The School

The South Connecticut Reporting, Entertainment, and Writing University was a small but prestigious school. Any journalist that had this school in his credentials would surely rise to the top quickly. Blake Cameron knew this. So he was quite pleased to find himself in the last weeks before graduation.

The ivory gates hid the cutting edge nature of the University. Actually, the ivory covered gates hid darn near everything about the school. Once closed behind him, those same gates had shut the world out. Here he has studied for four years and here he would now, in these last weeks, learn the secrets of the best of the best. CNN, ABC, NBC, and CBS all looked hopefully to South Connecticut for the next batch of promising young journalists.

Blake knew he had an extremely bright future. He already had the most important criteria for achieving success in the field of journalism. He was physically attractive. He was an even six foot tall with striking blue eyes and wavy blonde hair. He hadn't always had wavy blonde hair but he was willing to do whatever it took to succeed in his field. He also had the second most important trait necessary for this profession: he spoke with a mid-western accent. No doubt, success was within his reach.

His personal mentor, Mr. M------ met him in the hall. He welcomed Blake with a warm smile. Mr. M---- was a man of average height and nondescript features. He was invisible to the world. Most South Connecticut mentors were. But then, South Connecticut was invisible to the world too.

They walked along the polished halls. Blake breathed in the opulence of the place. The smell of leather and the fragrance of exotic cut flowers alone made the cost of his education seem worthwhile. Even Mr. M----'s expensive cologne seemed to be part of the deal. Yes, this was where Blake wanted to be.

"We've come a long way since the hard nosed reporter used to bang out his column on a rusty typewriter," Blake said.

"Indeed," Mr. M----- observed. "Once we coveted the company of the cop on the beat and the hooker on the corner. Today we are wooed by members of Congress and Presidents and royalty."

"The crème de la crème is careful to curry our favor, " Mr. M---- said.

They came to a large paneled door. Mr. M---- opened it with a certain amount of fanfare. Inside were rows and rows of young girls typing on word processors.

"This is the secretary pool," Mr. M---- said. "They take dictation. They will also 'punch up' an article if you just don't feel like putting forth your best effort. You will, of course, still be connected to this University after you find employment. South Connecticut keeps close tabs on it's graduates. These girls will always be at your beck and call."

"Here is our research team," Mr. M----- said. "A good journalist shouldn't have to waste his time gathering facts and numbers. You have a team to do that for you."

"No," Mr. M----- said, "All our journalists use the same team. In fact all the journalists that have ever graduated from here use the same team."

They walked out of the hallway into a room of shadows. It was full of men in dark gray suit carrying shoulder holsters. These men spent their days studying polls and altering data. Their desks were full of hard copy news. Some of the information would never see the light of day. The men were all as nondescript as Mr. M----. Blake doubted he could even remember how many men were in the room.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Cameron," Mr. M---- said. "I told you, we are long passed the image of the gristled reporter tapping out the news on a dilapidated typewriter. We no longer report the news. We cause it to come into being."

Blake still looked like he needed a little more convincing. Mr. M---- led Blake to another room furnished with a modest desk and a computer terminal. The monitor was fitted with a shield so that only the user could see what was on the screen.

"Let me give you an example of how this works," Mr. M---- said. "We are now more like artists than reporters. Really. more like...God."

"But did you know that getting your teen to talk to you- even as little as fifteen minutes a day- reduces the chance of violence substantially? No matter how mundane the subject. Even if all he's talking about is what he saw on South Park the night before! You just have to get him to talk. Now what do you do with that information?"

"Nice try," Mr. M---- said. "Violent movies sell themselves. But you're on the right track. We like to say reporting violence begets violence."

"Oh yeah, we report it. Especially teenage violence. The first night we report on the horror. Make the perpetrator look powerful and scary. That's very attractive to a teenage boy when no one's paying attention to him. He wants to be powerful and scary too.

"The next night we talk to the victims and again make the teenage suspect look like someone the teenagers would want to be. The night after that, we do a story about how any teen could end up like this. See? Every night we keep the idea fresh in the kids' minds. After a month, we do a month's anniversary and revisit the crime scene. Remind the kids that maybe they should be doing something that would make the news instead of being ignored by everyone. Believe me, you talk violence up enough, some lonely kid is going to trade his life for fifteen minutes of fame."

