THE ALLIGATOR

The girl’s name was Amara, but the world barely whispered it. She’d been missing for days, her absence marked only by a grainy photo on the local news and a handful of social media shares in community groups for villages 500 miles away or in other fucking countries. 

A troubled past, they said, as if that excused the silence. She had a criminal record, a history, and in the eyes of those who decided what mattered, that was enough to put her life on a waiting list.

Meanwhile, the Alligator plied his trade. He didn’t have to shout to be heard; his presence was a thick smog that filled the airwaves, his name splashed across headlines like gospel. He’d had one too many drinks, wrapped his car around a tree, and emerged unscathed except for his bruised ego. But the papers didn’t call him reckless. They called him charismatic, controversial, a man of the people.

He was anything but.

The Alligator had once been a household name. A charming TV host with the kind of smile that made people forget he was already sinking his teeth into them. He’d been disgraced after fucking some of the interns, boys and girls, but instead of fading away like most would in the face of a public backlash, he thrived. Shed his skin for something tougher. On social media, he became a beacon for the bitter, the angry, the disillusioned. He traded in dog whistles, wrapped hate in clever words, and fed the masses their latest opinions about how this once great country could become great again if it weren’t for those fucking illegals noncing our kids.

The missing girl? She didn’t stand a chance against him. Not in this media landscape. Her disappearance was a whisper; his every word, a shout. He riled up his followers with bloated fiction paraded across the landscape as stone-cold facts about immigrants, asylum seekers, anyone who didn’t look or live like them. He didn’t name names, but he didn’t have to. His followers understood. They filled in the blanks and carried his anger with them, their keyboards clattering like swords being sharpened. 

Before long they were out in force, launching bricks and starting fires. Given the permission and freedom to cause destruction in the name of a cause they didn’t even understand.

Amara’s name was drowned in the noise. Eventually her body was discovered - by a dog walker, as usual - and still nobody was talking about her. The Alligator had moved on, stirring another pot, pointing another finger, pulling another string.

And his followers went back to their lives, some with criminal records now, others with their faces plastered across viral videos. Their jobs at the supermarket or the warehouse hung by a thread. The rage he’d fed them didn’t disappear; it curdled inside, turning into something they’d carry with them forever.

In the break room of the call centres and the staff rooms of the factories, plaques hung on the walls. Cheaply made, the words a joke that had long since lost its humour:

You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps.