“Breaking: The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom has shit his trousers.”

That’s according to HisRoyalHigh-ness, a popular social media personality who posts about politics, pop culture, and apparently, the bowel movements of prominent politicians. The tweet has all the trappings of fabricated internet hogwash—a salacious accusation, invocation of a public figure, and an anonymous source (HisRoyalHigh-ness is known only by his avatar, an anthropomorphic royal crown with bloodshot eyes and a water bong). Nonetheless, this drugged-up cartoon has reached—close to a million followers—so I know this post is going to ruin my afternoon.

No worries though. Our team has protocols for all of this. We will contact the site and demand they remove the content. They will refuse but offer to attach a legitimacy warning to the post. We will unleash our bots into the comments to refute the statement, call into question the bone fides of HisRoyalHigh-ness (not difficult), and generate dozens of our own counter-posts explaining that the story is, well, full of shit. We may even DM HisRoyalHigh-ness and offer to pay for the deletion of the content. It shouldn’t take more than a few hundred quid. None of this is ideal, but that’s the job. We are professionals and we can handle it.

I am writing up a responsive strategy when Norris barrels into my office. He’s out of breath, nearly panting. “Did you see it?” he asks, balancing an open laptop in one hand while tamping down what’s left of his hair with the other.

“That tweet? I’m on it. Emailing you all now.”

“Not the tweet. There’s a video.”

A video. I deflate. Words I can manage. Videos are a different beast. People remember videos. What’s worse, they share them.

I motion for Norris to approach. “Show me.”

Norris angles his screen in my direction and hits play. The Prime Minister is wrapping up his remarks after a meeting in Amman with the King of Jordan. He wobbles off stage and pauses to take questions from the press. With his back toward the camera, the Prime Minister leans on an oak cane for support.

I move closer. “What am I looking at?”

“Wait,” Norris says, leaning over my desk, tapping his fingers on the faux marble.

My focus returns to the laptop just in time to witness a golf ball-sized, chocolate splotch emerge on the most famous bum in all of Britain. I snatch the computer and hit ‘pause’.

I shouldn’t be watching this. I’m a grown man. This is puerile, beneath me. But like millions—maybe billions—of people all over the internet, I mustwatch. That, of course, is the problem. I hit ‘play’.

Baby blue fabric is the perfect canvas as the spot expands, taking on the dimensions and unsettling hue of a fast-food hamburger. I lean in further. As the splotch continues its outward march, I hit ‘pause’ again. Disgust (and a touch of exhilaration) floods my mind as quickly as the excrement is filling the Prime Minister’s bespoke trousers.

I press ‘play’ one last time, and the video hits its cinematic crescendo: a chocolate river—so distinct and rich it would make Willy Wonka proud—creeps down the right leg of Britain’s head of state, stopping just above the knee.

And finally, mercifully, the video ends.

46 seconds of embarrassment. 46 seconds of shame. 46 seconds that could sink a reelection campaign. This isn’t just a spot on a pair of pants, it’s a stain on a nation.

“Ring him,” I say through my hands, which are rubbing my eyes, trying to cleanse them of all I’ve seen. “Wait. Hold on. Get the team in here first. We need to talk this through before we speak to the big man.”

Norris dashes out. Through my wall of windows, I watch him move from desk to desk, gathering the crew. It’s just the four of us now. I fired 75% of our staff once our bots got trained up. Now we simply prompt the bots and they do our dirty work. This cut our overhead in half overnight. We didn’t lower our rates though. In fact, we fetch higher fees now. Now we are “technology-forward,” “AI-enabled,” and “digitally-automated”—the sorts of hyphenated buzzwords that make campaign managers swoon and reach for their wallets.

I direct the team toward the Eames-style chairs arrayed in a semicircle around my desk. Each of my employees is a confident, high-level operator, but today is different. They seem unsure, cautious, a bit shellshocked.

“We’ve all seen it then?” I ask.

Nods all around.

“This is all we are working on today. Other clients do not exist for the next twenty-four hours. No one goes home until we get our arms around this. Understood?”

More nods.

“Now, Kendra. Where are we? Total posts, total impressions.”

“It’s not ideal, Michael.” She squirms in her pink trainers.

“Numbers, please.”

“Just over 4,800 posts, 543,000 impressions. That’s just on Twitter. It’s accelerating.”

“Christ. How did we get so far behind this?” I ask.

“If I could,” Norris says, “it’s not that we missed it or sat on it. It’s that we just detected it. Once the video surfaced, this all really picked up steam.”

“Has the Lewis campaign put anything out on the video?” I ask.

“Like an official campaign statement? No,” Norris replies. “But I’m certain they have their bots spreading it everywhere. Shameless bastards.”

They are indeed shameless bastards. But we would be doing the same thing.

