CHAPO TRAP HOUSE

PRESENTS

TALES FROM THE

DARK LOOKING GLASS
 CONTENTS

WILL MENAKER

THE
SHADOW OVER
DOINKSMOUTH
i

M ATT CHR ISTM A N

HEART OF
FARKNESS
xx
 FELI X BI EDER M A N

EXCERPT FROM
SOMEONE HID
THE DAMN
PRESIDENT!
CH A PTER 10 : DEFICIT TR IPPIN’
xxviii

BR E N DA N JA M E S

THE MAN IN
THE SOY CASTLE
xxxvi
i v  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

THE SHADOW OVER

DOINKSMOUTH
BY WILL MENAKER

During the winter of 2017-2018, officials of the Deep State

made a strange and secret investigation of conditions in a seem-
ingly normal American town. The public first learned of it in Feb-
ruary, when a vast series of raids and arrests occurred. Video leaked
of teams of federal agents in hazmat suits and armed with flame-
throwers, spraying jets of burning napalm on the jumble of dilap-
idated homes and strip malls that comprised this ancient village.
Uninquiring souls let this occurrence pass as just another piece of
“fake news” or simply shared video of the flaming town with the
comments “2017, the video,” or, “my menchies rn.”
Many liberal groups raised an outcry over the apparent lack
of due process and the use of concentration camps to store the
vast number of abnormally large men detained during the raids.
These groups became surprisingly passive and reticent when it was
explained to them the county in question voted overwhelmingly
for Donald Trump in the 2016 election. Conservative pundits and
popular conspiracy personalities were also outraged that so many
of their own ranks seemingly fell under the jackboot. But they too
were mollified when the highly credible anonymous Internet user
“Dr_H_W3st” claimed to prove conclusively that the town in
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  v

question was the nexus of a North American child sex trafficking

hub connected to Washington D.C. and Hollywood by a vast net-
work of underground tunnels.
Media accounts concerning the strange occurrences in the town
of Doinksmouth were mostly forgotten in a week’s time as new
and more durable memes were discovered and introduced into the
news cycle. Save for a few citizen journalists, whose days consisted
entirely of harvesting people’s photos and messages on Facebook,
almost no mention was made of the sudden disappearance of a large
number of social media accounts connected to the town. People
in the nearby towns muttered a great deal among themselves, but
said very little to the outer world. They had talked about dying and
half-deserted Doinksmouth for a while, and nothing new could be
wilder or more hideous than what they had whispered about years
before.
But at last I am going to defy the ban on speech about this
thing. I am here to report that media accounts and gossip about
this town merely hinted at the repulsive truth I encountered, and
that no concern over public decency or decorum would outweigh
the cost of allowing such things to remain a secret. It was I who
frantically fled Doinksmouth in the early morning hours of July 16,
2017, and whose frightened appeals for government inquiry and
action brought on the whole reported episode. I was willing enough
to stay silent while the affair was fresh and uncertain; but now that
it is an old story, with public interest and curiosity gone, I have an
odd craving to share my experiences of those few frightful hours in
that ill-rumored and evilly shadowed town of blasphemous abnor-
mality. The mere telling here is an act of self-care on my own behalf,
v i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

to reassure myself that I was not simply being gaslit by a contagious

nightmare hallucination.
My encounter with this cursed town of unspeakable degener-
acy began during a work trip that led me on a “listening tour” of
many of the forgotten parts of main street America often left out
of our national media discussion. As a fellow at the Third Way
think tank, I was engaged in a data collection project that compiled
the thoughts, feelings, and policy preferences of “real” Americans
who also happened to be small business owners and local Repub-
lican officials. My bus tour had taken me to several of the towns
near Doinksmouth, where I discovered heaping doses of common
sense. I also found that, while most of whom I met were quick to
tell me how “we need to come together as a country,” and that “reg-
ulations stifle innovation,” nearly everyone I encountered brought
up the dire need for the government to “do something” about the
neighboring town of Doinksmouth. The locals seemed to regard
Doinksmouth as indicative of nearly everything wrong with Amer-
ica. They spoke in hushed and conspiratorial tones. When I asked
what they meant, the townsfolk would only remark that “the whole
area is ‘sketch’” and, “we just don’t go there anymore since the Olive
Garden closed.” I remembered once learning that in addition to
reading ten books a week and being humble, the most successful
people in the world are “innately curious,” so I took it upon myself
to make a diversion from the schedule, see for myself this small
town, and perhaps learn a thing or two.
Shortly before ten the next morning I stood with my overnight
bag by the local GameStop to await the arrival of the bus that would
take me to Doinksmouth. Shortly after, a decrepit and sputtering
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  v i i

bus the color of dung arrived and disgorged three unkempt men
of a youthful cast. They shuffled by me without looking up from
their mobile devices. A certain greasiness about them increased
my dislike. The driver himself had a similarly dull affect and didn’t
register my cheerful “Good morning!” I made a note to put “not
saying good morning” and “teenagers on their phones” into the
“Things-Dividing-Our-Country” column of the PowerPoint stack
I was preparing to present upon return from my fact-finding tour.
The day was warm and sunny, but soon the landscape of car
dealerships, fast-casual dining, and shopping malls faded away and
became bleak and desolate. The billboards advertising art museums
and apple picking fell away and were replaced by those offering legal
services for DUIs. Strangely enough, many of the signs were for
Blockbuster Video. The final one, just before our exit, simply read,
“Need Cash?” and gave a phone number that looked to be hand-
painted in jagged, dripping numerals. After this cramped ride in
a hearse-like bus that smelled of urine, I was thrilled to reach our
destination. We pulled into the local gas station and I disembarked.
My hands tremble now as I write these words, as the gas sta-
tion was my first encounter with the unnamable abominations
that lurked within this town unseen by even God. I was quick to
note the general ramshackle appearance of the place, with num-
bers indicating the prices hanging off the sign like old shingles. I
quickly noticed a strange assemblage of men by one of the pumps.
All of them, of different shapes and sizes, possessed unsettling, fish
belly-white skin and a queer, bewildering style of dress. They all
seemed to be gathered around a car, and the ringleader was ges-
ticulating with wild malevolence, waving the gas pump and using
v i i i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

it to accentuate each point like some infernal conductor. As I

approached, the scene became all the more clear and horrific to
me: this man was deliberating spraying gasoline all over the pave-
ment as he grinned and bellowed at the onlookers.
This madman must surely be stopped. What if one of these
fools lights a cigarette? I thought, now walking briskly enough
towards the mob to catch the end of the harangue.
“My money’s real good, I don’t give a fuck!” yelled the man as
he doused the surrounding area in gas to the seeming amusement
of the gaggle around him.
“Excuse me, but why is this man spraying gasoline every-
where?” I asked one of the outermost onlookers. “Surely he knows
how dangerous this is? What if it were to catch fire?”
Turning his head slightly to face me with a blank and bovine
serenity, the onlooker simply replied, “His money’s real good,
dafucyoumean?”
“The gasoline! I mean the gasoline, it’s highly flammable and,
what’s more, this is deeply wasteful.”
“This dude don’t make no sense,” he replied, turning and guf-
fawing with a disturbing placidity.
“But you must stop this at once, someone could get hurt or
die!” I pleaded with increasing alarm.
“Fuck around and find out.”
“I truly don’t mean to give offense, but is there something
wrong with you?”
“Are you on Family Feud, bro? Because you got mad questions.”
“Please, I don’t mean to give offense, but are you chromosom-
ally atypical?” I asked.
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  i x

