David Michael Newstead's Blog, page 16

The Press Guardian #10

David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving

There was pandemonium in the streets. It started during the last hour before polls closed that night, but tensions had been rising all day. Now, that feared moment arrived. Cynthia Blake watched hundreds of demonstrators from the New National Dream violently disrupt polling stations and get into physical altercations with city residents who were simply trying to cast their votes. Tables were overturned, windows smashed, and ballot boxes thrown open onto the sidewalk to the sound of their cheers. Cynthia was horrified.

She tried desperately to capture the event. She took quick notes and snapped so many photographs in succession it was like a machine gun firing. As far as she could tell, the mob’s logic was upside down, but compelled them into action regardless. According to their chants and to the handful of interviews Cynthia had conducted, the New National Dream wasn’t claiming that they had won or even that they would win the capital city’s mayoral election. Instead, they were shouting at the top of their lungs that the party “deserved to win” and that the capital “needed them” in charge. “Destined for victory” was another phrase she heard several times, echoing the words of party pundits. Crime, refugees, and drugs were repeatedly cited by people she concluded didn’t actually live in the city. But her activities soon attracted the wrong kind of attention. In the middle of one interview, a burly man slapped her notepad out of her hands and she was encircled by a dozen party members hurling insults and threatening her.

“Why don’t you write the truth?!” one yelled, “Lying bitch!”

“Stupid blonde bitch!”

“Fucking traitor!”

“Cunt reporter!”

“Get out of our country!”

“Fuck you!”

“I hope you fucking die!”

“Lying whore!”

Their yelling blurred together into primitive grunts and guttural sounds. Then, a stiff pair of forearms suddenly connected with her shoulder blades and Cynthia was pushed to the pavement, scraping both her knees. In the chaos, part of her panicked. Part of her rebelled. She balled her fists and punched one of her attackers below the belt as hard as she could. The young man dropped to the ground, then curled up into a fetal position, moaning. When she stood up, she busted the lip of another.

She grabbed her yellow notepad and brushed herself off. Luckily audio was still being recorded on her phone from the interrupted interview. It was all being captured and backed up. That’s when Cynthia saw the teenager she’d struck in the face pull a knife from his waistband and walk towards her with intense hatred in his eyes. The Press Guardian, who had been forcing his way through the crowd, arrived just in time. He kicked the knife from the boy’s hand, then hit him in the nose and down he went. The other demonstrators screamed obscenities at the Press Guardian, each hoping to be the one to knock him out until they were actually face-to-face with the hero. The fights that ensued were short-lived and the group receded a few meters back. In the distance, Cynthia could see columns of riot police closing in and locking down the area. Tear gas was already beginning to saturate the air. But the party members’ loud chants still rose above the sound of police sirens and megaphones.

“We have to go now!” Perry shouted to Cynthia and pulled her to safety.

The pair slipped down a side street, then into an alley.

“They went that way! This way!” A woman yelled as a hundred footsteps thundered close behind them.

“Oh god!” Cynthia said, “They’re following us.”

The city was a maze that the Press Guardian navigated from experience. The pair ran. Perry threw smoke bombs in their wake to obscure their route. And that zigzag path weaved between old buildings, over fences, and down into the subway until it stopped at the boarded up entrance to a long, neglected utility tunnel.

“Come on!” Perry said, then put his shoulder through the door.

Cynthia could still hear the rambunctious attackers in pursuit. She saw their shadows fast approaching. They had to get out of here! The Press Guardian and Cynthia quickly barricaded the door, then continued on through the shadowy guts of this metropolis.

When they returned to the surface, the two were shaken and exhausted, but they were alive. Cynthia had a dozen missed calls from Nathan and others. For a while though, she didn’t feel like talking. Not to anyone. Neither did Perry. After the fact, every journalist they worked with blamed themselves. All their sources and research and analysis and they just never imagined how bad things would get.

At Cynthia’s apartment, she and Perry nursed their wounds and worked tirelessly on their laptops, while seasoned TV anchors announced the election results.

