Editor’s note: The below post arrived written on parchment paper flown in by a turkey buzzard with a Florida license plate attached to its tail fathers. With the written essay came a note from a “Senor Hartsvelder” informing us that the recent republican debate had caused Dr. Bones severe stress and infected his home with poltergeists, causing the post to arrive late and by air-mail. He went on to say Dr. Bones was currently recuperating but endlessly growling about “the stark reality of the Imperium,” “bread and circuses,” and “needing to switch to gin.” Senor Hartsvelder assures us Bones will be back to his normal occulty self in no time, but remarked in his state of delirium the good Doctor had sworn to certain unclean spirits that if it came down to Hillary and Trump he would open up a Cataclysm Affairs Office for Disinfo and report regularly on what would surely be The End of Days.
by Dr. Bones
Originally posted on Disinfo.com
“This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it — that we are really just a nation of…used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable.”–Hunter S. Thompson
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When the human soul comes into contact with something that shatters its confidence, not only in itself, but the very environs where said soul happens to inhabit, something so traumatic or frighting that it could very well do permanent damage, it can cause a spiritual malady known as “soul flight.” Shamans attest that while the person is still alive, still very capable of basic tasks, the true “inner” person is long gone. They say the body will slowly wither and die unless a perilous journey is taken into the spirit world to retrieve it, the body meanwhile becoming a dry husk incapable of thought. Think of it as Zombiefication by fear.
As I sat down to watch the Republican debates I began protecting myself from such an occurrence.
I had avoided any of the debates on purpose: I simply didn’t care. Whoever won would be taking the reins of the largest empire on Earth and despite whatever was said on the campaign trial each and every candidate would fight to maintain that position. Still, simply because we could see through the American electoral process didn’t mean Anarchists or other radicals could merely ignore it: on the contrary, it provided key insights into the minds of my countrymen and the desires of Those Who Ruled; this wasn’t a “scored game” for me, but rather a desire to stare into the toilet bowl that is American society just to see what kind of shit had risen to the top. Such scatological investigations can yield a host of information about the greater world and every good conjurer knows that the shifting winds of politics are as ripe for omenry as any chicken guts or playing cards.
As the swirling graphics settling in I had doused the TV with Florida Water, prayers offered to St. Micheal that whatever foul demons tried to escape from the idiot box that he would either destroy them outright or beat the living piss out of them. As I chanted and prayed I began to notice the air in the room had reached very high temperatures, not due to raw spiritual energy, but because of the large amount of protective candles burning. Perspiration began dripping from my brow as if the living room had turned into a sweat lodge to purify me of whatever poison I was about to ingest. To this day I’m sure the spirits knew what was coming.
I sat down, my standard Vodka Gimlet in hand to to stiffen my nerves and keep my spirit firmly rooted in my body, the heavy effects of liquor a natural seatbelt for the upcoming dangerous experience.
The opening hinted at my future discomfort.
“Jesus Christ,” I mumbled mixing my next drink. “They can’t even fucking WALK ON STAGE in the right order?” I crossed myself as I moved back to the couch. “Ben must be in deep shit if he’s that eager to get ahead of everybody else. A Freudian body language slip? Very possible.”
After all the cobras in suits were nicely lined up the questions began.
You’re probably not interested in the play by play and neither was I. I kind of faded out here and there, but the policies were the same as they’ve always been. One wonders what exactly republican voters get out of all this. It’s certainly not groundbreaking: plenty of vague Americanisms and “free enterprise” talk.
But something soon got my attention. Perhaps the pressure of so many hours on the campaign trail had finally gotten to the jackals because ever so slowly they began to stop focusing on the crowd and begin to tear at each other. What followed was either the tamest UFC match I’ve ever seen or something equivalent to an Animal Planet special on a starving pack of hyenas trying to eat each other. Everything changed from a debate into a tribal pissing match for who should lead the hunt for global resources.
This was an improvement, and as I settled down with another cocktail I waited with baited breath to see who would emerge the victor in the battle for pack dominance.
