How the Overclass See You; A satirical window into the mindset of the Human Cattle Ranchers by Spartacus; This velvety surface agenda of utopian drivel is meant to drive prying eyes away from their

true, anti-human agenda, which is revealed by a closer reading of their texts, which demonstrate a stark hatred of human beings. 'Humans are reproducing too much, we’re using too many resources'...

How the Overclass See You

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‘It occurs to me that the Overclass and their representatives—Davos, the Club of Rome, the Council on Foreign Relations, and so on—have been exceedingly dishonest in their intentions for humanity. On the surface, their ideals seem pleasant and utopian. It’s the same lines we’ve all heard before. They’re trying to make the world a better place, to build back better, or so they say.

This velvety surface agenda of utopian drivel is meant to drive prying eyes away from their true, anti-human agenda, which is revealed by a closer reading of their texts, which demonstrate a stark hatred of human beings. Humans are reproducing too much, we’re using too many resources, we’re straining the planet to the breaking point. Read statements by David Rockefeller, Aurelio Peccei, Prince Philip, and so on, and it’s the same sentiment, over and over. Mankind, itself, is the enemy.

And yet, when interviewed on these matters, the so-called Elites clam up. There’s nothing to see here, turn around and go back to whatever it was you were doing before. They know that if they told you how they really felt about you, you would be most irate.

Now, I’m not in the habit of putting words in people’s mouths, but since we’re dealing with an opponent that chooses the silence of a reaper, whose agenda I know intimately having once been immersed in it, I think it’s only fair for me to attempt to write a monologue that captures the essence of the Overclass and their viewpoint.

So, here it is. The world, from the Overclass’s perspective, in the form of satire. And I must stress, this is satirical. So, here goes.

Don’t mistake our actions for cruelty. We tried so very hard to make you change before we decided that you should simply be killed.

We tried to get you to change your childish behavior. All of us are fit as a fiddle, well into old age, but you, Joe Public, you gorge yourselves like hippopotamuses. Is it really possible for a man to eat twenty hot dogs in a row? Ask the average American, who is now the size of a small condominium. We tried everything. We proffered easy-to-read food pyramid charts with cartoon images of the things you frequently place in your upsettingly large mouths. We told you to eat a healthier diet, to cut out meat and desserts, but you just couldn’t help yourself. You go straight to the deli, every time, and you ask for half a pound of salami to put in your gaping craw, not minding the heartburn, the gas, and the greasy stool this will inevitably produce in your broken body. This is why, of course, you are a barely sentient beast and must be killed.

Something is amiss in your brain. Something deep and primordial. A part of humanity that is accustomed to scarcity, which juices you up with dopamine every time a sugary donut touches your tongue. We hoped that gamification and other behavioral interventions would help you diet and exercise more often, but instead, you resented the paternalistic attempts to control your lives and went right back to stuffing your faces like spoiled children. We also hoped that the seed oils and other poisons we introduced into the food supply in the past century would kill the worst of you—the most frequent offenders, who insult the quiet dignity of food with their deep-fried Twinkies and other horrific inventions—but like hardy rats in a larder, you mysteriously, gruesomely survived. What does it take to put you down? We can’t simply sit back and allow you mongrels to eat the planet. What do you expect us to do? What would you do if you were in our place, watching this obscene spectacle of consumption, fretting over your children’s futures while the Earth is engulfed in a tide of very large, very fat locusts? Wouldn’t you kill them at once? Wouldn’t you go around stomping them with big clown shoes and crunching them under your feet? Have you any sense at all? The sense to realize that you must be killed?

You have no impulse control, and that’s why you purchase the pointless garbage our industries crank out. Most of us wouldn’t be caught dead with the plastic frippery that you buy and put on the mantel. We have artisans and craftsmen who make our cabinets, clocks, and dressers out of rare hardwoods from nearly extinct species of trees. What do you settle for? Chinese plywood laced with arsenic and formaldehyde? When was the last time you even saw a real piece of furniture? If you answer that it was recently, then you are either lying or Amish. We should know. We took them all off the market. You don’t deserve them. You deserve death instead.

Look at you, in your stupid, tasteless cars. Clogging the streets. Blocking my way. You don’t need cars. You need a walk, with a leash around your neck. We’re going to feed you the illusion of an electric car utopia in the hopes that you give up cars entirely, and if you don’t, well, we’ll just stop maintaining the roads and raise the price of gasoline out of your reach and let nature take its course. Hopefully, those of you dumb enough to buy a Tesla or a Volt will be immolated in one. We have your children jumping in front of ambulances and begging them to turn their engines off and stop using fuel. Hopefully, the protesters get run over, and the patient dies en route to the hospital, killing both in the process.

Even if all of that weren’t the case, just from a glance at your bourgeois affectations, your reality shows, your daily tasteless Jerry Springer melodrama, it is clear to us that you must be killed. Not even a little bit. You must be killed in droves. You must be industrially processed; stunned and slaughtered like cattle. This task is difficult. There are so many of you because you are reproductively incontinent. We offer contraceptives, reproductive healthcare, hell, we pay you good sums of money to kill each other with state-of-the-art weaponry, and yet, there are still too many of you. Eating. Chewing, endlessly, the cacophony rising like caterpillars in a forest. Munch, munch, munch. One day, your kind started making even stranger sounds, like human rights. We indulged this idea, for a time, if only because it would shut you up for a little while as we slowly built a prison around you, brick by brick, using the fruits of your own labor to do so, all while hoping that the work would break your back and kill you.

Then, you started making other strange sounds, like the right to repair. Are you insane? It was our money, our resources, that bought the very expensive research that goes into consumer goods, and you—what—you just want to keep them forever? Perhaps you have a point. We have been extracting too much oil from the ground and turning it into plastic pellets to amuse you and to keep you at bay for a little while longer. The garbage you make piles high in landfills, spoiling pristine vistas that I could be enjoying while hunting small children like game animals. However, let’s not kid ourselves. We won’t let you cut off our income. We will make you pay money to fondle the things we own instead, and we will give you free money for you to do so, for as long as you obey us. We know you will accept this unfair deal, because, as we previously established, you have no impulse control. You will jump at the chance for free money and free dopamine like slavering dogs, even with numerous strings attached. In time, this dependency on us will kill you, we hope.

In fact, as I wandered through Bohemian Grove while very high on cocaine and dressed in my robes and hat, I pondered how many of you need to be killed.

Numbers don’t suffice. There are too many of you to bother counting. One human, two humans, three humans. No matter. Pluck the legs off one, disembowel the second, and bomb the third. What difference does it make? The sacrifices must be made. Quickly, the incense!

What was I even saying? Oh, yes. You need to be killed.

Recently, I was approached by a young woman on the street, and she said, Are you Jacob Rothschild? You look kinda like Jacob Rothschild. I am not him, but because of her insinuations about my receding hairline, I was too flustered to say anything, nonetheless. While my bodyguards clamped their meaty hands over her camera, I ducked my head between my shoulders and silently scampered away, my pride deeply wounded. I must devise a means to kill her, later.

I am a god! I am important! I am too important to use public transport and sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the animals! That’s for the cattle! Which one shall I choose today, to visit the Swiss Alps? To sample the clean mountain air? The Bombardier Global? Oh! The intimacy of my vintage Learjet!

Bring the adolescents and blow, I require entertainment as I decide how the majority of humans on this planet should be killed!

-Spartacus’