“… a tight race tonight and we definitely saw a lot of enthusiasm for the New National Dream’s candidate for mayor, Douglas Yov, but it looks like the Social Democrats have hung on in the capital! We’ve just got confirmation that the New National Dream picked up three seats on the city council, but Amtilica’s incumbent mayor, the Social Democrat Emmanuel Mitter, has won tonight! But in Yahel City, the Center Conservative Party has come up short. You heard it hear first. We’re just getting word that the New National Dream, the party of President Krebtz, has won in the country’s financial center, but lost in capital. Now, we’re joined in the studio by News Prime chief political analyst George Tyrut for his reaction. George, you were in Yahel this afternoon, what are you seeing in the exit polls that would explain the upsurge in support for the…”

After Unrest, Much Needed Election Security Law Introduced in Parliament

Andrew Andrewson | The National City Bulletin

Last night, Yaharza’s two largest cities watched their local elections turn into a shameful disaster. With no respect for law and order, dangerous left-wing radicals clashed with supporters of the New National Dream as they were peacefully marching to city hall. And while our brave first responders prevented the situation from escalating further, the disruptions offended many civic-minded Yaharzans. But at a press conference this morning, a spokesman for the president offered new solutions instead of just empty promises, “Everyone can agree that we need orderly elections in this country, not activist violence! That’s why President Krebtz is proposing that Special Office should take charge of election security from now on. We can not and will not allow these political provocations to go unanswered!” CONTINUED ON PAGE A2

Previous Installment

Excerpt: I Dream of Yaharza

A passage from Jeremiah Yonla’s acclaimed poetic biography

To remember the old regime is to picture a gray blur: awful architecture, dull uniforms, faceless bureaucrats, poor quality consumer goods, leaders without personalities, a stagnant economy, overcast skies, and dreary days. Always, always, always there was a long, seemingly permanent line of worried mothers and tired, old pensioners snaking down the street as they queued for bread or shoes or soap. This was Yaharza in the dictatorship era, a country frozen rigidly in place by the Iron Curtain. And when that decades-long prison collapsed around us, it was a feeling I have struggled to articulate ever since. As a young man, I only knew life within this cloud, this abysmal fog, a pollution that suffocated our souls. All at once, there was color and variety. Freedom! Sweet freedom. As we all marched by the thousands and celebrated, I had no way of knowing then that I was regarding the first act of a tragedy. For years, the spirit of that day, this universal euphoria carried Yaharzans forward until it slowly began to blind us. Then, insulate us. The dream withered. Our mistakes, abundant. We had made a series of incremental, unconscious bargains. An honest dictatorship was traded away for a sham democracy. Almost as a kind of performance art, we now live with the illusion of a multiparty republic, the illusion of independent media and a free market. Yet, these are unfathomably distant like looking through a telescope. Somehow, we are less free than my boyhood days. Somehow, my life and my very being became a threat, a crime. Yaharza in the 20th century was a majestic flower growing, against all odds, out of inhospitable cracks in the concrete. In 21st century, shall our garden finally bloom? Or will a winter of closemindedness suppress everything good and wondrous once again?

Public Domain Heroes: The Press Guardian #9

David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving

This is the new Enterprise News! Tonight, a continued look at our country’s President and his vital mission to rejuvenate the nation in the exclusive Enterprise News docu-series, Alexander Krebtz: The People’s Patriot.

“Krebtz is utterly unique in history. He is an everyman who represents the very best of his people, sharing in their joys and sorrows. But what we’re seeing now is that he’s already achieved a monumental stature as a world leader and modern nation-builder,” says historian Arnold Ryanyoth.

Like his homeland, Krebtz has struggled, he’s persevered, and ultimately he’s triumphed. Today, the president is leading a nation on the move, steering the ship of state with vision and determination!

“Alexander Krebtz saw his country weakened,” says Professor Gilbert Natatut, “Crime, drugs, immigration… the problems we faced threatened our very way of life. But the president took action. More than anything else, he’s really a man of action. And that’s defined his whole life.”

Born in Yabarma province, Krebtz had a modest upbringing where education was prioritized. His father was a police officer and his mother was a traditional homemaker. An avid student, Alexander won a scholarship to Amtilica University before beginning his career in public service…

“Will you please turn this shit off?!” Nathan Darms moaned, “It is torture.”

“We have to fact-check it, unfortunately,” Perry Chase said, staring down at his laptop amid the dwindling number of people on staff.

