The Propagandist of Death

Death is the sweetest…

A knock on the door. I dared not finish the sentence before opening—that might make it a prophecy. Prophecy? My job was to dispel such superstitions, to propagandize death for the Society of the New Way. But surely the attorneys of the Society would want my missive completed, and bound by their incessant legalism, no one but I could complete this last sentence. The editor could only change it after I had submitted it for review. The New Way Society, headed by lawyers, determined when usefulness had been fulfilled and sent doctors to do their dirty work. In this world, death wore a white lab coat.

My life’s work was selling the concept of usefulness fulfilled, like the admen of old who hooked the world on smoking vile weeds bringing an early demise to those who took the bait. Those hucksters of old were richly rewarded for selling death. I, however, lived as others, toiling in my cell, posting my wicked arguments more directly, to encourage the acceptance of a poison more directly poured into the veins of the no longer useful, or more accurately, no longer useful enough. The High Court of the New Way Society had meted out that compromise concerning the barely useful, siding with the cause of death.

So, I at least had a few words left to make me useful, to complete the missive. Having a natural way with words, I had had a long career convincing the less than adequately useful to voluntarily go to the men in the white lab coats, who I now, knowing better, could not call doctors. I had discovered my mind was not my own. And my mind had changed. Long held beliefs I now questioned. And that was dangerous. 

My status, as the longest running member of the Oblivion Acceptance Team, allowed me a window in my cell, and the word came two days ago, written in some red substance I assumed was blood, on a leaf tied to the leg of a pigeon.

“Seek the Old Way

The culture of life.

362MW3F 3L 5W”

The culture of life? The Old Way? Of course, there must be an old way if there were a new way. How had I labored so long for this culture of death and not considered this obvious deduction? But what was this old way? This culture of life? Surely, it had been abandoned or snuffed out for its inefficiency. Did it value the lives of the useless, wasting precious resources? How would such a thing make sense and survive? It hadn’t. That is how it became the old way. And yet, what of this pigeon? And what was the significance of “362MW3F 3L 5W”?

How could I seek the Old Way? The thought intrigued me. My communications were limited, strictly controlled and monitored. All that came in was that which was necessary for my tasks—documentation on the importance of efficiency and the avoidance of waste and other New Way Society propaganda. Such was the basis for my work. But convincing the useless to accept death went beyond the rational and into the emotional, else a machine could do it as well as I. My usefulness, and thus, my life, depended on this premise.

Why had I not questioned this placing of efficiency over life? Was there something beyond usefulness as a reason to live? What I knew of philosophy spoke of meeting a purpose as what gave value to life. Was this a New Way philosophy? Had there been an older philosophy where the value of a life was not derived from its usefulness? Such a thought was contrary to the Creed of the New Way: We believe that only that which fulfills its purpose has value and its value is measured in efficiency. But perhaps, there was another creed, an older creed? The note said to seek the Old Way, but how?

Should I report the note? In that way lay danger. I had violated the creed in reading it: We believe that information is the truth and the only source of information is the New Way Information System. Gaining information from an outside source, especially for a member of the Oblivion Acceptance Team, meant an end of one’s usefulness. But someone had sent the note and violated the creed, which went beyond ending his usefulness and becoming an agent of malinformation. Perhaps this person monitored my work? Had he risked all to reach me? Or could it be some kind of loyalty test? Ink and paper had been outlawed as inefficient in the New Way Society long ago. Most people would struggle to handwrite the characters routinely typed or dictated and taken down as bits of data into the New Way Information System. Would the Ministry of Information have gone so far as to use blood on a leaf delivered by a pigeon to test the loyalty of an old cog in their machine, approaching the end of its useful life? They needn’t go through so much trouble. They could just send the normal end of usefulness documentation which I had expected might come each day for the last five years or so. 

But to “seek the old way?” Even to contemplate it was risking diminished usefulness. The only source of information available was the only source of information allowed: the New Way Information System. But surely, searching for the “Old Way” or the “culture of life” would be flagged as suspicious activity by the Ministry of Information. I rarely searched for anything. Curiosity diminished one’s usefulness rating. Toiling in silence, meeting your deadlines, these were the keys to survival in the Society of the New Way. 

What of this “362MW3F 3L 5W”? Searching for something as cryptic as that would directly inspire a visit from a white-lab-coater with the Happiness of Oblivion shot—that was what they called the poison. The end result was a corpse with a macabre smile, which I had extolled the virtues of in countless missives. But I was not the only one. The Ministry of Information—Oblivion Acceptance Team had many writers. Was this some sort of alternate index to point me to where I should search? The official indexes were machine code. Humans could search on dates or by keywords. Was the sender of this message encoding the index to a document in this strange sequence of characters? Could it be hiding a keyword? Or a date?

I committed the message to memory. I could not afford to be caught with this evidence. The monitors constantly ran and recorded all activity, but only certain activities attracted attention. I was recorded, surely, futzing with the leg of a pigeon, and removing a leaf entangled on it. And glancing several times at the leaf. For an older man like me, I doubted anyone monitored the bathroom. I washed the blood off the leaf and tossed it in the trash. If they found it, they would not find the message. And, if they looked, they would find the leaf. That was important. Disposal of evidence was indicia of guilt.

I made myself useful, a necessity of life, and worked on my next missive on the joys of death. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to send me a pigeon, an old-school unmonitored method of communication. Was it even intended for me? How did the pigeon know where to go? 

…Uncle Jim’s lips curled into a smile, I wrote. Sally glanced at the doctor, who met her eyes gently and took her hand, warmly. Uncle Jim had gone happily into oblivion. He had had a life of supreme usefulness, and now, Sally knew, she would follow in the New Way, where he had led.

