect that a lot of picnics may be disrupted. May we have a show of hands — How many of you think it’s going to rain tomorrow?”

Johnstone’s hand shot up into the air as he looked down the long table.. The other nine men sat motionless, no one moving, no one talking.

“Perhaps I wasn’t quite clear. We must vote now. Look at the window! We had it installed to improve our forecasts. Use it by God! What the hell do you think is going on? You think the American eagle is up there pissing on us?”  Johnstone was flushed with anger. He realized he had descended to a level of conversation which ill befitted a Harvard graduate. But the change in his demeanor was engendered by the sight of his motionless peers and was too difficult to control.  Quietly he calmed himself, composure slowly returning, he faced the group.

“Gentlemen, perhaps another vote is in order. Those believing that it will rain tomorrow please raise your hands.” He peered at each stony face in sequence.

“Put your hand down Bess, your vote doesn’t count.” Again embarrassed by the deadly silence — the motionless men avoiding his searing glances.

“Okay, okay”, he said finally. “Bess you will report that the weather bureau predicts a ten percent chance of rain for tomorrow.”

Sweat beaded his forehead. He tried to calm himself, slowly glaring at the figures along the table. “Gentlemen the meeting is over and I want to thank you for your efforts today. And it is my fervent hope that you may all promptly go fuck yourselves.”

Monday, September 7:

Henry Gallagher couldn”t believe what was happening. Since he had become sheriff of Woodbridge he had led a calm life, an occasional drunk driver being his most exciting experience. But now this.

He wiped the mud from his shin as he extracted his feet from the soft earth. Before him stretched tens of thousands young boys and girls, shivering in rhythm to the beating rock music blearing from the loudspeakers, but mostly seeking cover under blankets, dresses, anything that could protect them from the pelting rain. Streams of mud poured down every rise of the farm and lodged in soft pools around the listeners. Loud cheers went up with every new beat, huge claps of static blasted out with every spasm of lightning.

With screams and cries people were looking everywhere for cover, but the farm was almost barren of buildings. Six hundred boys and girls, having read somewhere that intercourse could keep one from freezing to death, were for the first time in their lives applying book knowledge to a real life situation.

A

“Hank, where’d they all come from? I thought the rain would wash this thing out.”

Henry saw his deputy Sam Martin plodding ungracefully through the muck toward him. “They started piling in last night. That blasted weather report predicted only a ten percent chance of rain today. Those bastards must be blind as well as stupid.”

“There’s a riot of four hundred kids over in the east meadow. They can’t keep their joints lit in the rain.”

“Let ’em riot. I can’t even get anybody mobilized to cover the center area. This is impossible — the temporary toilets won’t flush and all the roads are out.”

Just then Bob Markham a second deputy flashed a signal in his walkie talkie. “Hank, Im over near the center stage. The Scuba Tuba won’t go on.”

“What? What the hell’s the Scuba Tuba?”

“Some rock group. They claim they got five inches of rain in their instruments and can’t get it out fast enough.”

“Just keep someone playing, damn it! If they don’t keep playing there’ll be a riot.”

A  loud shriek went up from the left. Hank snapped his communicator on.  “George, George, come in. What the hell is going on out there?”

“They’re water skiing”

“What? What the heck are you talking about? There’s no water.”

“That’s what you think. Some kids got water skis and they’re skiing down the hill in the mud. They’re cheering every time someone makes it to the bottom. We got two broken ankles over here already.”

The music crackled through the loudspeakers as the winds began to rise. Streaks of lightning flashed through the sky. Henry grasped the door of his patrol car and fingered the inside panel. “Maude – get me the state police on the radio.”

“Hello, hello. This is Henry Gallagher at Woodbridge. We’re gonna have a riot here soon. This jazz thing’s been going on for four hours and the storm’s increasing. Hello?”

