All posts by HG Tudor

I am letting you see my worldview for your own protection.

Jealous of Your Contentment

 

JEALOUSOF YOURCONTENTMENT.jpg

 

Granting you contentment is part of our design when we seduce you and grant you the golden period. The provision of your contentment at that juncture in our entanglement provides the luscious positive fuel to flow in our direction and all is well. We truly do delight in seeing you content with the illusion that we have woven for you. It is when you and us move into the stages of devaluation and discard that we regard your state of contentment in a wholly different manner,

During devaluation if we witness you appearing content, we are overcome with jealousy. Why should you be allowed to sit there satisfied, happy and relaxed? Why do you not suffer the repeated unease of the desire to gain fuel when those supplies become low? We look across the room at you, your features composed in an expression of peace. The envy rises and we despise the fact that you are sat in pleasant repose, seemingly all at ease with the world. We invariably associate that your composed appearance is achieved in order to annoy and frustrate us. You know don’t you? You know that we have this churning fury inside us which shifts and slides. You know that we have the growing hunger for fuel and how this creates a restlessness in us. You know all of this and yet you sit there, revelling in our discomfort. If you cared you would not be enjoying that book, talking on the ‘phone to a friend or watching your favourite television programme. No, if you loved us properly then you would be ensuring that this restlessness was banished and that our sense of power and might was reinstated. Your content state is being bandied about in front of us, teasing and provoking. You are mocking us because you are achieving something that is denied to us at that time. How dare you behave in this manner? How dare you forget about our needs? This is symptomatic of the selfishness we knew you possessed and now you wave it in our faces suggesting that somehow we are inferior to you. This will not do.

Your contentment at this stage amounts to a provocation and is tantamount to a criticism of us. You have achieved contentment whilst we experience restlessness and you know this don’t you? Oh, we know that you will pretend to be unaware of what you are doing, but we know your game. We are not fooled by these protestations of innocence so when we fling the dinner plate to the floor, shattering the plate and silence, causing you to jump up in fright, you knew it was coming. The plate lies broken and your contentment in one swift move is similarly smashed. You are not allowed to be content unless it is by our say so. We want you on tenterhooks, your nervous eyes looking to us for approval and consent. Exhibit any sign of being relaxed, at ease or content and we will take action to destroy that state in an instant. We will pick a fight, create an argument, call you a name, break something, interrupt you with an insult walk out and slam the door and so many other actions all designed to remove you from your contented position. When we see you like that, you remind us of what we cannot achieve at that time and we hate you for it.

It becomes worse when the relationship has ended. Whether you escaped us or we discarded you, there will come a point when we turn our sights on you again in order to extract that wonderful hoover fuel. It may be weeks or months later but we will have been undertaking observations in order to determine the most effective way of hoovering you. If we see you getting on with your life, radiating happiness and an air of contentment it infuriates us hugely. How dare you seem happy without us? You are meant to be broken and distraught, that is how the aftermath is supposed to be. Admittedly, it usually is, but every so often we may find that one of our victims has seized the power and advanced his or her position, forging through the emotion and formulating their recovery. It may be the case that we have seen you on one of the few good days, the bad days taking place where the world cannot see, but that does not matter to us. Should we witness you looking well, smiling, having lost weight, or looking fitter, dressing elegantly, meeting friends with laughter and smiles it wounds us considerably. You seem to have forgotten us. You are bound to us, forever, have you forgotten that this is the case? You are at our beck and call until the day either of us breathes our last, yet here you are striding across the street, hair glossy and styled, posture confident and uplifted and meeting somebody with a kiss and a broad smile. This was not meant to happen. You exude contentment, a confidence that we thought was shattered and unlikely to be rebuilt for some time. How did this happen? Who has caused this transformation from the sobbing wretch we left without so much as a goodbye to the contented person we now look at from the shadows? It may be a one-off, it may be a glimpse of something that is a work in progress, but such considerations do not matter when we see it. We are wounded by this display. You appear to no longer need us. Where is the stooped figure? The haunted individual with dark-circled eyes and pallid skin? Where is the comfort-eater that we mocked so horribly? Where has the lank-haired, nervous shuffling person we tormented gone to? This was not meant to happen. Ever.