“A fifteen-part documentary?!” Nathan exclaimed, “Jesus Christ! Who the hell is this guy – Winston fucking Churchill?” 

“Talks like Churchill, acts like Mussolini,” Perry replied, “Plus, this is only the third episode.”

Nathan sighed loudly in agony.

“… Love of country is at the core of everything the President does. When he speaks about Yaharza and the Yaharzan people, it’s like he’s talking about his own family. And that’s a big part of his vision for the country. Family first!” Professor Natatut continued.

On the screen, a serious-looking, gray-haired interviewer leaned in, “Some people have called Krebtz’s presidency the country’s second founding. Is that accurate in your view?”

“Oh, there’s no question!” The professor replied, “His first four years in office have already changed the country for the better! This is really the beginning of a brand new era not only in Yaharzan history, but in the history of the world…”

As the unrelenting praise continued, images flashed by in succession: Krebtz’s childhood home, a black-and-white photo of his graduation, a grainy picture of him in an army uniform. Then came video of his fiery speeches in parliament, graphs charting the decrease in crime during his tenure as Interior Minister, and a few youthful clips of his short six month term as Prime Minister some years earlier. The national flag was present in every shot, every graphic, every corner of the screen. The episode dramatically culminated in Krebtz’s election to the presidency and dark implications of a nation on the precipice without his leadership.

“Today, the people chose order over chaos!” The president-elect proclaimed from his lectern that night four years ago, while balloons and confetti rained down around him. “Yaharza has forever embraced strength as the cornerstone of our future! And I promise to lead this nation to greatness!”

The screen faded to black. The national anthem played as the credits rolled for several minutes.

“Is it over?” Nathan asked, barely containing his irritation. 

It wasn’t, Perry thought. The worst was ahead of them.

On television, the country appeared to be in the midst of a warm, harmonious, and patriotic revival where young smiling faces and fluttering flags dominated every vantage point. Out in the streets, the view was starkly different. Behind the mask of the Press Guardian, Perry Chase saw it play out each night. Yaharza’s two largest cities were edging toward local elections just as the regime’s plans and methods were coming more sharply into focus. These places were opposition strongholds that the New National Dream would stop at nothing to capture. A secret war was already underway, in fact. It took the form of alleyway battles, barroom brawls, intimidation, arrests, and attacks posing as random crimes and accidents. Now, every police chief, every city council seat, every precinct captain, and district commissioner were pivotal to the future of their democracy. And in the election’s shadow, the Press Guardian would be there, watching and preparing.

A Wolf in Patriot’s Clothing

By Cynthia Blake | The Daily Review-Express

There are really two sides to President Alexander Krebtz. On one side is the hardworking attorney, a law-and-order advocate of national greatness, and a faithful family man. His humble proposition, we’ve been told, is a simple reassessment of the country’s relationship with the European Union and a reaffirmation of our place in the world. “Are we not distinct? Are we not exceptional?!” he asked a crowd recently on the campaign trail. It’s a theme Krebtz returns to again and again.

The other side of President Krebtz, far closer to the truth unfortunately, has been more visible as his time in office progresses. Krebtz’s face contorts with genuine disdain when he talks about those “tearing down the nation.” In his twisted worldview, homosexuals and transgender citizens are portrayed to be perverts and pedophiles. African migrants and Arab refugees receive no sympathy from Krebtz either as he casually refers to all of them as thieves and drug addicts. But even more affluent foreigners aren’t in his good graces. Not really. For decades, the country’s business community has included a small but successful group of people of Chinese, Indian, Greek, and Lebanese descent. These entrepreneurs came to Yaharza after the fall of the dictatorship and helped build our economy to what it is today. The president dismisses them as unwelcomed cheaters who inflate prices at every turn and steal jobs away from “real Yaharzans.” According to the New National Dream, other Europeans “infect us” with their weakness and their liberalism. And while Krebtz hasn’t quite said that the country’s close-knit Jewish community are aliens from outer space, he does everything he can to imply that. If you listen to president’s rhetoric for long enough, you realize this list of undesirables is quickly growing by the day: feminists, journalists, university students, intellectuals, patients with HIV, protestors, opposition candidates, opposition voters, former members of his own staff. In the fiery ranks of the New National Dream, all these groups are “defiling the nation,” a phrase repeated so often that it covers a completely contradictory set of party grievances.

