{"id":1248,"date":"2026-08-23T08:20:43","date_gmt":"2026-08-23T08:20:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ilrickyverso.it\/?p=1248"},"modified":"2026-08-23T11:25:06","modified_gmt":"2026-08-23T11:25:06","slug":"racconto-distopico-potere-si-sporca","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ilrickyverso.it\/en\/racconto-distopico-potere-si-sporca\/","title":{"rendered":"The day Power got dirty"},"content":{"rendered":"

A dystopian short story born from a dream: what happens when the elite that governs the world find themselves, for one night, without their power to control it?<\/em>llo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cold night air scratches my face. I don't feel a shiver\u2014I reserve that for those who still believe the cold is a problem, and not just an operational detail to be overcome with Gore-Tex. Crouched on the castle's sloping roof, my tactical gear clinging to my body like a poorly sewn second skin, I look down into the inner courtyard and think: "\u201cHere they are, punctual like taxes that only others pay"\u201d<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Below me, the usual ballet of premium-style arrogance unfolds. Black SUVs with tinted windows spew out tailored technocrats, bankers, politicians with tight smiles from the gym, and industrial magnates onto the centuries-old stones. The 1% of the 1%, the cream of the crop, the kind that rinses its mouth with words like "sustainability" while invoicing in tax havens. They move with the confidence of those who own the world and believe they can redraw its borders, shielded from prying eyes. Too bad they brought the prying eyes with them tonight, comfortably seated in the front row of their own convoys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How do you penetrate the most impenetrable security perimeter on the planet? Spy readers would say by force, or with unlikely gadgets worthy of science fiction product placement. The truth is more prosaic and far more frightening: you can't penetrate it from the outside. The entrance is built from the inside, brick by brick, badge by badge, generation by generation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eighty years old.<\/strong> Much has passed since my grandfather, amid the still-smoking rubble of World War II, founded this Network. He was a private. He only had a fifth-grade education. But he understood something so banal that no peace treaty would ever have written down: Bombs end sooner or later, greed doesn't.<\/strong>. It's a family inheritance more inconvenient than a thirty-year mortgage, but it works. The purpose was simple: to act as a latent antibody, ready to intervene when the centralization of Power threatened humanity itself. No private armies, no fictional mercenaries\u2014that's expensive stuff, and it shows. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Us<\/strong> We are the cleaning lady who empties their wastebaskets in Russia, the assistant who manages their diaries in Japan, the technician who encrypts their servers in the US, the Swedish guard who now monitors the castle's security cameras. But even the minister who sits in one of North Korea's most important offices, sporting a Rolex more expensive than his entire public salary, is one of us. And the personal physician to the President of Italy. 195 countries. Over 5 million people working in the shadows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Their security controls haven't been bypassed. We simply are their security. And after eight decades of waiting\u2014a patience no budget quarter could ever justify\u2014the moment has arrived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00abM-Team in position. Main lines isolated,\u00bb Mark\u2019s voice crackles in the earpiece.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00abS-Team, exits blocked. Alarm disabled from inside,\u00bb Lihn echoes, sounding bored like someone who\u2019s done this in simulation too many times to be truly excited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I close my eyes for a moment. It's a perfect mechanism, a score where every note has its own time\u2014the only true symphony these people will hear tonight without paying for a ticket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00ab"Activate the water shutoff," I order, my voice firm. "Seal every bathroom. No escape!"\u00bb<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I climb down from the roof to the control room. On the ultra-high-resolution monitors\u2014better than mine, and I work on them all day\u2014the meeting has already begun. At the solid walnut table, the boss of bosses projects economic graphs that reduce millions of human lives to scrap numbers, geopolitical chessboards to be redrawn at the expense of those at the bottom of the chain. Contempt for humanity oozes from every word, every gesture, every Rolex.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00ab"It's time," I say, inserting the drive into the terminal. "Open up live streaming worldwide. Every channel. Every damn screen."\u00bb<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A second later, television frequencies, social media feeds, and even digital billboards in Times Square and Tokyo are hijacked. The entire world finds itself staring at the castle hall. For free. Without even having to look for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00abReleasing gas.\u00bb<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No poison comes out of the brass air ducts\u2014not steel, which would have been the sensible choice: here brass is furniture, despots have an interior designer even for the air they breathe. We are not murderers.