THOTS: day 20, month 2, year 2022

Why do I like authority and power so much? I think it’s because they make it easier to get things done. Just consider how much of a pain it is for the powerless who lack authority to do anything in this world — it’s nearly impossible. But I agree, the way that I have dedicated my life to seizing power and maintaining authority does cause me to seem less than likable, if you manage to film me: My habitual facial expression is a scowl.

But why would you want to make a movie about someone who’s got power? Why not instead film something else? You can only get yourself in trouble filming power. When I find out that you have captured me in some audiovisual format, sporting my usual look, I will attempt to have your celluloid canisters confiscated. And this will not be difficult to achieve: I have already paid off the policemen in my district, so they will do whatever I ask of them. “Go fetch that fellow’s movie camera,” I will say, pointing vaguely to you and your cinematographer, as the two of you are trying to leave my district. And the police are efficient.

Another trick that I have up my sleeve is the ability to label anyone who bothers me a “Dangerous Troublemaker”. If you act in any way that displeases me, I will have you apprehended; and you will rot in jail for the rest of your life. Additionally, I am working on getting a bill passed that will allow me to transform my prisons into dungeons. I prefer dungeons because they’re cold and wet, and the food is very bad. (Of course, this is my preference for others, by which I mean: those who’ve bugged me. It goes without saying that, if we’re talking about myself, I prefer a relatively dry and warm environment that serves first-rate cuisine.)

If you wield power and authority, you can avoid social events that you’d rather not attend. This is another advantage. Say that someone from your circle of friends is throwing a party, which you wish to avoid because it will be boring. Those who lack power and authority will be forced to attend: they will therefore undergo a tedious evening; but we people who are powerful and occupy positions of authority can simply press a button on our desk and tell our butler “Have all the adult males among the staff of the charity that is sponsoring this event placed in nets, so that they cannot move.” Then we powerful authorities can spend the night in our pleasure garden contemplating our favorite statue.

And when visiting a clothing store, one can lift up an item that is hanging on the crowded racks, hold it up before one’s eyes, and then, when one is finished considering it, instead of replacing it on the rack, simply allow the item to drop in a heap on the floor. 

Contrariwise, if you find an item that you admire — say, a leather jacket — once your assistant has finished placing it upon your person, if it turns out that the item fits you perfectly, you can walk right out of the store that is selling this coat, and you don’t even need to stop and pay for it. The security guards will tap your new jacket’s shoulder and say “Sir, we must ask you to return to the shop and pay for the item of clothing that you have stolen,” but, when they realize that you are the man who bankrolls all the country’s mercenary soldiers, they will apologize and bid you a good afternoon. This is because the security guards at the mall are subservient to private mercenaries in general. For society is a pyramid-shaped hierarchy, and if you can nab that slot at the top, you’ve got it made.

I genuinely admire a lot of impoverished people — they are often charismatic — but I cannot support them, because they lack power and authority. It’s no fault of their own: the oppression is perpetuated systematically. This is a shame, because I truly do like them. 

I used to live in Minnesota, where the winters are harsh. By the end of February, I would always be impatient for springtime to arrive. Being in a position of power, I would say to myself: “Why not use my authority to demand a free ticket to Florida, since that place has an even better climate than Heaven!” Every year, I would think this thought to myself, during that most evil month. And so I would acquire a ticket to the Floridian Paradise; and, before leaving my brown rambler house in MN, I would send a text message to my next-door neighbors: “Dear neighbors, please keep an eye on my house while I vacate.” That’s what the message would say. “I’ll be gone for two weeks.” — Well, what do you think was the outcome? Yes, you guessed right: Each time I returned to see that my house had been burglarized, burnt down, and bombed (all this is attributed to the Axis powers, NOT my Allies). I had to rebuild; but thankfully I was wealthy enough to avoid needing to enter into debt.

I would forgive my neighbors for allowing my house to be destroyed, even tho I asked them to keep watch over it, because I knew that they (my neighbors) were as powerful as me, and they wielded a shockingly large amount of authority in the Global South.

The reason I’m writing this entry is to explain why I spend so much time adventuring with police officers in my literary efforts. I have a soft spot for cops, because they’re usually born in poor neighborhoods but they learn very quickly how to embrace the ideas of order, which brings them into proximity with powerful authority; and they’re noble and loyal. Those types of characters are fun to hang out with.

It is true, however: the rumor that claims that women are actually more powerful and authoritative than anything. Even when you visit the Eternal Realm, where they keep the first prototypes of every idea — if you look at the undying forms of Power and Authority, they are a little less blindingly brilliant than the model called Womankind. (Instead of “model”, I should have written “SUPERmodel”.) The reason for this is as follows. Gentlemen like myself, who torment our fellow creatures for a living, cannot resist a beautiful woman. So these dames take all our wealth, and we go down into the depths of Hell with a softened visage. For more info, see the pamphlet “How a Scowl Becomes a Smirk”. This happens to kings as well as to regular conmen. In any case, it’s the first time one has fallen for the poetry of existence.

§

I don’t want to end this thing here, because, in that case, I fear that it’ll resemble too closely a standard essay. (I hate essays: I only love romantic comedies.) So let me just wander around aimlessly for the next few moments with another of my cop friends.