Rubio, perhaps a Koch Brother’s cyborg, seemed unable to deviate from his assigned programming and began to repeat a canned line about Obama no doubt focused grouped over 1,000 times to ensure it’s maximum effectiveness. In comes Christie, his well trained snout picking up the tell-tale scent of nervousness, viciously tearing away the facade that Rubio had any thoughts of his own. Just look at Rubio’s face when he gets caught! Ah, priceless! That all that money and training might have been better used to teach German shepherds to talk than to teach Rubio how to speak no doubt delighted half my home state of Florida.
The camera didn’t pan over the audience, but surely I heard the assembled begin to beat their chests in celebration of such a finely executed take down, foam fingers waving in the air with jubilant cries of “FINISH HIM!” I waited on the edge of my seat to see if Christie would devour his defeated foe, or at least perform some kind of flashy fatality, but alas it was not to be so. No doubt the fans in the audience were as disappointed at the lack of blood as I was.
They did not need to wait long however.
It started with a simple question about Eminent Domain, which Donald Trump took to be a stark and crude attack on the size of his penis. Such a charge by a lower member of the pack would not stand. His face twisting and contorting with rage he began to talk of the need for personal sacrifice for the good of the tribe to build “roads, bridges, schools” and of course pipelines. That such a concept might just as easily be transferred to the rich did not to seem to dawn on any of the assembled, including the audience who began to sniff the air detecting aggressive pheromones.
Up rose Jeb Bush, an older male no doubt, but one who still hungered for the customary Throne of Skulls won by his brother so many moons ago. He began to speak of a time that Trump screwed over a little old lady, a charge Trump waved away with his hand. “He wants to be a tough guy.”
Jeb remained resolute, grumbling how eminent domain shouldn’t be used for private projects. Unless of course it’s prisons, since 80% of our prisons are private in Florida and you can be damned sure they were built using eminent domain. Jeb motioned to Rubio, calling upon him to join in the attack in some strange ritual of Floridian solidarity. Rubio, still bleeding profusely from being disemboweled by Christie and waiting on further taking points to download, was simply too stunned to say anything.
Trump simply told him to be quiet. That he had failed as a tough guy. The dishonor was so grand Jeb’s ancestors writhed in pain.
The crowd began to boo, but I asked myself were they booing for the old lady or booing because Trump had simply waved Jeb away instead of slapping him? Or the fact that he didn’t take the property, thus proving his weakness in the face of a challenge?
Amid the boos the assembled began screeching such things as “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” and “CROM DEMANDS SACRIFICE!”
Trump, empowered now, began to insult even the assembled warriors in the audience: “These are his donors, his special interest groups.” More boos now, the assembled’s cover of darkness being torn away. Trump beat his chest, declaring that he alone was so powerful, so grand, that he didn’t need the approval or the money of the beta males below him. He directly challenged the audience to physical and verbal combat, and in awe of his sheer bravado they fell silent.
Moments later even the “judge” was told to “be quiet.” The moderator complied, a small puddle of piss growing near his shoes.
The fear is what amazed me, the almost Pavlovian response by the other candidates not to challenge him, even the moderator shirking away. Every one fell in line, as if some bell had been rang. Even Ted Cruz, when called out in front of everyone to say what he had only said a few days before, referring to Trump as not displaying the “temperament of a leader,” something relatively benign….he wouldn’t budge.
I was entranced now, confused. It like watching a new species emerge from the forests and being devouring everything in sight. Here were men thought to be at the top of their game, political bigwigs afraid to say anything or move lest they draw the new predator’s attention.
Part of me laughed just to see them squirm, but then it dawned on me: if Trump could make these people shut up and obey his imperial edicts what else could he get away with? He wouldn’t have to work with anybody, he would just threaten them, yell at them, the same behavior so regularly eaten up by crowds of mayonnaise eating Americans. How many of those masses would eagerly join the Trump-train, would gladly “bend a few rules” to “make America great again?” Lenin called for his Bolsheviks to be “hard,” a trait gleefully taken as a maxim by the Cheka. What would 4 years of calls for “Tough Guys” produce?