Seeing you so content post escape or post discard is a massive criticism to us. The lesser or mid-range of our kind will most likely slink away, regarding this show of strength (temporary even though it may be) as evidencing somebody with defences high and radar warily sensitive. Any hoover would be doomed to hoover and might even result in further injurious harm. No, the lesser or mid-range will retreat and return to the new prospect that has been acquired and other sources of fuel and make a mental note that a hoover at this juncture is unlikely to meet with success. The Greater of our kind will seethe and glower, dismayed and wounded by this peacock performance. Unseen, we will send baleful glares your way as we formulate a way to pierce this shield of contentment. Schemes will be concocted once again in order to hammer this contentment into nothingness. The Greater may, if sufficiently motivated, spring forward and unless malign actions for the purpose of drawing negative fuel, preferring to adopt such a tactic rather than seek to draw the target back in. It is time to lash out and destroy rather than capture. Our fury is ignited and our calculating minds will ascertain that this can only be a veneer. It is far too soon for you to appear to content again, no matter how much it appears genuine. We want to halt the recovery before it gathers any more momentum and thus the Greater will unleash a savage malign hoover, smearing and hurling insults, dredging up those historic vulnerabilities in order to break the contentment again, just as we did those many months ago during devaluation. The ignited fury drives the Greater forward to shatter, break and destroy and if successful, then he or she knows that further malign assaults can be rolled out to cripple the recovery. Once the recovery has been derailed, the contentment eradicated and the veneer of confidence stripped, then the golden period can be dangled again before the quivering victim.

It never does to see you contented. This is why when we see it during devaluation you will suffer and adverse reaction. Following the cessation of the relationship it wounds us considerably and will generate a certain response dependent on the type of our kind that you were entangled with. The maintenance of contentment is indeed a blow against us.

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Picture This

 

 

PICTURE THIS
We all know that a picture paints a thousand words but with my kind and me, you are far more likely to receive a novel. If you know what to look for, my use of pictures is a helpful indicator for you. Initially, I will take hundreds of pictures of you as I shower you with compliments. I will also ensure there are thousands of pictures of us, wearing beaming smiles, radiating out our long-standing love (of three days so far). These pictures will be taken in a sun-drenched location, on a ski-slope, outside the theatre, at restaurants, at the game and so on and so forth. These markers of happiness and location will be plastered all over my phone and social media as part of my Relationship Bulletin (see post) and also a general declaration to the world. Look at us together, see how happy and content we are. This is going to last forever.

Wait a number of months and then ask to see the photos of my phone. I will be evasive and no doubt pick a fight and engage in one of my numerous manipulative techniques to deflect you from pursuing this line of enquiry. The reason? You are no longer clogging up my photo album, in fact I will have stored there various pictures of my new target. None will have been taken with her consent. No, these photos might be surreptitious ones taken at work or most likely copied from her Twitter feed and Facebook account. You might think in the evening that I am sat poring over our photos. Not a chance. I am studying my next source of fuel.

You will also notice a reluctance for me to pose in photographs with you. I will come up with all manner of excuses and invariably suggest we have plenty of pictures we do not need any more.

“Honestly, you take so many selfies, anyone would think you were a narcissist,” I will declare in a delicious moment of irony. I will be refusing to appear in a picture with you and slowly removing all those pictures of us and you from social media accounts. I will not do it in once fell swoop ; that is too obvious. Instead, I do it little by little, imagining I am erasing a little bit of you each time. My version of a death by a thousand cuts.

If you do manage to get a picture of me unawares there will not be the brilliant smile I always used to flash, instead it will be a scowl. If I submit to a posed photograph the smile will be thin and the eyes will be cold and dark, just like how my heart feels for you.

Point Askew

 

POINTASKEW

In a discussion with Dr E we were engaged in one of the sessions where he invites me to consider the situation from the point of view of those that I interact with. On this particular occasion we were discussing situations where a victim wishes to cease interacting with me and he wanted to know if I could understand why they might form that view. Since I am a clever chap I am able to work out how people might feel about being on the receiving end of my behaviour. I understand that anxiety and hyper vigilance, misery and upset follow the way I treat people. As you know though I do not care. People make the mistake that I am dismissive of the way people feel. It is not that. I can see that they are upset. I can see that they are angry. I know all of that. What people often fail to realise is that my needs have to come first. I need my fuel. If that means you standing there sobbing at me then that has to happen so I get my fuel. If there was a different way of getting that fuel then I would use that method. If that alternative method did not leave you upset then I would take it, but there is no other way, not when I grow tired of you. I need the fuel and that means you have to suffer as you supply that to me.

