The ones who meticulously plan in the attics of noisy taverns, the sweatshirt-wearing revolutionaries, the police-hating, race-hating, religious, political, and existential pieces of matter that float around on nothing but ideas and attitude. The sheer amount of inertia required to transform ideas into action is enough to submerge individuals into submission to a society that has laid out their life, buffet style, flavored with advertisements urging them to consume more, fuck more, and shit everywhere. Filthy animals. Lot of stupid pig-fucking ignoramuses that would eat Doritos out of each other’s assholes if fed the correct number of commercials and pre-arranged sensibilities built by people in offices said not even to exist.
Then there are the radicals. The noisy mother fuckers with their chemical weapons and propaganda, endless twitter accounts spewing hatred and inciting violence in the susceptible minds of isolated hearts and minds calling for aid in their own agendas, their own fights that spill blood or money or both on concrete floors of prisons or soaked in the dirt where they’re all buried and mourned by family and friends from high school who managed to not get shot by the kid who spent too much time plugged in, who never took a chance at breathing in new air, greeting new faces wearing frowns and twisted smiles; rather, putting on a stone mask with only slits for eyes, enough to see the tiny heads of school children lined up for snack time before being blown into bits.
And the world calls them sick, calls them monsters, and calls for harsh punishment: Fire and Brimstone. That’s all fucking great. Hang the killers by their heels, force-feed them their own shit, drive nails into their kneecaps while we all howl and rejoice with justice, the monsters.
Here I sit hidden under the mortician’s desk penning these words as quickly as I can before the damn spooks rip the door off its frame and yank me away and place me into some state-sponsored death camp. I know they’re watching me, they’re listening to me type, chuckling behind their mugs of stale coffee and slapping each other on the back and pointing at the nonsense I attempt to convey to the world that I am, indeed, trapped. I am in dire need of help and require assistance. But it’s okay. I don’t need you, nor you, nor you. I will sit here like a good citizen and eat my daily ration of advertisements and ideology and feed the system the sustenance that keeps the gears grinding and the bodies dying.
We are the soul-eaters of the information age. I, especially, require a hearty meal of your vulnerable mind. Come into my tent so I may manipulate you into the image I see fit and have you fight my battles while I sit here maniacally typing on the keyboard, screaming like a hyena at his evening feast. Give me your mind, I want your soul.