Passive Voice, Active ResultsA Guide to the Gentle Art of Suggesting Catastrophe
By Conrad T. Hannon
Discussion by NotebookLM
There is a certain elegance in not saying what you mean. Or rather, in saying it so artfully that the meaning is clear only to those already inclined to hear it. History has always favored the veiled suggestion over the crude command. If power corrupts, ambiguity indemnifies.
The most effective leaders rarely issue explicit orders for the darkest deeds. They hint. They sigh. They wonder aloud. And somehow, magically, things happen. People disappear. Problems resolve themselves. The machinery of consequence turns without a single fingerprint on the gears.
The Original Plausible Deniability
Consider, if you will, the celebrated case of King Henry II. A man of temper and office, he once lamented within earshot of men who carried blades: "Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?" And lo, four loyalists rose and interpreted his musings not as idle venting but as a job posting. They returned with blood on their boots and plausible deniability in their hearts. Henry, for his part, was shocked—shocked!—that his musings had been taken so seriously.
This is the gold standard of deniable incitement. Not a direct command, not a call to arms, but a weary sigh cast into the air with just enough iron in it to draw sharpened steel.
Archbishop Thomas Becket's blood on Canterbury Cathedral's floor wasn't spilled by Henry's hand. It was spilled by his rhetoric—a question that wasn't really a question, an observation that wasn't merely observational. The beauty of it all? Henry could claim, with technical accuracy, that he never ordered the assassination. He simply... wondered aloud.
It is a formula that has endured. The language changes, but the structure remains. Today, we trade swords for smartphones, and papal thrones for platforms, but the rhetorical mechanics have not advanced one iota. We still ask leading questions. We still pretend we don't know how torches and pitchforks work.
Linguistic Smokescreens and the Poetry of Insinuation
The truly sophisticated power player understands that direct commands create liability. Why say "Crush them" when you can ask, "Don't we have options for addressing this situation?" Why declare "This person must be stopped" when you can muse, "I'm concerned about the disruption to our community values"?
This is the aristocracy of suggestion—a bloodless coup by way of raised eyebrows and pregnant pauses. In boardrooms and political backchannels, the most devastating directives are often phrased as thoughtful concerns. "I'm just worried about the impact on shareholder value" has ended more careers than "You're fired" ever could.
And should anyone connect these gentle musings to the subsequent carnage? Well, that's simply an unfortunate misinterpretation. After all, words are just words. Intentions are impossible to prove. And plausible deniability is the greatest armor ever invented by the calculating mind.
Numbers Are Just Numbers (Until They're Not)
In our era, where communication is compressed into shorthand and sentiment is implied rather than stated, the battlefield is not Canterbury Cathedral but the comment section. Our swords are hashtags. Our armies are followers. And our plausible deniability is written in digits.
Take, for instance, the expression "86." In one life, it is a restaurant code. Cancel the fries. Scratch the soup of the day. Nothing more. In another life—say, one in which you hang around the backrooms of Vegas or the footnotes of mob history—it is a term of finality. To 86 someone is not to fire them, but to erase them. Drive them out, bury them deep, and then toss the number in like a shrug: "Just a coincidence."
Lately, this numerical ambiguity has grown more sophisticated. Numbers strung together, cryptic and deniable, are posted like Rorschach tests. Are they innocuous? Are they hostile? Are they... lunch orders? The defense is always the same: "It's just a number. You're reading too much into it."
Which is, of course, the point.
The genius of the numerical code is its perfect mathematical innocence. What could be more neutral than a number? What could be more objective than a sequence of digits? And yet, when "1488" appears in an online profile, certain communities recognize it immediately as a white supremacist calling card. When "420" shows up in a dating profile, it's not indicating an affinity for that specific time of day.
The numbers game extends further into our digital culture. Three parentheses around a name—(((like this)))—become the subject of endless debate about intent versus interpretation. Yet when called out, the response is predictable: "They're just punctuation marks. Why are you so sensitive?"