I do understand how you feel because I have seen the reactions over and over again. I know what anger looks like, I know what misery is and I have seen despair so often. I can understand your point of view when you stand arguing with me, but I will not concede to it. I want you to keep arguing as that gives me fuel. I will deploy a circular argument to keep the drama going. I want you to explode through frustration and shower me with your attention as you do so. I hear everything you say to me (although I will wind you up by saying I cannot hear you, so you speak louder and become exasperated). People suspect that I cannot appreciate what your view is. I do but it must always be subservient to my desire for fuel. Of course, by telling you this I can extract even more fuel from you because now you know that I understand your views but I wont pay any heed to them and that will infuriate you all the more.

The Female of My Species

untitled (42)untitled (41)Naturally, I have been providing you with the benefit of my thoughts and actions from a male perspective, because, oddly enough I am a man. Whilst men make up the majority of my kind, we do have some formidable female operatives in our midst and there is much to be gleaned from their behaviours. As a rule, they tend to be a little more subtle in their behaviours and they use sexual allure as a major magnet to ensnare their target, be they male or female. In order to get inside the female mind and how she behaves I would commend to you these publications which are available as digital and paperback copies from Amazon. I have included the links below for you.

US  http://www.amazon.com/Narcissist-Seduction-Disorder-Book-1-ebook/dp/B012IRN3FQ

CA http://www.amazon.ca/Narcissist-Seduction-Disorder-Book-1-ebook/dp/B012IRN3FQ

AUS  http://www.amazon.com.au/Narcissist-Seduction-Disorder-Book-1-ebook/dp/B012IRN3FQ

UK    http://www.amazon.co.uk/Narcissist-Seduction-Disorder-Book-1-ebook/dp/B012IRN3FQ

 

Ice Cold With Alex

 

ICE COLDWITH ALEX


I had a girlfriend called Alex. She was a vivacious creature who was very much into her gymnastics and I cultivated an interest in this after seeing her various tweets about attending competitions and her posts on Instagram. She was at least ten years younger than me and she had a delightful naivety about her. Although she was far from old, indeed she was very much in her youth, she was approaching the upper age limit for those who could be regarded as competitive in gymnastics. Similar to competitive swimming, the shelf-life of a female gymnast is not long.

Initially, I would drive her all around the country to the various competitions which she took part in. She was very good and often found herself amongst the medals. The rigorous routines began to have an effect on her body and on return to home it was often necessary for her to apply ice packs to reduce the swelling she suffered about her knees and ankles. Once I tired of her bubbly persona and incessant chatter about straddle press handstands,pike press to handstand from front stand and the Arabian doubles, I would prior to her competition remove any ice we had in the house. On return she would express her dismay at the lack of ice. I would volunteer to go and find some for her from the supermarket as she rested. I would go to the pub instead or go and visit Mary who was attracting my attentions around this time.

I would return empty-handed resulting in Alex not recovering quick enough and thereafter having to pull out of competitions. She would swear that she had purchase some ice only the day before but I would point out that she could not have done since we had none. That was a fact and with a confused look she would eventually accept the force of what I was saying. Unfortunately for her, she insisted on attending a competition when not fully recovered and ended up badly injuring her right knee. Her convalescence was such that she felt her confidence dry up and she was most reluctant to rejoin the competition. This pleased me as it meant my weekends were no longer being interrupted and as she was on crutches for a time it meant I was free to come and go and there was little she could do about it, being largely housebound. In order to show some semblance of caring for her, I would cook the evening meal for her on condition she fixed the drinks for us both. It was then I decided I would always drink Absolut vodka. On the rocks.

A Letter to the Narcissist – No. 90

JM LETTER

 

The poet wordsmith, creative gentle soul. Mistreated in this world suffering bouts of depression, lonely and needs a friend.

My first impressions of you were I’ve never met anyone like this before. He’s so deep, a tortured soul and I can help him through all the troubles of his past. I related a little to you so I started to post about my own journey and interacting with you.

You looked so sad, nearly as sad as I was so I reached out to you and we started to talk. Two weeks later, after speaking fairly regularly I backed off a bit as I had just come out of a relationship and was feeling so fragile anyway. It was heating up far quicker than I had wanted, I never saw you that way. I wanted a friend. You knew I felt worthless because I was dumped and I had all of this love to give, all these dreams I had held had been broken. You knew I was in pain as I opened up to you. As I told you I liked you as a friend only, you told me that you wanted to kill yourself and throw yourself off a bridge. Nobody ever wanted you, why wouldn’t anybody love you, why do people use you for advice. I was shocked! I panicked! What is going on?? What can I do to help you?? I gave you more time, I tried to support you more, I was there more, more more more.