<\/strong> We are dispensers of truth and humiliation, a commodity category that no one has ever regulated. A whitish cloud saturates the room: a laxative gas<\/strong> synthesized in the laboratory to be odorless, lightning-fast, and as ruthless as them with those who don't count.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first signs of collapse appear on the monitors. The Secretary of Defense clutches his stomach, eyes wide. A well-known tech industrialist doubles over, his face ashen, for the first time in his career unable to monetize the situation in real time. Then chaos. The artificial dignity, the one built by PR and image consultants, crumbles in a few disastrous seconds. Men and women accustomed to deciding the fate of the planet rush against the carved doors, scream at jammed handles, crowd toward bathrooms whose locks are, with exquisite irony, more jammed and secure than any of their campaign promises.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In front of billions of people streaming, the hierarchy crumbles in the face of the one thing that not even the highest net worth in the world can buy: the ruthless equality of biology<\/strong>. Pure, untouchable, cynical power sits there with its arms folded over its stomach, forced to shit itself in ten-thousand-euro suits, groaning on a marble floor that probably costs more than the entire house of whoever cleans it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As the panic reaches its peak and the true scent of their souls fills the room\u2014finally consistent with what they've always represented\u2014I nod to my cameraman. The camera pulls away from the room and focuses on my face. "Anytime, Ricky," Thabo whispers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I take off my balaclava, breathe in the clean night air, and look straight into the lens. No masks, no shadows\u2014I leave those to them, who have made a profession of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00ab"We're everywhere," I say, my voice calm and sharp. "In your morning coffee, in your secretary, in the technician who just deactivated your alarm when you were convinced your only problem was the traffic getting here. And we'll fix the things you, for your own dirty interests, never intended to fix."\u00bb<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I pause, letting the images of their defeat, behind me, speak for themselves. A half-smile, not a heroic one\u2014the smile of someone who has just achieved a satisfaction he's waited eighty years for, and knows perfectly well how paltry it is, without regretting it in the slightest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00ab"You've always prided yourself on getting your hands dirty when it matters. Tonight, you finally got your hands dirty, up to your neck. And your lawyers aren't here to clean it up."\u00bb<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"racconto<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Notes on the story: The curse of dreaming too well<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

A necessary confession: this story wasn't born from an outline, a brainstorm, or a moment of lucid, imaginary revenge against capitalism\u2014it was born while I was asleep, period. My dreams have this nasty habit of being vivid, colorful, absurd, with an internal coherence that my waking brain can rarely replicate without three cups of coffee and two hours of procrastination. I sometimes wake up with entire scenes already edited, dialogue already written, a castle roof beneath my knees that seems more real than certain meetings I actually attend. The problem\u2014if it's a problem\u2014is that those images don't go away: they become posts, songs, articles, stories like this one, in a kind of creative condemnation from which I have no intention of redeeming myself. Because yes, it is a condemnation. But it's beautiful.<\/em><\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A dystopian short story born from a dream: what happens when the elite that governs the world finds themselves, for one night, deprived of their power to control. The cold night air scratches my face. I don't feel the shiver\u2014I reserve that for those who still believe the cold is a problem, and not\u2026<\/p>","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1250,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_kb_optimizer_status":2,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"wpai_generated_summary":"","_kad_post_transparent":"","_kad_post_title":"","_kad_post_layout":"","_kad_post_sidebar_id":"","_kad_post_content_style":"","_kad_post_vertical_padding":"","_kad_post_feature":"","_kad_post_feature_position":"","_kad_post_header":false,"_kad_post_footer":false,"_kad_post_classname":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[561],"tags":[83,939,943,934,159,935,938,942,936,941,165,940,933,937,759],"class_list":["post-1248","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-racconti","tag-critica-sociale","tag-distopia-sociale","tag-elite-mondiale","tag-fiction-politica","tag-il-rickyverso","tag-narrativa-italiana","tag-potere-e-corruzione","tag-racconto-breve","tag-racconto-distopico","tag-satira-sul-potere","tag-scrittura-creativa","tag-sogni-e-scrittura","tag-sogno-diventato-racconto","tag-storie-originali","tag-thriller-psicologico"],"yoast_head":"\nIl giorno in cui il Potere si \u00e8 sporcato - 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