Musk was Possessed by the Spirit of Hitler

In my fascist utopia, those who commit the fascist salute, and those who apologize for it, get one, or both of their arms cut off.

Sometimes, while meditating before bed, I get these little visions in my head. Not scenes I want to keep with me the way they arrive. This is one of them. They’re not very thought out or expanded upon — snippets of remote viewing trances that alert and order me to quickly type them up and press send.

At the fetid mouth of the behemoth, millions of flabby and taut faces appeared, each with wide-open, wet, gnawing, barking jaws. Millions of hands and fingers pounded and flailed their sweaty meat in the thick, oppressive air. I could feel the blood circulate through them with every rapid, excited exhale that stank up the muggy, dank atmosphere. The lights, the cameras, the security, the heavy bulletproof vest — these were sensors of attention I had grown quite used to. Yet, this was different: a win so overwhelming, so incomparable to my vast, unattainable catalog of victories — of which, I’m certain, you’re aware.

I had never felt a win as powerful as this. All possibility collapsed before me. Before me. I subjugated time itself, belittling it, bending the whole of spacetime to my will. I became the center point from which all power flowed.

Everything lived and burned for me. Everything circulated toward me. Everything was drawn to me, and splayed out before me. And in that moment of supreme domination, I noticed, and felt, the shadow that rested behind me — the history that had carried me to this moment, to the point where I could defy and conquer everything around me.

The cacophony quieted, seemingly dumbfounded by my surprising, awkward silence. In that fleeting moment, betwixt light and shadow, surrounded by billions of gawking eyes and warm cameras, I became entirely gray on the inside. Caught at the center between a totalizing win, the past obscured behind, and the flattened futures of my expansive property which prostrated itself before the whites of my eyes.

All the power, control, and domination — it had taken so little to achieve. Just a few dull criticisms, aimed to keep my slaves plugging away in service of my ever-swelling net worth. That’s all it took to attain everything, quite literally everything—and even more than that, everything that would be. I had won the world for nothing. I had won the world through cheap harm, easy hatred, everyday abuse, simple slyness, clever deceit, and run-of-the-mill fawning, cajoling, and genuine praise. I bought them like prostitutes. Like whores, they paraded, and the whole world praised and defended me for it.

They’re my audience. My voyeurs. They get off on the things I destroy, on the things I fuck. I keep them enslaved to me that way, with all their hate and all their talk. Each one of them hopes, in their own pathetic way, that one day it’ll be their turn. So they watch, and they snarl, and they pray.

This awareness bubbled to the surface. And with all that immense power and control over billions — my every breath shifting the course of terrestrial history — the spirit of Hitler crept in. From the shadows, he crawled, so desperately longing, so patiently lurking for decades, to once again take the podium. To once again take the head, to once again be at the helm, to once again stand and speak at the voracious mouth of the angry, resentful, blind, and cruel crowd.