I was a friend first before you stalked and seduced me. You knew EVERYTHING about me, you had done your homework as you knew things about me nobody but close friends and family knew! Over a year we grew closer and I became your muse as you wrote me poetry and sung to me. I have never been pursued in such a way before. It was obsessive, compulsive, the texts and calls, the poems the songs, the videos were non stop! You would time things to post on Facebook that interested me knowing my log in times after work. You knew where I was all the time without me telling you. I thought you must really be interested in me, you wanted me and I so desperately wanted you by then. I had fallen for you. I was overcome with lust and desire and feelings I had repressed for years surfaced once more and I knew finally that those who talk about life being so amazing, must have felt how I felt during that moment. I adored being your muse, until the words you wrote and the Facebook page you set up started to destroy me. Your once obsession with me, your beautiful sexy intelligent use of words to describe me and our love started to drift into vulgarity and hatred clouded in deep rooted disgust. It came from nowhere.

My poet wordsmith, my educated intelligent, articulated sexy adoring magnificent twin flame, soul mate, future husband had been replaced with someone I didn’t know but recognised. You see, I’ve been here before – not with the love bombing but the negative, sly, twisted, evil behaviour. The snide comments, the look, that thunderous dark glare that would hold my gaze combined with the smirk as you asked me my thoughts on your latest musings on your Facebook writer’s page. You watched me closely as I read the words and looked to you for answers, why? I knew the page was about me – you had set it up when we started our dance. Why? You told me it wasn’t about me, it was just a creative flair, a self-expression, your right to write want you wanted – and then you tore into me for not liking it. I never said a word, my face must have shown the confusion – and that was the beginning of the end. Months and months I would read words describing me and how you hated me, despised me, but yet – it wasn’t about me. You kept telling me to stop being paranoid – my behaviour was becoming unstable – it was only words and I read too much into things – BUT you would ask my opinion as usual which I began to dread! I started to tell you I didn’t want to read it anymore, I didn’t want to upset you with my paranoia. I was limiting your creative flair which I never wanted to do. I wasn’t your muse anymore and I was devastated.

Then you started showing me pictures of murdered girls hidden in undergrowth telling me it was a work of art. You started spitting on me when I confronted you about really negative behaviours. You trashed my house whilst I was at work because I didn’t have any milk. From being your Queen, your muse to a piece of shit who was easily replaceable as you told me you were on Tinder just in case we didn’t work out, you started to carry condoms in your wallet. You had random girls messaging you on Facebook but of course, you were only helping them. You spiked me and went through my phone as I was passed out – but you didn’t find anything because I was always true to you. I stopped speaking to male friends that I had had for over 10 years. You told me they only contacted me because they wanted easy sex and to stop being such a slut. Why would I still want them as friends when I had you unless I was cheating? I paid for everything and you highlighted this by calling me your Sugar mummy (I was 40, you were 32) and if I didn’t spoil you enough you would become aggressive and verbally abusive, avoiding sex, sleeping in a different room, staying up all hours and sleeping all day so our schedules no longer matched as I had work and a schedule to keep.

When you left me for periods of time refusing to answer your phone, in the beginning it was dreadful for me. I felt like my drug supply dried up and I was going cold turkey alone. You crushed me time and time again as I tried to keep us afloat, trying to salvage us. You said you adored that I never gave up.

You discarded me in October 2017 and I’ve maintained NO CONTACT despite your return by love bombing me since 26th May this year. You see, I knew about the girl from the pub, you paraded her in front of me, in fact you mocked me in front of her to say I was infatuated with you when I was in a relationship with you already – a relationship you denied to her as I stood there dumbfounded at your audacity and lies. I knew despite your lies later that she was THE NEXT ONE.  But it was all in my head. I was a jealous bitch and you can speak to who you want to and besides why label what we have? so technically what you said was true. I hated you. I knew then. That’s it. When you disappeared again, I wrote you a beautiful letter to say it’s over, have closure and wished you well. I took all the blame for everything that went wrong, all the abuse – it was my fault, everything, everything! I wanted closure and to end it amicably so I sent it. Then deleted all I had to do with you. I disappeared off the face of the planet and found HG’s Youtube page. I listened to everything and read everything I could!

