Oliver Crangle put the finishing touches on his blog and uploaded it to his website, which was called "Incorrect!" He leaned back at his desk where he hunkered in the darkest corner of his otherwise well-lit den. To Oliver, a middle-aged man who had spent his youth demonstrating against racism, sexism, and nuclear energy, becoming a professional journalist and then a self-employed blogger had been logical steps.
It was not necessary to explain what, exactly, "incorrect" meant. It was anything he disagreed with—anything that any right thinking person would disagree with. He knew what was correct and what was not, and he held everyone in the world to his standard. He was proud—and made a point of saying so often enough on his blog posts—that he favored gay marriage even though he was not himself gay (and, indeed, did not care for sex with anyone); and that he believed in perfect equality for everyone even though he believed himself to be superior to everyone including the minorities and women he defended from predatory cops and sexists in his blog, even though he had never been personally acquainted with anyone who was a minority. He was not a religious man, but he believed in all the popular causes from global warming to gun control to the certainty that all cops are nothing but trained killers. If he had been a religious man, he would have prayed that the each new tragedy would be less ambiguously a case for more political correctness, more oversight of cops, and more regulation of everything. He looked forward to every act or appearance of discrimination eagerly because of the silver lining of social redemption it might bring through calls for more laws and rules. "There ought to be a law!' was practically the motto of "Incorrect!"
Today's edition of "Incorrect!" was a typical potpourri of Oliver's agenda. An influential scientist had suggested on a CNN panel that a "single" snow storm was an example of weather rather than of climate change. Oliver accused him of being a climate change denier. A well-known lesbian businesswoman had donated 10,000 dollars to a pizzeria that was being (rightly) run out of business for declining to cater a lesbian wedding. He denounced her as a traitor to her own identity group and urged a boycott by people of all persuasions against this obviously self-loathing lesbian's popular software company. He had also exposed the child who attended the school situated across the street from his house for pointing his finger during this morning's recess and pretending it was a gun with which he "shot" his playmate. "A homegrown terrorist!" Oliver said in his editorial.
Fortunately, all of these evils would be noted in the proper circles, because "Incorrect!" had, in the eighteen months since its inception, become both a nationwide—yes, even an international—internet destination, yet it had local impact, too. Oliver had his acolytes everywhere, and not only did they eagerly read every word of his blog, but they put it into action, posting his articles on other internet sites, organzing protests, calling their congressman, and even calling the principal of the school across the street on previous occasions and for matters less serious than that of today's little gun nut.
"Nut!" cried Charlie the parrot whose cage stood on a pedestal near the center of the den. Oliver looked around and smiled. Charlie was his closest companion, and Oliver doted on him, giving him a nut whenever he said the word. Since parrots were famous for outliving two or more owners, Oliver sometimes wondered to whom he might bequeath the parrot upon his own death. Charlie had been inherited from his mentor, the late Professor Owen Shridlu of Jefferson University who had purchased the parrot as a chick when the professor was in his twenties. Oliver had studied political science under Professor Shridlu, who had approved of all Oliver's early activism but whose faith in Oliver had not been sufficient to push Oliver to the finish line of a Ph.D. of his own.
Oliver's chosen profession as a journalist had been more rewarding than teaching a few hundred students what was right—and mostly wrong—in the world. Particularly on a day like today, when Oliver knew that all his work was about to come to fruition in one fell swoop. Today, at four o'clock….
A knock at his front door interrupted Oliver's reverie. With more than a little irritation, he climb to his feet and stomped out to the foyer.
"Who is it?" he called through the door. As an afterthought, he peeked through the lens installed in the door to see a fish-eye view of an African-American woman in a blue dress with orange polka dots.
"Is this the home of Mr. Oliver Crangle?" the woman asked.
"Who wants to know?" said Oliver not making it sound as if he really wanted an answer.
"My name is Jenny Lucas," she said with some trepidation. "You might recognize me if I said my name is Mrs. James Lucas. The wife of Patrolman James Lucas?"
"I know who he is," said Oliver through clenched teeth. "What do you want?"
"I would like to talk to you face-to-face, Mr. Crangle, not stand out here talking to your flat front door."
"What do you want?" he said, pausing between each word.
"I want to know why you are persecuting my husband?"
"I am not persecuting anyone, Mrs. Lucas. But you might ask why your husband is persecuting your people."