Instead of being our proud flagbearer, each day Krebtz further reveals himself to be a petty autocrat and a paranoid bigot who believes our very civilization is besieged by outsiders from east and west. The image he glorifies of “organic Yaharzans” is so narrow, unbending, and unrelenting that it is stuff of bad science fiction, not a modern nation in Europe. It is a situation that beggars the political imagination of many observers. A leader who began his career fighting Islamic extremists and organized crime has now declared all, but a precious few of us to even be worthy of residing in our own country. To which I ask, are we not all distinct? Are we not all exceptional?

Previous Installment

The Original Chessman

David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving

The Chessman is a minor super villain in the public domain. He appeared in the anthology-style Wonderworld Comics #9 and #10 in 1940 as an opponent of the Asian science detective, Dr. Fung. In the story, the Chessman (also known as Karno) was a wheelchair-bound criminal mastermind who lived in an underground lair and commanded a group of armored, flying henchmen called the Moths. The funny thing is that the Chessman also devised a way to shrink people, so he could use them as pieces on his chessboard. I’m not sure why. This character was created by the Golden Age comic book artist Bob Powell and was published by the Fox Feature Syndicate, which is not connected to the modern-day Fox. In the new version, I only kept very basic parts of the character and took things in a different direction. Sorry, folks! No shrink rays.

Learn more about the Chessman

Learn more about artist Bob Powell

Learn more about the Fox Feature Syndicate

Public Domain Heroes: The Press Guardian #8

David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving

The crime scene was in gruesome disarray. A fight had clearly ripped through the whole apartment, ending with shots fired in the bathroom. White tiles were stained red from the detective bleeding out. His body was now slumped over in the corner, while hand prints trailed down the wall. Forensic teams had found three hundred bullets throughout the residence, but most were concentrated around the bathroom. It was a goddamn execution.

“We believe that he got off a few rounds of his own…” A police officer told the Press Guardian.

“I just thought you’d want to see for yourself,” he continued.

Staring down at the corpse, the Press Guardian tried to think back to the first time he’d met Detective Nicholas Baldwin. They knew each other from the army, but only slightly. The years that followed that introduction formed the bedrock to their spectacular war on crime and corruption. It would be a partnership that ended much too soon, Perry thought. The Press Guardian was solemn, but the loss was palpable. He was angry. Perry lingered on Baldwin’s lifeless face. It was horrible. He thanked the officer who’d called him, then left. Only then did he realize his critical error. Baldwin’s death must have blinded his judgment. There were too many police there, ones he didn’t know or trust. He looked at them and fifteen officers watched him walk out. It would only take one informer, he concluded. If any of those men were secretly on the mob’s payroll or a member of the party, then Perry Chase was in grave danger. He knew that he had to get out of that building immediately and get to safety. But by then, it was already too late.

If it hadn’t been pouring rain all day…

If the assassin’s shoes hadn’t squeaked on the lobby floor…

If Perry wasn’t given that millisecond to react…

That could have been the end of everything.

But by chance or fate, the Press Guardian had the opportunity to fight for his life. In the lobby, passed the stairwell, he was about to turn a corner. Then, the sole of an unseen pair of wet boots made a noise. Perry ducked. A shotgun blasted a hole in the wall next to him. He swept the leg of a tattooed killer who hit the marble floor hard. Behind that attacker was five more of the same: well-dressed, tattooed men armed to the teeth. The lobby became a shooting gallery. The Press Guardian shattered one man’s femur and broke the jaw of another. He ran. He dove. He rolled, finding cover wherever he could.

“We have a message from… the Chessman!” Their leader yelled, then let loose machine gunfire that tore the interior to pieces.

RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATAT!

Perry hid and crawled to a mailroom. He kicked in the door to a maintenance area and prayed there was an exit, but he only found a dead-end. Three men chased behind him like rabid wolves. As soon as they ran through the door, the Press Guardian threw cleaning chemicals into one man’s eyes and tripped the gangster that followed him. Blind, desperate punches flew back and forth as the Press Guardian expertly disarmed his would-be killers. The last assassin left standing lunged at him in a close combat knife fight. As they grappled, Perry could see the man’s scarred face and the detail on each tattoo along his neck. He was as ugly as Brutalist architecture with breath like an ashtray.