You can keep the girl from the pub – and the next and the next and the next, I know what you are. I know what you will never be. Your words mean nothing, you’re no Wordsworth or Keats or poet to my beat. You need to get a job, start being an adult and stop sponging of your poor mum. I feel null and void over you, I nearly swayed and broke contact to tell you to foxtrot off but HG’s articles and guidance keeps me strong. HG has been my force field, my battle shield, my shiny armour. I won this battle. I was taught by someone far superior to you to break free. I bet you thinks you’re a Master Narcissist however you’re more like a Master cock! And i can confirm not in the trouser department either!

Cheerio

Shade

 

SHADE-3

 

 

“It is quiet here isn’t it?”

“What do you want shade? Be gone.”

“Now, now that is not that very friendly is it?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Perhaps, but I have much that I must say to you.”

“I will not listen.”

“Oh but you will, you have no hope other than to listen to me. Who shall I be? How about me? Do you remember me? You always said how my voice sounded like the embodiment of comfort, do you recall saying that? Do you? Do you remember how often you asked me to call you late at night and read to you until you drifted off to sleep? I did it willingly didn’t I? I read those words, those favourite passages of you until I could hear nothing until the soft sound of the breathing, regular and indicative that you had succumbed, at last to sleep? I imagine you would like me to do that now wouldn’t you? To hear my words of comfort once again. Would you wish to hear me speak again? No, my you have changed and yet you always said it was me that had changed? Perhaps I shall change. I shall be me instead; do you remember me now? Does this force remind you of me? I was better than her, you made it so clear that that was the case. Forget her and her bedtime stories, she treated you like a child didn’t she? I know what you really wanted didn’t I? I understood you didn’t I? How does it feel to hear my voice now after all this time? You’d thought this one was forgotten hadn’t you?”

“Shut up, I never forget.”

“Oh but you try to, you try so hard to forget me and all of the others.”

“No I don’t.”

“Please don’t lie, I can see through them now. I admit, I never used to be able to, but you were oh so very good at making your lies seem like reality. I had no idea. I was so in awe of you. You were everything I had ever wanted, but that is what you do isn’t it? You showed me yourself so I loved myself. It is clever, I must give you that and there is no denying you are very clever, the brightest and the best that I have ever met. Yet, what do you use this gift for? To wound, to maim and to cripple?”

“You do not trouble me shade, I know what you are.”

“Do you? That is good. For so long I thought you did not, but you are realising now aren’t you?”

“I have always known. I know everything.”

“Of course you do. You taught me everything. Yes, it is me now. How about that for a trip down memory lane. You taught me everything and yet I was the first of them all to realise wasn’t I?”

“It is you? Where have you been? Stop this, you keep shifting, it is unfair.”

“Oh I have always been here, always watching you. My you have become quite the polished article haven’t you? I always knew you were destined for greatness though. I was the first to know.”

“It is my right. You must not come here and mock me.”

“I am not mocking you. I love you. We all loved you. You know that because you gave us a perfect love.”

“Yes I did and do you see what you all did with it?”

“Now now, let us not play that game.”

“What game is that?”

“You are doing it already.”

“Cease your riddles, I am the doer, you are done to, leave me, I have much to do.”

“But I cannot leave you, you will not let me go.”

“I tell you now, leave, leave me be.”

“It does not change does it? You want me, you do not want me, yet here I am. You said that nobody is allowed to leave and you have me still. Does that not please you?”

“Not when you intend to mock me, no.”

“Yet he always mocked me.”

“Not another? Why do you plague me like this? You are no longer welcome.”

“You mocked me, you belittled me, you made me feel like nothing and all I wanted to do was to please you, why did you do this to me? Please? Tell me what I did wrong?”

“You come here now and seek those answers? You should have known. I showed you how you should be and then you failed me.”

“I did not fail you.”

“I did not fail you.”

“Nor did I.”

“Nor I.”

“Nor I.”

“Silence!”

“Such a favoured weapon of yours. How you tore me apart when you layered ice over our love.”

“Not you as well, what do you want?”

“I just want to know.”

“You come, you all come, masquerading as wanting to know the truth but I know you, I know your kind, I have you in my eye, you are here to torment me. I am no fool; I know exactly what you want.”

“We just wanted you.”

“Yes, you.”

“You.”

“I wanted you.”

