“I don’t buy it.”

“And what do you think happened, Mr. –“

“Jacob. Jacob is fine. Well, I’m not the brightest bulb Mr. Basil –“

“Just Drake.”

“Whatever, man. I just think an entire city – the most troublesome city in the world, for that matter, doesn’t just “naturally” sink into the ground and get flooded. Something weird is going on there, Drake. I’ve lived my fair share of years; I’ve seen my fair share of cover-ups. Trust me; the US government had something to do with it.”

We drove down Dulles Toll Road. Supposedly, a nice lass named Susan was supposed to come pick me up – Instead, I got Mr. Jacob, a middle-aged african-american Über driver convinced that the Russians had rigged the presidential elections. We talked. I talked way too much. I was nervous – So much so that I’d ended up derailing the conversation towards The Sinking of Pyongyang –The first event I “covered” at the beginning of my mind-melting adventure into the underworld of supranational power struggles.

“What’s that over there, over to the left?”

“That’s Hutchison Park.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“My daughter loves it when we drive by it too, for some reason. She says it’s quite –“

“Sunny?”

I could almost feel the sun’s radiant rays washing over my cold body, still stiff from the flight, warming me up from the outside in, seeping through my pores. Regrettably, this daydream only lasted a couple seconds, and I was yanked back to the chilly, new-smelling back seat of the Tesla by my ringtone and vibrating phone.

“I thought you said you were out of batteries.”

“I am… was.”

I knew what that meant. I reached into my pocket, took out my smartphone and, sure enough, there it was. Dark blue screen, hidden number, bold font: “44”.

Made with resources from Shuttershock and Freepik

I took the phone’s battery out and put it back into my pocket, along with the now dead phone.

“Angry girlfriend?”

“Much worse, believe me.”

“I won’t butt into your business…"

"Appreciated."

" Well, actually, I do have something that’s been bothering me ever since I picked you up. You told me you were going to the National Press Club, but you’re not carrying equipment and you sure as hell don’t look like a politician. What’s waiting for you there?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Something to do with that call?”

His respect for my privacy lasted less than the Sultanate of Zanzibar. I wasn’t sure how to answer. I couldn’t just tell him the truth, at least not yet. That was what the press conference was for. Representatives from most major independent news outlets had been called to what they thought would be a big reveal from the world of cryptocurrencies. I looked at my briefcase, laying beside me. Inside it, two files. In the blue folder, certainly, was an extensive report on the shady business surrounding Venezuela’s new cryptocurrency, the Petro, which was interesting in and of itself. However, in the red one…

“I’m a journalist, traveling the world on the trail of the rich and powerful. I’ve got a really juicy scoop and I thought that, since I had to come to D.C. anyway...”

“Sounds like a journalist’s fantasy.”

Journalist... Am I really much of a journalist anymore? I haven’t published a single thing since that day. But, how could I have? I’ve had my hands full with the work my employer gives me, following Esperanto-speaking bigwigs around the world, recording everything like some glorified tape-recorder. And it’s not like I can just write an article on my “adventures”. No, the contract was very clear on that – Everything must be kept hidden, under wraps. Secret journalism… Crypto journalism? Well, it does have a nice ring to it, but...

No, definitely not. Cryptozoologists, cryptohistorians and everything else starting with crypto- has always been met either with skepticism or outright dismissal, just because of six words meaning “fake”, “fantasy” and, ultimately, “bullshit”. I’m different; I will not be dismissed. What I’m carrying in that briefcase is the truth, and the truth will-

“You’re looking a little pale, Mr. Journalist. Look out the window. I took a little detour, in case you like sightseeing.”

We were crossing the Potomac River, which extended several miles in both directions under the Arlington Memorial Bridge. This wasn’t, however, what he really wanted me to see. Far ahead, on the horizon, I could see a monolithic block of granite and marble, drawing all attention from the surrounding areas towards itself, towards its history and meaning.

Source: Washington Plaza Hotel (Slightly edited)

“This is my favorite view in all of Washington. The Lincoln Memorial, a Greek-looking temple to the man who freed the slaves and made America great in the first place.”

I chuckled at his joke, the best he’d made all afternoon.

“It’s amazing, imposing, truly a work of art.”

“Yes, but that’s not really what I like so much about it. Some miles further away, behind the marble, and the statue, and the river posing as a mirror, there’s another famous structure.”

“The Washington Monument, right?”

