THE FEAST OF CRUELTY

Fascism, supersized

Sep 06, 2025

In 2025, fascism isn’t a theory. It’s a banquet. The table is set with the bones of democracy, the silverware forged from rules shredded and precedents torched. Trump and his courtiers serve it steaming, slopping ladlefuls of humiliation across the plates of their followers. And those followers don’t just eat — they gorge. They shovel down the spectacle of cruelty, slurp the bile of enemies defeated, and lick the fat of vengeance off their fingers. Fascism is consumed not as duty or doctrine but as pleasure, metabolized into a narcotic rush. It burns down the throat like cheap whiskey, makes the belly ache like spoiled meat, and still they clamor for more, because the agony is the ecstasy.

LIBERAL TEARS AS THE APERITIF

The ritual drink of this feast is the chalice of “liberal tears.” It’s not metaphor anymore; it’s liturgy. They imagine themselves sipping sorrow like fine wine, swirling it in the glass, sniffing the bouquet of outrage before swallowing it whole. These tears are the aperitif, the thing that sharpens the appetite for the slaughter to follow. Every sob from a protester, every gasp from a journalist, every tremor of fear from a neighbor becomes liquid sustenance. They metabolize grief into joy, sadness into smug satiation. The tears do not quench thirst — they inflame it. Each drop is a promise that someone else’s suffering can be converted into your pleasure.

THE DIGESTIVE SYSTEM OF HATE

The body politic in 2025 is no longer a circulatory system of shared struggle; it’s a digestive tract for hate. Fascism enters the mouth in chants and memes, travels the esophagus in slogans, curdles in the stomach with bile and cortisol, then is broken down in the intestines into the nutrient they crave most: the sensation of domination. The byproduct is waste, expelled as violence, as policy written in malice, as a stench that fills the civic air. But the followers don’t care. They’ve learned to savor the indigestion, to treat the cramps as confirmation they’ve eaten well. To them, bloating is proof of belonging.

PARASITES AND CANNIBALS

By now it isn’t just eating; it’s parasitism. The host body — democracy itself — is gnawed from the inside out, organs hollowed by worms of resentment. The parasite doesn’t kill immediately; it feeds slowly, savoring the decline. And when the host weakens, the feast turns cannibalistic. They gnaw their own fingers just to prove they still have teeth. They gnash on institutions they once needed — courts, schools, even the military — stripping marrow until nothing remains but splintered bones. The pleasure isn’t in the nourishment; it’s in the destruction. Fascism metabolizes not to sustain life but to gorge on death.

THE FINAL COURSE

The banquet seems to have no end. The followers sit bloated, belching the fumes of cruelty, yet clawing for more plates. Liberal tears have become the only drink they trust, a sacrament that reassures them they are chosen, victorious, real. But the banquet hall is collapsing, the roof caving under the weight of rot. Their pleasure is the sound of beams splintering. Their joy is the heat of fire catching the tablecloth. They sip and chew and laugh as the room burns down, metabolizing the apocalypse as dessert. And when there is nothing left to eat but ash, they will still lick their lips, convinced they have been fed.

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