“I will fucking end you!” he told Perry and slashed at the air with his blade.

The Press Guardian fought like hell, delivering a swift gab and a kick. Then, the pair thrashed each other on the floor for an eternity. In the end though, the last of them was left bloodied and unconscious like the others. On his way out, the Press Guardian realized that the lobby floor was littered with these criminals who had the same elaborate Moth tattoo: a sign of the Yaharzan mafia. Tellingly, the police were no where to be found now. The entire block was deserted. Perry stopped outside to take a deep breath and feel the cool rain against his skin. This was just the beginning, he thought. Then, hearing footsteps in the distance, he darted into the nearest alley and escaped beneath the city.

Violent Crime Drops Thanks to President’s Tough Leadership

By Andrew Andrewson | The National City Bulletin

It feels a new day across Yaharza. Where there was once fear, now there is hope. Where there was crime, there is now opportunity. For months, local and provincial officials flailed and ultimately failed to address the crime wave unleashed against our great country. Ordinary citizens were afraid to step outside and innocent lives were being lost every single day. As things got progressively worse, President Krebtz knew he had to take action, but it seemed like the opposition as always was only committed to obstructing tangible solutions. In my view, that’s when the president showed real leadership, the kind of history making decisiveness that legacies are built on. He brushed aside his critics. He studied the problem, then outlined bold plans for a safer, stronger nation. There was no time to wait, pause, or debate any longer. Security was and is essential! Today, we’re seeing the benefits of that leadership. Violent crime has been dramatically reduced and citizens can once again have peace of mind, knowing that the right man is looking out for all of us. Truly, we owe President Krebtz a great debt!

Previous Installment

Classified Files: The Chessman

INTELLIGENCE BRIEF – EYES ONLY

Little is definitively known about the Yaharzan mafia kingpin called the Chessman. Over many decades, official records concerning the Chessman have either been lost, stolen, destroyed, redacted, distorted, or fictionalized. And while huge gaps exist in the remaining timeline, there are several pieces of information which have consistently appeared in reports again and again. First, the Chessman is of mixed Yaharzan background and most of his family members were killed in the Second World War or in the Civil War that followed. Second, his criminal career began in the black market economy that emerged during the chaotic post-war period, which likely familiarized the Chessman with corruption, illicit trade, and managing a growing organization. Interestingly, he is believed to have been both an opponent as well as an accomplice of the old regime. For years at a time, he was left to exist outside the law, creating a profitable fiefdom for himself. On other occasions, he is suspected of being a confidential informant for and agent of the government when circumstances demanded it.

Later, during the dictatorship’s long decline, the Chessman participated in a protracted and bloody mob war that engulfed all of Yaharza’s organized crime syndicates. This conflict continued in one form or another well into the country’s transition to democracy and did not officially end until a sweeping government-led crackdown ten years ago. Many of the Chessman’s contemporaries were killed or arrested in this timespan, which completely destroyed the status quo that had existed in Yaharza’s underworld for decades. Notorious figures such as “Slug” Wickum, Von Leo, “Killer” Scaretti, “Big” Michael Tonetti, and the dreaded “Claw” were finally removed from the scene. Compared to the Chessman, these larger-than-life characters seemed to be from another era. They were cartoonish and crude gangsters out of step with the modern world and unwilling to adapt to it. In contrast, the Chessman survived precisely because he was more subtle, pragmatic, and open to change. However, this understated style should not be mistaken for a lack of brutality or even a slight aversion to violence. The Chessman is widely believed to have personally supervised the gruesome assassination of “the Claw” as well as the total liquidation of his syndicate including all known underbosses, captains, soldiers, and low-level associates. Since then, this otherwise mysterious figure has been the de facto head of organized crime in the country and is sought by European authorities for drug trafficking and murder, among other allegations. However, his exact whereabouts are unknown at this time.