“PY-51 state police office. Will contact patrol units and report. Over”

“Listen, you guys have got to get us out of this. We’ve got thousands of cars and kids piled up here half stoned. We’ve got to clear the area. Whats the story on the roads? Can we get them out?”

“PY-51 Negative, Over”

“What the hell you mean negative? With all the beer we got flowing up here they’re gonna change the name of this town to Piss River in another hour.”

“PY-51. The roads are blocked by the marchers heading your way. The highway’s blockaded. Must be thousands. We can’t move anything. Over.”

“Marchers? What marchers?”

“PY-51. I’m not sure — they’re women — thousands of women — carrying signs reading ‘HADASSSAH’ — and they claim they’re delivering eight thousand umbrellas to your area.”

——————————————————-

The clean white schooner clipped its way through the foaming ripples on the calm sea. Pete Lorillard lay contented on the deck on his cushioned contour chaise.

His mind cleared – and rode silently with the rolling waves — up and over, up and over. He reached gently toward the neighboring lounge and ran his hand over the long soft hair – down the curved smooth spine and stopped for a moment on the rounded buttock of the beautiful young lady lying alongside him. He felt the tender squeeze on his arm.

He looked at the crystal sky – not a cloud anywhere – and felt the gentle heat of the sun enveloping him. First his feet, then his legs, abdomen, chest, neck,  – like a warm furry blanket.  He lay back and sighed .”With all this,”  he thought, “who needs money !”

 

^A

3. CORRUPTION V.S. BRIBERY

This story deals with a fundamental concept : the difference between corruption and bribery. Corruption implies an intensive effort to manipulate government for the general good. There is a clear understanding that a large profit will be involved with the subsequent development of jobs, new business efforts, further investments and improvement of society’s well being.

Those instigating the corrupt act must by definition be of a higher social order than those being corrupted. Since in a republic the highest order of activity is making money, it therefore follows that businessmen will usually be at the core of most corrupt activities. This is as it should be, facilitating the continued accumulation of additional profits which serves to enrich all members of the community by the development of new products, jobs and increased payment of taxes to increase governmental activities. This, in turn, leads to more individuals to corrupt and thence to more good.

Bribery, on the other hand, bears the connotation of evil. It invariably involves a selfish act, benefiting no one but the briber, and to a small extent the bribee, which in turn makes turning the briber down or turning him in so much easier.

Now we must be careful to clarify some things about the social order to avoid confusion. One is not classified solely according to his or her paycheck. For example, if one offers money to a sanitation officer who has just cited him for leaving his garbage can uncovered, that is a bribe and should be condemned. It doesn’t matter if the offender is a business man, a dentist, schoolteacher, and so forth, since the inspector represents a higher order of society (i.e. sanitation workers in general) and the bribe had nothing to do with the bribers business interests.

Suppose a series of uncovered garbage cans were used to create a smell bad enough to induce certain tenants to vacate an apartment house so it could be razed to construct a new tire factory. If under these conditions a sanitation inspector received a bit of financial help in buying a new house, that is absolutely acceptable, and perhaps even desirable under the circumstances. Think of the widespread use of tires in society, and the number of jobs provided — a staggering advantage over a few tenants who probably wouldn’t want to live near a tire factory anyway.

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A Force for Good

 Tom Dolan muttered to himself in the locker room as put the final touches on his uniform : “I don’t know how I’m gonna tolerate another fucking briefing from that fucking lieutenant”. He visualized himself sacking out on one of the back seats at the station house. “That bastard catches me again, he’ll have my balls”.

“Cut it out, Tom”, said Sonny ‘the Leech’. “That cocksucker’s got to do something for a living.” Sonny was twenty-two years old, dark and handsome, but short. Five feet nine in height with slicked black hair, he contrasted sharply with the six foot three heavier Dolan. He had been teamed with the more experienced Dolan over the past ten months. They made a good pair. Tom’s curses rolled off Sonny easily, and they seemed to take each others criticisms without animosity. Tom lectured incessantly about the evils of the force and Sonny not believing any of that crap, agreed with all the comments.

