Policrook

You Can’t Defend Yourself
After Death. So Prepay the Defense Team Now.

Welcome to the dark underbelly of political legacy, where memory is not merely a gift bestowed by the living but a product meticulously manufactured and wrapped in shiny rhetoric.
This chapter unearths a soul-sucking truth: for a politician, death isn't a finale; it's a marketing opportunity.
The grave is not where your reputation goes to rest—it becomes the launching pad for your PR team to spin your misdeeds into myth.
Let’s expose the vile gears of this legacy-manufacturing machine.
Step One: hire your ghostwriters.
These aren’t just wordsmiths; they’re your hired guns in the battle against historical accuracy.
Why leave your fate to the whims of public memory when you can pay a cohort of historians, biographers, and spin doctors to rewrite your narrative?
You just need to ensure they value cash over conscience—after all, “[Your name] was a visionary who definitely wasn’t a dictator” is only a check away.
Then, there’s the art of crafting your own glowing obituary.
Discover the sinister thrill of arranging for your glowing eulogy before the curtain falls.
Who needs authentic journalism when you can cozy up to a crony in the press and fill them with fine wine and empty promises?
Pre-write the lines that will arm your legacy against reality: “An avid advocate of democracy, whose only flaw was worrying too much about political prisoners.” Delightful delusion clothed in the guise of heartfelt reflection—who could resist?
And let’s not forget the pièce de résistance: the commemorative exhibition.
Nothing screams “I’m a benevolent ruler!” louder than a glittering exhibit dedicated to your “achievements.” Picture this: a vast hall filled with portraits of your most demonic decisions, illuminated by the soft glow of propaganda.
Top it off with a six-foot statue—complete with a syrupy inscription that glosses over the fallout of your policies while elevating your failures to triumphs worthy of Homer’s verse.
The price?
Just a small fortune, likely sourced from the coffers of those you kneecapped along the way.
But what’s a legacy without a sprinkle of academia?
Establishing academic chairs in your honor is like planting a false flag in the barren field of truth.
Drown your scandals in cash, disguised as philanthropy, and witness your life vilified in the name of scholarship—screaming through the annals of history in footnotes perfecting the art of omission.
Here’s the deal: you won’t die clean.
Death is messy, a cacophony of unfinished business and unanswered scandals.
By the time you check out, a mountain of your miscalculations looms—a bitter pill that no payment can smooth over.
Your hired historians will polish your story until it’s shinier than a presidential seal, but remember, they can only gloss over the surface.
Underneath the facade lies the rotten woodwork of your life—nobody gets out unscathed, but with a well-padded post-mortem plan, you’ll stay the last boss in the game of legacy, wielding unchecked influence from beyond the grave.
Pro Tip: for the cunning fraught with fear, it’s vital to understand: there are no PR teams waiting for you to take your final bow.
Spinning your narrative from beyond the grave is a fantasy fed to the hopeful.
Once the heartbeat fades into silence, the world's lens will swiftly focus on the truth you spent a lifetime evading.
The lesson for you, the voter, is clear—next time a beloved leader passes away, don’t let “loving tributes” sweep you into acceptance.
Recognize the elaborate masquerade behind the tearful speeches and the gushing obituaries.
The charade is not about honoring the dead; it’s about crafting a narrative that serves the living—politicians invested in drowning your skepticism in waves of sentimentality.
Learn to challenge these finely crafted myths before they settle into your memory as gospel.
Because once that polished façade crumbles, you’re left with nothing but the gritty truth of who they really were.