“THAT’S WHAT THEY BEEN SAYIN BRUH!!!” He grinned

and shouted to the raucous approval of the crowd, who stopped
watching the gasoline display long enough to hoot and holler
I backed away slowly, choosing not to engage further and not-
ing the presence of several large and seemingly hand-rolled cigars
being lit and passed among the herd, so transfixed by the man and
his disregard for both money and human life.
“I don’t know what y’all doing, but I’m living life till I’m dead
and I’ma be me!” one shouted at me as I fled, to the delight of the
men around him.
Reader, I calm myself before sharing further details, as my evil
impression of this lot did not merely come from their submental
carelessness, alien contentment, and strange, clipped way of speak-
ing. My fear came also from the bizarre and unmistakable appear-
ance of seemingly every man I encountered as I surveyed the main
street and wound my way towards my Airbnb. It was not just their
shabby and juvenile manner of dress, with all adult men clad in
an impish uniform that featured some combination of basket-
ball shorts, strangely colored and tattered denim, football jerseys,
and flat brim hats. Nor was it the ludicrous amount of tattoos that
stained their flesh to carve out in a crude form of calligraphy words
like “Respect,” “Loyalty,” “Family,” “Money,” and in one case, “Only
God 4gives.” Nor was it the fact that they all seemed to be either tall,
reedy, gaunt and malnourished in a way that gave their shirtless tor-
sos the illusion of abdominal muscles or extremely overweight, with
the build of animate snowmen, large milky clots of flesh stacked and
smashed together. There was absolutely no in between. Not a single
man of average build. Both skinny and morbidly obese alike were
x  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

willing to forgo shirts and graze through the garbage-strewn streets

naked from the waist up, save for their Marvel Infinity Wars collect-
ible New Era hats, whatever queer and repellent jewelry could be
stapled to their monstrous frames, and, of course, their heinous and
ubiquitous tattoos.
Reader, I have resolved to spare no detail in my recounting of
the strange and horrible things I witnessed in this town, even at
risk to my now fragile sanity, so I can state again that it was not just
their attire, shambling gait, sullen visages, and bulging, stary eyes,
nor their familiarity and comfort openly using a variation on a cer-
tain word I would hope no member of the Caucasoid race would
ever utter, but an unholy constellation of all these details that crys-
tallized in my mind the fact that this town was home to some kind
of biological degeneration that the neighboring townsfolk feared
to confront.
This was further confirmed when I reached the house I was to
stay. When traveling, I always use Airbnb, as I find hotels separate
you from the regular, common people in the place you’re visiting.
The hosts themselves can tell you a lot about the area, and taken as a
whole, it has a salutary effect on rent in a given neighborhood, thus
making it nicer and more inhabitable for the kind of creative inno-
vators and community-builders my work brought me in contact
with. In any case, it was afternoon by the time I arrived at the ram-
shackle house on Gillman Street. Immediately I could tell the pic-
tures provided when I made the reservation—as well as promises
of a “chic, modern-style eco-loft”—were pure inventions. Resigning
myself to these accommodations charitably described as homey or
cozy, I knocked on the rusted screen door and was greeted by my
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x i

host, a shirtless grotesque named “Bryan” who looked even more

freakishly skinny and malformed than the men at the gas station or
on the street.
“Whatchu need?” he slurred through crooked teeth, attached to
what can only be described as an unfinished-looking skull.
“We corresponded earlier, sir. I’m staying here tonight and I’ve
come to pick up the keys and Wi-Fi password.”
“I got molly. I got white. Whatchu need? I’m servin’.”
“I’m staying here tonight, surely you received the email confir-
mation? I was approved and my rating is five stars.”
“I got whatchu need. Your bitch on this dick. Put that in her
guts and then pass her to da team. GRATATATA!”
“Excuse me?”
“GRATATATA!”
“My wife is not traveling with me, it’s only me staying here
tonight.”
“They tryna be like me, swag bitch. GRATATATA!!”
“What is this noise you keep making?”
“GRATATATTA! Send some shots through yo fitted. Get yo
bitch wet like the ocean. Swag.”
“Again, I’m sorry if there’s been some kind of miscommunica-
tion but I’d just like the Wi-Fi password, the keys, and a place to
put my things.” It continued like this for several minutes until he
realized I was, in his words, “with that foo-foo lame shit.” I was able
to convince him I was the person who had booked a room for the
night through a house-sharing app. This placated him momentarily
and I was shown to the pile of sleeping bags that I was to be spend-
ing the night in.
x i i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

Left utterly speechless and disturbed by these encounters, I

resolved to uncover the reason why this one town would have such
a terminally high percentage of oafs, dullards and menacing half-
wits. Shaken to the core, though determined not to let base prej-
udice deter me from doing the job I was trained to do, I set out
to find somewhere I could make a more thorough assessment of
the community. I am not ashamed to admit that, repelled though
I was, my thoughts were no longer of a mere PowerPoint presen-
tation at the Third Way conference but an entire Atlantic think-
piece about the submentalification that is tearing America apart.
As I made my way down Gillman and past Deep Street and Isaf-
ish Avenue, it began to gently rain and I passed a dilapidated barn
which housed another group of young men all smoking the same
hand-rolled, urban-style cigars. Shrouded in the pungent smoke,
the smaller ones had congregated around what appeared to be the
leader, another massively corpulent fellow, whose enormous size
was contrasted with a baby face and giant-mop of blonde hair. He
was leading the group in some kind of incantation.
“Gaaaaang shit. Gaaaaaaang shit,” he repeated over and over
again to his enraptured audience of children and man-children,
drawing out each syllable with an uncanny and unpleasant drawl.
I cast my eyes downward and quickened my pace away from this
unholy ritual.
Eventually I struck a region of utter desertion which somehow
made me shudder. Collapsing huddles of gambrel roofs formed a
jagged and fantastic skyline above which rose the ghoulish, decap-
itated steeple of an ancient church. Some houses along Main
Street were tenanted, but most were tightly boarded up. Down
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x i i i

pockmarked streets I saw the black, gaping windows of deserted

hovels, many of which leaned at perilous and incredible angles
through their sinking foundations.
Knowing that there are few differences between Americans that
can’t be resolved over a nice, cold beer, I made my way to the local
watering hole, an establishment called Ratz’s on Doinksmouth’s
very own Wall Street, hoping to engage the locals in a more intelli-
gible conversation about their hopes, fears and daily lives, hoping
for some explanation for the events I had seen upon arriving. It
was there I met the first person in Doinksmouth who was not mal-
formed in some way. I could tell right away he was different from
his dress: he was of medium build and clad in a quarter-zip sweater
and chinos, but they were wrinkled and badly in need of a pressing.
He gave off the hint of a man who had once been the kind of clean,
prosperous innovator and community entrepreneur that I was used
to talking to, but I could tell that he had been reduced to but a shade
of his former self. He passed me the badly crinkled business card
that referred to him as one “Z. Allen” and said that he had been
a lifelong resident of Doinksmouth. He seemed unwilling to talk
with an outsider, but I plied him with drink until he opened up and
relayed the terrible story of how the town he had grown up in had
reached its miserable and degraded state.
He muttered bitterly that Doinksmouth used to be a normal,
American town he was proud to live in, but that all changed when
a local of some eminence named “Young King Dave” announced
upon his return from a trip abroad that he had “got loud.” It took
some time for me to realize that this referred to a smell, and
not a sound, but I chalked this confusion up to the degenerate
x i v  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

