I wish I was one of those brilliant, talented authors who could start a book off with some revealing or tantalizing scene without it coming off as the teaser to a James bond movie except more hackneyed. But I’m not, so we’ll start with my name. Which is Shoeshine. Shoeshine Emily Lazarus, if we’re being all formal. But, it’s my book and I prefer just Shoeshine, if you don’t mind. Not Shoe, how demeaning is that? To be called a type of footwear? And definitely not Shine, sounds like a name for one of those bubbly bobbleheaded blonde girls I’ve hated ever since I was little. Skinny little vapid bitches. Just Shoeshine.
I’m not sure how much to expect from this book. I’m writing it for my boyfriend. Well, rather, I’m writing it at my boyfriend’s request. To try and set down a straight story for just once in my entire life. We’ll see how that works out.
Let’s start with work, with what I do for a living. Without mincing any words, I am a Disinformation Broker, for a company whose identity I can’t release, contractually. Being a Disinformation Broker involves doing pretty much what it sounds like, which is to say it’s not quite lying but it’s so similar that in dim bar lighting I’d be willing to forgvie you for getting the two confused. Actually, lying is probably a more honest career, since lying very rarely drags the truth into things. Disinformation brokerage is the art of taking the truth, coaching it, giving it some ten dollar words, and in general tarting it up so much like a common 2-dollar streetwalker that its own mother wouldn’t recognize it, and certainly wouldn’t approve of it.
An example. Theoretical, of course. I mean to say, surely things like I’m about to say never happen and totally couldn’t be real. Hypothetical, got it?
So (hypothetically), let’s say a government-funded research facility working on some genetic research in the ever-popular form of viral weaponry gets kinda, well, blown-up during an insurgency raid by a small group of nutjobs who thought the facility was being used to do cosmetic testing on poor little woodland Bambis. And, say, in the aftermath it caused the population of the nearby town to have a sudden increase in fertility and a dirge of those babies being born with a some extra fingers. Like two or three. And say that this wave of oddities caught the attention of the local media, who unfortunately weren’t so thick as to not begin snooping around at the research facility. And then let’s say my firm gets pulled in to disinform the situation before the government got egg on its face about the whole goshdarn thing. And let’s say, maybe, theoeretically, I end up rewording the whole fiasco as an unfortunate result of some military insurgents trying to put a stop to some research that was seeking of allow people to be more productive in their day-to-day lives through the introduction of extra digits. And that, really, it was only being done on a few voluntary test subjects, and the entire fiasco with the town’s babies was utterly the result of the insurgents (who seem to have been Portugese, according to the intel), and really, if the parents would be willing to sign these here forms allowing the government to monitor the results of the extra digits so they can finish the study it would be quite the blow to terrorism and people attacking our way of life.
You know, things like that. Governments, corporations, the very, very, oh-my-god you’re very rich, there’s not a particular shortage of the need for some well-delivered misinformation to keep the every-snoopy news media theses days distracted long enough for the short attention spans of the average citizen to forget and move on.
And so, that’s a bit about me. I suppose anything else of merit will just come up as we go along. Oh, one more thing. Like I mentioned earlier, this is really more for my boyfriend—Jared–than for me. I don’t get this whole “Shoeshine, you need to learn to just tell the truth thing,” but he’s pretty hellbent on it, and really, it’s probably worth keeping him around. So, this story is for him, and I suppose in it’s way it’s about him, too. I mean, if I hadn’t of met him I wouldn’t be writing this, so it makes sense that if it’s going to be his fault it might as well be about him.