Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

This is how people think.

This is the secret of the elves’ magic.

Yes, the elves’ magic takes different forms. Tales of their divine origin, of the supposedly completely different, even “blue,” blood of those in power. Silks and satins, velvet, gold, diamonds, pomp and circumstance. All for our benefit. A spectacle for the losers to watch. Lest there be any doubt. We are the losers; they are the elves. They are different. It’s their destiny to be on top.

They make history; the press reports all the details of their lives (and in their lives, as opposed to ours, everything that they do—what they eat, who they sleep with, how they defecate—is vital and full of significance); they appear on TV. Their tastes are an example for us to emulate; their life stories excite and entertain us; their actions are above reproach. We are different. Because if we weren’t, we would be who they are; so instead we are who we are, and they are who they are. What other proof do we need that they are the salt of the earth, and we are the losers?

Every once in a while the system breaks down. System error. The elves are seized and dragged to the scaffold. And to our surprise we learn that their blood is the same color as ours—just plain red. And they soil themselves on the electric chair, and when they do, their shit does not smell of roses. It stinks.

King Charles I of England’s last word before his death was supposedly this: “Remember.” Who was he talking to? Was he instructing new generations of elves to work with systems administrators and purge dangerous viruses from the network? I don’t know. All I know is that the system does get overloaded from time to time, and when that happens, those standing closest to the scaffold are the next to put on the bright-colored garments and proclaim themselves elves. And it all starts up again.

To survive in this world you need iron balls. Otherwise there’s nothing for you here. Your self-confidence, your arrogance and cruelty have to be stronger than the elves’ magic. If they are, you’ll be able to look them in the eye and not give in. If you hit an elf in the face, blood will pour out of his nose; if you shoot him in the head, gray, viscous brains will spatter out onto the ceiling.

But when you do…

When you do, the elves will launch “Plan B.”

When you resisted, you showed that you were different from the others. You’re special. You really do have iron balls. Take a look around: Can all those losers, that common herd, really be your equals? You’ve proven that you are one of us. Now you’re an elf too. Hold your head high.

This is why the elves are invincible.

If you’re going to stand a chance, you need to learn everything you can about them. First, as you know from fairy tales, they have long pointy ears. And they’re afraid of iron. Not gold. Gold is a very soft metal. But iron interferes with the elves’ sorcery; iron shreds their innards and exposes what they’re really made of to the world.

Elves are diamonds set in gold, if you put your faith in gold. But if you put your faith in iron, then you discover that elves are made of shit.

One more thing. Just one word. One word, but it’s the most important one, the key to the elves’ psychology, their energy source, their heart of hearts. That word is TERROR.

Elves are afraid; that is their essence. And they base their sorcery on that same terror. They surround themselves with luxury, come up with strange principles and rules: why certain clothing brands are better than others; how a man’s car determines his social status; where a true elf should spend his vacation; which other elves he should associate with—all this because they’re afraid. Elves aren’t stupid, no, not at all; otherwise they couldn’t have become elves. And they understand that they have nothing, nothing at all that makes them REALLY different from the rest of us. A simple inventory would expose their inner bankruptcy. So they need to publish glossy magazines, host talk shows, win elections. The show must go on. They can’t ever let up, can’t stop for a single second. If they did, the first person who came along could brush off the elves’ sorcery like a sticky spiderweb dangling from the ceiling in some damp, fetid cellar.

And values are very important. The elves must instill “values” in the masses. They keep the real values for themselves, but for everyone else, they offer flimsy concepts. Family. Country. Honor. Conscience. Diligence. Obedience. The elves believe that the people have nothing of any real value, so they have to be provided with a substitute. Otherwise the people could get very dangerous.

People like me don’t believe in anything. We have no roots, no foundation in this world. Undoubtedly, because we have feelings, we sense that things aren’t as they should be in this game. Everything is Maya, illusion. Samsara. We don’t really believe in the sanctity of those “family values” being preached by overweight, complacent men whose own parents are tucked away in some distant, out-of-the-way village, while they run through a succession of nubile young lovers—and when that gets monotonous, they find some cute boys to screw in the ass or indulge in a little pay-per-view bestiality porn involving burly English Great Danes and little girls. We don’t fall for patriotic songs performed by “true believers” who are in fact selling out their Motherland wholesale and retail on the raw-materials markets. We don’t believe the most elementary truths, for example that the latest D&G jeans for sale in a boutique on Nevsky are any different from the same style of jeans by Collins, bought in a cheap outlet on Sadovaya at a triple discount. For us nothing is sacred.

I’ll wipe the floor with any elf who gets in my way, and will crush the delicate, finely calibrated inner works of his expensive watch on the ground under my dirty old shoe without the slightest reverence. I’m dangerous, it’s true. My energy needs to be neutralized—I need to be convinced that I’m a nobody, a loser, that I Do Not Have Anything Against Outlet Stores. That’s Plan A. And if that doesn’t work, remember, there’s always Plan B.

Sometimes Plan A works and I’m overcome with a sense of my own insignificance. And at other times, Plan B works.

The elves’ magic is very effective: Ordinary policemen who earn a pathetic salary fervently defend the interests of the wealthy and blatantly ignore us losers. It’s just some kind of instinct.

It’s not that difficult to toss a stone through the windshield of a Mercedes parked in your building’s lot; no one will know who did it. You can even murder the tycoon just outside your apartment building and the investigation will lead nowhere, because it will concentrate on his business competitors and his lover, not some schmuck in the street. But you won’t do that. Because he’s an elf, and you feel only the most reverent awe in his presence.

You’re far more likely to take out your aggression on your drinking buddy by slashing his throat with a broken bottle. He’s as much of a loser as you are, and sure enough, they’ll track you down with no trouble at all, just by asking around, and before you know it, you’re in prison.

The law-enforcement system doesn’t defend the weak against the strong; it defends the strong against the weak, and no one bothers to question whether the strong are really as strong as they would have you believe. In spite of their magic, they are weak. And they are afraid. TERROR.

In Terry Pratchett’s book, the people defended themselves successfully against the attack and the elves slunk home with their tails between their legs. But the people themselves are no angels. They lie and cheat, are cruel to one another, and they love money; they all really love money. But take a look inside—all they want is earthly happiness, to the extent that this is possible. They want to make their loved ones happy, to let them enjoy a little beauty and comfort in this short, all-too-short life. For them, piety and nirvana are infinitely remote. But they do their duty, they simply do what they’re supposed to. And so they are closer, if only by a couple of inches, to Heaven than to Hell.