P. T. Barnum and the First Mission to the Moon

Conspiracy theory background:

Mark Philipson’s first exposure to conspiracy theories came when he read Chariots of the Gods by Erich von Daniken. The compelling text had a profound affect.; the 14 year old got caught up in the whole alien visitor thing. Mark wanted to believe humankind on Earth needed an alien intervention to lead the way to civilization. This attitude wore off not long after turning the last page.

What did keep a hold was a fascination with conspiracy theories remaining to this day. While recovering from an injury during the Great Pandemic of 2020, Mark decided to cook up conspiracy theories. The following narrative is an attempt at building a conspeory.

The Seed:

Phineas Taylor Barnum stared at his financial records. The ledger didn’t look too good, the showman had been in the red for the past two months. The bottom falling out of the railroad industry had hit the economy hard, forcing Barnum to sell his holdings in the show. At least he got some royalty payments from having his name on the bill. It wasn’t enough, Bsrnum couldn’t take another quarter like the last one. He needed a new revenue stream and he needed it fast.

Barnum closed the workbook. Sheer willpower wasn’t going to change those numbers. It wasn’t some phony fortune teller act he was promoting. When Barnum moved the ledger to the side and revealed his favorite newspaper the top story on the Daily Mail jumped out at him: MOON PLATES. The headline was so big it spanned the width and one third of the height of the front page.

Henry Draper, an American astronomer, had developed a technique of exposing photographic plates through a telescope. Barnum breezed past the technical explanations defining Draper’s method of hydraulic stabilization and clock driven rotation control.

Barnum saw something beyond the crystal clear images of the lunar landscape. He just wasn’t sure what it was.

Barnum went with his favorite source of inspiration, a Turkish water pipe loaded with hashish. After three long draws, his mind wandered. What if scenarios drifted through his consciousness like the pungent smoke billowing to the ceiling.

After making some quick notes, Barnum hit the streets of New York City armed with an idea. That wasn’t all he was armed with: a four-barrel, .36 caliber pepper box revolver sat tucked away in a vest pocket. Hidden in the blackthorn cane he carried, a 14 inch dagger sharpened to a razor’s edge waited to be drawn.

Barnum made it to the publishing office of the Daily Mail without incident.

The Pitch:

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Barnum told Horatio Hollingsworth, the managing editor.

“I’m a busy man, Mr. Barnum … Can we get to this?”

“Of course,” Barnum said. “A second lost is one less penny in the piggy bank.”

Hollingsworth grinned. “That’s an interesting turn of a phrase.”

“I noticed the front page piece the paper did this morning … A good story … I can see potential there.” Barnum threw out the bait.

Hollingsworth saw a story about an astronomer who fiddled with a telescope so he could expose high quality photographic plates of the moon. To the editor, the story was already dead. “Like I said Mr. Barnum, I have a paper to get out … If you have anything constructive to add to that end, I’d be glad to hear it … If not, I have to get back to work.”

“Here it is, when I saw that bit this morning, I got to thinkin … what if the dark and light areas of the photograph of the moon turned out to be forests and oceans. You know, like on Earth.”

“There’s no proof of that.”

“Who needs proof … All we need to do is get enough people to lay their coins on the barrel head.”

“Which people will be setting coins down for what?”

Barnum could see Hollingsworth was interested. Hell, he hadn’t been tossed out of the office yet. Barnum set the hook: “0n tomorrow’s edition, I want you to run a colorized version of that photograph. Make the light areas green and the dark areas blue. Say astronomers believe the moon is covered in forests and oceans.”

The Scam:

The next afternoon, Barnum answered a knock on the door. A messenger boy handed him a slip of paper. Barnum dug deep into his pockets to come up with a one cent tip. The message, printed on Daily Mail stationary, was from Hollingsworth. The managing editor wanted to meet Barnum for supper at Delmonico’s Steak House on Fifth Avenue and 26th Street.

“You must be hungry,” Hollingsworth said as he watched Barnum tear into his second shrimp cocktail appetizer.

“Well,” Barnum said. “I missed lunch and I walked all the way to get here.” He left out the part about being down to his last ten dollars in the bank and going on a eating every other day schedule.

“You know, running that colorized edition increased our circulation by ten percent.”

“I figured as much.” Barnum looked at the unfinished baked oysters on Hollingsworth’s plate. “Are you going to eat the rest of those?”

“Go ahead.” Hollingsworth pushed the plate across the table. He waited until Barnum was done devouring what was left. “Does the story end here, or is there more?”

“Oh, there’s always more. I could use a drink before dinner, how about you Hollingsworth?”

“All right.” Hollingsworth ordered a glass of white wine. Barnum went with bourbon.

Barnum was working on his third drink when he looked around. Making sure no one was in hearing distance, he leaned in: “Tomorrow, run the paper and say astronomers have seen life on the moon.”

Every evening over dinner, Barnum gave Hollingsworth another story to run the next day. Barnum sketched creatures on house napkins: people with bat-wings soared the lunar skies, oxen with eight legs plowed fields of moon corn 30 feet high. Artist depictions of Barnum’s crude renderings crowded the front page for three days. Circulation was up

At the next meeting, Barnum said, “I think it’s time to move on.”

Hollingsworth had seen sales skyrocket. He didn’t want to stop now. “Move on to what?”

“The next act … The big show … The one that’s going to pack them in and fill the cash boxes.”

Hollingsworth wasn’t following. What could they possibly do to boost circulation by more than it stood now? The managing editor got his answer.

“Tomorrow, start running an advertisement calling for donations. Use that French guy … You know, the writer?”

“Are you talking about Jules Verne?”

“That’s the guy. Didn’t he write some crazy shit about a trip to the moon?”

