The planes fly in, dropping crews, cameras and concerned anchors to tell the story. The dolly pans slowly so the cuts between scenes fade easily from point to point. No one seems to notice the very contrast of media and reality. Exercised, fit, tan. Makeup and shave upon the saviors.

He says the toothpaste on his lip is to hide the smell. But it doesn’t work. There is no government in this desperate land. No landing for the desperate to collect at. Nothing but tents for the troops, hotels for the media.

The camera moves onward, down the road to a street market. I picked the fruit, says the woman sitting on the curb. On the curb among many merchants offering food for sale. Sitting on their last possessions trying to sell. But they have no money to buy, she says about the people wondering by.

Our story staggers on, so slide the dolly, cover the next story. Covered corpses. The old are dying. They were before, but now they are propped against the trees, the only things that survived. Their faces are reminders of the collapsed buildings. They are broken and starving. The market place is only rubble scattered blocks away, yet here they are dying as the fruit vendors are trying to sell in this land without.

The ending scene. We are stateside, returned home where the questions asked are what did they do to deserve this. Weren’t they religious enough. Weren’t they rich enough. What would Jesus do. Perhaps become a TV reporter. Perhaps a TV savior offering salvation between commercials, condemnation for those nonviewers, those unbelievers. The only thing they aren’t is rich enough.

The invisible hand of the media, the invincible story of desperation. Remotes click all over the world. Fade to commercial.