"My people? Mr. Crangle, who do you think my people are?"
"Why, African-Americans, of course. Perhaps you've been married to a white cop for so long that you don't see when it's pure evil for a killer such as your husband to gun down an innocent, unarmed black man in his own residence."
Mrs. Lucas did not speak for a long moment, and Oliver thought that perhaps he had gotten through to her. Perhaps she was not one of the bad people in the world, only misguided. When his vengeance befell all the evil people in the world today at four, she might be spared. He looked through his peephole and saw with some disappointment that she had not gone away. She seemed to be straightening her back and composing her trembling jaw.
"Mr. Crangle, I don't know whether you are malevolent or just ignorant, but if you knew the facts of the case you would know that Daryl Slaughter was not an innocent, unarmed black man. At the time my husband shot him, he had a butcher knife in his hand that he had just used to murder his own brother and sister-in-law."
"How convenient that the internal review by the police themselves bought into that version. But of course, we can trust the police to police themselves, can't we?"
"Mr. Crangle, an independent medical examiner from the state government said that the knife came from Mr. Slaughter's brother's kitchen and that it was dripping with the blood of the brother and his wife."
"All very convincing to those who don't want to face the fact that the police are out of control," he said, "that all cops are racist killers and that any minority gunned down by them most likely is a victim of injustice—even if the so-called facts prove—as you say—that the dead man himself murdered members of his own ethnic group. None of that matters. What matters is that all minorities and women have been victimized by the system, and that we keep trying to change that. And it is changing. More and more, responsible people in government—and even in big business, they're being shamed into this now—they recognize that we have to change the presumption of guilt in this country so we can put the blame on the right people."
There was a long pause before Mrs. Lucas spoke. At last she said, "I have heard about people like you, Mr. Crangle, but I never thought you could really exist. Now I see you do."
"What do you mean 'people like me'?" he asked, only slightly bewildered.
"People who believe that the remedy for injustices of the past is simply to replace them with new injustices. To meet every prejudice—even when that prejudice is nearly dead and buried—with a prejudice of your own. Well, you know, Mr. Crangle, if blindness is confronted by blindness, then the whole world will be blind."
"Well, now, your remarks could be seen as insensitive to the sightless," said Oliver.
"Really, Mr. Crangle? Is that how desperately you want to evade the issue?"
"Mrs. Lucas, with all due respect, the only issue here is that your husband, a white racist cop, gunned down a young African-American man at the peak of his potential and, what's more, has no regrets about it."
"No regrets! How do you know what he feels about it? How dare you tell me, his wife, that he hasn't had trouble sleeping through a whole night since this happened? I'm the one who has had to comfort him through his nightmares and self-doubts. I'm the one who has to explain to two small children why their daddy is so sad and upset. And the campaign against him that you claim you have nothing to do with—the vindictive campaign that you and I and all your minions know you have everything to do with—is eating him alive, eating his family alive."
"As well it should!" said Oliver. "Maybe if he would come out and publicly apologize for murdering that boy…."
"'Boy,' Mr. Crangle? In your capacity as the one to tell us all what is correct and incorrect, is it politically correct now to call a thirty-one-year-old black man a 'boy'?"
"Now you're just trying to twist my words around," said Oliver. "You've had your say, now just go back to you policeman and pretend that you're not aiding and abetting someone who deep down hates you and all your people."
"Oh, I'm going, Mr. Crangle. I'm going to go home and tell James that I talked to you. I'm going to tell him that he shouldn't feel bad about being attacked by you because you are a sick little man, Mr. Crangle, a sick little man. You deserve to be pitied more than anything else."
"Me? Sick? I am the leading blogger on the internet? Politicians and CEOs consult me, and you know why? Because they know that I can tell them what is correct and what isn't. Little? I'll tell you who will be little at four o'clock today. Your husband, and all his bigoted friends on the police force, that's who."
"What are you talking about, Mr. Crangle?"
"Oh, you don't believe it. Neither did the vice-president when he called me yesterday, but I could tell that people who are climate change denying, homophobic, misogynistic racists got to him and poisoned him against me, but I am sure the president himself will understand. You see, all it takes is the good intentions of people like me to make all good people into the giants—morally of course, not literally, because the environment doesn't need physically larger humans—but meanwhile all the bad people, all the haters and ignorant people who fear those who are different from them will get their comeuppance at four o'clock today when they all will be reduced to the height of two feet tall." He laughed. The humor of so apt a sentence on the evil people fully occurred to him for the first time. He laughed so hard he could hardly continue.