This is the modern sleight of hand: embedding meaning in seemingly innocent symbols, then feigning bewilderment when that meaning is accurately interpreted. The symbols evolve constantly, staying one step ahead of mainstream recognition. Yesterday's OK hand gesture becomes today's loaded symbol, and tomorrow it will be something else—perhaps a fruit emoji or a particular arrangement of punctuation marks.
The plausible deniability remains constant: It's just a banana emoji. It's just a question mark followed by an exclamation point. Why are you overthinking this?
The Sophist's Toolbox: Euphemism, Ellipsis, and Executive Indignation
Modern discourse is filled with these charming little knots of plausible deniability. "Take care of it." "Close the loop." "Make it go away." Each phrase walks the line between benign efficiency and executive elimination. And when someone interprets the phrase in its darker context, the originator can simply raise their hands and say, "Well, that's not what I meant."
They're not calling for blood. Just action. Just a solution to this problematic presence in our midst. Surely someone can... deal with it?
Let's not be crude about it. The modern professional class has done away with messiness. No one says "kill the witness" anymore. That would be inappropriate. Instead, we say "sunset the asset" or "reassign the resource to a non-public role." Human Resources departments have become funeral homes for reputations. Digital mobs don't need to draw blood; they just need to de-platform.
It's a new type of violence—surgical, data-driven, algorithmically deniable. And it is almost always preceded by some version of "Just asking questions."
The corporate world has elevated this art form to its zenith. Consider the phrase "We're going to have to make some tough decisions." Translation: Someone's head is about to roll, but not mine. Or "Let's circle back on this after some reflection." Meaning: Prepare your resignation letter.
Even our digital lexicon has evolved to accommodate this passive aggression. The simple act of "liking" a controversial post creates perfect deniability. Did you endorse the sentiment? Were you acknowledging you saw it? Were you bookmarking it for future outrage? Who can say? Certainly not the algorithms that amplify the engagement regardless of intent.
The modern sophist knows that the best way to start a fire is to wonder aloud if something is flammable. Then, when the blaze begins, they can stand back in wide-eyed innocence: "I was just curious about the chemical properties!"
The Geography of Suggestion: From "Gitmo" to "Room 101"
Perhaps the most refined form of suggestive menace is the geographic euphemism. Locations become shorthand for fates we dare not name directly.
"He's been transferred to our Siberian office." Not a promotion, one assumes.
"She's taking an extended leave to visit our facilities in [redacted]." How nice for her. When can we expect her back? Oh... never?
Throughout history, certain places have transcended their physical coordinates to become metaphors for disappearance, punishment, or worse. The Tower of London. Devil's Island. Lubyanka. Each location carried such weight that merely mentioning them was enough to end conversations and inspire compliance.
Today's corporate landscape has its own geography of implied consequences. The "basement office" with no windows. The "special projects team" that no one can quite define. The "strategic reassignment" to a division that may or may not exist on any organizational chart.
The beauty of geographical suggestion is that it sounds like continuity rather than termination. No one was fired; they were relocated. No one was silenced; they were given a new audience (of zero). No one was punished; they were simply offered an opportunity elsewhere. Preferably elsewhere far away, where their voice echoes against empty walls.
Historical Precedents for Modern Cowardice
Henry II wasn't the first, and he certainly won't be the last. Stalin was a master of this. "Comrade, you've been very active in your views lately. Perhaps a holiday in the east?" Mao, too, knew that the best purges are the ones you don't announce. Just set the climate. Let others breathe it in.
The genius of authoritarian suggestion is that it always comes from a place of concern. "Is he loyal?" "Are they stable?" "Do you think she's the right fit?" These are not statements. They are flares in the night, seen only by those whose job it is to act.
And if something happens to the person in question? If their house is raided or their character assassinated or their career derailed? Well, that was the natural consequence of something, wasn't it? No one called for it. Things just happen.
Hitler rarely signed direct orders for the Holocaust. Instead, he created an environment where zealots could interpret his will through increasingly radical actions. The phrase "working towards the Führer" described this phenomenon—subordinates competing to implement what they believed Hitler wanted, often without explicit instructions. The result was systematic horror conducted with minimal paper trail leading back to its primary architect.
In more contemporary settings, political leaders have refined this approach. "We need to reimagine public safety" doesn't explicitly call for defunding police departments or allowing increased criminal activity, but somehow those policies follow. "We need to pursue equity" doesn't directly advocate for discrimination against certain groups, yet such practices materialize. The connection between high-minded rhetoric and resulting policy remains just tenuous enough to maintain deniability while delivering the desired outcome.
The most insidious aspect of this rhetorical strategy is how it distributes moral responsibility. When atrocities occur following suggestive language, no single person bears the full weight of culpability. The leader claims they never ordered such actions. The implementers claim they were following implied directives. The public claims they never understood the true meaning. And so the moral burden dissipates like smoke, impossible to grasp in any concentrated form.
Digital Dogwhistles: The Algorithmic Amplification of Unspoken Intent
Our connected age has birthed new forms of suggestive language, tailored for algorithmic distribution and platform policies. The modern provocateur knows precisely how to skirt community guidelines while sending crystal clear messages to their intended audience.
Consider the evolution of online harassment campaigns. Gone are the days of direct threats, easily flagged and removed. Today's digital mob speaks in hypotheticals and theoretical scenarios. "Imagine if someone found her address." "It would be terrible if people started calling his employer." "I wonder what would happen if..."
Each statement is, in isolation, impossible to moderate. Each sounds like concerned speculation rather than incitement. Yet the effects are often identical to direct commands. The audience knows exactly what's being requested, while platforms struggle to identify clear violations of their terms.
Even more sophisticated is the use of seemingly innocent phrases that have acquired loaded meanings within specific communities. "Following the science" often isn't about empirical research but a prompt to accept ideological positions without question. "Inclusive spaces" isn't always about welcoming everyone but often serves as code for excluding traditional viewpoints. These phrases maintain perfect innocence on their surface while activating well-defined scripts within receptive audiences.
The digital landscape has also perfected what linguists call "floating signifiers"—symbols whose meaning shifts constantly, making them nearly impossible to definitively categorize as harmful. A cartoon frog might be innocent in one context and deeply problematic in another. A particular number sequence might be someone's birthday or a reference to historical atrocity. This constant shape-shifting ensures that would-be moderators always remain one step behind, while those "in the know" can communicate with impunity.
If It Sounds Like a Threat, But Rhymes With Salad...
We live in an age when language is both weapon and shield. The modern sophist knows to speak in approximations, to hint rather than declare. He doesn't say "Destroy them." He says, "Someone should really check the logs." He doesn't say "Silence them." He says, "Interesting that they're still allowed to post."
Or, if he's a cattle baron on prestige television, he might simply say:
"Take them to the train station."
A phrase that, on its face, sounds like kindness—public transit, a chance to get away, a plausible transition to another chapter. But in Yellowstone, it's a euphemism for murder. Not shouted. Not confessed. Just understood. No different, in structure or moral function, from "cancel his contract" or "close the loop."
This is the genius of cultural euphemism: it's portable. Once a phrase like that takes hold in the meme bloodstream, it becomes self-replicating. It detaches from the original script and grows legs. People begin to say it half-jokingly, then earnestly, then in earnest denial of earnestness. Until eventually it lands in a group chat or a post somewhere—ambiguous, deniable, and actionable.
Other examples abound:
• "Sleep with the fishes" (The Godfather): charming aquatic imagery for cement shoes. • "Order 66" (Star Wars): genocide by spreadsheet. • "He's been reassigned to Alaska" (countless shows): a geographic firing squad. • "We need to send a message" (every cop drama): blunt force pedagogy. • "Cleaning house" (political thriller staple): bureaucratic extermination. • "Let's have a national conversation" (political discourse): preparing the public for an unpopular policy shift. • "It's time for a reckoning" (progressive rhetoric): selective accountability for ideological opponents. • "They're no longer with the company" (corporate speak): professional disappearance. • "Consider the greater good" (ethical debates): justification for sacrificing individual rights.
The plausible deniability baked into every vaguely sinister phrase is the rhetorical equivalent of latex gloves: no fingerprints, no DNA, no intent. Just vibes. Just a little ride to the train station.
The Ritualistic Denial: Performance Art for the Morally Flexible
Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of suggestive language is not the suggestion itself, but the elaborate performance that follows when the suggestion is correctly interpreted. This is the true art form—the dance of feigned innocence.
"I never said that." "You're twisting my words." "That's not what I meant at all." "How could you possibly think I was suggesting that?"
The denial ritual has its own choreography, its own rhythm. First comes shock—wide eyes, raised eyebrows, an expression of wounded innocence. Then indignation—how dare you impugn such motives? Then the counter-accusation—it is you who are thinking these dark thoughts, not I. Finally, the retroactive reframing—what I actually meant was something entirely benign, obvious to anyone without malice in their heart.
This performance isn't merely defensive; it's offensive. It shifts blame from the suggester to the interpreter. The person who recognized the true meaning becomes the villain—paranoid, oversensitive, malicious in their own right for even hearing the subtext.
The ritual accomplishes something remarkable: it transforms accountability into persecution. The suggester becomes the victim of misinterpretation rather than the architect of consequence. And this victimhood becomes its own form of immunity against future accusations.
After all, who would dare to interpret their words literally again, having been so thoroughly chastised for doing so before?
The Ethics of Interpretation: Whose Meaning Matters?
This dance between suggestion and interpretation raises profound ethical questions. If a statement can be interpreted in multiple ways, who bears responsibility for the consequences that follow? Is it the speaker who chose ambiguous phrasing? The listener who selected one interpretation over others? Or the cultural context that imbued certain phrases with loaded meanings?
When the politician suggests that "people should rise up and make their voices heard," and protests follow, where does moral responsibility lie? When a media personality discusses "replacement theory" academically while disclaiming any endorsement, and polarization deepens, who is culpable?
The law generally requires clear incitement for prosecution, creating a safe harbor for suggestive language. But moral responsibility operates by different standards. The sophisticated user of suggestion knows exactly what they're doing—deliberately choosing language that will activate certain responses while maintaining technical innocence.
This calculated ambiguity represents perhaps the most corrosive force in public discourse. It destroys the possibility of good-faith engagement. It replaces accountability with endless debates about interpretation. It allows the worst actors to operate in plain sight, secure in the knowledge that their true meaning can always be denied if challenged.
Conclusion (But Not an Instruction)
Let us be clear. No one here is calling for anything. We're merely pointing out patterns. Exploring linguistics. Having a little historical chat. A fireside think-piece. A friendly workshop on how suggestion operates in the absence of responsibility.
If someone takes this article the wrong way—acts on it, perhaps, or misquotes it in a less charitable setting—well, that's unfortunate. But that's on them.
After all, we're just asking questions.
Aren't we?
Perhaps the true mastery of suggestive language lies not in deploying it, but in recognizing it—in developing an ear fine-tuned to hear the knife edge hidden in the velvet phrase. In learning to ask, whenever someone sighs with just the right inflection, "What is actually being requested here? What action is being invited?"
Because in the space between what's said and what's heard, in that fertile gap of plausible deniability, lies the most dangerous communication of all: the kind that leaves no evidence, no trail, no signature—only consequences.
But let's not dwell on such unpleasantness. This is merely an academic discussion about the fascinating mechanics of human communication. A scholarly examination of linguistic patterns throughout history. Nothing more.
And if you've understood the true meaning behind these words—well, that interpretation says more about you than it does about me.
Doesn't it?
Thank you for your time today. Until next time, stay gruntled.