Public Domain Heroes: The Press Guardian #7

David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving

Perry’s face dropped the moment he saw the headline. He looked at his smartphone that morning and discovered that the far-right lawmaker, Bartholomew Danor, died while vacationing in the south of France. It had been almost a year since he’d last spoken to Danor. And while Perry suspected foul play, for now French authorities seemed confident a heart attack had killed the man, who admittedly was in his mid-fifties. Still, in the aftermath of Danor’s death, his mercurial political party began falling in line with the regime almost immediately. Two weeks later, the Political Party Registration Act was passed by the Yaharzan Parliament along with a slew of other regime endorsed legislation. Cynthia dispatched Nathan Darms to France to investigate as the newspaper’s remaining staff poured through pages and pages of recently codified law. Perry Chase joined in this unceremonious drudgery, documenting the latest maneuvers of President Krebtz and the New National Dream.

He was so blurry eyed from this work, in fact, that Perry ignored the mountain of mail that had been piling up on his desk for several days. It wasn’t until Friday afternoon that Perry collapsed into his office chair and stared off into space for half an hour before finally reaching over and opening the envelops. Eventually, his eyes widened. One letter had a USB drive taped to a plain greeting card. All it said was, “My last gift,” written in a hurried, angled way. Perry sat up in his chair, realizing the potential significance. The fog in his brain lifted. Twenty minutes later, he was on an air-gapped laptop with Cynthia Blake looking over his shoulder, while the envelop itself was now tucked away in a plastic bag, pending forensic analysis. If Danor was murdered, Cynthia told him, that changed everything.

There was a terabyte’s worth of data on the USB drive. It appeared as if some information had been neatly organized and purposefully added, while other files and folders were probably grabbed at random.

“Maybe he was fleeing the country…” Cynthia said, turning to Perry.

It would likely take months for them to sift through all the documents and determine their relevance, but one folder stood out above everything else. It was simply labelled, “The Chessman.” In silence, Perry hovered his cursor over the icon and opened it. What followed shook Perry Chase to his very core. Whatever faith these two glib reporters still had in their government evaporated as they read over the material. The Chessman had secretly been set free!

Ten months ago, Detective Nicholas Baldwin arrested the Chessman after the highly publicized shootout in Capital Park. Records indicated that the Chessman spent three months in the city jail before being moved to a secure location by the Ministry of Interior. Then, Special Office took over the case. The Chessman was eventually relocated from a facility in the Yaharzan Mountains to Special Office headquarters for questioning. A month later, he was moved to a fortified safehouse in the countryside. And a few weeks ago, the biggest crime lord in the country was quietly released on his own recognizance.

Cynthia Blake was already on the phone, hiding her panic in her work. She was calling a dozen sources for confirmation and to get their comments, hoping that they would tell her it wasn’t true. Both her and Perry believed that their readers deserved to know what was going on as soon as possible. The paper’s next issue had to expose everything, they told each other. No trial date had been set. Criminal charges weren’t even filed yet. Perry grabbed his camera and raced for the exit. As he was leaving, Cynthia started to voice a doubt, a profound fear about the future, then she stopped herself from saying more. There was work to be done.

At dusk in Capital Park, an old man with wispy, white hair sat on a bench in front of a pristine pond. He roughly tore pieces of bread off a large loaf, then threw them to the colorful ducks congregating around him. Beyond watching the sunset, he seemed to be deep in thought. The Press Guardian still approached him cautiously, realizing that the Chessman was alone.

“I was wondering when I might see you again…” he said to the masked hero.

They looked at each other, then the Chessman went back to feeding ducks. More than anything, Perry wanted to confront him, fight him, drag him back to police custody. But this frail senior citizen just sat there comfortably.

“This might surprise you, but I have a lot of respect for what you do,” The Chessman told him, “Your skills are impressive and you’re quite sharp, young man.”

“What happened while you were imprisoned?” The Press Guardian finally asked.

“Which time?” he replied, laughing a little, “I’m afraid as smart as you are that you don’t really understand the way the world works.”

“You’re a criminal,” The Press Guardian told him, “You traffic drugs and weapons and human beings. You extort! You kidnap and counterfeit. You operate brothels and illegal gambling establishments, run internet scams that steal millions, and you have people killed every day.”

The Chessman just stared at the sunset arching across the sky.

“You know, when I was a boy during the war, my family and I lived in this park…” the Chessman said as if he was going to continue the story, but he didn’t.