“Just you. Nobody else.”

“Quieten your tongues you harpies, must you whirl about me, your soft words that are barbed and poisonous to my own ears? I command you, leave, leave me be.”

“You said you loved me the best and that you would never let me go.”

“You told me you loved me with a perfect love and that we would always be together.”

“You told me that you loved me unlike any love you had ever known and that nothing would tear us apart.”

“You told me that your love was pure and unblemished and would last for ever.”

“You told me that your love was beyond that of any other person and that I would bask in it until my dying day.”

“Do you see how you said all those of things to us? Promises, vows and declarations. We believed you and we still do, we still want you.”

“Then why come here and torture me?”

“Because you found perfection, you had the very thing that you always wanted and you let it go.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“No, I did not. You do not know, you think you do, but you do not know.”

“But we do know, we know better than you realise. You called us idiots, you called us fools, you called us morons and yet who is the fool now? Who had the one thing that he always wanted and let it go? Let her go?”

“Go to hell, all of you shades, go to hell.”

“Go to hell? We are already here aren’t we? With you.”

Malice

MALICE-2

There are times when the hatred, the vitriol and the malice can no longer be contained. They must be unleashed. Most often, this occurs as a consequence of the ignition of fury which arises as a response to the wounding which happens because we have been criticised. The ignited fury may, with those of us with greater control thresholds, be kept under control, especially if we are mindful of the impact it may have upon the facade. Sometimes, we cannot exert that control and heated or cold fury erupts from us, seeking to provoke a reaction from you and others which will draw fuel and in turn address the wound so the fury in time abates.

Then there are the times when there is a need to spread hurt, cause pain, to shock and to lash out.

It is not an uncontrolled and haphazard spewing forth of hatred, a dervish that lashes out at all around him or her, drawing looks of horror, hurt and annoyance. Such a frenzied response is one associated with the loss of control which occurs through the ignition of fury. This is a calculated exercise in drawing negative fuel for the purposes of letting this awful and treacherous world and its traitorous minions know that there is a blazing hatred at our core, a permanent state of malicious and venomous antipathy for everybody around us. We have no interest in donning a mask of charm or magnetism. There is no desire to present a facade on such occasions. Our seething, savage malcontent must emerge and be branded on all those who are unfortunate enough to cross our path.

It may start at any point in the day. It may be that on wakening we feel it there, the corrosive taint of malice which has to be allowed to surface. We may, in less experienced times, have thought that the provision of positive fuel would cause this sensation to lessen and to vanish, but it does not. For some reason, some deep and dark reason, only negative fuel will suffice. I have experienced this on several occasions. I now recognise it. It is the desire to destroy, to hurt, to maim and I know that until such time as I have drunk deep of the negative fuel that flows from such actions, I will not be able to stop and cause this sensation to vanish. I can feel it inside of me – it is not fury, but rather a visceral and powerful hatred for everything and everyone. A bilious sensation sat in my core and I must obey it. It is allied to the ever present hunger for fuel, but only negative will do. It is as if some ancient wrong can only ever be reconciled through the application of repeated wrongs, as if that historic crime has to be repeated and replicated in the here and now and in so doing, by giving it such an exposure and airing, release is achieved.

Something wicked from way back when must be allowed to manifest now.

And so the day is one of vicious behaviours. The morning greeting from the neighbour is met with an instruction to him to “get fucked” or to invite him to keep an eye on that “whore of his wife and her afternoon visitors”. His shocked response is seen from peripheral vision, the first drops of negative fuel trickling my way as I march to my vehicle  and enter it. The cocooning effect of the magnificent car does nothing to remove the malice. On the drive to the office, those talking on the radio are routinely lambasted for the idiocy – they cannot hear me but it does not matter – they must still be told. The window is lowered and a pair of young women walking along the road are shouted at, the single insult of “sluts” trailing after me as I drive past. The cyclist is pilloried for being a “latex clad wanker”, the person waiting at the zebra crossing jumps back as I fail to yield to them and give them the finger as I sail by.

Sat in idling traffic I endeavour to catch the eye of the driver behind or in front and goad them with hand gestures.

“Come on, come on, get out,” I hiss to myself, hoping they will emerge from their vehicle and challenge me. Just do it, give me the provocation I am looking for and I can unleash yet more of this malice which is surging through me. Today they perhaps see what glints in my darkened eyes and do no more than retaliate with their own gestures before the traffic moves on and we become separated.

