This night-vision digital camcorder never let me down in a crisis. You'd be surprised at how theatrical transparent tape and paste-on freckles can transform a mature woman into a fourteen-year old for a few hours. As a prize-winning investigative reporter and videographer who also is a retired psychiatrist, with his mother's insistence, I sneaked into my former patient's son, Ben's secret ritual room. I carried my infra-red night goggles, video camera hidden in back pack under a raincoat, and the facial and hand disguises, like paste-on smooth fake skin to hide the blue veins in my skinny hands. Getting the camera equipment set up in the dark seemed too calculating. "No lights!" Ben's mom gestured. If you want to be the date that unleashed hell, you make sure a television crew camps in your home. By dripping torchlight that flickered against the silence of the dark, John Creen, an angry but persuasive international hate-monger, fashioned the statue himself in the bit-mummu, the special divine craftsman's house. The TV crew padded columns with rubber, a balcony where divers could leap into the arms or through the arms of those gyrating below. Even the metal stripping along the perimeter of the dance floor was unscrewed and carted away. Creen knew where to hit the audience with an old World War Two propaganda trick. You find out how the audience makes decisions, by thinking (objective logic) or feeling (personal values first). Then you hit the crowd with your pitch in their inferior function-either thinking or feeling. And you stress out and arouse them to action.