He paused, “I survived. And I have survived every regime since.”

In an instant, his entire face changed. His eyes darkened and that demeanor of a friendly grandfather figure melted away. What remained was a blank, ruthless expression.

“I respect you. I do…” he told the Press Guardian, “But in my business that doesn’t matter. This isn’t personal, you understand? One day, sometime soon, one of my men is going to kill you and rip that mask off your face. They might even be merciful, because I order them to be. We can make things quick and spare your loved ones. But interference always demands consequences.”

Tossing the last of his bread to the ducks, the old man got up and began walking over to an approaching SUV, while the Press Guardian remained stoic.

“You’ve been warned,” The Chessman said over his shoulder.

Autopsy Inconclusive in Death of Far-Right Leader, Bartholomew Danor

By Nathan Darns | The Daily Review-Express

Remembered for his decades of promoting traditional Yaharzan values, commentators were quick to point out that Bartholomew Danor died in a luxury French hotel in the arms of a prostitute. The President’s office was uncharacteristically diplomatic this week, releasing a brief statement that applauded the far-right leader’s lifetime of service to his country. But as many people have noted, there was no love lost between Danor and President Krebtz. And while his death was first believed to be a heart attack, medical examiners in France have now officially found the results to be inconclusive. Other revelations are also adding to the controversy. Investigators have said there was only partial security footage around the hotel and that the young woman staying with Danor has since disappeared. A spokesman for the New National Dream has condemned any sensationalized speculation and outlandish conspiracy theories, asserting that “these media vultures should allow Danor’s family to mourn in peace!’ But a timeline of Danor’s recent activities has only raised more questions. Records show that for months now he’s been moving increasingly large sums of money out of Yaharza. In addition, Danor took a series of strategic vacations around Europe that some believe to be attempts to gain political asylum. A deputy from Danor’s own faction, the Eternal Nation Party, has called these reports ridiculous, “Bart Danor was a patriot, just a simple man with a heart condition. Nothing more!” If only, the coroner agreed with him, people might be more likely to believe that. For the time being, many do not.

Previous Installment

Napoleon

Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets.

– Napoleon Bonaparte –

Public Domain Heroes: The Press Guardian #6

David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving

The documents Colonel Danor provided were illuminating to the reporters at the Daily Review-Express. But when combined with public records and other interviews, they painted a damning portrait of the Krebtz regime. In a conference room with no windows, key staffers stood around their largest bulletin board festooned with notes, connections, and leads, looking more like police investigation than run-of-the-mill journalism. Nathan, Jack, Abner, Mort, and Margaret were in attendance. For weeks now, they had been trying to build a timeline of the president’s secret war against the opposition and against the press. At stake were the country’s major news outlets: three television networks, five radio stations, and six newspapers. And besides targeted attacks like the one that killed their editor-in-chief, the evidence was becoming incontrovertible. Their research revealed a clear, coordinated campaign to subvert all independent media in Yaharza.

“Let’s go over this again…” Cynthia Blake said, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and gesturing to the board with the other, “Three years ago, Krebtz is elected president. Although it went underneath everyone’s radar at the time, he takes action immediately, utilizing an early retirement program to gain complete control over an obscure government agency, the Regulatory Communications Authority or RCA. Now packed with loyalists, Krebtz repurposes the RCA to pressure news organizations or, alternatively, to weaken them so much that they are bought out by wealthy friends of the regime. We’ve learned that two years ago, the dismantling of Vidicom was secretly orchestrated by the RCA that then went on to facilitate the sale of the conglomerate’s two main radio stations to friends of the regime. Late last year, RCA initiated the ‘reorganization’ of Public One Television and Public One Radio, which were actually veiled purges.”

Nathan Darms chimed in, “What was publicized then was the significant funding increase for public broadcasting, but we only found out about the extreme changes to editorial policy through whistleblower interviews.”

Cynthia continued, “Six months ago, the independent news website, the Reporting Collective, was permanently shutdown for supposed tax violations, again orchestrated by the RCA. Now, we have every indication that the regime is preparing to move against Integrated Telecommunications, Inc., which in one fell swoop would give them control over Enterprise News TV, Capital Radio, and the National City Bulletin newspaper, along with Integrated’s book publishing and movie divisions.”