Actually, Sonny’s real name was Salvatore Lichiessani, and ‘the Leech’ stemmed from the fact that no one at the station house could pronounce his name. For three months the men searched for a short nickname and the ideal one presented itself in August of the previous year. Sonny had made a collar on some old drunk who was walking around the neighborhood shops with mirrors taped to his shoes, looking up the dresses of a varied assortment of clerks, secretaries, and housewives when Sonny spotted him. Unfortunately, in applying the handcuffs, Sonny had gotten one cuff caught in the margin of his pants pocket. Not willing to admit his mistake, he brought the guy in by keeping his left leg locked around the prisoner’s right thigh. The drunk, of course, was excited by the whole prospect, and it wasn’t until Tom Dolan slipped Sonny the key that they got disentangled.

Tom kept his mouth shut and the two became close friends from then on. Of course, the nickname was applied instantly by Benny Lampert the station’s recording sergeant who was thoroughly impressed by the vigilance and determination of the cop in not letting his prisoner have sufficient breathing room. Benny couldn’t understand, however, why the drunk kept smiling all through the booking.

The officers filed out of the locker room and grabbed seats on the scattered wooden folding chairs facing the large district map. Pins of different colors marked the local crime locations reported during the past week. The loud din gradually subsided as lieutenant John Crockett (‘the crotch’ as labeled by Benny) slowly entered the room. It was clear at once that he was going to have trouble negotiating the short step onto the platform when Benny firmly grasped his elbow and led to the small podium in front of the map.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me, you prick” he muttered as he stumbled up and leaned heavily on the lectern.

“Cocksucker” murmured Tom, and four neighboring cops nodded in agreement.

“I have a major announcement to make to you gentlemen” started Crockett. “We have received a special commendation from the New York Times for the decrease in assault and rape rate in our district. The diligence and hard work of the members of this station house received the notice of the commissioner, and congratulatory notices have been placed in the files of every member of this precinct. Keep up the good work and more commendations will be forthcoming.”

“What the fuck is talking about” whispered John Banks, who had singly brought in four girls the previous night who were victims of a gang bang on Fourteenth Street.

Tom turned to him, “The idiot lost all the green pins last month. He’s been sticking the map with yellow ones. He ain’t sayin anything about the embezzlement rate which tripled over the same time. Well be flooded with those non-uniform types from Central if he keeps up this shit!”

Crockett continued “. . . and the Times is considering offering a special award to the Benefit Fund in our names if we can do the same thing for muggings over the next month.”

“Tell Benny to dump the red pins, we’ll make a fucking fortune, In fact hide >em all for a week and we can all take a vacation.” said Tom quietly.

Then began a street by street outline of the crimes committed during the past twenty-four hours. Two murders on Eighteenth street, three on Second avenue, two assaults on Twenty-third street, a hit and run at Fourteenth street and Third, three robberies and so forth. By the time Crockett had passed over the map once, he had trouble finding a spot for any additional pins. He turned to face the men. “You gentlemen better move your asses and bring in some of these hoods or the Commissioner is gonna wonder what the fuck you’re doin every night.”

The men were impressed by the crime wave in their district, and then it came . . .

“And let me add one little thing. You bastards want to get paid, don’t you? Well the city’s broke. Last week I passed out a new summons book to every cop and nobody’s asked for a replacement. Well you’re gonna get one tonight and let me tell you that if your not using it by tomorrow morning you’d better have a good excuse. I’m gonna be out patrolling tonight and if I find one bastard passing a red light who don’t have a cop on his tail, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

“Shit”, muttered Sonny.

“Fuckoff\” murmured Tom

.                                         **********

It was three a.m. Tom and Sonny were parked in an unmarked patrol car with their lights off. Sonny started to doze off when Tom poked him softly with his elbow.

“Look at that. Those bastards have circled the block three times already. Looks like a hit.”

