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The Conspiracy Issue
editorial
Michael Rae-Grant Oh, we’re onto you. We don’t know who you are, who you’re working for, or what you want…but we’re onto you all right. You think you’re subtle, but we’re no fools. We are frickin’ onto you, man. We’re watching you like a hawk watches . . . another, better-looking hawk.
Those video cameras you’ve got outside our windows—yeah, the ones that you think are hidden by the tree branches, the ones you’ve taught the squirrels to operate and are paying the custodians to keep hush-hush—they’re feeding you images, all right, but not in real-time. No way. We got to those babies years ago, and we modified them so they’re delayed by fifteen minutes, man: you may see everything we do, but you don’t see it until fifteen frickin’ minutes after it’s over. By the time you realize that we’re making mac and cheese, BAM!, we’re full, we’ve left our dirty dishes in the entryway bathroom, and we’re on our way to the sock drawer to see how many socks we can fit on one foot. Like sand through a sieve. Like sand through two sieves, man. Like sand through a sieve that doesn’t even have holes in it.
Same goes for the microphones: sure, you can hear everything we’re saying, and sure, you’ve cataloged every conversation we’ve ever had since birth, but what if we use our “husky Robocop voice” from now on? Oh yes, even when we do our daily singing of the Marseillaise. Formez vos bataillons, marchons, marchons... QU’UN SANG INPUR ABREUVE NOS SILLONS, YOU BIG SEXY CRIMINAL! We’ll see how much you enjoy your little microphones now, man.
And those tracker bugs you’ve put in our shoes, the little guys that look just like uncomfortable pebbles . . . we know about those too. You don’t think we noticed them? We saw them, all right . . . but we disabled them. We only left them there because we thought they looked cool. Where’m I now, huh? Where? Go on, tell me, wiseguy!
Okay, you’re right: I am chained to the wall of your secret dungeon stronghold deep beneath Commons, where you’ve stripped me naked and forced me to dip myself in chartreuse body-paint and do Bickram Yoga. So freakin’ what? At least I’ve still got my dignity.
But what I want to know is this: who sent you? Huh? Who’s pulling the strings, buddy-boy? Sure, we’ve got our share of enemies—FBI, CIA, NSA, MADD—but you could be anyone or anywhere, from a jilted ex-lover in New Jersey, to a jilted future lover in...well, probably New Jersey again. You may not be talking now, since we’re the ones wearing the ball and chain, but we’ll get to the bottom of this, no matter what it takes. You can run, you can hide, and you can surveil us really well, but we’ve never been this flexible, we’ve never been this color, and there’s no stopping us now—at least not without a state- mandated commitment to a mental ward.
What? You’ve got one? Figures.
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