I like radicals. They’re honest—honest in their infinite idiocy. Their extremism is almost refreshing, like a gust of acrid air in a room full of perfumed liars. By screaming their convictions to absurdity, they give the rest of the population a fleeting chance to come to its senses.
Every ideological movement rests on some form of scripture, what I like to call the narrative. It’s sacred text: untouchable, undiscussable, and guarded with the jealous fervor of a medieval cult. To question it is to invite immediate excommunication under the holy label of denier.
But within every movement there are two distinct wings. The first are the realists—cunning intermediaries whose main craft lies in cloaking the movement’s madness. They specialize in euphemism and deception, carefully diluting the poison before offering it to the public. Their mission is to confuse the unbelievers, to keep them from ever glimpsing the hopeless idiocy at the heart of the creed. And to their credit, it usually works.Then there are the radicals. The unfiltered believers. They don’t bother with camouflage or compromise. They march naked into battle, brandishing their lunacy like a flag. They are the true idiots—while the realists, more sophisticated but equally dangerous, are simply the bandits.