Bulletins and News Discussion from August 12th to August 18th, 2024 - Marshall Plan: Now As Farce - COTW: Ireland

Another day of witnessing and posting the news on Hexbear, the most liberal site on the internet. I see that @Redcuban1959@hexbear.net has posted fifteen consecutive comments about semi-obscure Latin American politics, @shipwreck@hexbear.net or one of their alts is talking for fifth time this week about how China must immediately adopt a domestic consumption economy or perish under a tsunami of dollars, and we have our latest doompost about how Russia is about to lose the war that generates 20 comments dunking on them. All is well, as I leave my laptop for the evening, don my nightly attire, fulfil my evening duties, and slip into bed.

I wake up in my pyjamas in the middle of the night. I slowly rise out of bed and reach for my candleholder as I step down the creaky stairs. "Who goes there?" I call out, forcefully yet a little afraid, into the looming darkness. There is no reply. Just as I begin to suspect that I was yet again merely awoken by the deranged mutterings HexbearCope guy who lives in my walls (yet I cannot evict him, or that would make me a landlord, the lowest of all beasts), I turn around and find three ghastly apparitions - three Washington DC wonks, wearing gleaming, polished lanyards around their incorporeal necks. They reflect my candlelight right back at me, dazzling me. I recoil in shock, but without acknowledging my surprise, they launch into a perfectly synchronized, well-rehearsed speech:

"SeventyTwoTrillion, CEO of the Hexbear News Megathreads --" I briefly wish to interrupt them to say that I'm not the CEO, but I suspect they have no other word for 'leader' in America "-- we have come to help you see the error of your socialist ways. We are the Ghosts of News Past, Present, and Future. Walk with each of us in turn."

"No shit, I could read that off your lanyards."

While I also wished to call them mayo kkkrackkkers and throw various bits and pieces from around my living room at them, I suspected that it would be unwise to object. The Ghost of News Past separated from his fellows and walked to my door; I followed closely behind. As he opened the door with a gesture, what was outside was not the shithole country known as England that I was so unfortunately familiar with, but instead a newsroom. But it was quite old. Mid-20th century, perhaps. The lights were blaring onto a desk, where the news anchor was sat in a suit, talking about the new policies of John F. Kennedy.

As I was absorbed by the scenery, the ghost said "Witness. The news of yesteryear. So much more respectful than today. So much less polarization. Do you not see?"

I listened a while longer to the news anchor - who must indeed be Walter Cronkite - rattling off information. I turned around and saw the crew, working hard at whatever television crews do. Some of them were engrossed in newspapers. I moved closer, reading over the shoulders of a man. One of the titles was about the Civil Rights Movement - another was on worrying events in Vietnam. Before I could ask what the hell the ghost meant by "less polarization" as I glimpsed a figure of the latest poll showing how much white America hated black people and opposed their rights, the scene before me began to evaporate, and I was back in my living room, as if I had never left.

The Ghost of News Present then glanced at me, to check if my expression and general outlook on life had changed, and when he determined that it had not, he then confidently walked forward to the front door. I once again followed, now more curious. As we passed the threshold, I once again did not see the dilapidated concrete buildings I was familiar with, but instead a verdant field. There was silence, apart from birdsong and insects - and then a deafening boom, followed by a spray of dirt upwards about fifty feet from me. I darted backward on reflex, then remembered this was not real and nothing could hurt me, which was pretty great, because I didn't want to be turned into viscous pink paste by a Russian thermobaric bomb. I looked around and spotted a team of journalists not too far from myself, filming next to a van; they glanced nervously in the direction of the bomb but did not stop filming their colleague.

The Ghost of News Present turned to me, and said "Witness. The news of today. Inside the Kursk salient, where Ukrainians are fighting Russia for their freedom. Do you not see?"

I wanted to make a "Sudzha deez nuts" joke, but couldn't find a way to do it, and after about 20 seconds it was too awkward anyway. He must have thought my vague annoyance was instead confusion, so he grasped me and floated me a few hundred feets in one direction to a group of Ukrainian soldiers. Most of them looked inexperienced and quite old, and very, very tired. Any sympathy turned into anger as I saw their Black Sun tattoos. The ghost followed my gaze and uttered "They're actually just fans of proto-germanic runes from the 8th century," before the realm before me once again collapsed into vapor, and once again I found myself in my living room.

The Ghost of News Future saw my expression was now displeased, but took no particular notice. Again, we passed together through the front door, his lanyard seemingly glued to his chest. As the newest vision assembled itself, I gradually realized I was in some kind of prison complex, though it was much larger and well-kempt than any prison I'd ever seen. As we walked forward, inside one cell, third from the door, stood... no. It couldn't be. That was impossible. ...wasn't it? No, the ear gave it away.

The ghost proclaimed "Witness. The news of the soon-to-be. American polarization has reached this point, where even former presidents are locked up, and anarchy rules. This is what happens if you do not stop your ways in the news megathread. Do you not see?

The 45th President of the United States was sitting on the side of his bed, in some rather unfashionable overalls, watching a wall-mounted television intently. On it was images of riots in front of the Capitol building, protestors rampaging through America, using podiums as battering rams to access the stockpiles within their local Cheesecake Factory. The White House was surrounded by people trying to breach the fence and being beaten back by police, but only barely.

"Oh, woe is me! Woe is me, indeed! I have spent years of my life in the news megathread spreading pro-Trump propaganda in order to annoy liberals online and get him elected! And now look! Oh, I couldn't have possibly thought it would end up like this, with my idol imprisoned and everything in chaos! Oh, I am diminished! Vile specter, bring me back to my own time! I vow to henceforth support the Democrats in their every endeavour. My news megathreads will follow the mediafactbias chart and its almighty decree! Vote blue no matter who, I say! Vote blue, no matter who!"

The ghost, satisfied, dissipated the scene around me and returned us to my living room for the final time. In unison, they said "The future is not fixed. Your choices today matter. We give you a subscription to the New York Times. Use it well." And they disappeared, lanyards vanishing last, and the room was again dark.