“Jesus Christ! This man’s another Mussolini!” I exclaimed, almost dropping my glass. Perhaps it was my eyes, perhaps it was the TV, perhaps it was the cocktails I had now lost count of but that fat head of his slowly and so easily morphed into the long dead Italian, from the smug and petty smile to the twisted turn of cruelty on his lips. We Anarchists speak of fascism, throw it around like a curse word, but here it was made flesh and so uniquely American.
Trump was no less than the Jungian shadow to the nation: a self-serving, egotistical businessman who failed a million times yet only ever saw himself as “in-between success,” one who prided himself on how little of a shit he could give about anybody else because that was the “art of the deal.”
I had to get up and walk away, unsure of what I had just seen. Shakily I made another glass, the ice clinking as I nervously pressed the elixir to my lips and hastily down my throat. “My god,” I stammered, “is this what the rest of the country has been up to?” What the fuck had changed? I knew some people cheered when Chris Kyle killed innocent people, were overjoyed at pictures of dead Palestinians, but those had only been the crazies…right?
That’s what we kept telling ourselves, that we didn’t deserve Trump, that the bulk of the nation didn’t instantly get a hard on whenever he lashed out. That deep down it was just some “backward elements” that were responsible.
Clutching the counter I tried to calm myself. Surely the United States had not devolved that quickly? The glut of pro-war propaganda and shitty school systems would eventually turn us into rabid apes, yes, but not in the space of 15 years. Right?
But it had. Years of inundation with violent images, pro-bloodshed sentiment, and the glorification of vanity, ignorance and powermongering has birthed a new American populace, one never before seen. It is a twisted and prideful creature, a half-cousin to Grendel, misshapen and cruel. It joyously upholds the virtues of truth, decency, and democracy only to use them as clubs against unsuspecting foes/prey items. We hadn’t just slipped into barbarism, we merrily dove into it. That a Landlord Mussolini in a hair piece even got this far in an election wasn’t a sign of a sickness in our national character, it was a damning confirmation that nothing of the original root was left to poison.
I had moved from cocktails straight to shots now, trying to deaden my neurons to stop the flow of horror from reaching my central cortex. Half-glassed I stumbled back to my viewing position, noting oddly that all my protective candles had been stained black as if hit by some monstrous force from the tv, pools of wax spelling out “666” and “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.” This should of been cause for alarm, but I reassured myself it was probably just the heat in the room.
Liquid now, my mind floating on I was determined I was just over thinking things. I figured while unpleasant I’d at least see this thing through. “Besides,” I muttered, “it’s not like we’re talking about laughingly cutting people’s heads off. We’ve at least moved past the fucking Middle Ages.”
As if on cue the TV turned up.
They cheered. Those same loathsome dregs that had booed not moments ago cheered at the idea of unleashing a tide of terror and torture. In the audience it is said that several began thrashing with the power of the Holy Spirit at the mere idea crucifixion could be back on the table, police only just stopping several more burly spectators from silting the throats of quite willing sacrificial victims to honor Trump’s bloodline. War whoops and shrill grunts filled the room, or so I’m told, Rubio just barley making it out alive before he was ritually feasted upon.
And so I began to laugh, to laugh at the madness in the world, at the ruthlessness disguised as piety until my sides hurt and I fell over, the darkness sweeping my vision nothing more then a reflection of the souls I had seen…
The United States wasn’t just ill, its failing and diseased body was instead riddled with cancer. And the first bit of tumor coughed up in bile and blood was a man named Donald Trump.
Dr. Bones is a 9 year practitioner of the Southern occult tradition known as Conjure, Rootwork, and Hoodoo. A skilled card-reader and Spiritworker, Dr. Bones has undertaken all aspects of the work, both benevolent and malefic. Politically he holds the Anarchist line that “Individuality can only flourish where equality of access to the conditions of existence is the social reality. This equality of access is Communism.” He resides in the insane State of Florida with his loving wife, a herd of cats, and a house full of spirits.