“Just so. Did you know it was built by slaves? Ironic, I know. But it does make for great effect.”

“I don’t think I’m following.”

“It’s simple. In theory, the truth is right in front of you, somewhere, way back, over there. Our dark past, so to speak. But from here, you can only see the glorious Lincoln, responsible for truly making America the land of the free. It reminds me never to take anything at face value, it reminds me to always dig deeper, to see beyond the white marble and inspiring inscriptions. There’s always someone hiding something, trying to erase uncomfortable truths from history and replace them with whatever suits them. Slavery, foreign intervention in our democracy, the sinking of a major Asian seat of power… There’s always something.”

We spent the rest of the journey in silence. I looked out the window, then at my briefcase, then back at the window. I thought, I pondered, I analyzed, then I decided. There was no stopping me. I took out the red folder and reviewed its contents. A highly detailed, well documented report on a sinister plan being quite effectively conducted by a shadow council of powerful men and women seeking to establish a supranational fascist government. The New World Order, The Illuminati, The Bilderberg Group… All one and the same, seeking to destabilize governments worldwide by destroying the public’s trust in their ruling body through orchestrated conflicts, scandals and alternative facts presented by big media controlled by them, so that they may introduce their own puppet leaders who will eventually come together under the wing of the NWO. To put it simply, the biggest Psy-Op ever carried out in the history of man. And I would expose them, bypassing their Big Media control by going straight to the independent, engaged news outlets followed by millions online.

“We’re here, Mr. Journalist.”

“I told you, Drake is fine. You’re wasted as an Über driver, Jacob; I think you should seek a more… creative path, so to speak.”

“Well, I do some writing on a certain site… I have an audience and it helps pay the bills; that’s enough for me.”

I paid the good man his due, put the file back in the briefcase and got off the electric car. I watched it silently drive farther and farther away until it made a turn and disappeared from sight, then I got going. I walked into “The Place Where News Happens” through the front door. I’d memorized every hallway, every turn, every elevator and every staircase I could go through to get to the hall where I was going to make my formal address to the free world, and I decided to take the most direct, obvious one. What I’m carrying with me is the truth, and the truth will set us free.

I somehow reached the podium in a sort of daze consequence of the almost fanatical furor my noble mission had awakened in me. I didn’t greet anyone, I didn’t acknowledge anyone – Hell, I didn’t even see the people around me as I got to the place where I would make my stand for freedom. I set my briefcase beside me, took out the red folder and set it on the desk. I was ready.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press –“

I carry the truth, and the truth will set us free.

“The conference will now begin –“

The truth will set us free.

“With you, Drake Basil –“

Free.

“Cryptojournalist.”

Source: National Press Club (slightly edited)

Only then did I look up, my face contorting into something only a cryptozoologist might be able to describe. Like a basilisk surprised at its own mortality, I stared at the dozens of microphones and cameras laid out before me. Instead of the independent news outlets I had carefully picked and discretely invited, CNN, Fox News, the WSJ and many more news giants had sent their minions to witness my execution. I had lost.

In the back, I could make out the figure of a middle-aged black woman accompanied by a certain Über driver. They smiled at me.

I took my phone out of my pocket, replaced the batteries, then bent down towards my briefcase.

I grabbed the blue file.

Afterword

After several days of hard work, postponing the post two times and a lot of Photoshop (for someone as inexperienced as me), here it is, my entry into @v4vapid‘s Conspiracy Creative Writing Contest (which you should totally join). As you may know, this is the second time I participate and, since it was probably the moment that really got me hooked on Steemit, I’ve decided to continue the story I wrote for last contest.

This short story is meant to work as a standalone piece, but it’s part of a larger series of slightly absurd conspiratorial shenanigans I’ve decided to call The Drake Basil Saga, in honor of our Cryptojournalist-with-a-secret protagonist. What’s this secret? You’ll have to find out yourselves! Perhaps I could throw in some STEEM for whoever figures it out, but only time will tell! En fin, you might want to read the first chapter if you're confused about some things, and if you enjoyed this one, of course.

I loved writing this, and it was the first time in a while I really put so much time into a post. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and I think it came out great! Hopefully, you’ll like it too. What did you think of the ending? You never know what is and what isn't product of a Psy-Op, and realization might hit you at the worse time possible.

Steem on!

Header image made with resources from Amazon, Xèia Martínez Ribot via The Noun Project and Foucault Design.