“Well,” I say, “we are where we are.” It’s a meaningless phrase, but it seems to have the intended effect: forgiving ourselves for our present circumstance.

“What’s in place now? Kendra?”

“Our automated response is up and running,” she says, blinking behind thick black glasses. “The bots are in the comments, making counter posts—our usual playbook. We’re not keeping up with the organic content though. Loads of people have loads to say about this.”

“Accelerate the automated posts.”

“Are you sure? I worry we’ll be blocked again. We’re pushing it already.”

“Do it.”

“Understood,” she says, not moving.

“I mean do it now.” I wave her toward the door.

“Shira, what are you thinking for influencers?”

“It’s going to be a challenge.” Shira shakes her head, taps her fingers on the edge of her laptop. “No one high-profile will be keen to declare their support for a trouser shitting.”

“Shira,” I say, shaking my head back. “We’re not asking anyone to affirmatively endorse crapping one’s pants. We are asking people to denounce the creation and distribution of malicious, deep fake video content on the internet. It destroys the discourse, makes people question reality, etcetera etcetera.”

Norris raises his finger. “Do we know it’s fake? It looks pretty damn authentic to me.”

I cross my arms, shoot him a hard look.

“What?” he asks. “I have kids. I know crapped pants when I see them.”

“I don’t care if it is real or not. For our purposes, it’s 100% a fake. That’s the message. That’s what our influencers will be influencing about. Understood, Shira?”

“Understood on the messaging, but still, influencers won’t want to touch this,” she says.

“If we pay enough, they will. I’ll authorize max rates. Now go.”

Shira hustles out of my office, just as Kendra returns.

Now it’s just Norris, Kendra, and me. The inner circle. We stare at each other, saying nothing, doing nothing. The high-priced brain trust, it seems, is out of ideas.

“I think we all recognize that our standard playbook won’t be enough. Not today. Not for this,” I say.

“The problem,” Kendra explains, “is that the video fits squarely into the broader narrative. That he’s too old. Past his prime. No longer sharp enough to run the country.”

“How can the Prime Minister control inflation if he can’t control his bowels?” Norris adds.

“I get it,” I say. More silence, more stares.

“What are the numbers now?”

Kendra refreshes the data on her phone. “Close to 10,000 posts now, and we’re beyond a million impressions.”

“That can’t be right,” Norris says. “We’ve never seen something move like that.”

“We’ve never seen a video like this,” I say. “We are sinking here. We need to be creative. This is what we’re paid for. Let us think. Are you all thinking? Or just staring at your screens.”

They look up, irritated.

Finally, Kendra breaks in. “Weren’t there other cameras in the room? Can’t we find footage showing the Prime Minister not pooping his pants in Amman?” 

“Good thought,” I say. “I considered that, but the press conference had ended. And any cameras that might still have been rolling would have been trained on the podium. He’d moved offstage before the incident occurred. And even if other footage did exist, it would take too long to track it down. We need something now. Right now.”

“Can we find a witness—someone who was present—who will testify that no pooping occurred?” Norris smirks with self-satisfaction.

“Testify where? Before the High Court? In a Baptist church in Alabama? Come on, Norris.”

“Fine,” he says. “Another idea: what if we got a picture of the trousers? Show they’re clean, poop-free. Spread that image around.”

“Norris, how many pairs of light-blue trousers without shit stains do you think exist in this world? What will a photo like that prove?”

“Fine,” he says.

Back to staring at each other. I do have an idea, but I’m not ready to share it. I don’t even want to think about it, honestly. It’s something we’ve discussed, but only in the most theoretical of terms. We have never dared to consider actually doing it. To my shame though, I am considering it now. And if we ever were to take this step, today would be the day.

“Over three million views,” Kendra says, her shoulders dropping.

“Hang on.” Norris lifts his phone. “It’s the Prime Minister.”

“Let it ring—we’re not ready,” I say.

“You want me to ignore a call from the Prime Minister?”

“We’re not ready.”

Norris shrugs, declines the call, sets his phone on the edge of my desk.

More silence, more stares, no new ideas.

The consequences of failure today are grim. We lose the election and lose the Prime Minister’s account (our largest by a wide margin). And when word gets out that this disaster happened on my watch, we could lose our whole roster of clients. I glance down at the family, who smile back at me from a mahogany picture frame. Their faces provide comfort, but also remind me of the kids’ Uni tuition, the mortgage, and my wife’s decision to quit her job last year.

“Four million views,” Kendra says. “Michael, what are we going to do?”

“And the Prime Minister is calling back.” Norris shakes his phone at me. “We can’t ignore him forever. We’re going to have to tell him something. Michael, we need guidance here.”

Their eyes burrow into me. My phone buzzes in my pocket. My computer screen is lighting up like a slot machine.