environment this man had endured for years now. As his some-
times hard-to-follow story unraveled, it became clear that on his
travels to the nation of Iran, this King Dave figure had encountered
in these Persian warrens a figure named “Saman” that he believed
to be some kind of god. He promised great prosperity in exchange
for certain sacrifices. King Dave became an acolyte of this mythic
being and started a cult group centered around this “Saman” figure,
whose followers he referred to as “The Real Ones.”
Upon returning home, he rededicated the town’s historic
church to the “Esoteric Order of Saman” and he proposed its fol-
lowers take up residence in Doinksmouth. He claimed the road to
prosperity lay in the worship of Saman along with these Real Ones
and their ability to “grow and sell loud.” Soon he created a Facebook
group for “Real Ones Only.” More and more of these strange and
horrible types began to answer his siren call on social media and
take up residence in Doinksmouth. Soon King Dave was advocating
not just the use of “loud” but demanding that all residents experi-
ment with poly-relationships, further advanced through vile Face-
book groups dedicated to his beastly lusts and non-conventional
relationships. King Dave announced that the entire town was part
of his “polycule” and that everyone should “hit his line” if they were
looking to “chill.”
Allen’s voice trailed off and broke down even further as he
began to recount that his own wife, out of curiosity, answered a
message from one of the town’s imported residents that said sim-
ply, “ur boobs and pussi make me horni,” punctuated only with a
symbol of a vegetable and a the face of an impish daemon. That was
five years earlier, and I dared not press him further for fear of his
total collapse.
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x v

Allen began to weep ever so slightly as he described another

unspeakable grotesque named “Cole Campbell” who answered
King Dave’s call and whose clownish antics and “money dances”
had augured the complete and final doom of this once proud town.
It was getting dark and I could tell Allen didn’t want to continue as
he blankly stared at his phone. I was going to change the subject
when his look of forlorn resignation dropped and was replaced with
one of wide-eyed abject terror and he saw something on the dim
glow of his phone screen.
“I-I-I have to go,” he stammered.
“Are you sure I can’t buy you another drink sir?” I said, hoping
to calm him down.
“T-T-They know, I have to go!”
I was slightly disturbed by his abrupt exit and thought it best
to head back to the pile of sleeping bags that was to be my bedding
for the evening, thinking of little else but the next bus out of town
tomorrow morning. I can hardly describe the mood in which I was
left by this harrowing episode—an episode at once mad and piti-
ful and terrifying. As I wound my way back to Gilman Street, the
seeming desolation of the town took on a strange and menacing
vibration as I began to feel that it was not deserted at all but in fact
humming with life. An abundance of energy that I now felt directed
squarely at me.
When I arrived back at my Airbnb, I was relieved to find that
my host was not there and I could have some quiet time to order
my thoughts and write a one-star review of him that would only
begin to capture how wretched I felt. Yet I was disturbed to find the
absence of any lock on the door of my room. One had been there,
x v i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

as marks clearly showed, but I noticed signs of recent removal when

I pulled down the poster for Swisher Sweet Cigars that hung over
the frame. I decided to check my emails until I went to sleep; I took
out my phone and realized that in all the day’s oddness I had barely
checked it all. On a whim, I decided that I would search Instagram
and Snapchat for all posts tagged to the town of Doinksmouth.
As soon as I saw the results, my brain was struck with a icy jolt
of fear that froze me from the base of my spine to the tip of my nose.
Reader, there for all to see were photographs and grainy, shaky
videos of myself starting from my first encounter at the gas sta-
tion all the way to me leaving the bar. All of these surreptitiously
recorded images of me documented a network of surveillance that
began the moment I stepped off the bus. Each new dispatch was
tagged with phrases such as “#GoofyAlert,” “#OpSpotted,” and
“#Time2Ride.” Occasionally the person behind the camera would
break in, their evil moon-faces filling the screen to announce their
intent to do me bodily harm and then “slide with my bitch.”
Frantically, I bolted upright from the milkcrate I was sitting
on. It was then that my sensation of danger peaked, heard the soft
creaking of the floorboards upstairs. I was not alone at all! I turned
out all the lights and braced myself in the darkness. The patter of
feet outside my window became audible. Then, voices: “Pants sag-
gin ‘cuz my dick heavy,” “on God, this motherfucker’s got my head-
phones,” and “damn, sunch a hastle” were but a few of the ominous
hissings I heard as I pressed my ear to the wall. The readiness with
which I fell into a plan of action proved that I must have been sub-
consciously fearing some menace and considering possible ave-
nues of escape for hours. As the shapes and noises lurking outside
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x v i i

entered the house, I made my way to the nearest electrical outlet,

illuminated only by my Samsung Galaxy Note. Then I produced my
charger and plugged in the phone, just as the abominable scratch-
ing and shuffling of these Real Ones reached my unlocked door.
With several loud sparks and bolts the Galaxy Note IED went off
and became as bright as a magnesium flare as the shoddily made
electronics exploded. The wheezing lumps loitering in the doorway
moaned and recoiled from the flash, providing me just enough of
a distraction to dash to the window, undo the latch, and slip into
the night.
I raced around the side of the house and down Gilman Street
hearing only whispers in the darkness. Now that my Samsung Gal-
axy Note was no more, my escape was lit only by the moon. I had
not quite crossed the street when I noticed a hoard advancing from
the north. I dove into some bushes and pressed myself into the
ground. As the group approached, the stench of “loud” was over-
powering, and their voices swelled into a crescendo of barking and
baying without the least suggestion of human speech. It was like
the entire town of Doinksmouth was now taking part in this search
party, forming a parade of unspeakables that filled the entire street.
Reader, as I lay in the bushes struggling not to breathe or make
a sound, I don’t know what possessed me, but something in my
innately creative, innovative spirit compelled me to crack my eyes
open and witness for myself this unholy procession as they passed
in front of the only working street lamp on the corner near the bush
I was hiding in. What I saw I cannot say with any true certainty
was not some form of hallucination or hideous reality, but it swiftly
cut the last remaining threads of sanity mooring me to this world
x v i i i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