The barista in the cafe asks for my order and my name in that ridiculous manner of theirs. All I want is tea, not some imported affectation of a grand ho cho or some ridiculous coffee which is whipped, flavoured, syrup and sprinkled. I give the name “Farquhar” and say it in a tone which tells him that if he dares, if he fucking dares to ask me how to spell that name I will seize several of these over-priced muffins in the display and force them into his spluttering mouth one by one. He does not ask and his cake choking is avoided.

Of course when the beverage arrives, I see “Farkwar” daubed in the hand-writing of a five year old on the side. I lift the cup and speak,

“Excuse me,” I say coolly. The barista turns and looks at me. Already hesitation is gripping him.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Are you some kind of epsilon semi-moron.” I say. Although it should be a question, it sounds more like a statement as I point at the scrawl on the cup. He says nothing, unsure of what to say and what I will do.

“Is that wrong? I’m sorry,” he offers.

I hold his gaze, my dark glare boring into him as I contemplate setting alight his extensive beard. He looks away at the floor within a couple of seconds. I know everybody else in this store is looking at me. Good.

I shake my head.

“You should have tried harder at school you fucking quarter wit,” I announce and turn, shoving past those behind me. There are no protests.

And so it goes. The receptionist is told she looks slovenly when I enter the office. The office junior is snarled at to get out of the way. I find fault with everything that those working for me do. I draw tears from one annihilated associate as I subject him to a five minute tirade as to the inadequacies of his report, banishing him from my room as if exiling him from my kingdom. He is the third person who has entered my office and been subjected to my malice and it is not even mid-morning.

My secretary pokes her head around the door.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

I pause and look up from my computer and apply the charm of the smile.

“Absolutely great. Could not be better. First class. Tip top. Superb.” I confirm as I reel off a range of synonyms for all being well. Most will be branded with my malice today but not her. She is a loyal Lieutenant and this time she is exempt, besides, what better way to really mess with the heads of those beneath me is to have my secretary say,

“He was fine with me,” if they come crawling back trying to ascertain what is wrong.

E-mails receive curt replies. Those who telephone are subjected to a savage dissection of their proposal which leaves them speechless. Instructions are barked, injunctions issued and idiots torn apart. The malice remains, powering the nasty and unpleasant behaviours but never surging out of control. It is as if this malice recognises that it does some good to put some stick about, to let people know that they have to earn my grace and favour, that they ought to be on their toes, alert and mindful that their elevated position can be removed in an instant. Few ever challenge, most retreat horrified, alarmed and hurt. Those that do fight back but they are then subjected to fiercer malice as they are intimidated until they break away, muttering and still hurling insults. It matters not, it is all negative fuel.

In another place this malice would have manifested through the application of physical violence. The punches and kicks traded with those stroppy waxwork faces as part of the understanding that this is what happens in such an arena. In another place again, this malice would surface through the cruelty and humiliation of the one supposedly closest to me in the most intimate of settings. In yet another place, this malice would appear as the event wrecking ball, leaving nothing standing.

But today it happens in this place and this means that verbal abuse, insults, savage tongue, baleful glare and acidic responses are the appropriate ways in which the malice makes itself felt and draws of the negative fuel.

Some who are the recipients are strangers and our paths will not cross again. Others may regard me warily until the usual charm appears and they are put at ease. Most know better than to make it appear on another day through the ignition of fury. Occasionally there are those who will take it further. A demand for an apology, a raised grievance through formal channels and even a complaint to the authorities. In those rare instances the matter is dealt with through the restoration of persuasion and magnetism. A reward is offered to avoid the issue, charm negates the challenge or even a supposedly heart-felt apology is provided. They are, after all, just words and of course the relief, pleasure and gratitude espoused by the other person is all positive fuel, welcomed on the alternative occasion. There is not one who has been on the receiving end of the malice who cannot be brought back into line once again. All people have a price.

When this malice appears in this form, the entrenched and ancient right exercising its need to be aired, after a day of caustic comments, vicious volleys and sarcastic smiles, with the negative fuel swallowed up, I return and there is a beneficiary of all this vitriol. Having allowed the malice to be known, to let it stretch its legs and flex its muscles, it retreats, for now and as I arrive at your house or return to ours, you receive the positive side of this contrast for once. Even if you, as primary source, are being devalued, you will be given a sudden respite and the resurrection of the golden period. Your surprise and delight at its return brings forth the positive fuel in significant quantities and it washes over me, replacing the now receded malice. Your positive fuel is now required and thus the devaluation is halted as you are seen as a sanctuary of delight compared to those who have annoyed, irritated and crossed me during the day. It may not last long, but for today at least, the malice was given vent and now you benefit from its sustained application.