“Okay,” I say, holding up my hands, palms out, as if to calm a crowd. “This is the situation. We’re too late to get ahead of this. And any defensive content we put out now will just drive views of the original video.”

“So,” Norris asks, “what’s your plan?”

“You’re not going to like it,” I say, looking straight at Kendra.

“Tell us,” she says.

“We need to change the narrative. We need something new. We need a counter video.”

“What does that mean, a counter video?” Kendra squints in confusion.

“We need a video of George Lewis that is just as damaging, just as viral,” I say.

“But Michael, I don’t understand. If we had such a video, we would have used it already,” Norris says.

“I am saying that we need to acquire such a video. And quickly.”

“Acquire a video from where?” Kendra asks. “With respect, Michael, what are you on about?”

“Fine, I’ll say it plain. We need to create a video. Or have it created. Norris, you have a contact, right?”

Norris looks back at me, stunned. Kendra can’t look at me at all.

“Norris,” I repeat.

“Sure, I have a contact who does this sort of thing. But Michael, are you certain? Once we do this, there’s no going back. Not in this election, not in future elections. You know I’m with you, but this would be a massive step.”

“We need a massive step.”

“Wait,” Kendra shakes her head. “I just want to be clear here. You are suggesting we create and distribute a fake video of MP George Lewis, the leader of the Labour Party and a candidate for Prime Minister?”

“None of this is ideal, Kendra. Do you have a better idea?”

“Here’s an idea: we don’t do this. We keep what’s left of our integrity. Our dignity.”

“Clients don’t hire us to be dignified, Kendra. They hire us to solve their problems. So I ask you again, do you have a better solution to this problem?”

“I won’t take part in this.” She stands, exhales, and walks out.

I look to Norris. “You’re okay with the approach?”

“I’ll call the guy.”

“Wait,” I say, “ring the Prime Minister back first.”

*          *          *

“This is horseshit,” the Prime Minister barks. “It’s Lewis’ people behind this. That pudgy imbecilic twat.”

“I understand you are upset, Mr. Prime Minister. But I assure you that we have this under control,” I say.

“Under control? I don’t think you have anything under control, Michael. I’m told the video is spreading with historic speed. Historic speed, Michael. You understand that I pay you large sums of money precisely to prevent precisely this. You understand that, don’t you Michael?”

“I understand, sir, and I assure you…”

“We will sue these bastards. Get my lawyers on the line. Not the government lawyers. My personal lawyers—the nasty sons of bitches.”

“If I could, sir, we don’t know it was the Lewis campaign. In fact, we know very little about the origin of the video.”

“Useless.”

“And in any event, Mr. Prime Minister, a lawsuit will not solve our present dilemma.”

“I know that, you idiot. Now tell me what steps you are taking.”

“We have an aggressive strategy, sir. A response is up and running.”

“Sounds to me like your strategy is failing, Michael.”

“We are also planning to deploy a novel, cutting-edge approach. One involving AI tools. I think it best if you don’t know the specifics.”

“Don’t obfuscate, Michael. Tell me what you are doing.”

“Sir, I think it best if you don’t know the specifics.”

“Fine. Frankly, I don’t understand what it is you do anyway. But I do understand that you are doing a shit job of it. Turn this around, Michael. Do what must be done.”

“Yes, sir. We are on it.”

“Well,” he says, “aren’t you even going to ask me?”

“Ask you what, sir?”

“If it’s real.”

“The video? We are assuming it is fake sir, but that is not particularly relevant for us. The video looks authentic and that is what matters. People will believe it is real. We will deny its legitimacy, of course. We are doing that…”

“I didn’t shit my pants.”

“Sir, I…”

“I just want to make that clear.”

“Understood, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Well?”

“Sorry sir?”

“Well? What else do you need from me?”

“Sir?”

“Go on then. Proceed with your brilliant, secret strategy. Michael: fix this. Fix this now.”

The line clicks dead before I can respond.

*          *          *

Norris shuffles back into my office shaking his phone at me. “I have the guy, he’s on the line.” Norris puts the phone on speaker and places it on my desk.

“Hello, this is Michael O’Dell. Apologies, but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“I don’t use my name professionally,” the guy tells me. He’s quiet, calm. I recognize some Manchester in his gravelly voice.

“That is fine, I suppose. I understand that Norris has briefed you on our situation?”

“He tells me you need a video. That is what I do.”

“Correct. We need a video. And quickly. A video that will not be flagged by websites’ authenticity screens. Can you deliver what we require?”

“Should do. Those screens are six months old, minimum. My tech is five versions beyond what that software can detect. No worries there.”

“Good. Happy you can help us.”

“I can help, but your man didn’t give me specifics. I need details—what precisely do you need?”

“We need a compromising video of George Lewis. We need it immediately. Can you do that?”