and flung me into an inky abyss. I saw Confederate flags adorned

with cannabis leaves, a host of shrieking skeletons waving guns,
men talking into stacks of money as though they were phones, and
those horrible words “loyalty,” “family,” and “respect” borne on the
grey flesh and white bellies of these monsters and repeated over and
over as they passed.
However, nothing heretofore could prepare me for the sight
of the titan leading them. Towering over this shambling, flopping,
hopping, croaking, crawling mass was an enormous figure, his
unnatural frame covered in bulging, comically large muscles that
dwarfed the rather malnourished residents I had previously encoun-
tered. His chemically enhanced bulk, plump luscious lips, meticu-
lously manicured facial hair, and giant crop of black hair, gelled into
what appeared as a single mass standing straight into the air, gave
the impression of a comic book hero or Japanese animated charac-
ter given abhorrent and all too real life. It was then that I realized
that this was the “Saman” figure that Allen had told me about earlier.
This was the ancient, foreign god that King Dave had discovered in
his travels and imported to his hometown.
I laid in the bushes shivering and paralyzed, looking up as he
lumbered past me. I could have sworn he looked down, his gaze
meeting mine for only a moment...his smile, his smile. His smile
will never leave me. The way his lips curled into a pantomime of
human expression and his deep, black eyes sparkling with potency
met mine...at that moment I departed from the life I once had. It
was then that all my faculties of reason and logic, along with my
own sense of self-worth and confidence, fled from me and I lay bro-
ken in mute surrender in the face of the unfathomable forces I had
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x i x

encountered. In another instant everything was blotted out by a

merciful fit of fainting. I lay unconscious in the ditch for what must
have been hours, eventually rousing myself and slinking out of town
to return to a world forever tainted by my knowledge of what exists
behind the thin veil of sanity.
After reporting what had happened to me to the authorities, I
returned to my Third Way think tank job just long enough to tender
my resignation. After my experiences in Doinksmouth I could no
longer go through the motions pretending that the biggest prob-
lems facing our country were partisanship, the deficit, and a failure
to listen to one another. Now I knew the truth. I filed for divorce
from my wife and poured what remained of my intelligence into
unraveling my own family tree. A child of adoption, I had always
been ignorant of my biological parents, so I obtained a copy of
my birth certificate and hired a private investigator to track them
down. When a name was returned to me it did not take long to find
my blood relatives on Facebook. Find them I did, in the town of
Doinksmouth, Real Ones Only.
Dear reader, the town was always with me, and I am return-
ing there now to be with my fam. I dream every night of returning
there and smocking lound and getting to this money and pussy all
day with my gang forever. Gaaaang shit. Gaaaaaaang shit. Death b4
dishoner. I live that life now. Holler at me. Damn where da strange
at doe? Blicky stiffy-uh Bizzy fr fr had 2 floozys in tghe cut my sex
drive ben higher than its been u gon laugh like a motherfucka we
spottin ops lol its still good tho. There is no more me: I’m me.
x x  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

HEART OF
FARKNESS
B Y M AT T C H R I S T M A N

Cupertino, shit. I’m still only in Cupertino. Stuck in an Airbnb

for a week now, surrounded by Steve Jobs biographies, waiting for
a mission, getting softer. Every minute I stay in this solarium, I get
weaker. And every minute the trolls are out there online disparag-
ing think-o-vators, they get stronger. Every time I look around the
room, the whimsical steampunk wall sconces move in a little tighter.
I want a mission, and for my sins they give me one. Two young
guys steam-ironed like Mormon missionaries bring it to me like a
Trycaviar.com order.
“Colonel Willard of Bravo Battalion, l337th Squadron?
Assigned to Hater Operations?” one of them says.
I blow vape into his face. “What are the charges? Are you here
about that homeless encampment I napalmed?”
“No charges, sir. You’re to come with us to the Visioneer
Coworker Space in Palo Alto.”
They take me to a clear plastic cube on the Google campus.
Three executives rocking on stability balls look at my digital file on
their e-tablets.
“According to this, you assassinated the head of the Bay Area
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x i

Tenant League with a blowgun. Impressive,” says one of the nerds,

adjusting his graphic necktie that assured me that the cake was, in
fact, a lie.
“I don’t know anything about that, sir.”
“Don’t know,” he mumbled. “Well, I bet you know Elon Musk,
right?”
“Of course. Tesla. Boring Company. SpaceX. MarsCo. But he’s
been out of touch ever since the launch.”
“That’s what we told the public. What we didn’t tell them is that
two years after he took off for Mars, we received this message. It was
bouncing around in space between a bunch of old satellites.”
One wall-screen dissolves into an image of Musk: shirtless, pale,
wild-eyed, a red handprint on his chest, and his hair teased up into a
soaking-wet pompadour. He speaks with a voice from one of those
old movies with the twisted, murderous clown. “I saw...a slab of
bacon...sizzling in a cast iron pan....but surviving. Still alive. Scream-
ing. This is my dream. This is my nightmare.”
The wall fizzles back into a wall and the Cake Lie guy turns back
to me. “This is the last contact we’ve had with him. Musk is up there
on Mars with an army of volunteers who worship him as a god. We
have reports that he and his cadre of fanatics have seized control of
a SpaceX refueling depot.”
“Fascinating stuff. But what’s this got to do with me? My job is
to eliminate threats to the Knowledge Economy. Musk practically
invented it.
“Elon’s methods have grown...unsound. We don’t have any
control or oversight of his operation. He’s grabbing other Corp
x x i i   •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

property, and Disneyland Mars is under construction right now.

We need you to get your ass to Mars and find Musk.”
“And?”
“And...terminate his command.
The room suddenly gets colder. “Terminate, sir?”
Another one of the nerds, who hasn’t yet looked up from his
tablet, turns and meets my eyes. “With extreme prejudice.”

I spend my time on the Carnival SpaceVenture cruise to Mars

neural-scanning Musk’s dossier. I can’t believe they want this man
dead. eBay. Tesla. Tesla II,after the first plant melted. Remember-
The-90’s BioDomes. Princess Bride-themed Perimeter Defense
Systems. And, of course, SpaceX. Everyone thought he was crazy
when he said he’d land on Mars and build a manned colony within
the decade, but all it took was a trillion dollars in federal subsidies
and the labor of an army of volunteer colonists willing to give their
lives to his vision. Then, as soon as they got there, he went dark.
No messages. No tweets. Nothing but that weird rambling video
he shot out into space. Now he’s out there somewhere, surrounded
by enraptured supplicants, planting his flag wherever he wants, lay-
ing claim to the whole Red Planet. Bad form. He hadn’t put in a bid
for that.
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x i i i

The Mars SpacePort and Life Extension Spa is a vast carnival of

indulgences. Casinos and virtu-pods and stem cell jacuzzis in every
direction. My handler is a weedy twerp in a Star Wars stormtrooper
outfit named Klevin. Klevin leads me to the rover bay while giving
me the latest intel.
“Elon’s boys have taken over three Space Force depots, stripped
them for parts, and are building some kind of compound at the bot-
tom of a pedestal crater about twenty klicks south of here.”
We pop the door on a Lexus Mars Truxter and settle into the
plush leather seats.
Mars is a blasted red inferno, devoid of life and swirling with
clouds of poison, and still more livable than half the former United
States and pretty much everything south of the equator. The crim-
son dirt pulses with malevolence, like it’s crying out in thirst.
It wants my blood. I refuse to give it. We crawl across the plan-
et’s seething skin in the shadow of our own dying world, the only
sounds our ragged breath. The redness burns into my eyes and for
a moment I think I must be in hell. Condemned to burn forever for
my crimes. I see the bodies in front of me, shimmering in the Mar-
tian heat. All the critics, the activists, the trolls. Cut down by me, in
the name of progress. Progress. Progress that has led to me driving
across a dead land to kill a genius and visionary. It takes all my will-
power not to pop open the hatch and let the pressure blow my head
off just to put an end to the blood-tinted visions.
Finally we crest a ridge and the rover tilts down, and we’re look-
ing out onto a vast red concavity, at the center of which is a huge
structure jutting into the sunlight. It has rounded sides and glowing
vertical rails and a row of buttons the size of Teslas. It takes me a
x x i v  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