“The biggest media company in the country would become a propaganda studio overnight,” Perry said.

Nathan interjected, “Integrated Telecomm is also majority stakeholder in the country’s largest internet and cellular provider.” 

“Correct!” Cynthia said, “So the takeover would likely expose private messages the government hasn’t already obtained and grant them the ability to literally switch off the internet nationwide whenever they choose to.”

“We’ve also identified some regional aspects to their campaign,” Nathan said, motioning to a map on the bulletin board.

“What do you mean?” Perry asked, his eyes baggy from lack of sleep.

“Currently, the New National Dream doesn’t hold the mayor’s office in the capital yet or in Yahel City, but two years ago they won the governorship in Yabarma province and about six months later the Rural Times-Tribune was sold there at bargain prices for unexplained reasons to a holding company that we now believe to be a front for friends of the regime,” Nathan explained.

“The Rural Times-Tribune is one thing,” Perry replied, “But if Integrated Telecomm falls, then a single television channel and two small newspapers will be the only real journalism left in a nation of 15 million people!”

“Unfortunately, it’s related,” Cynthia said, “RCA is just the government arm of this attack. Blackbox Investment Holdings keeps showing up in the records whenever a news organization is sold off, but we know almost nothing about the company, its owners, anything, except that the attorney who signed its official incorporation documents is dead.”

Nathan started to pass around graphic crime scene photos, “Supposedly, he was killed in a mugging around the same time that Richard died.”

“Yes, this year’s crime wave was incredibly specific,” Perry added sarcastically.

Cynthia continued, “President Krebtz is three years into a six-year term. The big picture here is everything we’re looking at is just laying the groundwork for his reelection. Integrated Telecomm is heavily involved with the two major parties and the New National Dream has practically declared war on it. The chocolate manufacturing heiress who singlehandedly finances the Yaharzan Green Party is on trial for tax evasion right now. The regime is trying to cripple its opponents and silence media outlets that report on it.”

“So where does that leave us?” Perry asked her as he sipped his fifth cup of tea that day.

Cynthia paused, staring off into space. She didn’t answer.

Independent Media is Under Threat in Yaharza

By Perry Chase | The Daily Review-Express

Thirty years ago, Yaharzan democracy was a marketplace of ideas, diverse perspectives, and fiercely independent voices. One legacy of our country’s dissident movement and years of protests against the dictatorship was a lasting, popular commitment to the value of journalism. For a time, in fact, every city had its own local paper, even relatively small ones. Independent radio flourished and citizens could easily access the kind of information that the old regime regularly denied them. In that environment, corruption was exposed to the public and civic engagement reached an all-time high. Yaharzans voted, volunteered, read, discussed, marched, and participated in the democratic process at all levels.

Today, it’s difficult to recognize our media landscape or reconcile how it came to this. Depending on who you ask, a chicken-or-the-egg debate rages. Did increased autocracy weaken our journalistic institutions? Or did weak journalistic institution increase autocracy in the country? Either and both answers are correct in some ways and help to chronicle the sad state of our republic. And while it’s true that market downturns, corporate consolidation, social media, the decline of print, and other factors changed journalism’s reach, the rise of a new, vile brand of populist illiberalism occurred in full view of the media. I would argue that movement grew by using these institutions, because reporters were desperate for revenue and content and needed absolutely every controversy to fill airtime. While the old regime barely understood the concept of public relations, the New National Dream has excelled at incorporating journalists into their narrative and their arsenal. At first, this was to have someone to verbally joust with, an establishment for the party to hold up and ridicule for its supposed complacency.

Overtime however, our country’s media outlets have taken three distinct and unfortunate trajectories. Many have simply shuttered. A few have transformed into timid, heavily censored versions of their former selves. And worst of all, others have become an outsourced arm of government propaganda, parroting whatever nonsense is given to them by the regime and artificially manufacturing what the population sees, hears, and reads. It is a veritable Potemkin village posing as freedom of the press. Along that path that brought us here are shadowy business deals, reporters killed or missing, and a president seemingly at war with independent journalism. My hope is that this is a battle cry that my profession is capable of answering in kind and that our nation’s dissident roots foreshadow the fate of aspiring tyrants. But as always, dear reader, the future depends on you most of all.

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