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He wields the pen like a weapon, but not for truth — for profit. His questions are traps, his interviews a bargain: not for stories, but for cash.“Exclusive!” he cries, yet the only thing exclusive is his hunger. He writes not to inform, but to extort. Every line carries a price tag, every paragraph a contract.He asks not for trust, but for coins. He sells not insight, but guilt: “If you pay, I’ll tell your truth. If not, it stays hidden.”Thus he becomes a merchant of words, a swindler cloaked in press freedom, a mirror of temptation — how easily truth is betrayed when gold gleams brighter than conscience.
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