"Io, their soft inheritance is bound to unfounded prospect."
—Sheets of Prometheus Unraveled
To say it had been a hard fought primary campaign that effected a bitterness that led to the most vindictive convention that threatened to split the party apart once and for all — not just the way it's said to be every primary season but most verily now — would be understating the treacherousness of the path traversed. Now, two and a half months later, upon the evening of the general election, the gathered felt certain of that path's fortune. Not only had they stuck together to their principles and overthrown the corrupt party leadership, but their unlikely August triumph had manifestly inspired the entire nation, sailing their candidate into office with a majority that even the general opposition admitted amounted to a mandate.
With this seismic success at hand in mind, the frenzy smoldered from within the hall when the brand new president-elect took to the podium for a victory speech that given the circumstances probably would be the most genuinely worthy of any assembled hyperbolic cliché in the history books. Once the noise had ebbed such that it seemed the speech would begin, the collective set of tear streaming eyes summoned a symbolic vision from the depth of meaning behind their witness: no longer a political victory speech, this was a priestly observance invoked by the unprecedented level of emotional energy yet concentrated in any such proportional space.
The effect was both real and hallucinatory. The collective eyes of misty enthusiasm virtually lifted off the outer shell of the figure at the microphone, which optics realized at once a representation of the old: the tribulation of the previous eight years; the internecine torture of the last eleven months; the politics of the past — to reveal a raw looking duplicate within. It sported an identical color pattern and design, the same smile-risen rosy cheeks, but a befittingly smaller frame.
Immediately the thought sneaking into many minds on hand was a hint too obvious to ignore: the familiarity was an omen. Just as efficiently as that thought was inevitable, it was brushed aside for the sake of something between where sanity and faith never quite capably meet (that last bit ignored completely if at all manifest). A few of the dedicated who were worrying still entertained one last brief absurdity before they put it completely to rest: If this nested doll isn't the real deal, once removed, the next one will be better. Some already explored that campaign in whispers and tweets — for progress' sake, or, if forsaking progress, for continuity of purpose. For posterity.
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"One can't have been around to work for McCarthy yet not have heard this argument before. I do wonder myself just who all the non-corporate Thems would be and how they’d fare, assuming they weren’t really corporate Thems at heart. America needs a complete conversation change. Each Warren and all the Sanders are as a gate before the gates of Nan P. Losy and Dee Finestone whose congenital function is to smith the chains of stricture upon that which national dialog is held. Behind every Paris there's an Elision who serves well as a placeholder for misplaced dreams."
—Cody Cray Z.
The subtext of the finding of Lone Hapless Osmosis guilty of the murder of the sitting king was that the dramaturgic control of its investigation was covering up the assassin's facilitation by a menacing cabal of meddling Coloreds, the revelation of whose involvement would have increased tensions between the cool battle nations that surely'd've led to atomic annihilation. The general pretense of Lemley Briscoe Jackson's purported unease with the Warring Committee Release was that it was missing something, which was as camouflage draped over the performative cover-up. What's been alleged through continual leakage and over the years has accumulated into waves of publication to satisfy the desire that a conspiracy finally be admitted to. The only thing revealed however is a cover story, which is as aged as the conspiracy itself. That the story today appeases the reemerged zeitgeist may or may not be relevant.
Like the metaphor of peeling back the layers of the onion, the uncovering of each doll carries the liminal expectation of revelation. If one were to recognize reality through this model and follow its logic to conclusion, they'd find at the core of the innermost doll beats the heart of a MacGuffin, for dolls and puppets don't have hearts. The agency behind this model, however, is not the construct of super-surreptitious long-term planning, but the representation of wholly natural processes of organisms and their composite structures.
For example, the simplest solution toward the continuity of a state's best supplied beneficiaries during times of enlightened consent — when extortion and misappropriation of the citizens' lifeblood is met with new forms of unpredictable resistance — is to stratify the subterfuge, to bring the mass of consumer-laborers into union with the validity of the implied face behind the mask in such cases where the mask is not to their liking.
Aside from its obscuring the obvious, an additional utility of this multilayered costume ball is that critics come off as party poopers, and any such malcontent who acknowledges its depth of display is certifiable enough to be removed from the premises.