minute to realize what I’m looking at. It’s a ten-story 1950’s jukebox.
I pilot the rover down the slope of the crater and up to the building.
Soon we’re dwarfed on both sides by gigantic replica ‘57
Chevys, parked hubcap-deep in Martian dirt. Shiny grey robots
in poodle skirts and giant metal beehives zip between the cars on
magnetic roller skates, holding trays of plastic hamburgers. A door
at the base of the jukebox slides open and figures march out of the
darkness.
Klevin and I scramble to attach our space helmets as the figures
come into view. There are three. They wear bright white lab coats.
Under their bubble-shaped helmets their hair juts from their heads
in blue spikes. They hold whimsical plastic ray guns. I pop open the
rover hatch and climb out, arms above my head. I can’t hear them
through their helmets and the thin Martian air but I can see their
lips vibrate as they burp in unison.
They lead us through the doors and into the jukebox. The inside
is a gigantic atrium, the walls throbbing with red. Dozens of Musk
worshipers in identical lab coats and identically-spiked blue hair sit
hunched over a long bar counter, sipping identical milkshakes. They
drink in unison, their Adam’s apples bobbing rhythmically. “Rock
Around the Clock” blares from hidden speakers. I take my helmet
off — I’m smacked in the face with the smell of french fries. Musk
is nowhere to be seen.
A man runs towards me. He’s wearing a leather jacket and
pegged jeans. A GoPro is strapped to his forehead.
“Hey, man. Welcome to the Future! It’s like the past, but better.”
“Who are you?”
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x v

“I’m a reporter. Gizmodo. They sent me up here to interview

Elon. That was...two years ago? Shit.”
“Where is Musk? I want to talk to him.”
“Hey, man, you don’t talk to Elon. You listen to him. The man’s
enlarged my mind. He’s a poet-innovator in the classic sense. I mean
sometimes he’ll, uh, well, you’ll say hello to him, right? And he’ll
just walk right by you, and he won’t even notice you. And suddenly
he’ll grab you, and he’ll throw you in a corner, and he’ll say ‘Do you
know that the human head weighs eight pounds? Jerry Maguire.’ I
mean, I’m a little man, I’m a little man, he’s, he’s a great man.”
“Dear God...” says Klevin. He peeks behind the reporter. I fol-
low his eyeline. Against the back wall is a row of severed heads, bal-
ancing on the handles of a row of Segways. Every one of the heads
looks like Musk’s.
The reporter turns to look at them, too. “The heads. You’re look-
ing at the heads. Yeah...the clones tried to unionize. Look, some-
times he goes too far. He’s the first one to admit it. But what he’s
doing here...it’s beyond anything you could imagine. He’s lead-
ing mankind to its destiny! We will become one with the galaxy
because of this man. There are no words to define him, man. He
transcends your language. Your morality.”
“Rock Around the Clock” cuts out and a voice booms over the
speakers. “Hello, b-b-b-b-b-b-baaaaaabies!”
We all look up: descending on wires from the ceiling is a giant
throne edged in chrome and leather, which takes only a few seconds
to reach the floor. A glistening, bright red figure sits on the throne,
his stomach swollen, his face the size and shape of a dodgeball.
Tubes run from his pulsing, tumescent arms to three blissed-out
x x v i   •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

worshipers, pumping blood into the man’s body to the point of

bursting. Musk’s body.
“You’re Musk!” Klevin says.
Musk turns to look at him. The bags under his eyes throb with
blood. He opens his mouth, his teeth seem to be glowing.
“Our whole universe was in a hot, dense state, then nearly four-
teen billion years ago expansion started, wait! The earth began to
cool, the autotrophs began to drool, Neanderthals developed tools,
we built a wall. We built the pyramids! Math, science, history,
unraveling the mysteries that all started with the Big Bang! Hey!”
I stare at him. During the shuttle flight I thought that the min-
ute I looked at him I’d know what to do, but that hasn’t happened.
He’s grotesque and monstrous. He created a living time capsule
in the wastes of space. And he just said the entire theme song to
The Big Bang Theory. Killing him suddenly feels both obscene and
pointless.
“Sir, I’ve been sent to terminate your command.”
“Many years ago I fought in the Meme Wars. You are too young
to remember. I was in the Special Forces with powerful men, men
capable of taking on 100 duck-sized horses or even one horse-
sized duck. We captured a village of Imgurians— all of this base
are belong to us. And we went through it, from door to door, yell-
ing ‘Leeeeeeroy Jenkins’ and hacking off their arms. They were in
a pile. A pile of little severed arms, Derpina arms. You didn’t need
a banana for scale. Wrong? Was I wrong? No. It’s the children who
are wrong. The meaning in all this is 42—”
This speech makes things easier. To shut him up I pull the e-ma-
chete out of my space suit and stick it in his chest. He pops like
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x v i i

a balloon. Blood jets across the room, covering me, Klevin, all of
Musk’s worshipers, and the ceiling.
Musk slumps down in the throne. His lips start moving. “I’ve
seen things...you people wouldn’t believe...”
I reach down and put my hand on his knee, speak in a whisper
close to prayer.
“Wrong reference, idiot.”
x x v i i i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

EXCERPT FROM
SOMEONE HID THE
DAMN PRESIDENT!
CHAPTER 10:
DEFICIT TRIPPIN ’
BY FELIX BIEDERMAN

President Gilliam Franklin Clifton adjusted his baseball cap. A

little too high. Now a little too low. It’d been so long since he could
enjoy a good old fashioned music concert that he was worried he
didn’t even know how to beatbox anymore.
But this wasn’t a normal outing with his handlers, Secret Ser-
vice, or a certain nagging harpy at home. Unfortunately, someone
got business in this pleasure.
Just days before, the MeToo extremist faction kidnapped Pete
Peterson and was holding his deficit conference hostage until they
could issue a list of careers they wanted ruined for honest mistakes.
Clifton had to find out who had armed these jealous women. They
were seen holding Draco machine pistols. Who could have supplied
them? There was a puzzle piece he hadn’t found yet. It was Karlov
Slavonov, a Russian-American arms dealer with ties to the deadly
rap community. Clifton had word from Special Agent for Russia
Issues Jake Homie that Slavonov may be in attendance at the show.
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x i x

