Deep in the heart of the Big Pharma Wackosphere, shadowy figures, twisted into parodies of humanity by their greed, shuffled to and fro. They all carried the stain of Big Pharma – a tattoo of Darth Offit – on the back of their left hand so that they might know each other. The stink of corruption hung in the air like the stench of a festering wound. Not that the Wackosphere cared. Such was their corruption that they breathed deep of the foetid stench…and called it good.
Two figures, barely human broke off from the main rank and file and walked towards a small door. They glanced quickly at each other. Nobody entered this room lightly. Behind its plain brown door lay secrets the likes of which those – the sheeple – outside of the Big Pharma Wackosphere could not even imagine. Dark secrets of events that had the power to blast ones sight and scar one’s mind. Repeated visits rubbed away at a man’s conscience until all that was left was greed and the desire to do harm via blogging. This was…The Knowledge Room.
The two figures steeled themselves. Once they had been simple bloggers, sheeple themselves, but over the years they had first sipped at the Cup of Corruption and then swigged greedily from its poisoned chalice. Now all they wished for was to do as much harm as was possible, whilst getting paid for it in silky Big Pharma cheques.
The first figure, who called himself Kev but who’s real name has passed beyond knowledge, turned to the other who called himself Sullivan, a twisted joke on the name of a sheeple film where monsters are the good guys.
“Go on, then.”
“Its your turn”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
Kev uttered an oath. “I still don’t like this,” he said gloomily.
“Think of the money.”
Kev reached out a hand and pushed at the door. It was unlocked as always, inviting visitors into its cold heart.
The room was a small, plain, somewhat arid brown box with a chair in front of a TV. The TV, as always was on and showing the snow of an untuned station.
Kev went to sit in the chair, then stopped.
“Are you sure its my turn?”
He sat down.
“Erm…hi…I was wondering if you could tell us how many copies of The Age of Autism had actually sold this week. Uh…Please.”
The room went dark. Sullivan stepped back from the chair. All he could see was the dull throbbing of the tattoo of Darth Offit on Kev’s left hand. He knew what Kev was going through now. Delivery of the answer was always a hideously painful process. The price one paid for having access to this room.
Slowly the room lightened, little by little Sullivan made out the figure of Kev. He had fallen to the floor and was panting like a boxer who was still floored after a big punch.
“Well? How many?” Much rested on the answer to this question. If the book was a success, Big Pharma would have to spend more of their resources refuting the book. That meant less money for Wackosphere bloggers.
Kev looked up from the floor. “Twenty-six.” he panted.
“Twenty six?” Sullivan laughed darkly…by the power of Wyeth! To the Blogging Chamber!!”