The State of the Union

The man’s pink, mottled face bulges out from underneath his disheveled red hair. His blue eyes shine like watery lamps, peering out at the crowd from behind a veil of sweat; a salty drop falls off the tip of his nose onto the podium. The microphone whines, emitting a scratchy noise that echoes back and forth across the room, bouncing off walls and chairs. The room is poorly lit and crowded with seated, talking people. Picking up the microphone, the man clears his throat; silencing the murmuring crowd. “I don’t have much time before they come for me. I’m too dangerous.”
A few people titter, others twist their bodies to speak to their neighbors, their eyes never leaving the speaker’s form. An aura of interest and excitement is tangible. This will be a good show, they think. A content little smile flickers across the speaker’s face, his lithe body held in a seductive stance. He chuckles and shakes his head slightly, obviously enjoying the power he holds over his audience. And so he begins in earnest, “Orwell had it right you know.” Silence greets this proclamation.
The man sighs, his wheezing breath amplified by his microphone. “Just as I thought. Most of you don’t even know who Orwell is, do you? Was I should say. But of course if I asked you who Simon Cowell was, you’d all know, wouldn’t you?” A few people laugh. The speaker frowns, bushy eyebrows crossing across his forehead, and breaths heavily; his hands twitch at his sides and he grasps the podium. “Goddamn morons.” A few gasps. Other spectators aren’t as surprised, they have heard whispered rumors about this mysterious lecturer.
“Nineteen Eighty-Four,” the man murmurs, a look of ecstatic, almost painful rapture etched on his homely face. “That was it. He wasn’t right about everything, was old Georgie, but nobody can say what they mean anymore, he got that. He got that…” His voice trails off and he impulsively cracks his knuckles. “Propaganda!” the man shrieks, his fist reaching the podium a few seconds before his saliva. “Insidious mind-tampering! Milky-Way bars flying in the air, scantily-clad models!” There is no laughter now. The spectators (for that is truly what they are) sit transfixed, watching not for the message but for what the prophet will do next; he transcends the material, much like Jack Nicholson in a bad movie. “Don’t say that there are no Thought Police,” he shouts, shaking his head so violently that his hair flaps down over his eyes. Brushing it back impatiently, he explains himself, “The Patriot Act allows your government the right to bug your house, and search your mail, and whatever else they want!”
“But that’s not the issue.” Pausing for a moment, the speaker picks up a bottle of water and takes a swig. He wipes his brow with the back of his right hand, and steps back up to the podium. “The death of free speech is what I’m here to talk about this evening. I tell you, folks, it’s a sad day when an artist- if you can even call him that- like John Grisham encourages the suppression of artistic expression. You all read John Grisham novels, don’t you?” He shakes his head and chuckles patronizingly. “Kids, when I read that letter he sent my good friend Oliver Stone, I almost choked. Of course the death of that young man was a tragedy, but it hardly needs mentioning that a two-hour movie cannot make a person kill, that’s just a fact It’s a fact.” His takes a deep breath, and then continues. Minds begin to wander, he must catch them. “So that’s that. What’s the point of censoring a film or a movie just because it’s violent? We can’t judge We can’t judge the effect a work of art has on the populace by the actions taken by a few deviants. That’s madness. Imagine, for a second, what the world would be like if art was regulated. Why, we’d have nothing but John Grisham novels! Nothing but mindless worthless trash Crash is Trash!” He roars at the top of his lungs, voice cracking on the final syllable. The audience begins to perk up again. A few more rants like this, and the show’ll be worth the admission price!
The man smiles sheepishly. “No actually it’s not. In fact, that movie proves my point. Two-hundred and eighty uses of profanity, but it was about improving race relations! If that’s not positive, than what is?” A roll of the eyes. “But no, it teaches our sweet little angels dirty, filthy words! Well, wake up morons! Daddy uses those words every day! And besides!” shrieking at the top of his lungs, spit flying out onto the front row, “Better a few cuss words than a lifetime of ignorant, evil racism!” Stops suddenly, facing the crowd, smiles. Speaks: “Dontcha find?” 
         Silence. The speaker collects himself, ignoring the stunned crowd, and continues. “None of you know who John Milton was, but keep close to heart something that he wrote: “That virtue which is untested is not virtue.” Ha!” He waves a finger at the audience triumphantly. “That pearl of wisdom from one of the most conservative men ever to walk the earth! Do you know what he meant, folks? He meant that preaching simpering morality when you’ve never been tempted to sin doesn’t make you a saint, it makes you a phony! You can’t take credit for real virtue until you’ve looked the devil in the eye and turned your back on him!” He grins and throws out his arms. A strangely Jesus-shaped shadow is cast on the back wall. That, dear readers, is the egregiously gratuitous religious symbolism of the day.
Silence. And then applause! The man beams and takes a bow; his words have had an effect! Victory claimed against all odds. They can’t stop him now. Suddenly: a spotlight shines brightly overhead, traps the speaker in its grim outline. He stands, glances fearfully in all directions. Trapped:  uniformed officials begin to make their way up the stairs towards him. “Hey! What are you doing? Stay away!” They grab him, slap on handcuffs, and drag him towards the exit.
The man desperately twists in his captors’ grasp, craning his head towards the crowd. “You’re all slaves!” he screams. “Look at this, remember: you’re all slaves!”
Censored.