Shirts

The camera panned around the crowd. Everyone, everyone wore an image of the prophet Mohammad.

“Goddamn it! You said they just had Je Suis Charlie! They’ve got the picture on every shirt. We’re going to have to apologize for this,” producer Victor Ebbington screeched.

“Look I just saw the white shirts they all flash mobbed and showed the black tees with the image on it,” Co-producer Derek Gadd pointed out.

“We’re going to need to get this off the air and send an apology,” Ebbington repeated. Perspiration gathered at his temples. He wiped his forehead like a banana picker in the jungle.

The image shot around the globe on television and Internet sites with the rapidity of a virus spreading through a population.

“We’ve—”

“It’s too late, Vic,” Gadd emphasized.

“I hate to say heads will roll out of it being too literal. We’re all going down for this. That might be too on the nose, too. We’re going to pay for this—”

“Stop it! Look, it’s out of our hands. We’ve got reams of protections against instances like this.”

“Do you think the jihadists are going to care about some documents. They’ll spill blood on those pages.”

Gadd looked down. “What we can do is ensure that we don’t repeat it on air. The Web is something else. The social media sites will bounce it back for a few hours. It will die down. I mean it’ll be online for all time but—”

“But we can distort the images for the TV broadcast. News agencies will be ready to show the white shirts. Goddamn black shirts!”

Executive producer Dewela Nordop looked at both men.

“It’s a statement,” she said.

“What?” Ebbington said.

“It’s better that they showed the image of Mohammad.”

“Why is that?” he asked. Gadd folded his arms.

“To just say Je Suis Charlie, the terrorists laugh. They don’t like the image. They’re bloodthirsty children. They can’t take a photograph or illustration of their sacred deity but they can slice throats and let off rounds into pancreases and livers. This is the best possible situation. We’re going to run the images over and over and over. We’re going to keep the footage in heavy rotation.”

The two men just stood in astonishment.

“I was trying to tell him, Dew’,” Gadd started.

“Derek, please.”

“Alright, Dew.”

“This is what we’re going to do. We’re goijg to keep doing the same thing for at least a week. We’re going to encourage designers to place the image next to their logos. We’re going to cut licensing deals with anyone who wants to shoot a commercial, television, or film script. We’re going to do what should have been done decades ago.”

“We’re going to pay for this….” Ebbington repeated.

“Victor, at least sit up. Act like you have a spine.” He shot a spiteful grin at his boss.

“Now, take me back to when they first showed the black shirts.”

The engineer brought back the shot of the images of Mohammad. The crowd of about fifty or so souls displayed the visage of the most contested image for all-time. In the moments leading up to the broadcast of the images, they all sat in the van and witnessed the Wilmington, Delaware group that had proudly flashed the images.

“Vic, Derek, I need you two to get into the mode of editor again. We all started at the Daily Delaware. Let’s not forget that. We’re still a team, even for this streaming service. This moment will define our careers, yes. But most importantly, our lives.”

“If it doesn’t cost them….” Ebbington cracked.

“You go out there, then. You Get within that crowd and you tell those brave people what they did was suicidal. I’ll tell you they’ll say they’re championing scores of lives stolen from people because of a set of ideas. You tell them that.”