Sonny looked up in time to see the late model green chevy roll around Fourteenth street and cut on to First avenue. It was cruising at about fifteen miles per hour, close to the curb. Both men noticed at once that the car slowed passing Feinberg’s jewelry store.

“You’re right”, said Sonny. “It’s going to be a fast hit and run for the stuff in the window. Why the hell did Feinberg leave that jewelry in his window tonight? He usually cleans it out.”

“He’s got that bIg sale on tomorrow and he wants to get an early start. He usually asks us to watch things when he leaves the jewelry out.”

“Schmuck” said Sonny. “It’s just there inviting trouble.”

********

Albert Shawn Goldstein had just turned fifty and was starting a new life. His wife of thirty years had walked out three months earlier and the kids were on their own. He couldn=t believe he could enjoy life so much. He was getting laid regularly for the first time, and hadn’t had more than four hours sleep in each of the last twelve nights. But he loved every minute of it. And now he had something he’d always wanted to own — a brand new Corvette. He hummed the motor at each traffic light. Listening to the sound made him feel as though he were ready for a part in a major movie. Just breaking it in, he thought, driving twenty miles an hour. Plenty of time to gun it later. He promised himself that he was never going to scratch the paint on this red beauty. It was his, a symbol of a new freedom. He was determined never to clean the front seats, but watch the red, blonde and brunette hairs accumulate on the velour.

He rounded Tenth street onto First avenue and headed for his new East Side pad. It was 3:15 a.m.

“Quit poking me with your fucking elbow, for chrissake, I see ’em.

The green chevy was moving up First avenue at a slow pace.

“This is it”, said Tom, fingering the car keys in the ignition. “We’ll pull out and cut ’em off.. You take the car and I’ll take the prick that smashes the window. What a shocker!”

The chevy halted in front of Feinberg=s. Only a small streetlight illuminated the area and shadows covered the entrance to the store and most of the street. The silence was broken by a shattering of glass and the shrieking of Feinberg=s alarm. At the same moment Tom gunned his ignition and started to move out.

“Did you see that?” yelled Sonny.

“What?” asked Tom.

“That Corvette just went through a yellow light.”

“But you’re allowed to go through a yellow light.”

“Not in a Corvette. Go get him.”

“But what about Feinberg’s? We got the bastards lined up.”

“Fuck >em, we’ll get them some other time.”

The unmarked patrol car sped out onto the center of First avenue turned uptown and headed for the Corvette. Lights were going on in some storefront apartments in response to the window smashing and alarm.

Goldstein couldn’t believe what was happening. Two policemen in a car were waving him frantically over to the curb, lights were going on in buildings, somewhere an alarm was ringing. He never saw the overturned garbage pail as he swerved toward the curb, hit the pail, jumped onto the sidewalk and smashed his fender against the fireplug. “Oh my God,” said Goldstein, “if those guys are phonies this will be the highest class mugging they’ve had in this neighborhood in years.”

A few minutes later Sonny was speaking to a dazed and traumatized Goldstein: “Albert Shawn Goldstein — where do you think you\’re going? Traffic lights are meant for the night as well the day.” He fingered the license and registration in his hand.

“Officer I was only going twenty miles an hour, The light was yellow, it wasn’t red.”

“Well sir,” said Sonny, ” I think you passed a red light and will have to be cited.” He started to pull out his violation book.

“Look, can’t we do something about this?” Goldstein began to slide his hand into his back pocket, reaching for his wallet. “I don’t have any violations, and I don’t have time to take care of all this. What do you say.”

Sonny looked down at the pale man squirming in front of him. He saw a twenty dollar bill being shoved toward him.

“Are you offering this to forget the ticket?” asked Sonny.

“Look officer, take it if you want it. Let’s say it’s a donation to the P.A.L.”

Goldstein felt Tom’s hand firmly grasp his left shoulder. “Okay sir, that’s attempted bribery. You’ll have to come down to the station.”