Young people shuffled about in the line leading in. They were all
wearing flat-brimmed baseball caps with words like “CHILL” and
“ENERGY” on them. The girls were pretty, with dyed hair and flan-
nel shirts tied around their waists, as was the fashion when Clifton
was the young governor of Kansas. The men had on their freshest
Oxford shirts, their arms firm yet relaxed as they remained parallel
to the floor in a crossed position.
“You know I had to do it to ‘em” one remarked. They’ll say the
same about me, thought the undercover commander in chief.
After what seemed like an eternity, there was some indication
the show was about to begin. Well, more than an indication; a mas-
sive screen on stage simply flashed the word “COMMON.” The
crowd cheered as if it had just announced Simpson Bowles II.
Through a barrage of lights, the hardcore gangsta rapper Com-
mon emerged from the bowels of the arena. The young man, micro-
phone in hand, addressed his crowd.
“Who’s ready to feel some vibes tonight?” he yelled, his shawl
cardigan illuminated ominously by the purple and neon lights.
I wish Russia was here to feel the vibes of a Minuteman III, the
president thought.
He was no stranger to sketchy circumstances. After all, he had
negotiated the 2015 Farm Bill with the Freedom Caucus. But the
pure street energy of Common’s show had Clifton longing for the
more familiar menace of Russian president Dmitri Kremlinov, even
if he was trying to meddle in the election.
Despite the hardcore atmosphere, the undercover POTUS
started to feel the rhythm Common was delivering. He had some
surprisingly positive raps, most likely the result of the wildly
x x x  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

popular 2013 Crime Bill and the respect it engendered across the
nation. Still, he had to remember he was on a mission. If he could
get backstage and use his winning Southern charm, even a hardened
gangbanger like Common would provide a lead.
Clifton started shuffling to the front of the venue. If he could
perform “The Hustle,” a timeless dance from his youth, he would
most likely be invited to the backstage area where he could con-
tinue his investigation that would save the republic he had spent
his entire life defending.
“Pardon me. Hot stuff coming through. Wow, you hug your
dad with that on? Just kidding. Haha.” The president’s baseball cap
allowed him to blend in perfectly as he suavely moved through the
crowd.
But something stopped Clifton dead in his tracks. It was just a
shirt. But sometimes a shirt’s words can be more deadly than any
gun.
“Black Lives Matter,” it read in a stark, white font.
“Black lives matter, huh, young man?” the former governor and
covert chief executive said, barely containing his rage.
“Huh?” said the young man, a white 20-something with a popu-
lar “hard part” style haircut and several different types of bracelets.
“I’ll tell you where black lives matter. In Africa.”
Common stopped rapping. You could a pin drop in the arena.
“Yeah, that’s right. Africa, where Bono and me—I mean Pres-
ident Gilliam Clifto—worked together to provide productivi-
ty-linked electricity to nearly 500 million. You don’t see any protests
in favor of that.”
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x x i

The young people started arguing among themselves. It wasn’t

thoughtful debate. This place may be prone for a riot.
“Stop,” Common said.
This was it. The headlines were swirling in Clifton’s head as he
prepared to meet his fate. “Disguised President Clifton Greenlights
Driveby Style At Dangerous Hip Hop Event.” Fox News would have
a field day, Kremlinov’s plans would proceed, and Pete Peterson
would be beheaded on the Oxygen Network.
The rapper adjusted his beads.
“He’s right.”
The crowd’s tone shifted. Suddenly, cheers were erupting for
this mysterious rap fan.
Clifton puffed his chest up, relieved. “It sounds like you’re all
serious about making the world a better place. Common, if you’d be
so bold, there’s a man I’m looking for. He can’t breakdance, but he
wants to break down our democracy. His name is Karlov Slavonov,”
Clifton said, his old Iowa stump speech charisma radiating outward.
“Anything for you, my man. Karlov likes to kick it at the Laugh
Gazebo. Be good, brother.” Common replied.
And just like that, the most powerful man in the world had his
course altered from a hip hop show to a comedy club.

Laughter echoed as President Clifton made his way into the

comedy club. It wasn’t the kind of laughter Americans once made. It
was needling, braying guffawing that indicated we had all but given
up on social cohesion and community.
x x x i i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

While it was an unfamiliar hangout for the leader of the free

world, Joe Sixpack would have no trouble blending in there. Or so
he thought.
Clifton felt confused, following handrails that led him through
the dark club, trying to find some seating by echolocation via laugh-
ter. Suddenly, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. President,” the figure behind him whispered.
A less cool and collected POTUS on a secret mission would
figure this was a Russian agent. But Clifton recognized this man’s
voice. It was famous comedian Gary Kleinfeld.
“Don’t worry,” said the handsome elder statesman of comedy.
“Agency told me you’d be coming.”
Clifton smiled
“It’s good to see a familiar face. I’ll tell you this much, Gary:
going to a comedy outing used to be one of my favorite things. But
I feel like it’s changed a lot now.”
Gary made his trademark New York-style pained grimace.
“It’s uh, you’ll see for yourself.”
Kleinfeld gestured for Clifton to follow him. After making it
through the darkness, they got to the club’s main room.On stage, a
man in a leather jacket paced back and forth.
“You go into a coffee shop now, it’s like, mocha frappa fuck-
accino, how about give me a regular fucking coffee! Or a whiskey.
Hashtag what the fuck!”
The crowd exploded, totally unconcerned that large coffee
chains had created entry-level positions for millions to enter the
middle class. Clifton scanned the crowd and saw a lot of hopeless
men and women.
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x x i i i

“What’s this guy’s deal?” whispered Clifton.

“He’s uh, speaking to how these people feel about their lives,”
replied Kleinfeld. Clifton stared baffled at the spectacle.
“Yeah, a grande mochadunko. Thanks, does this thing come
with a fucking instruction manual? Let’s try giving it to Congress.
Then they can argue about it and do nothing while it gets cold! Oh
wait, but when President Clifton comes in on his freaking Viagra,
watch out! Hey, that doesn’t look like a stirrer! That’s just wrong!
“Those coffee chains provide great wages to thousands of Amer-
icans,” hissed the president. “Also, I have never needed that. That’s
absurd.”
“I know, Gilliam. This guy, frankly, he’s a schmuck. But you’ve
got to keep cool, at least until you spot Karlov.”
Kleinfeld patted the president on the back and inched his way
into the crowd so as not to draw attention to Clifton. Unfortunately,
this may have caught the leathery comedian’s attention.
“Hey you over there, in the baseball cap, what’s your deal? What
do you do to pay the bills?” asked the boisterous cynic.
Washington, we have a problem.
“Well, I wear many hats,” replied the winner of the 2016 popu-
lar vote by the largest margin ever.
“Really? ‘Cause I just see you wearing one.” More hooting from
the crowd.
Clifton had been down on debates before, but never with a
crowd viciously tittering at barbs like this. He had to dig deep. If
he blew his cover, Slavonov would flee the club. He had to play the
cool comedy fan.
“Well, it’s a figure of speech. I would think you’d know all about
those, seeing as you’re in a performing art. Then again, I would not
call what you just did ‘art.’”
A stark silence fell over the club. The comedian bit the inside
of his lip, half-angered and half-impressed that he’d found such a
worthy challenger
“What kinda hats does this guy wear, a critic’s hat? Maybe your
dad should’ve worn a rubber hat!”
Big mistake, because he gave one of the greatest slogan crafters
in U.S. history a free shot.
“Perhaps, but your dad didn’t have to worry about that. Because
you had two dads.”
The comedians face turned from a snarling smile to totally
ashen. He dropped his mic and fled the stage. The crowd turned
towards Clifton.
“Next comic! Next comic! Next comic!” they all cheered. He
had no choice.
The president took the stage slowly. He’d done his share of
stump speeches, State of the Union addresses, and convention
addresses, but this was something different. He could make Amer-
icans smile. But could he make them laugh?
“I come from a place called Topeka,” he began, as he did when
he first captured hearts in Iowa so many years ago.
Clifton could see Kleinfeld tug his collar. Relax, thought the
adept campaigner. I’m gonna have you tugging your collar because
you’ll think I’m taking your job.
“Of course, I’d like to change the Topeka conversation! Seri-
ously, what a place!”
The crowd erupted in genuine, cheerful laughter.
 Clifton was now confidently pacing back and forth on stage.
“But everyone is from somewhere. Then they go to Washington,
and all those places they’re from become two letters in parentheses
at the ends of their names. Some of these guys — and girls, mind
you — it should be ‘BS.’ Those should be the letters.”
People were now physically rolling in the aisles. Kleinfeld’s jaw
dropped; that is, before he started laughing along with them
“Everyone’s got an agenda. You have the corn lobby, the gas
lobby, then you have this Me Too stuff.”
The crowd hissed in agreement with who they perceived as a
brave open mic-er.
But before Clifton could deliver his comedic coup de grace, he
saw Kleinfeld gesturing in the corner of his eye. He looked over a
few ticks and saw the familiar bald head of Karlov Slavonov.
Slavonov was about six feet and three inches tall. His overcoat
hung off his praying-mantis like body, leaving a great deal of space
in between his thorax and the coat’s red lining. He was a hard figure
to ignore, but Clifton had to act like just another comedian, at least
until he could get a tracker on Slavonov’s disgusting frame. Heck-
lers were one thing. International arms dealers/election thieves
were another.
“Apologies all, got lost in a thought for a second. Aw shucks, I’ll
just tell it to you now. You ever notice how you pay a toll on a free-
way, often descend onto a highway, and that politicians frequently
ignore Main Street?”