“You’re talking about From the Earth to the Moon.”

“That’s it. Use the plot of the book to pad out the add … Lay it on thick … Are you with me so far, Hollingsworth?”

Hollingsworth envisioned the piece. He went home that night and put the first draft together in his study.

The next morning, Barnum looked at the morning edition of the Daily Mail. In the classified section, he saw what he was looking for. The article called for donations to a fund that would send a manned missile to the moon. Arms manufacturers from around the world were united with scientists in a quest to build a cannon powerful enough to launch a projectile that would make the journey.

The gag worked. Donations poured in. After three days Barnum took his 25 percent of the proceeds and caught a train to San Francisco.

Viral Signs

Mask of Sign.

The Line:

Even though Mark Philipson left the house 20 minutes early he was the third person in line. He wouldn’t be getting a prize for being the first shopper in the door during Whole Foods Market’s special hours thing.

The guy at the head of the line coughed, causing a ripple effect that made the second guy step back. Mark moved until his back touched the base of a column. Not a problem, the social distance between the shoppers was still maintained.

The second guy in line turned to Mark: “I see you’re wearing a mask.”

As Mark drew a breath to answer, the word mask triggered a deep thought process spanning decades: He was fourteen years old and working a summer job in the memorial inscription department at a monument company, applying cut stencils to granite grave markers and marble crypt fronts then sandblasting the lettering and designs.

One morning the boss handed out headsets, goggles, and face masks to the inscription department. OSHA regulations. Mark was okay with it. He’d rather be in a shop than outside on the setting crew.

On the exhale, electrical impulses ricocheted across time: he was 47, working on the jet engine inner air seals resurfacing line for the aviation division of a large corporation.

During a break, the team leader called Mark into his office. The general manager was in there too. Corporate headquarters had approved the request to build a facility dedicated to removal of the material used to mask the oil intake ports on the inner air seals. Mark worked on that line, prepping parts for the detonation gun. It was also his job to clean the parts for the grinders. The chemical to be used in the process was carcinogenic and explosive. Mark would be wearing a full hazmat suit.

The memory blast faded when Mark said, “Hell, I’d drill two holes in a bucket with a keyhole saw and wear it on my head if I had to.”

He was no stranger to protective gear.

The Switch:

The second guy just finished chuckling when the first guy reared his head back and let out a massive sneeze, misting the window.

The second guy shook his head. In a loud voice he said, “Jesus … what an animal.”

Mark kept his mouth shut. Florida was a concealed carry and stand your ground state. You didn’t know what was in a pocket or a purse and you didn’t know who was itching to pull a trigger.

“It’s okay, man … he can’t hear a word I’m saying,” the second guy said.

Mark still didn’t get it. His mind was still on Def Con III as he stared at drops of mucous sliding down the glass.

“He’s deaf … I saw him signing on the phone earlier.”


“Listen, I’m going to move behind you. I’ve got to get away from this guy. My wife has cancer and I came to get some stuff. I’d leave if I didn’t have to get …” The guy checked his phone then continued, “Brahmi, Ashwagandha, and Sanjeevani. I ordered the herbs online for pickup at this location. ”

“I understand.”

Now Mark was the second guy. He pressed the metal band at the bridge of the nose, pushing the mask tighter against his face.

As he stood there waiting, Mark wondered. He’d been doing a lot of wondering since the start of this thing. Wondering if dryness in the back of his mouth would become a burning sore throat or a single cough would turn into hard hacking that didn’t let up. Would it begin deep in the lungs and reverberate through his skull?

He’d read the data, trying to pay attention to verifiable sources and avoid questionable socialized media. Reports from China indicated older men—especially those with underlying health issues and smokers—had the highest death rate.

At 66, Mark was definitely older. He didn’t smoke or drink. That was in his favor.

Being a baby boomer, he’d carried Hep C in his blood for a long time. He didn’t find out about it until he was applying for insurance and his blood came back positive.

He ended up at the gastroenterologist’s office. His blood count came back with a viral load of 5,000,000 parts per milliliter.

The doctor said at this rate he’d probably need a new liver in 20 years. He had two options: do nothing and see what happens or begin a treatment plan.

Mark went with Door #2.

For six months, Mark administered injections of Interferon once a week and took one tablet of Rebetol every day.

Mark had a good run. By the end of the course his viral load had gone from 5,000,000 parts per milliliter to undetectable.

The incident was used as the call to action in Bull-hearted.

Thinking about his bout with Hep gave Mark a shot of self confidence. It was still early in the pandemic. The country hadn’t reached any grim milestones yet. Federal and local governments hadn’t issued any mandates about masks. If this guy wanted to go without a face covering and spread bacteria over everything he got near it was his right as an American.

The Sign:

Mark saw activity in the store. Employees flooded the aisles, stocking shelves and setting up displays.

It looks like they’ll be opening up soon, Mark told himself.

This was confirmed when a team member came up to the window. She held up five fingers.

The guy in front pulled out his phone and raised it. A FaceTime window came up. An older man appeared on screen. They started signing.

Mark wondered what they were talking about even though he was sure it was probably food related.

In his head, Mark played out the scene on the sidewalk.

The guy in the phone used his hands to ask, “What do you call tea with ice in it?”

The guy on the other side signed, “Iced tea.”

Phone guy: ”What do you call coffee with ice in it?”

First guy: “Iced coffee.”

Phone guy: “What do you call ink with ice in it?”

First guy: “Iced ink.”

The guy in the phone pointed, nodded, and covered his nose.

Mark saw the bit on network television while watching Billy the Kid versus Dracula on Svengoolie.

The doors opened. Mark pulled his license out of his top pocket and showed it to the team member on the inside.