“Aw — come on”

Goldstein felt the handcuffs quickly applied and himself forcefully being pulled from the Corvette and seated in the patrol car.

It all seemed like a dream as he heard the policeman murmuring something about his right to contact a lawyer and that anything he said would be held against him, and that the judge would not be in until Monday morning – obviously indicating at least three nights in jail.

“For Christsake,” he thought, “I only passed a yellow light.”

Tom pulled Sonny aside. “Look Sonny,” he said, “take him down and book him and then come back and pick me up on Nineteenth and Second.”

“Where are you going?”

“Tonight’s the fifth and Harrigan’s Bar is two weeks behind on the “vig”. I’m goin’ to pick up some cash for the boys. I’ll be in the bar when you get back.”

(Might help in understanding some of the following stories)

1. CORRUPT   : From the Latin cor = heart and rupt =break. Literally to break one=s heart.

Sense : To strive through hard work, to accomplish great ends through diligence.

 Common usage : Usually attributed to a more dependent portion of the male anatomy as: to break one’s b—–.

2. CORRUPTOR : One who corrupts.  Necessitating great scheming to attain noble ends.

The corruptor is by definition always of a higher social standing than the corruptee

Otherwise we have:

3. BRIBERY : The act of bribing. From the olde English briberry a form of poisonous berry grown around castles.

Sense : To give a gift to attain personal advancement. This is tried by one of low social standing to a higher authority. Usually greeted with disdain. In olde England usually met by forcing a briberry down the bloke’s throat at the castle door.

DEMOCRACY : From the Latin demo =to show and cracere = cracks.

This usually refers to a form of government which everybody is convinced will crack up at any minute, … and is usually trying to change.

Sense : A form of government which allows its constituents to continually ask for change.

Common usage : A place where having money is not bad, and everyone thinks they may have some — someday.

5. SOCIAL CLASS : The social strata which determines where to shop for one’s clothes.

This can be defined by a formula which gives the ratio of service/ tips consistently at any good restaurant. The higher the ratio the higher the social class to which one belongs. It is evident by the definition that one cannot buy his way into an upper or higher social class. On the contrary the determination is made for him by any competent head waiter.

6. SOCIETY : Everybody else.

7. INCORRUPTIBLE PERSON : A good government advocate who failed political science in college.

8. POWER : The ability to corrupt.

In a free society the term ” more power to you” is the highest form of good wishes one can muster — a quantum leap over “have a nice day”.

9. TAXES : From the Hebrew “taches” referring to a certain anatomic region exposed as one reaches under his robe to get at his money belt.

A form of tribute which over the years has come to define social class structure. The worse the financial burden, the lower the social class. Ultimately the highest classes merely display their “taches” at the tax collectors, having no financial burden at all.

10. TAX SHELTER : Also from the Hebrew. Referring to a robe with hidden pockets which protected one’s “taches” from the tax collectors.

Sense: To cover one’s   _ss.

Common Usage : Making the government your business partner.

11. LEGISLATURE :Derivation from the Latin: legitamus = the true or right;

slatore = slate or roster.

Sense : The roster of the right. Referring to people of the right breeding, i.e. not needing employment for financial needs.

12. PARLIAMENT : From the Latin : parliere = to speak a = without; mentatus = to think.

Sense : A place where speaking without thinking is commonplace.

Common usage : Exactly!

13. GOVERNMENT : From the Neanderthal grave men . Certain individuals too incompetent for daily tasks were given the job of burying those members of the tribe bitten by a saber tooth tiger.

They subsequently demanded official burying places, better thoroughfares for dragging off dead bodies, and uniforms – thus being the first government.

Sense : An organization of garbage collectors.

Common usage : ………..with law degrees.

14. CONGRESS : The opposite of PROGRESS.   (Figure it out)

^[1] The Dictionary of Strange Derivations,    Webster  S.E. Britannia Publications, Belfast, Ire. 1848 3rd ed.