"And how do you know this will happen?" asked Mrs. Lucas. He noted that she was nonplussed by his bold yet simple plan.
"Why, because I, the leader of the internet and thereby of the people at large, WILL it to be so."
"I stand corrected, Mr. Crangle . You are not a sick little man."
"I am surprised and yet gratified to hear you say that," he said sincerely.
"You are a very extremely sick little man. And what's more, you seem to me to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe we'll soon hear the last from you, after all."
With that she turned and purposefully walked back to her car, got in, and drove away.
"You'll be sorry you said that, Mrs. Lucas!" he called after her, opening the door all the way to step outside and be heard. "At four o'clock your husband and his bigoted friends will be so small they won't even be able to hold their guns, let alone shoot anyone with them! In fact, there won't be a policeman left in this city able to shoot, chase or handcuff anyone." He laughed heartily, unperturbed by the fact that his neighbors were coming out of their houses and staring at him. "And perhaps you'll find yourself the same size as your children," he shouted even though Mrs. Lucas's car was too far down the street for her to hear him now. He chuckled again, looked briefly but carelessly at his wide-eyed neighbors and went back into his house.
Four o'clock found Oliver pacing up and down the carpet in his den, having to turn every three and a half paces because the room was so small. He opened the drapes and looked into his backyard and across the fence at his neighbor who was having a few friends over to his backyard for soft drinks, beer and some grilled burgers and hotdogs. Oliver knew that such food was not good for people because he subscribed to a newsletter that advocated the ban of all unhealthy foods. Once he had succeeded in shrinking all the evil people in the world to two feet tall, he intended to ally himself with the organization behind that newsletter—maybe even take over the group himself—and campaign to have all unhealthy foods banned by law or regulation. But for now he just wanted to bask in his immanent triumph. He turned away from the window and began pacing across the room toward the door. A full four paces from the window to the doorway. That struck him as odd. It was always three and a half. The half pace at the end always made him stop short. Now he was making four full paces across his room. He turned and walked back to the window. A half pace again, but this time four and a half instead of three and a half. He looked out of the window and saw his neighbor again. He's not shrinking at all, he thought. It surprised him, since it was his neighbor's son who made the finger gun at school today. The man had bumperstickers for the wrong candidates on his car and—who knew?—probably had real guns in the house. He was rumpling his son's hair now and handing the boy one of those excessively sugary soft drinks that Oliver meant to have banned as soon as possible. He raised his chin to see over the window sill. The father and son were smiling at each other. Everybody over there seemed to be smiling and happy, and nobody was shrinking yet.
Oliver looked at his watch and suddenly realized that the rug was a lot closer to his eyes than it usually was. He next became aware that the window sill was close enough to bump his forehead when he looked down.
"Nut!" called Charlie. "Nut!"
Oliver turned around and saw that Charlie had somehow gotten out of his cage. He also noticed that Charlie was twice his usual size. Over the years, Charlie had nipped Oliver's fingers now and then, but for the first time, Oliver wondered what might happen if Charlie decided to attack him. Oliver could not believe how huge Charlie had become. But Charlie was always assuaged by a nut. Oliver would just reach into the bag where the nuts were kept and…. But the nuts were on the shelf. The shelf that usually was at the same level as Oliver's shoulder. But now that shelf was higher than Oliver's head.
"No!" he cried. "They're supposed to shrink, not me! Them!" He turned back toward the window to see his neighbors, to determine whether they had begun to shrink yet. But he could no longer see over the window sill. "No! No!'
"Nut!" said Charlie.
Suddenly, a dark haired man stepped into Oliver Crangle's den. And while Oliver pleaded with him for help, the stranger ignored him, looked straight at the blankest wall in the room, and said in a smoky voice:
"At four o'clock, an evil man, a self-styled avenging angel, made his bed and lay in it, a pot called a kettle a kitchen utensil (to be politically correct), a stone-thrower broke the windows of his glass house. You look for this one under 'F' for fanatic and 'J' for justice—real justice—in The Twilight Zone."