The Tell-Tale Memos

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old network and had no grievance with the son. They had never wronged me. They had never given me insult. For their gold I had no desire. I think it was the eye! Yes, it was this! The One Eye of CBS resembled that of a vulture -- a black and grey eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to be myself a vulture and take the life of the network or the reputation of the President and thus rid myself of the eye for ever by securing my history or retirement.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the network than during the whole week before I killed it. And every night about 6:30 I turned on the charm. The serious news anchor was I. Not a smile or a grin escaped my chiseled countenance even when I slipped in a bit of bias. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this?

Upon the eighth night of September I was more than usually cautious in opening the show. A stop watch's minute hand was my metronome. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was about to bring down either a President or a network, and neither George nor Sumner even dreamt of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, was that caught on camera? I was disappointed that some of my experts didn't buy into my plan and they raised concerns. Now you may think that I drew back -- but no. I had my documents and my story, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my story in, and was about to open a beer, when I was alerted to people in their pajamas crying out, "Is that Word?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime ones and zeros sped through the either without sound. The pajamamen were still sitting at their computers, investigating; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal error. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well for it came from me. It welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the errors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew that in my hubris I had made errors and my errors were being laid bare. I had been trying to fancy my fears causeless, but could not. I had been saying to myself, "These bloggers are like the wind in the chimney, they are like mice crossing the floor," or, "Buckhead is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes I has been trying to comfort myself with these suppositions; but I had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Truth in approaching me had stalked with his black shadow before me and enveloped my story.

When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing the mainstream media question, I resolved to open a little -- a very, very little crevice in the story. So I used words like "possibly" and spoke of "as far as we know" -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily I wiggled -- until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice I had opened and fell upon the vulture eye. The single dim moonbeam of "higher truth." The memos were fake but accurate. My story was flammable but edible.

The truth was open, wide, wide open, and I grew amazed as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness -- all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else but my own hubris, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the tick, tick, ticking of a stop watch. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held to my memos motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the story upon the higher truth. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the tick, tick, ticking increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. Not even the gales of hurricanes could silence it! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of this old network, so strange and yet familiar a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the ticking grew louder, louder! I thought the story cycle must pass. And now a new anxiety seized me -- footballs, green in color and smallish in size! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the microphone and shrieked once -- once only. "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!"

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of my biased madness. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I found an 86-year old woman and I then replaced the story line so cleverly so cunningly, that no mainstream media eye -- not even Bill O'Reilly -- could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blue-dress whatever. I had been too wary for that. The memos were fake but accurate. The 86-year old woman confirmed that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it wasn't till after having to do a second memos show. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the studio door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as representatives of the Post, the Times and of ABC. The shrieks of the pajamamen had been heard by the main stream media; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged all over the Internet, and they (the main stream media representatives) had been deputed to investigate the story.

I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shrieks of the pajamamen, I said, were nothing compared to my own careful vetting of the story. The memos, I mentioned, were from a source and sources must be protected. I took my visitors though the story and highlighted the higher truth. No friends of Bush were they so I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to the memos. I explained about the 86-year old woman. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the studio, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat behind the very anchor desk from which I launched this calamity.

The representatives were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the representatives heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the studio floor, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my errors! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- the memos are a fraud! -- here, here! -- it is the end of open bias of the media!"