TO BE CONTINUED
x x x v i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

THE MAN IN THE

SOY CASTLE
BY BRENDAN JAMES

Thaddeus Thot felt his stomach twitch as his mother Huma

placed the turkey on the table. He flashed a smile but couldn’t quite
hide his disappointment. Another Thanksgiving, another fair-trade,
vegan turkey, served on a bed of limp arugula. After all these years,
the sight of it was starting to make him sick.
Still, who was Thaddeus to bring down the mood? This was the
most important holiday of the year — after Ramadan, of course
— and he was happy to see his whole family gathered around his
mom’s spirit-cooking, enjoying each other’s company. He’d taken
time off his job to come through and see everyone: his Uncle Fage,
back from a ten-year stint in a Colorado free-speech gulag; his
cousin Consentina, who was finishing up her graduate thesis, “The
Racism of Logic”; even Grandma Vaginia was there, sat silently in
her hover-scooter and looking oddly somber, as if she was carrying
around a deep secret.
The whole table swooned over the turkey. “Wow, he sure is a big
bird!” said Thaddeus’ twelve-year-old little brother, Hogg.
The room went still.
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x x v i i

“Hogg. I think you mean they are a big bird,” his mother said,
triggered.
“Oh, goodness, mom,” stammered Hogg, instantly sobbing.
“I’m so, so sorry.” The rest of the table soon joined in, weeping in
unison.
His mother, trying to stave off an anxiety attack, took a deep
breath and pulled a marijuana cigarette out of her apron; she lit
one end of the earthy cylinder and took a hit. After a few seconds
Huma’s face relaxed and she blew out a plume of rancid smoke.
“It’s chill, honey. I’ll register you for re-education first thing
tomorrow morning,” she said sleepily. The drug was clearly having
an effect on her. “But for now, let’s try and enjoy our meal.”
The blunt made its way around the table, soothing everyone’s
nerves until finally it reached little Hogg himself. He took a long
drag. “Good shit,” he managed to squeak between coughs. Thad-
deus couldn’t help but feel it was wrong to force a minor to smoke
drugs, but he knew full well that it was perfectly legal. And, after all,
only oppressive cranks objected to a good “choom” session in this
day and age.
“Does anyone want to say grace?” asked Thaddeus’s ponytailed
father, Soros.
The table erupted in laughter. “Good one, dad!” mumbled
Hogg, clearly zonked out of his underage mind from the weed
cigarette.
So began the meal. As Thaddeus slathered the flavorless tur-
key with dollops of semen and blood, his mind drifted. Maybe it
was the cannabinoid, but something about his whole life, his world,
didn’t feel right.
x x x v i i i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

“So, Thad,” Soros said, “how’s your job at the Firearm Collec-
tion Department?”
“Oh, fine,” Thaddeus replied. “Couple more months and taxpay-
ers will be completely unarmed.”
“About time,” his uncle muttered.
“Mom, could you pass the Bechdel sauce?” asked his older sis-
ter, Chia.
Truth be told, Thaddeus had felt this bizarre sensation before,
as if he was a lucid dreamer, or a visitor on some alien planet. It hit
him seemingly at random, though he’d noticed it happening more
often in recent months.
He remained quiet and disconnected while his family toasted
another year of slow economic growth and equality-of-result in the
United Safe Spaces of Antifa.
“I have to say,” his mother piped up, “I’m quite happy with how
my turkey came out!”
“You didn’t cook that,” Chia interrupted. “The government
helped you.”
Huma paused for a moment. “You’re right, dear.”

After dinner, as his father whipped up some lattés for dessert,

Thaddeus wandered into the living room. Uncle Fage, Chia, and
Hogg were settling into the sofa.
“Hey Thad, join us, we’re putting on the game,” Fage said. “It’s
the Post-Colonials versus the Muslim Brothers.”
Thaddeus sighed. “Sure.” Football wasn’t really his thing, but
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x x x i x

the BLMFL was still a national institution. His uncle flipped over
to MSNBESPN; the game was already in progress.
Yep, there they were: all the players, kneeling. And there it was:
the national anthem, blaring across Solyndra Stadium. Twenty min-
utes later, forty minutes later, the athletes remained glued to the
ground while the song repeated over and over. The commentators,
Kipp Olbermann IV and Cobb Costas Jr., breathlessly narrated the
game:
“DeRay Kaepernick’s at the five-yard line...at the five...at the
five…” After two hours it was finally over. As always, both teams
won, and, as always, the players lined up to receive their participa-
tion trophies. Finally, they all linked arms and yelled “God DAMN
America!” to raucous applause.
Thaddeus didn’t usually get riled up over this pointless display,
but at the moment he couldn’t stand it. He shot up from the sofa.
As he stormed out, he could hear his uncle behind him: “Ah, finally,
here come the post-game political remarks from the players! My
favorite part!”
Thaddeus stumbled into the atrium. He couldn’t understand
why, but his heart was racing. His head was aching. And that feel-
ing from dinner was growing stronger, as if he was losing his grip
on reality. The rest of the family was in the dining room — except
Grandma, who he could see staring at him from the kitchen. He
didn’t have time for her senile nonsense. He needed to get away
from everyone. Thaddeus headed for the attic.
x l   •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