This time, I’ll climb into the squad car with an officer whose name is…

I’ll ask his name later. Right now, we need to drive fast to a house in the suburbs. 

Alright, so we perform some routine visits. We alert a high number of housewives that their husbands have died in fires or other mysterious predicaments. These women weep, and we comfort them. Then we tear ourselves away from their clinging arms, wishing them sincerely “Good day, Ma’am.”

Now Officer Smith and I decide to stop at a salad bar. We enjoy brunch.

“Where are we off to next?” I ask, while forking an olive. “Do you need to answer your radio, which keeps blaring commands for all available officers to meet at the soot-besmirched factory in the center of the city?”

“Yes, we’ll do that,” answers Officer Smith, with a nod.

So we use our cloth napkin to dab our lips, to make sure that no salad dressing remains on our face; and we leave a huge stack of banknotes on the table for a tip. The busboy immediately springs forth out of the kitchen and grabs the cash, but Officer Smith clutches the boy’s skinny neck in his hand and snarls “You better share that gratuity with the waitresses.” Then he releases his grip, and the boy gasps to catch his breath and replies “Yes, sir.” (There are tears in his eyes.)

“Let’s go,” Officer Smith pulls out his gun and points it straight forward as we kick our way thru the exit doors. 

“That’s strong glass — I’m surprised it didn’t shatter,” I say, referring to the fact that we just kicked our police boots against the glass exit doors.

“I could’ve broken it, if I so desired,” snarls Officer Smith, “but I opted not to, because I didn’t want the hassle of filling out a bunch of extra paperwork.”

“Ah, I see,” I say, while adjusting my policeman’s cap.

“We’re going to have our fair share of paperwork to fill out, as it is, if this next job turns out to be as bad as I predict,” Officer Smith explains while speeding down the street with his police cruiser’s lights all flashing and the siren a-blare. He keeps pulling sharply, this way and that, on the steering wheel, to avoid hitting all the oncoming vehicles and pedestrians.

“And how bad do you predict this next job will be?” I ask.

“Pretty bad,” says Smith. “We’re headed to the most notorious of the inner city’s soot-filled factories.”

“Yes?” I reply. “And what exactly does that portend?”

Officer Smith turns and stares at me for a long time with an incredulous look on his face, while he’s still speeding down the busy street with the lights and siren on, yanking the steering wheel intuitively. “Prostitutes hang out at places like this,” he explains. “Also drug dealers.”

Our cop car screeches to a halt in front of the large sooty building. 

“Hold your gun like this, with the barrel pointing upward, until you see a criminal,” Officer Smith explains to me while demonstrating with his own weapon. “Then, if you happen to see something—ANYthing—” he lowers his firearm so that its barrel is pointing straight forward, “go ahead and start blasting.”

“Don’t shoot until I spot a lawbreaker?” I attempt to reiterate these instructions.

“Hold your gun UP,” Officer Smith repeats, demonstrating these actions once again, “until you see a living being,” now he slowly lowers his weapon; “THEN pull the trigger.”

I hold my gun so that it points at the roof of the cop-mobile (we are sitting in the car as Smith explains this), then I slowly hold it so that it’s aimed straight forward at an imaginary bad-guy. “OK, I think I’m ready.”

“You ready to roll?” says Officer Smith, now starting to breathe more intensely.

“I’m ready to roll,” I nod.

So we very gingerly exit our police cruiser and approach the giant rusty doors of the soot-ridden factory. Smith nudges them open with his boot. We enter the darkness.

The silence is deafening. We are standing stock still with our guns pointed upward and trying not to let our breathing get too panicked.

“Should we flip a light switch and then have a look around?” I whisper to Officer Smith.

“Shh!” he shushes me angrily. “Wait right here. Do not move a muscle. I will now engage in igniting a torch, so that we can see a few meters in front of our faces.” 

Officer Smith now pours some kerosene on a wooden club, which ignites into a sizable blaze. We then continue to wait patiently.

Soon we hear a clopping noise, as of hooves. A fawn now enters the frame (this is most likely the same fawn that was sleeping next to me in the memoir that I composed yesterday — “Too bad it’s not the Devil,” I can’t help but think, as Officer Smith and I react to the creature’s appearance), and Officer Smith and I open fire.

After emptying all of our ammunition into the fawn, we take a look at our kill:

Smith holds the torch closer to the bullet-ridden corpse, which is now lying in a pool of blood. “That lamb is cooked,” he remarks.

So we make a bonfire inside the factory by taking the emergency ax from the place where it is hanging on the wall next to the fire extinguisher, and we use it to hack some wood away from the exterior of the vacuum coating machines; then we cook the deer meat. 

“Not bad,” I say.

Officer Smith nods and chews.

So we didn’t get to make any arrests, but we did strengthen the bond of our professional relationship. And we got a good meal out of the experience. Of course, a whole fawn provides more sustenance than even the hungriest policeman could digest in a single sitting, therefore we salted the rest of the venison (as a preservative measure), wrapped it in wax paper, and redistributed it to the needy.