Subprime Robodemopriest ChANNEling37’s optics automatically compensated for the deaths of another 3 billion. He looked out through the viewport of the command ship at the battle, if you could call it that. An enemy Deathship, its hull resplendent with shifting, colorful loglo spitting mockery in the old tongue, emerged from the blinding light cone of what used to be HEAVEN6. The loglo read:
EAT SHIT AND DIE
Another habitat eviscerated by the weapons of the Genocide battleship that had slipped through the perimeter. It was humiliating, losing like this to a bunch of fucking teenagers. Of course, the very concept of a defense perimeter covering an area the size of the Sol system was a political fiction, a now not so white lie for the voters, nothing more. Not only were their ships faster, but by going dark they could easily evade Demtheo censors. They’d already killed 30 billion Demtheo citizens, a significant portion of ChANNEling37’s voting pool, though he had actually gained more probability in the senate, since most of his political base lived on the surface of Earth, which had so far been spared. He’d known his repeated support of the environmental lobby would pay off one day. The Genocide heretics were more interested in the orbital habitats, the true industrial and economic base of the Demtheo.
Defensive forces were finally closing in. The warships HOPE, PEACE, and UNITY were approaching judgement. They had enough firepower to easily cripple the enemy craft, but they would have to survive the longer range enemy guns in order to have their chance. ChaNNEling37 prayed to the LORD, and felt a rush of emotion fill him as millions, and then billions joined him on the nets, their energy surging forward. He could feel LORD Itself changing, altering with the new emotions and circumstances. A new Word came forth, a Word of war. Grim resolve filled the Demtheo. He could feel the neural nets of the warship crews burning hot.
20 seconds to enemy firing range.
In the consensus, the LORD Itself manifested. Its face came first, circling and expanding out of the stars like a dream, and from it extended a body, strong and dark and beautiful. Three arms emerged, each with a mighty hand, infinitely strong, cradling each ship. It sang a poem of rage, telling of lost brothers and sisters and dead children, and horrible vengeance.
Into the fire.
The Genocide ship rippled and bucked with the release of ordnance. The nukes were easily visible, leaving a long trail of atomic exhaust behind them. Far deadlier were the almost invisible singularity missiles, hiding in the light cones of the strategically exploding nukes. Ripples of white fire reached out from the Genocide towards the HOPE, PEACE, and UNITY, eventually obscuring view of them completely. ChaNNEling37 actually squinted, some primordial extinct of his programmers manifesting in his robotic body. When he could see clearly again, there was nothing left of the HOPE, PEACE, or UNITY except for the anguished final transmissions of their doomed crews. The LORD recoiled, its hands holding its weeping, angelic face. Then it disappeared.
His eyes flicked to the Genocide ship.
YOUR GOD IS DEAD
ChaNNEling37 clenched his waldos and turned to a crewman.
“Connect me to Public Safety,” he ordered.
“As you wish, Senator.”
The view of the battle was replaced by a view of Public Safety HQ, the meeting center where the leading Demopriests sat in grim conference. One of them, named Piere, turned towards the screen. ChanNEling37 could see the hopelessness in his eyes.
“We’re done, Senator. By the time the rest of the fleet reaches the enemy, He’ll have destroyed our industrial base completely. Earth and our remaining citizenry will be completely defenseless. We have no choice but total surrender.”
“To be playthings of the Egotists? We won’t stand for it. We have the Demierge.”
“Are you mad? There’s no telling what that thing could do,” said Piere, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous, Senator. I won’t allow it.”
ChanNEling37’s robotic eyes emoted.
“This is not your decision, Priest. The feeds tell me my constituents feel quite differently.”
Piere clenched his teeth.
“I’ll settle for nothing less then a full plebiscite.”
“Then you will have it.”
ChanEling37 lowered his head, reshifting his processing power. He reached out in to the neural matrix of his voters, which now constituted 53% of the Demtheo. They’d seen billions killed, their mighty ships evaporated, their very god struck down. Their cerebral cortexes burned hot with hatred. The vote was clear, and almost unanimous. Release the Demierge. He showed Piere the result.
“So be it,” said Piere, “may god have mercy on our souls…”
And so they released it. The first thing it did was eat Planet Earth.
YOU’RE SHITTING ME!
THE “I” SOCIETY
At the end of the Prisoner, the titular No. 6, after being tortured by No. 2s (the endlessly changing manager of the village) and after making many attempts to escape, is finally…
Lowered in to a subterranean cave (societies unconscious, full of plumbing and steam), told he is the New No. 1, leader of the village, and given the opportunity to speak.
He attempts to deliver his speech of Liberty, that he is an individual, and he will not be controlled.
Around him, at a round United Nations table, are dozens of the white hooded representatives of social bodies: EDUCATION, TELEVISION, MILITARY, ETC.
They pound their hands on the table and say as one: “I! I! I! I”
One imagines Obama has a similar experience. Though every American president has been imagined by opponents as a dictator, the truth is he’s completely surrounded by the soft, comfortable reign of Individualistic terror. Everywhere he goes, surrounded by a coterie of paid fools and lobbyists, to flatter, feed him, wipe his mouth, and then hand him a pen and a document. We haven’t progressed since Louis XIV at all: the deluge hit a high tide line and now the Purity of Ideology is turned purely against us- to crush us, not liberate us as before.
Everyone in America imagines him/herself to be a feudal king, or prince or princess, on a glorious quest.
They want entitlements- but not so much as to reveal that the post-scarcity economy is here already.
They want war and violence- safely nearby (Chicago’s southside, for example) and on the television.
