Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

If it seems strange to you that the principles of public relations might apply so directly to the mechanics of a humane slaughterhouse, you’re not alone. I didn’t get it either, not until that Saturday morning when I watched this client presentation unfold.

My father took the men through his drawings and explained things as he went. A great deal of information was given, but the basic concepts behind his compassionate killing machine were as follows:

1.

The Overton Window.

There must be no straight lines-of-sight on that last mile leading to the long knives and electric saws. Gentle winding curves would obscure the forward view and break the distance down into an easy series of short and nonthreatening segments, each willingly taken, the animals nudged along to one point after the next. Safety and rest—not the butcher’s blade—must always seem to be waiting just beyond the next corner up ahead.

2.

Divide and Conquer.

Pigs and cattle and sheep are natural subscribers to the two-party system. They will blindly follow a kindred leader, and will tend to walk in the opposite direction to that traveled by a thing they distrust. Either or both of these instincts can be employed to march them peacefully to a place they would never otherwise choose to go.

3.

Misdirection and Media Control.

Lest fear should spoil the meat, along the path toward the kill-chute everything the animals see and hear must be crafted to lull them into a state of calm submission. Any whiff of the truth could interrupt progress and alert them to the danger they’re approaching.

4.

The Free Choice Illusion.

Throughout their final walk they should have just enough space around them to feel the comfort of false freedom. Even as the path constricts and their choices narrow, moving steadily onward must seem to be their own decision, right up until the moment when the hammer falls.

5.

The Rebel Gene.

A lone, independent agitator is the most dangerous animal in the herd. These rare individuals seem to be born with a sense of what’s to come and will endure harsh and repeated punishments as they attempt to warn the others. Provision must be made to remove and silence these unusual creatures the instant they step out of line.

For the men attending, this meeting was a huge success. By the time it was over they’d gotten everything they wanted and more. For my part, I was left with the troubling feeling that I had glimpsed behind the wizard’s curtain and learned things I’d rather not have known, both about my father, Arthur Gardner, and the industry he’d helped to pioneer.

There was a key difference, of course, between the herding and handling of that livestock and the crass manipulation of the buying, voting, and consuming public.

Once the animals were killed the goal was to squeeze every last bit of worth from the carcass: muscle, blood, bone, sinew, skin, and entrails; nothing should be left in the end. In the case of the American people the same sort of value extraction was being plotted, only they were to be systematically drained of all their worth

before

they died, not after.

The youthful rebellion on display in this prep school essay was quickly put down without a fight. Noah’s teacher valued her job and knew her place, so she reported to his father immediately and shredded all copies of the paper at the old man’s request. She then quietly gave her student a grade of D-minus on the assignment and that was the end of it, in more ways than one.

His naïve exposé would turn out to be the high-water mark of Noah Gardner’s adolescent protests against the establishment. He soon saw that it was a war he wouldn’t win, so there was nothing to be gained in resistance and so many comforts to be lost.

Likewise, his stand as a conscientious vegetarian lasted less than half a year. His idealistic quest to become an establishment-battling lawyer barely survived one tough semester at New York University. Several devil-may-care and fun-filled years later, Noah found that he’d done what he’d once sworn to himself and his dying mother that he never, ever would.

There was no particular point when he could say he’d sold out and turned that final, gentle corner, but one day not long ago—the day he’d met Molly Ross, in fact—he woke up to fully realize he’d become his father’s son.

Needless to say, that day didn’t turn out so well.

• • •

As he dreamed, Noah wasn’t reliving past days but only watching them file past in the dark, skipping parts he couldn’t bear and dwelling in others that had gone by too quickly. In the midst of a particularly fond memory he felt an itch and a soreness by his ear. He tried to move his hand to ease the discomfort and felt the cinch of the strap, found his wrist restrained, and opened his eyes.

A wave of body panic shot through him, the really urgent kind the primitive brain reserves for those times when you absolutely, positively must escape from something nearby that would kill you if you tried to hold your ground.

The door banged open, the overhead lights blazed on, and a nurse and two muscular orderlies rushed into the room to keep him down.

A needle popped under the skin of his arm. He tried to cry out but there was no voice to it. And he never took his eyes from the mortal threat in the shape of Arthur Gardner sitting without emotion in the chair across the room, not until the drugs took hold, his surroundings began to swirl and recede, and he felt himself drifting away.

• • •

This time there’d been no dreams at all.

When he woke again he was looking into a winsome and familiar face at the bedside. If their aim had been to put him at ease with the presence of someone he trusted, they’d actually chosen pretty well. It was Ellen Davenport—now Dr. Ellen Davenport—his closest friend from their younger, country-clubbing years.

“Hi there,” Ellen said, as if nothing whatsoever were wrong.

“What are you doing here?” Noah asked. His hands were no longer restrained though she was holding both of them in hers. “And where the hell are we?”

Her smile seemed forced and very professional, more a tool of patient management than a genuine expression. “We’re at a clinic outside of Denver. You were injured and flown here by medevac, but that’s been a little while ago now.”

“How long?”

“Several days.”

“Several days ?”

“I just found out, and I dropped everything when I got the call. That’s all I know. And I’m here for you because your father called and said you needed me.”

“My father.”

“He wants to talk to you, Noah.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to him.”

She sighed, released his hands, and adjusted his covers. “Look, I know all about your issues with your dad—”

“Actually, I’d bet your debt to Johns Hopkins that you don’t have any idea.”

“Let me finish. He’s changed, Noah. He told me that he had, and I’ve seen it. If you’d heard him when he called me—no, listen—if you’d heard him you’d know that whatever’s gone on between you, letting him in here now is the right thing to do.”

“He’s why I’m here, Ellen. He did this, no one else. He’s why all this has happened to me. When I came to you for help back then, remember? I’d gotten wrapped up with this girl named Molly Ross. She was just using me in the beginning, trying to expose what my father was doing, but in the end I really tried to help her. When he saw I’d turned against him he almost killed me for it, and then he had me locked up in some godforsaken government work camp, and—”

“Okay, okay, just relax.” By her gentle tone and the look on her face Ellen was recalling her training on how to deal with a psychotic in the grip of a delusion. In any case, when she’d calmed him down that line of conversation was tabled for the moment. She stood, fussed a bit with the IV pump, lightly checked his bandages, and put a cool hand to his forehead as if to calm him as she gauged his temperature. “You’ve got some lacerations and some burns and a mild concussion. How do you feel?”