Chapter Six

There in the fourth estate were men of noble aspiration. To make ones name was to take a pelt, the skin of a person who had otherwise gained notoriety. It was the dream of every cub reporter to bring down a famous man or woman, to lay low a great person, in the name of reporting the truth. For some reason, this dragging of character through mud is noble in the ethos of the news man.

Fortunately for our man the industrialist, the news man had long ago quit all efforts to discover his skeletons, though they presumed those skeletons were merely well hidden, believing that no man, no matter how noble, how principled, how brilliant, could achieve that greatness without having broken a few necks. Satisfied that the whitewash went at least several layers deep, they had cast about for others to pursue, settling on our man the prosecutor.

No man of mere whitewash he, having the finest gilt on his cane, the whitest clothing, so white it shone in the sun like the very angels, proving his purity. Ah, but such purity rarely is more than clothes deep, and, knowing this, some cub reporters set about exploring him as those embarking on a treasure hunt with a whole island to explore.

Stripping off gilt is easy, but doing so without damaging the underlying material is difficult. While the fourth estate cares little about the members of the other estates, they do care about libel, so tread lightly while searching, and only carefully do they lay their snares. Often, the searching takes the form of a profile report, something to provide the readers with background into the greatness of the subject, such as our whiteness, the prosecutor.

Of course, the profiles were numerous on the industrialist, many of them truly wondering, expressing delight, genuine and sweet, that such a man exists that these sweeps for information did fail. Few profiles existed for the prosecutor, those that existed having been bought and paid for and thus devoid of content of interest, being appropriately worded nothingnesses of marketing. Although it seemed to the public the men were of similar caliber, given that the effectiveness of a proper paid writer is great, as great as the effectiveness of the professional journalist in genuine thrall, so that the casual reader cannot tell the difference.

Remember that many of those in wealth and power, many who hated the industrialist, were willing to do anything to see his fall. Many more were there who saw the rise of the great prosecutor as just the thing, as he would be a mouthpiece for change, to save the world, or at least, save their individual fortunes. It is essential to the upkeep of the modern democracy that men of such fine hair, such a great turn of smile, given to gilt worn as if real solid gold, given to a majesty of delivery, of carriage, such men that cause other men to be in their thrall because they are just so gosh-darn cool, it is essential to the upkeep of a democracy that these men be allowed to lead so as to detract from the necessary policies to aid the bankers in keeping their fortunes. The loss of even one banker's fortune is a miserable thing, given that they are unsuitable to any other work, or, indeed to playing any game with their own money. So do they stack the deck to protect themselves, finding in the vessels such as our prosecutor willing allies in the climb to power and the exploitation of the masses.

So we watch the newsmen in their customary garb of worn clothing to show their seriousness in their poverty, supping the traditional sup of spirits on the rock, and discussing these things, for it is the worldly-wise sageness that is the hallmark of the newsman, that he knoweth all and deigneth to tell us some. They sat and discussed, wondering the angles, searching the relationships, always returning to that canard dearest to the heart of any investigator, to wit: 'Cui bono?'