So Obama is a Product in every sense: first of his environment, his surroundings, the heavy weight of his backstory, and then finally packaged and presented to you as a Product.
Which is the only Obama we really know: the Product. And probably the only he knows at this point.
He gazes in to the waters and sees nothing but his own reflection, and the few flecks, distortions, and ripples within he calls Republicans.
Are you also a Product? A product of your environment, sure. A distributed Product? Maybe, maybe not. Celebrities are. This article is. Guess I kinda am one here. What kind of Product Self do you want to distribute? Be careful, oftentimes a product release will lead to criticism from people.
People love product: President Obama:
People don’t always love product: Anarchist Guy.
It’s a cage, isn’t it? That I even call myself an anarchist. A label hardly anyone even understands, they just see a guy throwing a bomb. Thanks, Banksy. I like your work, but shit. Nowadays people think I’m a terrorist. They call FBI snitch lines. God knows what’s gone on. Am I under surveillance? You might ask yourself one terrified night. Now the answer is of course: yes, always. Recently for me, it was: am I under physical surveillance? I saw them- I swear. Couple cars outside, some plainclothes on the train back in Chicago. Do you believe me? Probably not.
So now, I can’t be anything else, because I’ve seen what comes of this alienation. That’s something Radicals don’t tell you when they talk you in to these ideas, of fighting the system, fighting the power, beating city hall. That it’ll hurt. But, the other side of that is that you’ll learn a lot.
If you study it, you’ll never lose an argument. Ever. And that’s a big danger, people hate that. They think what they have in their head makes sense and can’t be toppled- but you’ll find yourself able to blow their house of cards apart in seconds, sending it fluttering in to the air, and you’ll laugh as you watch them try and butterfly net it all back in to their tiny little mind. They usually do, and start ignoring you if you talk about it again. But- that means that I know we’ll win. They repress it, and that proves they’re wrong about it, and they’re under control. That they actually want freedom- even though they don’t say so. They just don’t know how to get there. The truth is we can’t all get there right now. Not today, not tomorrow, but one day, we will all stand on Free Ground. I know it!
Fact is, I can never be a robotic member of society. If you are, you will read this and understand nothing. It will seem to you to be the cliched ramblings of a spoiled rich kid rebel. Well, that’s all it is: to you. Because you’re mentally fucked. Permanently, probably.
The Prisoner, continuing to speak and ignoring societies pounding “I” is allowed to enter a spacecraft.
As it launches, the bureaucrats panic, screaming, and flee. Inside the machine is a spacecraft, set for another world.
No. 1’s first reaction is glee, until inside the ship he encounters himself.
The space age dream died there, in that colorful sixties fantasy. We hate ourselves too much to go to space. Fact is at the end of the day we don’t hate ourselves: Society (an idea we created to protect ourSelves) has somehow become a twisted thing independent of our Selves (another thing we invented) and hates and tortures us so much, that we’ve become twisted: we’ve become animals.
It’s all the violence there’s been: 80,000 years of death and fucking destruction. Still ongoing. We do everything to ward it off: the violent thoughts, the violent actions, towards ourselves and others.
The mall is full of the distractions and semitotic blockers, physicalized in products: Gucci, Prada, Anthropologie, and on and on.
The television is full of seductive fantasies so that you don’t have to think, or speak, or act: you can let others do it for you, and sit there, relaxed and content.
“Rape”, however, remains a word. Just one not often said on TV, or put on handbags. But it is enacted out there, as we all know. A powerful virus, rooted in many mines, that one: “rape.” Killing. Submission. Power. Envisioned, fantasized about, and then enacted.
So as it is now, the radical is a mental guerilla: constantly encircled by opposing spaces (corporate buildings, prisons, streets, skate parks, etc) and employing powerful psychomagics (urban counterculture, design, parkour, bikes and motorcycles, alternative lifestyles) to resist it’s evil grip.
Brothers and sisters, I direct you to detonate your head: commit the revolution of the mind, and let the explosion spread beyond the limits of your skull and ripple out in to the world surrounding you.
Smash the control images
Burn the books
Kill the priests
Kill kill kill!
ANARCHISM: THE BRAIN GRENADE!
One envisions an anarchist society as a nuclear explosion in ultra slow motion, starting from a detonation point Zero. They’ve gone off before: Paris. Spain.
Anarchist vilence is so vilent it isn’t violence at all: but simply annihilation of our entire corrupted and diseased language and culture.
Take this sentence a n d b l o w I t a p a r t!
t a k e t h I s s
o a p
Anarchist vilence is nuclear: and each fragment blown out of the rotten, dead societal core is beautiful. I’m talking about whatever is still flying after the cleansing wave of the love bomb: what remains good in you, good in your lover, your mother, will fly in the beautiful heat across the land and out in to space.
We’ll ride on small worldlets: pocket planets with different qualities.
Each free, each distinct.
Each orbiting around one another in beautiful constellations, joining, merging, and perhaps even occasionally crashing.
One may be full of militant, psychedelic Samoans.
Another, a Catholic Church.
Who knows? Anarchism touches all, and there is no context that is not, can not, and will not be a context for Anarchism to operate.
First disrupting, bending, and warping the structures: and then ultimately in making them stronger, or if they are truly worthless, burning them to ashes.
Turn your head in to a love bomb.
Get together with some other people.
And we’ll build ourselves a big, linked in, collective mental love bomb that will sweep over everything.
That’s the Grant Morrison plan. That’s my plan too, because I read The Invisibles and he brainwashed me.
One day, it’ll go off!
Such is the word of God.
PAUL ESCHATON, 2013