The Power of the Press

(a Wormwood.school theatrical short)

Look: 1940s black-and-white cartoon grain. High contrast. The only color is gold on the crown. Silent except music stings and one distant “amen.”

Cast of the power of the press:
—Wormwood — smug, slightly too-pleased-with-himself, always mid-dunk
—Izzy — small, precise, unimpressed
—The King — faceless silhouette, ermine, tall gold crown. Anointed. Does not debate.

Beat 1 — The offense

[Classroom / kitchen hybrid. Wormwood has Izzy cornered under a frying pan labeled “SOFT APOLOGETICS.” He raises it. Freeze on the grin.]

Wormwood: “I’m covered. He’s my King.”

[Cut up. The King leans in. One eye-glint in the dark. He saw the standard get detonated.]

Beat 2 — The scribble

[Parchment. Quill. The King’s gloved hand writes in jagged black. We never read the words. He folds the paper once and holds it upward.
A shaft of light takes it. The paper is gone.
Choir sting. The King sits back. Case closed. No committee. No “have you considered the context.”]

Beat 3 — The sentence

[Ceiling crack. Plaster.
A cast-iron sink labeled “THE STANDARD” punches through and flattens Wormwood. Classic squash. Eyes X’d. He peels off the floor like a pancake.
Wormwood (small, from under the sink): “…I thought the press was for them.”
Izzy tips his hat at the hole in the ceiling and walks off. Enrollment still free. Results still eternal.]

Beat 4 — Button

[The King stamps a tiny gold seal on empty air. Fade on the crown.
“WMDS: When you can’t win the argument, just detonate the standards.”]

—Wormwood, from under the sink (if not in this life then the next).

Afterword:
Christians often treat “the King is mine” as a shield: if I wear the name, persecution is the only press that can fall—and it will fall on my critics. That is sometimes true. It is not a blank check (He ain’t always got your back ).

The King is anointed. The standard is His. When Wormwood detonates the standard and calls it love, he is not being persecuted. He is being weighed. The paper still goes up. The press still comes down.

Protection is real for those who keep the word. A false sense of protection is what you feel when you are sure the sink is aimed at Izzy—right until the ceiling cracks.