Burn The Censors

Dear Despot, I began, before backspacing over it. Too emotive, too direct. Too grandiose a title.
Dear Anti- no. He hates being called that.
Department of Infernal Affairs. No.
To Whom It May Concern. Yes.
Enter.
I resign.

You can dock my wages or refuse to give me a reference. I know I run the risk that you will crucify me in the media. Go on. Tell the world I’m a terrorist or a paedophile or a disgruntled civil servant. It doesn’t matter. I am gone. I cannot work for you another day.

I have carried out every instruction you have given me. Written every letter, doctored every file. I have used children and pestilence and bombs but what you ask of me now is wrong. Our partnership is over. I ask only that you consider my service to date and allow us to part ways amicably.

Perhaps because I am a man, I did not take issue with your obvious hatred of women. When you instructed me to condemn, I created products to flatter. I filled every billboard and web page in the world with the message that beauty is worth. I created magazines that wrote the rest for me, filled with adverts and reviews that never told what I was selling. Every purchase reinforced our message. I worked and worked, coming up with new ideas every day like self-harm, eating disorders and so-called sexual revolution. I made sure the men believed it first. Never did I rest. I wrote the gender pay gap into law, filling the gaps between the statutes with unrepealable silence.
And it worked. Nation after nation exchanged their glory for nakedness and covered their nakedness with shame. Then feminism came and you blamed me for that.

Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the wars. Those bloody wars. So much paperwork. How difficult they were to devise. Target the poor, you said. Children if you can. And I could. I forced people to believe their very survival depended upon providing me with weapons to kill them with. “Forced”! I only showed them the faces of their brothers and sisters, they spat in them themselves. I gave them the chance of brotherhood, they supplied the fear. That’s what I love about free will. It turns science into art.

You always told me I was being too obvious; that I would be found out eventually. I wasn’t. I used their own frailty against them and always covered my tracks. I used intermediaries. Bankers, politicians, clergymen, celebrities – not you obviously, I would never use you. They really can’t see it, you know. They always think the corruption is isolated to just one group. How easy that makes it to simply move on to the next. No, you cannot fault me. In everything I have done I have always been a credit to the service.

All this to say nothing of my work on mental illness, censorship, masculinity and the Middle East. Or on democracy. I doubt I will live to receive a pension but I fail to see how I could have done anything more. Except this. Except this.

You asked me to vote for you. I won’t do it. I won’t. Your request is denied. I will happily proclaim to you the finer points of my work. I am proud of the great skill required, proud of the beauty achieved. As a profession, certainly, but as a choice, a way of life? Do you expect me to close my eyes and call it true? I will not be made a fool of. I will not build my own prison, step inside and give to you the key.

I know I haven’t long left. I know this letter will get to you eventually.
That’s why I’m not sending it to you.

I’m sending it to them.

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