I ended my latest missive and submitted it. It wasn’t very good, but I had a deadline to meet and it hit the essential points. The distraction of this pigeon-delivered note might just send me on the happy way to oblivion. “362M,” what was it? Had I forgotten the rest? “362M…W3F.” Yes, that was it. “M…W…F.” Of course, Month, Week, Friday. It was a date. 362nd month, Week 3, Friday. That’s 46 years, ten months. Had the Ministry of Information been at this that long? Had I been at this that long? I started when I was twenty. That would make me sixty-six years old. That was about right. I had lost track of the years in my life of usefulness for the Ministry of Information, separated from the world in my private cell. The tenth month? That would be last month. Now I had something to search for that was less likely to generate inquiries. I checked the date in the system calendar, which I rarely bothered with—a change in behavior that might be noted in the system. Everything was monitored. But it would be less conspicuous than searching for something cryptic. The third week of October, Friday, the 18th. 

The missives from the Ministry of Information—Oblivion Acceptance Division were fictional accounts extolling the virtues of the happiness of oblivion. There were several authors, but the works were never signed. They were missives from the state, not from an individual. I read through the missives for October 18th. There was nothing special about them. Except in one, a curious violation of the line-spacing algorithm. A minor editing glitch. Or was it?

I took a closer look. On the third line, an odd sentence. “Anthony thought that to seek oblivion would be a sin, and he was right. Usefulness must always be the priority.”

To suggest that a character would seek oblivion was edgy. Encouraging curiosity. Curiosity decreases usefulness. But that was a word from the note from the pigeon. The fifth word, in the third line. 3L 5W. And there, down the scroll of words, the fifth word in every third line: “seek the old way the culture of life.”

I searched the missives for the following days, reading the fifth word in every third line:

“Search and you will find.”

“First to die, then the judgement.”

“Be transformed by the renewal of your mind.”

“The Father gave us the wisdom to understand fully the mystery.”

“In Him and through His blood we have been redeemed.”

“Seek first the kingdom of dog.”

This last one was strange. The kingdom of dog? And that word seek, again. But there was a familiar ring to a few of these coded messages. Something from long ago, from my childhood. Those days, when people believed in fairytales and went to Churches and listened to priests, before the New Way Human Transformation Programing encoded the Preconditions for Happiness in my mind. But were they, after all, fairytales? Was this life of usefulness leading to oblivion, the New Way, was it the right way? Was that old way of fairytales and priests, of hope and faith, and, love…when last had I heard these words? When did usefulness become the sole measure of worthiness? Was there an Old Way to seek? Was it to be found in every fifth word of every third line of every thought in my mind? Hidden in some neuro-linguistic puzzle, buried, waiting to be discovered? Who was this Father? And who was He? And how could His blood redeem?

I wrote another missive. In it, on every third line, every fifth word, I embedded a question: What must I do to follow the old way?

I submitted the missive and waited. I slept little that night, my mind fighting to regain what might remain of the treasures of the old way, amidst the lines and words of my mind. I dreamt of a stone in front of a cave, rolling away, and woke as a great flash of light from the cave blinded my eyes.

I checked the New Way Information system for the latest missive and found the answer: Repent and believe in the good news.

The Old Way, the way of repentance and good news, the old treasures of thought buried from childhood. I recalled the fairytale long rejected, of a man who had risen from the dead. His message: Repent and believe the good news. Thoughts long forgotten. Words long forgotten. Oh death, where is thy sting? The New Way Society had sought to remove the sting of death with the Happiness of Oblivion shot. What a mockery! And I had aided them. The sting of death is sin. And I had a great weight of sin upon me. In the old way, the way of repentance, there lay the answer—but there was no priest to hear my confession. The New Way, was there someone who could absolve me? Or was the only answer to go gentle into that good night? With the drug-induced smile of the Happiness of Oblivion shot?

The knock had come at my door on this, the third day since the coming of the word on the leg of a pigeon, interrupting my latest missive, which I intentionally left uncompleted. They wouldn’t allow me to complete it if they discovered the code. I opened the door and greeted the smiling dealer of death in his white lab coat.

“Yes?” I asked.

He checked his electronic tablet. “Our records indicate that your usefulness rating has descended past the point of viability. As a member of the Oblivion Acceptance Team, I’m sure you know what that means.”

“I’m sorry, doctor, I have unfinished business to complete.”

“Well, I’m sure you are aware that the Oblivion Acceptance Team likes for its members to set a good example. You are sixty-six years old and have proven useful for six years past the standard expiration date. We have completed all the documents with the legal team. It should only take a minute to administer the Happiness of Oblivion injection.”

The man in the lab coat showed me the order on his tablet. It indicated a normal Happiness of Oblivion visit, with no indication that my recent curiosity or work were the cause. That meant, if I completed my missive, it should go through without extra scrutiny. I could appeal and gain a delay, to complete any unfinished business. But to do so, would initiate a review. Would they find the video of my encounter with the pigeon? Would they discover the messages embedded in the missives? Would the review bring discovery of the mysterious source of the Old Way evangelism?

I nodded. “Okay, doctor. It will just take a minute for me to complete the final line of my missive. I’d like to go out completing this one final act of usefulness.”

The dealer of death smiled. He would soon have the pleasure of watching me depart this life.

I finished the last line: Death is the sweetest good-bye and nothing to be feared. My usefulness at an end, I was ready to face what was coming with a smile. I submitted it. Unknown to the editor and the censors, however, every fifth word of every third line read: Forgive me Father for I have sinned, good-bye.