The light bulb above his head flickered — damn unreliable solar
power — as Thaddeus sifted through a pile of family junk. An old
photo album. He flipped through what seemed like ancient images
of his great, great grandparents, pictures snapped from far away, as
if they were taken by a third party. Must have been before selfies,
he thought. He chuckled and pushed it aside. Next, a box full of old
Obama/Clinton 2024 campaign pins and posters. “WE MAY NOT
BE DENNIS RODMAN AND MICKEY ROURKE, BUT WE’RE
READY TO DOUBLE-TEAM AMERICA!”
Behind the memorabilia of the Eternal Presidents, something
odd caught his eye. He pushed the other stuff aside and reached for
what appeared to be a large, silver brick. Brushing off the dust, he
could read the letters “D-V-D” on top. A cable stuck out of the back
and snaked across the floor, leading Thaddeus to an even bigger dis-
covery: an old, boxy, square TV sat in the corner. Curiosity got the
better of him. Thaddeus found an outlet and plugged the antique
in. He ran back to the DVD player, which turned out to be battery
powered, and fiddled with the buttons. Suddenly, a whir: the box
powered up. The TV sprung to life with a loud hiss. Images, blurry
at first, came into focus.
Thaddeus could not believe what he saw.
It was the kitchen. The one downstairs. Or, at least, it was simi-
lar. The same wallpaper, spoons, and shakers, but the room seemed
much bigger, as if it had been renovated. The camera was jerky. A
“home movie,” he thought, recalling history class. Thaddeus nearly
yelped when his mother entered the frame. She wasn’t younger —
the footage could have been shot that very day — yet she looked
completely different. She wore a pretty, floral dress instead of her
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x l i

usual androgynous, state-assigned empowerment clothes. Next his

father walked into frame, his pony tail gone, replaced with a crew
cut.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” they both said, waving into the camera.
What was Thaddeus watching?
A hard cut in the footage: Suddenly the rest of the family was
sitting down to dinner. Consentina, Chia, Hogg, Uncle Fage, and
Grandma. The house was definitely more spacious, as if his par-
ents were somehow free from regulation to make more money and
buy bigger and better things. More strikingly, everyone at the table
looked like doppelgangers of the people Thaddeus had known all
his life; they were healthier, happier. Chia’s hair was no longer pur-
ple and disrespectful, and little Hogg was open-carrying an SG-550.
Suddenly his father entered the dining room, dressed in full uni-
form — not a standard bureaucrat’s uniform, though. It was some
kind of military getup, like all the bad guys wore in the movies.
But his father didn’t look like a bad guy. He looked like a hero. The
camera pulled back to reveal the entire family saluting his dad, from
Grandma down to Hogg. Tears ran down Thaddeus’ face, and he
didn’t even understand why.
Just as his dad took his seat, a team of people rushed in with
plates of food. They all happened to be people of color. Probably
just a coincidence, Thaddeus thought with a smile, and I’m sure
they’re all being paid a wage for the purely voluntary labor they’re
doing. As his father barked orders at them, one of the servers
unveiled the turkey. But this wasn’t the usual wobbly vegan offer-
ing. Far from it — the entire turkey appeared to be made of steak.
Around it, instead of the usual bowls of Satanic fluids, the servers
x l i i   •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

set down a feast: mashed potatoes sprinkled with bits of steak,

piping hot corn bread with steak chunks, and even more plates of
thick, juicy steak. Thaddeus could feel his mouth water and his anus
pucker.
Before anyone touched their silverware, the family joined hands
and hung their heads. After a brief silence they snapped their heads
up and hollered in unison:
“I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Consti-
tution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domes-
tic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, according
to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help
me God.”
Thaddeus mulled over those words: God...Faith...Constitution.
He had never heard them before, but he felt somehow that he knew
their meaning in the deepest recesses of his heart. He had heard of
“justice,” of course, but only with the word “social” in front of it.
Another jump in the footage. Everyone was now lounging in
the living room watching the football game, filling champagne flutes
with something called “Miller High Life.” Thaddeus squinted to
observe the game. His jaw fell open. What he saw was a gorgeous
green field, full of life and energy, where athletes were actually play-
ing the game, running around, scoring points, leaving politics out of
it. Thaddeus heard one sportscaster address his colleague:
“Gotta say Dennis, it’s a very tight game tonight, but it looks
like Team US Army may beat out the NYPD by a just a hair — not
that we’d respect New York’s finest any less.”
“Listen babe,” the other voice chirped with an electronic twang,
as if he was half-machine, perhaps being kept alive artificially, “I
 T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x l i i i

haven’t seen this many tough guys tossin’ around a pigskin since
Pepin the Short took back Aquitaine from the Moors in the Recon-
quista, ‘kay babe?” Thaddeus burst out laughing, not only at the
deliciously clever historical reference from the commentator, but
also out of pure joy at seeing football as he’d never imagined it: a
slowly rising crescendo of raw humanity that lit his soul ablaze.
Just then, his father turned to the camera. “Hey Orval, say hi to
the viewers at home, ya big sissy!” Orval?
The camera swung around to reveal its operator. Thaddeus
froze. He was looking at himself. Hands shaking, he ran his fin-
gers over the TV screen. It was a mirror image, though this dop-
pelganger appeared physically stronger, more sexually charismatic,
and more mindful.
Before he could study his alter-ego any further, the camera
swiveled back to the family. Thaddeus finally noticed Grandma. She
had a glow to her like everyone else, more color in her face, but that
wasn’t what drew his attention. Grandma was staring into the lens
with a glint in her eye, as if she could see him through the screen.
She nodded her head.
“Hey ya’ll, you think this was fun, wait until Christmas!” some-
one in the footage called out.
Before Thaddeus could process that last word, the video cut
out. He shot a desperate look at the DVD machine. Its whirr died
down. It was out of juice. He fumbled to find another battery
among the attic’s junk, but there was nothing.
Thaddeus gave up. He sat in silence.
x l i v  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

An hour later he walked downstairs like a zombie, bewildered,

entranced. He wanted answers, but had no idea how to explain to
anyone what he had just seen.
Shuffling into the dining room he saw his mother — back in her
drab, empowering clothing. “Thaddeus, there you are!” she called
out, as the rest of the family sipped their lattés and snacked on a
bowl of Tide Pods. “We’re all about to break out the board games,
wanna play State Monopoly?” Thaddeus shook his head. “Suit your-
self!” she said, as everyone cracked open the game.
Everyone, that is, except Grandma. She sat in the corner, as
quiet as Thaddeus. He walked over and kneeled in front of her. He
studied his grandmother’s face. She made eye contact, but didn’t
say a word.
“Grandma, I’ve just seen something in the attic...I don’t know
what it was. I don’t know how it was possible. But I saw it. It was
real. And it blew my mind. It shook me to my core. And I think you
know what I’m talking about. I think you know.”
For the first time, Grandma cracked a smile. She leaned forward
and looked him right in the eye.
“Triggered, libtard?” she croaked.
Thaddeus smiled back.
“Not anymore, Grandma,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”
T A L E S F R O M T H E D A R K L O O K I N G G L A S S   •  x l v

Cover art: Lizzy Price

Author photo: Oscar Ouk
Copyright: Chapo Trap House
x l v i  •  C H A P O T R A P H O U S E P R E S E N T S

COMING AUGUST 21, 2018