Mr. M---- slipped a disc into the computer. As it powered up, he motioned for Blake to sit at the desk. He placed Blake's hand on what seemed to be the mouse pad. A light beneath the pad scanned Blake's hand print. This was now

"In every species that relies on a herd or pack mentality, the adolescent male learns his role by observing the adult male. If adult males are present and healthy, the adolescent male is taught his proper role in the pack," Mr. M--- said pleasantly. "If the adolescent male has no male role model, he becomes violent. The young males look among themselves for the alpha male. That is what the species does."

"We try to portray adult males in the worst possible light," Mr. M---- said. "That's where the entertainment division of our university comes into play. See, this institute doesn't just educate journalists. Some call it 'male bashing'. We write shows in which all men are the bad guys. Or, worse yet, we make the men in our sitcoms ineffectual or moronic. Did you ever notice how many sitcoms promote the idea that men cannot accomplish simple home repairs?"

"So were the minstrel singers in black face way back when," Mr. M--- said. "In pre-Roman Ireland , strong kings feared the power of the bard. If the bard created a popular satirical poem about a king, it could destroy a kingdom. Humor can be a powerful weapon."

"So sitcoms are made to create violence among teenage boys?" Blake said.

"In some cases, yes," Mr. M---- said. "Other shows are written that get certain politicians elected. Others are meant to bring down religion in general or a specific church in particular. It depends on what the target is."

Blake probably didn't want to know but he felt compelled to ask. He pondered his question carefully and finally said, "Why?"

Mr. M----- smiled approvingly. Blake was evidently following the expected path. He was, like a good reporter, asking the right questions.

"That's a difficult question," Mr. M----- said. "In the short answer, I suppose we are trying to move our nation toward a socialistic form of government. One in which free enterprise and the American spirit is suppressed. Capitalism must be defeated. What we want is to increase the influence of government in day to day life."

"In order to make everybody equal and to end poverty?" Blake said, thinking he was finally getting a handle on these new ideas.

"What? Are you offended by that?" Mr. M----- said. "We can finally have a media that doesn't have to pander to the great unwashed. There won't be any sweeps week. We won't have to suck up to society's trash. No more battles of the T and A's. We will do whatever we want to do. The government will support us and we will control who gets elected."

"Come on, nothing! We ruined Dan Quayle because he misspelled potato. We created Al Gore. Al Gore can't tell whether he's at a fund raiser or not and he would have been president if it hadn't been for Florida ....and his home state, Tennessee ....."

Mr. M---- shook his head. "We haven't got everything under control yet but give us time," he said. "We tell people what they like and who the good guys are. Who decides what is politically correct? It's not Congress. It's the media."

"I had no idea."

"We are almost to the point that we can make people believe anything but not quite. Rush Limbaugh. We can't seem to destroy Rush Limbaugh. I don't know why. He IS a pretty good speller...."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Mr. M---- growled. "You can't kill someone with the ratings that he has! You win some. You lose some. Still, we have made amazing progress in our brainwashing techniques. Remember when we had people begging to be killed?"

"Remember Jack Kevorkian? Talk about the power of the press! We covered all kinds of stories where people wanted to 'die with dignity'. The next thing you knew, everyone wanted to die before they became a burden to their family. Ha! Like any of them weren't anything but a burden any time of their lives!"

"But, Jack went to jail and we kind of lost our momentum," Mr. M---- said. "So we had to work on fixing Social Security."

Mr. M----- gave Blake a patronizing look. "If we had sold the public on euthanasia, we wouldn't have to worry about fixing social security," he said.

Blake peered into the shielded screen. He jumped back as if he'd received an electric shock. He had never seen the leader of his school before but he recognized him all the same. He knew that voluminous body....the insanity in the eyes....the multiple heads.

"Don't be silly," Mr. M---- said. "The beast of the Apocalypse isn't the dean of this school. He owns this school. At least since 1992," Mr. M---- said. "I only know that he has a world plan that includes a very successful future for the media."

Blake wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and felt a tingle on his wrist. Underneath his watch band was what appeared to be a blending of a tattoo and a brand. 666.

"Sometimes that happens when the computer scans your hand," Mr. M----- said. "It doesn't always happen. It must be a reaction to your individual electromagnetic field."

This was indeed where Blake wanted to be.

THE END

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