Fake News: The Psychic Echo

They called it Echo.

The President reclined in his luxurious swivel chair, and stared at the blue glow of the monitor.

"Echo, the Internet's Dreamcatcher," shone in bold yellow type across the top of the webpage onscreen.

Under the tagline was a basic internet message board format, displayed against a light green background. Posts were sequenced vertically, each containing a single picture with text.

This kaleidoscopic repository of the people's dreams and thoughts was chaotic, and often wrong, but he had learned to use it as a weathervane. He was often better at interpreting the trends than his own supercomputers. More art than science, he figured.

Almost every night he read it, there were multiple posts about impending nuclear war.

"Nuclear blasts in London in three days," he read in one post, which he quickly scrolled past. None of the nuclear war predictions had manifested yet.

One quickly learned to read the text as if it was salted, to chew and digest, instead of taking it at face value, if one was to make any positive use of it at all.

The latest trend was a repeated image featuring his face photoshopped onto a rat's body, clawing at a block of cheese painted to look like money and hanging from a fishing hook.

"Hmm...the mob is fickle," he mused.

More disturbing than the personal insults was the general vein of pessimism and unease that pervaded the music of the mind.

He had run on a platform of optimism, and now the only Echo predictions that repeatedly became reality were higher prices and stagnant wages for working people.

Apparently, the same collective consciousness that had willed him into office was now secretly wishing or willing his demise into existence.

"I should probably stop reading it..." he muttered to himself.

And yet he couldn't look away. So many times it had given him an edge on opponents, or a glimpse into the future, that now he almost felt an affection, or loyalty to it.

"As you should," read a post on the screen, as he continued to read and scroll downward.

Another disturbing development. As he grew more familiar with it, it seemed to speak directly to him. It had previously read like a conversation between strangers.

He slouched slightly, and slowly pulled his hair back across the top of his head. It was thinner than it had been a year ago.

He scrolled yet more.

"New bovine virus is gonna cause beef and milk prices to jump 200% boys. Prepare for epic red state seethe."

And yet he scrolled.

A crude drawing of him performing fellatio on a top banking executive.

And yet he continued to read.

He saw many more posts about imminent nuclear war than he did about the bovine virus, but he instinctively knew that the beef and milk shortage was a greater threat.

The officeholder who originally commissioned Echo, back when the public thought mindreading impossible, had preferred to let a team of computer scientists analyze it, as if it was a trite poll or survey. But the President knew better. He sometimes mused on whether all men were truly "created" equal, but he knew for a fact that all thoughts aren't equal.

General angst versus targeted bearishness.

And so he scrolled.

"Your wife is going to shove a cucumber up your ass tonight," read a post next to an image of Depends adult diapers.

He let out a sensible chuckle.

And then he scrolled.

"Train crash results in a chemical spill--millions at risk of cancer"

He finally stopped scrolling.

"Yup, that's the straw," he said aloud. "What a bunch of losers."

The President stood up, loosened his tie, and walked out of the ornate door to his office. His bedroom was a few hallways away. He walked down the halls profoundly, his head slightly bowed.

He nudged the bedroom door open, and crept in. He was surprised to see the First Lady awake and walking toward him.

She wore a silk bustier, and nothing else.

In her right hand was a large, green cucumber.