Charles, Author

Something had come unhinged in the social contract in the middle 1800s in the states. Perhaps the nation was getting loose at the seams, between the continual growth and the internal strife. But whatever the cause, the standard terms for trust got tangled in the growing pains. All shades of hucksters appeared out for a quick buck, an easy lie on a still half stuporous public. But it went further than that, the era of Barnum and Poe giving something like real world legitimacy what had until then only been the providence of sailors and small time tricksters. Deal of bright white American devils began springing up in quite legitimate newspapers. Tho the idea of a legitimate newspaper was only beginning to be established.

What was going on, wrong if you want to be pessimistic about it, was more difficult to say. Author's hoaxes went somewhere very different from the likes of Poe. You could read in them a joy that didn't drag a willing public over a cliff through naivety that would lead to an ever growing disappointment. How can one not read of life on the Moon or the ability to sail airbourne in a balloon across the Atlantic and not feel that mankind was at the cusp of an important change. And that for once the public was right there at the forefront eyes wide and ready to appreciate every last bit of it. Not burning anyone at the stake or off-with-their-head-ing. Pitchforks carefully stowed, they were ready to accept the men of science and let them have their day. And what'd these men do? Sold them out for less than the price of getting ink on your hands. Merely for a laugh.

And maybe they meant it good natured. People loved a yarn. Enjoying the game of veracity. Attuning themselves to all sorts of market speak that would be quickly coming their way (tho always at least one step ahead enough to turn a profit). But all of it was at its very core unkind. It traded in inflating and then dashing hopes, if only the hope that the momentum of progress was just a tick faster than the public had thought. That the day had actually arrived this time. A quiver of the heart. And sure. You want to spread that word of palpitation. But what is it when the heart quivers and the next moment drops? In the medical professions that is guaranteed cardiac thrombosis.

No. Author never went for anything big enough to be disproved. People were certainly called upon to doubt. Like the time his articles--unsigned--claimed a man living in the mountains of northern California had found a miracle cure for gout by following a pack of wolves out on their hunt. Figuring they never had such problems he wanted to see what they ate. And along with the flesh of whatever poor small creature, he saw they were consuming tiny mushrooms that grew up at the site of their previous kills. These 'blood mushrooms' as the article termed them had a distinctly pink pallor and a gamy, tin-like flavour. ***

But that article wasn't hocking anything along with the story. There wasn't a hidden pitch for some miracle cure or even a subtle affirmation that such a potion might be well worth the cost to give a chance. Instead, the short piece ended like an old morality tale describing how the man learned to get along with the pack and share these magical mushrooms with them, even how he offered his own blood sacrifice--not literally his own blood but that of a raccoon he'd earlier caught. The notice seemed to say, get to know the world around you, play fair with it and all'll come up roses. Or mushrooms as the case may be.

Tho there were certainly some larger hoaxes perpetuated by Mr. Author whose good-naturedness is at least more dubious...