Even when I am malicious, I am good.

Puppet On A String

 

PUPPETON A STRING

Becky (an ex girlfriend) would turn to me and some times say,

“I just feel like your puppet at times.”

I had to look the other way because I wanted to laugh. My nickname for her was poppet. She loved me calling her that. I used it straight away when we first met. It was actually a useful device as the other lady I was seeing, Susan, received that nickname from me too, but she was on the way out. It meant I could call them both poppet and not mix up their names with the invariable histrionics that would ensue. God, I am good.

What Becky had not realised that my calling her poppet was a corruption of puppet and every time I used it I would be laughing inwardly and beaming outwardly. She thought I was just smiling because I was pleased to be with her.

That is what it is all about. Making you my puppet. This is my aim. This is the means to my end of obtaining my fuel from you. As you will no doubt becoming familiar with, the means always justifies the end. Accordingly, by ensuring you become my puppet I am in the optimum position to control you to extract every drop of fuel I can from you.

I need to control you so that you admire me when I want it. I need to control you so that I can pull the strings and make you jerk to my tune. I am the puppetmaster.

To make you my puppet I engage on a two-pronged approach. Firstly, I make you utterly dependent on me. I open the doors and let you look upon heaven. That way you are in awe of what I can give you and you want it, oh you really, really want it. Secondly, I will then remove every method of support both real and potential that you might rely on to try and recover your free will (family, friends, colleagues and so on – I will be posting about how I do this through my slur campaign in a separate post) so that you have nobody to turn to. Thus, as you look on heaven entranced and enraptured, I am opening the trapdoor to hell right under your feet.

Once I have those strings attached to you we can begin our dance. It is long. It is exhausting. It is dangerous.

That Age Old Problem

 

THAT AGEOLDPROBLEM

Oscar Wilde mentioned in Dorian Gray that everything was possible since he had beauty and youth. I am very much of that mind set and accordingly the thought of becoming old fills me with revulsion. Horrifically I do not have to apply my imagination to this scenario (and to be frank I would not do so) because I need look no further than my Uncle Robert. He stands in front of the mirror and rants at the cruelty that is reflected back at him. His withered frame a reminder that he is no longer the uber mensch he has always maintained that he was. (He certainly seemed that way when I was a child. I do not remember the details but I do remember his stories about his adventures and achievements. They seemed spectacular and exotic. So tantalising). Now he realises that the charm which he once exuded has worn thin and does not have the allure it once had.

Every day brings a physical or mental insult and he realises that he is becoming a burden on those around him. He will not accept this transition with any grace. Indeed, he refers to his peers as old men but not ever himself. He regards himself as far younger, indeed, I often hear him repeating the things which I say. It is evident to me as the autumn of his life envelopes him that he wishes to remain reflected in my summer sun.

The tricks,the smoke and the mirrors that he once deployed with consummate expertise have deserted him or is it that a lifetime’s exposure to them have enabled those who were on the receiving end to create some kind of immunity to them ? Do they now see through the magic he once was able to weave about him? His deceit and bile are more evident that ever and I know he rarely receives visitors these days, they seem to think that there is little point in being subjected to his put-downs and insults.

His razor-sharp mind has become dulled, probably addled from the excessive alcohol he regularly indulged in (and probably still does) and the noble features have become craggy and distorted. He cannot summon the charm and sophistication to lure people into his world and instead has to rely on provocation, savageness and acidic accusations. His potency has been exhausted and try as he might to scramble away, he is sinking inexorably towards mediocrity and averageness.

I rarely see him but he regularly telephones me and I indulge him allowing him to rage down the telephone line about his injurious state arising from his dilapidated condition. It is worth listening as some of his fury contains choice, vintage lines which I write down for later use. Those barbed words when allied to my youthful charm and brilliance will work marvellously.

Uncle Robert never considered what would happen when madame time outstrode him and his current condition serves as a salutary lesson to our kind. Narcissists do not generally age well. Fortunately, I have been able to see into the future and I can ensure that I do not fall victim to Uncle Robert’s fate, but then, I have always been cleverer than him haven’t I?