A conflict rages on in the afterlife, invisible to our mortal eyes. The ambitious and war-like of the populace banished to Tartarus have stood up to fight against all others who keep them oppressed, starting first with the realm of Asphodel. The great City of Heaven, once the culture capital of the world beyond ours, now holy only in name, is laid under siege.
Shortly after the forces of Satan captured the main television broadcasting district that served to bring billions of citizens in that place between eternal suffering and everlasting love the news, entertainment, and otherwise important information pertaining to their lives, a Psy-Ops group had been deployed to begin utilizing all of the fancy, newly-acquired hardware.
The group consisted of several thousand people. Most had brought along with them experience from their time spent in art schools, punk houses, tour vans, museums, and the movie, music, or sex industries while amidst the living. Others were trained from zero in movement of the heart and how to accomplish it. A few had held high-ranking positions in secretive government agencies while alive, and of course, there were those with former training in information warfare.
Soldiers not affiliated with the group but assigned to guard them would often find themselves in close proximity to the psyops specialists while they did their jobs, occasionally even contributing to the work themselves. It wasn’t uncommon for a hard-headed, stubborn cynic who, in life, turned up their nose at the idea of doing anything “artistic”, to suddenly discover that not only did they actually enjoy being involved in the process of creation, but they were good at it, too.
Scheduled programming was a delicate blend of what was needed, as determined by the commanders leading the army to take actual ground in the realm, and what was interesting to make, as determined by the creators of the programs.
What was needed was broadcasting that could reach the population, combatants and noncombatants alike, wherever it was that they thought they were safe. What was needed was to begin sowing the seeds of doubt in their capabilities, and that maybe they don’t actually have a fighting chance despite being on the “correct” side of the conflict. What was needed was imagery that unsettles, disturbs, frightens, devastates, intrigues, excites, arouses, entraps, and ultimately annihilates any fighting spirit within the opposition.
What was needed was terrorism, through and through. A permeation of the idea that there was nowhere someone was safe from the enemy. In their streets, in their homes, in their thoughts. The powerful and cutting-edge facilities in the city made it easy, since the range of the broadcasts reached virtually everywhere across the realm.
When operations began, it was anybody’s guess as to what one would find when turning on the television.
Animal documentaries showcasing apex predators feasting upon the uncensored carcasses of their prey were particularly favored for their ability to put on display the kill or be killed instinct inherent throughout the natural world, highlighting the idea that, for dominance to exist, then so too must submission.
Pornography that was written, directed, and acted out in one of the many film production sets of the megadistrict, either broadcast in its entirety or occasionally clipped and interspersed sporadically into unrelated lighthearted comedy sitcoms.
Music videos for compositions made by the songwriting branch of the group, recorded in-house at one of the many exuberant studios that were present in the district.
News reporting that was heavily skewed in favor of the invaders, possibly followed by the occasional publicly televised execution, of which the preceding torture was frequently shown live on air. They even allowed people to call in and make suggestions. It was surprisingly popular, despite how nightmarish the concept was.
Original screenplays featuring real, unscripted killings, made by those who will never know God, for those who may be on either side of holiness and eternal damnation, blurring the lines between murder, performance art, and snuff film.
Step-by-step instructional tutorials on how to kill yourself painlessly (or painfully) in such a way that ensures your soul would be reborn and cared for in a Tartarusian prisoner of war camp, specially-made for those who voluntarily surrendered. An easy way out for those who can’t stand to bear arms and fight. The alternative was to be killed and end up being reborn in Tartarus anyway, now with no guarantee of merciful treatment or any human rights at all. The group was very clear about conveying that information to the audience.
Any number of other demoralizing things could be broadcast on the network channels at any moment.
And despite the sheer grotesqueness and almost comical brutality of the broadcasts, viewership soared. People simply could not look away. The same thing that made them feel on edge and repulsed and isolated and alone and sick to their stomachs, sad, depressed, invisible, hysteric, horny, humiliated, hateful, hopeless…!
…was the same thing that they could not envision a life without.
What else were they going to do? Everybody watched television. It was a reliably consistent and easy-to-access source of stimulation. And sometimes, it was genuinely entertaining. Those brief moments of pleasure, along with the morbid curiosity that arose from the more upsetting programming, kept people tuning in. While working at the broadcast station, one couldn’t help but feel a sense of power in having control over the emotions of others.
Perhaps the most important ideological pillar shared in the minds of all the psychological operations specialists was that creating should be fun. Thus, if one really glued their eyes to the screen, if they really looked closely at the many masterpieces the group worked so hard to bring to fruition, they might have been able to see just how much fun the creators had while making them.
