You are currently viewing A Manual for the 21st Century by Jaw Santorelli

A Manual for the 21st Century by Jaw Santorelli

These days, it is not at all difficult to lead men. I will even go so far to say it is, in fact, easier than ever before. The following is an example of the time I found my way into what is known as a “message board.” Unlike traditional postage, one needn’t use an adopted identity or even an address. Just “sign on” as it were, and create yourself.

“What kinds of things do you like?” the admin asked.

“Oh, I don’t like all that much,” I replied.

“That can’t be true.”

“You’d be surprised.”

The cursor blinked on the screen.


And then I was in. That was all it took. What a fertile smorgasbord of wretchedness and despair lay beyond.

I spent years there. I became “friends” with the admin who let me in. I learned where he lived and the pets he owned, his stupid job that changed every few months. He was pathetic. I met others who were less pathetic, some who did not seem to belong here, their lives, at least outwardly (that is to say, artificially) were good, healthy. Handsome fellows with women, or so they claimed. And then I met others for whom the word pathetic seemed to be a bar much too high. They were like flowers that could only flourish if planted in dung. They’d certainly found their home.

These kinds of people are easily manipulable. They are weak. They are like flies in a tempest; they are like herdless baboons. They are a special kind of social pariah, unique only because they could never have existed in any other timeline. The vacuous glut of modernity sustains them like a troublesome patch of cellulite beneath the buttocks. They know this fact too; in fact, I’d say most were completely aware of how absolutely superfluous they were. Discovering that you are merely excess-value, merely a walking and talking, pissing and shitting product of a centuries-old economic bubble: that is difficult. I certainly didn’t blame them for ending up here, but I did detest them.

I usually did not participate in their discussions, and if I did, it was only to make well-timed jabs to jolt discussion in the right directions. At first I felt that I was just good at my job, but then I realized there was a fairly simple formula at work. Their weakness was so bottomless, and their self-hatred was potent as adder venom; they wanted direction and lashed out at their own shirking mirror thus.

All you need to do to direct these lost lads is position yourself in the mire of the unthinkable. You need not believe in executing the unthinkable, or even articulate the unthinkable. All you have to do is place yourself nearby and present it as an expression of will. It requires very little effort as it is usually an unexplored niche, but if you plant the seeds in the carcass, the corpse flowers will indeed blossom. They don’t have any choice. People with agency do not come here. You need only convince them they are moving against that which they hate most about themselves: weakness. They will follow naturally, and though they are like leaves floating on a stream, they will think they are moving of their own accord.

If they oppose: call them slaves. Call them faggots. Call them weak. Occasionally you will have a few who almost see the jig. They will call you a “Fed,” or some nonsense along those lines, but most will be so swept along by the tune of the fiddle that they will join in on your chorus and drown out the doubters. The delightfully hideous irony of the whole situation is that some of these chorus will even accuse the apprehensive of “nihilism!” Hah! They say things like:

“this is your brain on slave morality”

“yeah because we shouldn’t even care about the future right”

“fucking pussy retard”

All of this is simple, and so much the simpler if you introduce to them the unthinkable works of their masters. They have so long internalized their weakness that they sanctified the values of their lords, who are men and hypocrites, naturally. They react with disgust at the things we led their masters to do, because they felt their masters to be somehow virtuous. Then they feel revulsion at Love, which they have convinced themselves to be a tool of the “ruling classes” (an interesting bit of nomenclature), which, admittedly, is not all that far from the truth, though fortunately they can only comprehend the half-hearted and flagging “love” that men are capable of expressing.

At the beginning, they exalt the power of men, and so they hate themselves. Soon, they exalt themselves because they come to understand the world has no place for them except in this dungheap. Eventually, they accept their peerless depravity and wholeheartedly embrace it. They perpetually live in a state of bandaid-being-ripped-off, and they intentionally never let the scab heal.

Most will do nothing, but no matter, it only takes one or two. A sapling blooms into a tree, and its seeds blow far from the roots. Men who do not even know the dungheap exists will breathe its crimson spores and succumb to fear; they will discover their own weakness and lash out against it. They will create enemies from thin air; they will transfigure other men into imagined enemies; they will define themselves in opposition to one another. They will scarcely remember where it came from when the dust settles, and will likely be more preoccupied with the process of forgetting and retelling. But the work is done.