“George Lewis.” He pauses. “Is this related to that pants-shitting video?”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yes—quality work that was. My AI is even better though. So, I suppose you want a video of George Lewis soiling his trousers as well? Seems a little on the nose, no?”

“No. We need something different. Something even more viral than the clip of the Prime Minister.”

“Right. We could have Lewis cheat on his wife. Or do drugs on camera. A heroin needle could make a splash.” The voice on the line is emotionless. Cold, unhurried, happy to destroy a man’s life for a fee. It’s chilling. Then again, I guess I am no better. But we are where we are.

“Good ideas, but I fear those would not be viral enough to outshine the video of the Prime Minister.”

“Perhaps not—it’s a cracking video that pants-shitting clip. Fine work, truly. So, what do you propose?”

“Well.” I pause and turn my family photo sideways. “I was thinking … I was thinking women’s lingerie.”

I look to Norris. He’s a hard man to shock, but his eyes are wide open, mouth ajar.

“Lingerie. Nice one. I can do that,” the voice says.

“Pink, frilly, satin. And I want Lewis sporting this skimpy ensemble in his official Parliamentary office. Good?”

“Right. That works. In the prompt, I will specify that I want hidden-camera style videography. Grainy. Like an undercover sting video.”

“Makes sense. Thank you.”

“Any other instructions for me?”

I look at Norris, who shakes his head. “That should do it,” Norris says.

“So, that’s it then?” the voice asks.

“Hold on,” I say.

I pause. It’s the details, specificity. That’s what creates virality. We need more.

“Put Lewis in high heels. Red stilettos. Red lipstick too. And can you have him dance around a bit?” I ask.

“Right. Whatever you’d like.”

Norris is shaking his head, trying not to grin. “What?” I mouth silently.

“One last thing,” I say. “Let’s give him a tattoo. Maybe lower back?”

“Fine. What design? Butterfly perhaps?”

“Wait.” I say. “The tramp stamp is too cliché. Forget the lower back. Let’s do a red rose on the right buttock. Make it small enough that it’s not immediately clear it’s a flower. And add some random initials next to it. That will get people talking. The debate over the MP’s ass tatt will be a story in and of itself.”

“Right. Will do. Is that it?”

“That’s it. When can we have the file?”

“20 minutes. 30 at most.”

“If you can get us something in 15 minutes, I’ll add an extra 25k to your fee.”

“I’ll do my best.”

*          *          *

I click open the file and it’s precisely as requested. Grainy, but clear enough. Absurd, but believable enough. An irresistible morsel of content that people will consume, remember, and share with their friends. This 38-second clip of a flabby Englishman frolicking in female unmentionables will win this election and salvage my career.

“Norris,” I say, “did you receive it?”

“I did.”

“Thoughts?”

“It’s ludicrous. I think it works.”

“Agreed.” We stare at each other for several moments.

“Well?” I say. “Off you go. Get it out there. All hands on-deck.”

He nods and stands up.

“Speaking of all hands,” I say, “is Kendra back?”

“I don’t think Kendra is ever coming back, Michael.”

“Fair enough.” This isn’t what I wanted either. But there was no other way.

My email back to the mysterious video auteur is straightforward:

This will do. Norris will handle payment (including the speed bonus I mentioned). Thank you.

I refresh my feeds and watch the cascade of deception. The posts from our bots gain some initial traction, but when our influencers join the fray, the impressions begin to pile up. Within thirty minutes, we hit a half million views. Spot on. The job is complete within the hour, when the BBC website publishes the headline: “Could a gentleman gyrating in women’s knickers upend the race for Prime Minister?”

With today’s emergency at bay, I take a moment to exhale and check in on the cartoon avatar that started all this fuss. HisRoyalHigh-ness has re-posted the BBC article, declaring today “the greatest day in the history of the internet.”

That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. I flip back to my feeds, hit refresh, and scan for a response from the Lewis campaign. Nothing yet.

“Norris,” I shout through my open door. “Get our man back on the line.”

Norris walks to my threshold, squints his eyes. “Our man?”

“Our video man. I want a clip to keep on standby. Ready when we need it. I don’t want to be scrambling next time.”

“Right. Just so I’m clear, what kind of video?”

“The useful kind. I’m thinking we have Lewis kick a dog.”

“I like it.”

“And work up a short list of names for Kendra’s replacement.”

“Right. Will do.”

As he turns away, I add: “Norris, good work today.”

I’ll miss Kendra. But we all had a choice. Adapt or die. She chose death. I didn’t have that luxury. I spin my family photo back to its original position. There’s no going back now. We are where we are.

About the Author:

Patrick Childress is a writer and attorney living in Washington, D.C. with his wife and two young sons. His Twitter/X handle is: @PatChildress.

*Feature by Gonzalo Facello on Unsplash