The Ministry of Information Admits They Have No Idea Who 'That Obama Guy' Is

A Socialist Realist Harlequin Novel Retelling the Love Affair of a Media Smitten with Lust and The Candidate Who Smote Them


It was three days before the election.

The well-oiled presses rolled hot and fast, the clacking sounds of the print machinery pounding in a rhythmic pulse. An army of delivery trucks, paper boys, sales suits, ad men, publishing engineers and supply chain managers worked in an orgiastic frenzy like some Taylorist's wet dream.

In the uptown office, a single erect building stood above the rest, like a finger extended to the world. On the top floor a layer of lights gleamed consolingly, like a beacon of truth shining down upon the sea of turbulent masses.

At the Bellweather, even at 3 a.m. the phones were ringing and a buzz pervaded the entire staff. The stale Starbucks was being nuked with regularity and the taste dried the mouths that were otherwise salivating. Had they really made history?

The editor was dizzy with success. Nicholas Berliozsky, a man of unknown family background, wrung his gelatinous hands and paced the office nervously. He overlooked the city where all the ants slept. From this height, he felt he could step on them and crush them all.

His strong, hairy forearms stood out from his starched white suit, his cuffs rolled up in the plebian fashion. A red tie with thin blue stripes overlaying it dangled from his neck like a noose. He was chubby, baldish as a Gregorian monk and with a slightly piggish drawl that was alternately mirthful and poised for anger. His black beady eyes, when incited, penetrated the office like lasers; at other times they simply reflected back at the interlocutor with glassy indolence. In his mouth, instead of a gnawed cigar was a large yellow and black pen vaguely resembling a locust.

The editor poured through a stack of manila folders. Mallory Wilson. Now there's a woman who did good work. When an inquiry into a possible scandal in the intelligence services arose, she was successfully able to deflect the ire of the public back onto the presidency.

His fat thumb rifled through another file. Thomas Brock. Well respected and well-liked, he was the elder statesman of the establishment. Whenever the public had doubts as to the validity of a particularly delicious piece of agit-prop, the smooth, dulcet tones of his editorials eased the public's doubts. His words dripped with chamomile and valerian.

Berliozsky was satisfied. He sat back in his faux-leather chair and gloated, mildly.Then he spotted a manila folder he had missed.

He picked up the folder. Jonathan Cato - copy editor. The stack was voluminous. On the insert it was written, "Some things you might have missed." Berliozsky was angered and intrigued at the same time.

The questions came hard and fast.

A radical theologian sermonizing racial hatred and the candidate avers that he represents "the best of what the black church has to offer"?

A domestic terrorist who was now a respected professor ghost-wrote the candidate's autobiography? Several of our university professors confirmed it?

A radical Islamist who may have paid for the candidate's Harvard education?

And two of our most prestigious spokesmen admit that they have no idea who the candidate is?

As the shadows of the candidate's past sprung forth from the murky depths it became stark how little they knew, and how little they cared to know...

Glorious news! Dear Leader has announced his plans to reinstate the KGB!