A day in the life of the reactionary vampire.

The vampire sauntered down the spiral staircase humming Beethovan’s symphony number 9 to himself as he carried his copy of Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy. He reads it often when he feels to need to bare his fangs in uncontrollable reflexive mirth, chuckling in a raspy manner, as is his way. But today, he has other things on his mind, and he can’t help but feel a little reflective about the state of the world outside of his library, as he hears loud music emanating, pungently, from the house full of African looking “Syrian” refugees across the street. He remembers when it was inhabited by a family who would often go to picnic in the nearby park in smart, civilised attire. Ahh, but alas, no more. No one picnics in that park anymore. “Carlyle” he thinks to himself as he looks on the scene of devastation, now there was a human I could talk to, so few of them can see beneath the surface of their present fads and fashions to the electricity pulsing under the surface, crackling along the lines of the beneath the surface reality that forms the structure of things as they are.

Turning his head from the window to his bookcase lined with dusty tomes from floor to ceiling, he decided to reacquaint himself with his copy of The Later Day Pamphlets. He recalled the day he met Carlyle, with his wild beard and burning eyes. Talking with speed and passion of the collapse he could see. He was right of course, He had seen it himself for some time, but that one of the puny humans could see it with such clarity was astonishing. It was as if he was touched with the hand of the supernatural. He had an almost sixth sense. He reminded him of a young Frenchman named De Jouvenel he had met some years later whilst touring Europe as had done for so many centuries, each time the decay becoming more obvious to him, with the occasional bout of depraved savagery supplying entertainment and opportunities for easy hunting. He had seen Cologne ablaze in amber, ohh Cologne, and Berlin in rubbles with bedraggled people dragging carts, and before that he had seen Paris a mob filled murder orgy, the storming of the Bastille being like a memory from last week.

As he looked at the bookcase and back to the street, he shook his head and a smile drew across his face as he thought to himself how the puny humans had no idea what was happening, worse they thought it was the greatest thing ever, a veritable ascent into paradise. Most even considered the process a form of enlightenment, and when pressed to explain what was going on claimed it was a process of science, and then also a magic force called progress, or zeitgeist. At the thought, a low chuckle escaped his smiling face as he drifted across the room in one fluid movement.

Halting before the bookcase, he decided against reading today, that could wait, he needed music; he needed something cultured to scrub the pollution of the world outside from his mind. Taking his seat in front of his grand piano, ornately decorated, he began to play, he had gotten it during the riots of the French Revolution; so close to being broken into pieces for kindling. ‘Brahms, I need some Brahms’ and with that his hands flew as Hungarian Dance No5 filled the air and the library was transported out of the present. His mind now aflame as the pace of the music freed him from the London streets outside of his window. Visions of the magnificence of Paris, of Vienna, of Madrid filled his mind as he closed his eyes. Shining beacons of the height of civilisation, the people dancing in tune to the hum of industry and excellence. Now gone. He stopped playing abruptly. The thought of the Paris of the ZUS, London of the East End, the smoking ruins, the destruction was too much.

He had kept himself up-to-date with all of the political ideas, he had seen the spread of destruction. Words like liberalism, communism, conservatism were humorous to him, for he saw that the only words that really mattered were three Latin words that he rolled over in his head, again, and again; imperium in imperio, imperium in imperio….

He recalled how a long time ago, the kings of Europe, with whom he had mingled, began to surround themselves with the intellectuals and the rising classes of commoners. He could see it clearly now with the ages passing. At first it was a trickle, then a flood as the Kings and Queens jealously guarded their power against the nobility, and brought in the new wealthy, the lawyers, the intellectuals. How ridiculous they were. Descartes with his silly philosophy, the lunacy of Rousseau, the crazy ideas of the encyclopaedists, and as for the religious lunatics like Martin Luther…well. He could see the process, like gradual glaciations, creeping, bit, by bit, until it burst; a flood. The inmates took over the asylum, the monarchs could not halt what they started, they did not understand it, and Europe was ablaze. First, the crazy Americans who had exited with their cancerous ideas, then the French; then everyone. There was no magical progress to it. It was a disaster, a mistake. A mistake invited by the monarchs themselves, they fed the silly little imperium in imperioistas. Fed them as means to attack their enemies. Everyone can be free under the king! That Frenchman, what was his name again? Ahh De Jouvenel, he saw it too. Imperium in Imperio…

Imperium in imperio? what a silly concept, like worshiping cancer, and how like cancer this idea is to the humans. If the body is an analogy for society, imperium in imperio is rooting for cancer. Every puny human with anything intelligent to say of society once compared it to a body, with each section of society being specialised, differentiated and organised towards the same overall goal, each section having their own purpose. Aristotle saw this so wisely, these pretentious little Imperium in imperioistas, these liberals, conservatives, communists, alt-rightists: everyone now was an imperium in imperioista. Rooting for cancer, yes, cancer was the analogy. Where the cells of the body would be understandable in context to the organ, which was itself understandable to the body, the imperioistas saw the cells as divisible, separable, capable of existing independent of the body with their own personal telos- like cancer cells. All equal- like cancer cells. All undifferentiated- like cancer cells. All their own little kings; imperium in imperio. The cancer started in England, then spread to those colonies attached to the bounty of the New World. Carlyle saw it coming, saw the spreading chaos. America was given reprieve because of its wealth, but the day would come when the bill would be paid, and here it is. The cancer then spread back to Europe, until it was completely tumour infested by the time of that outbreak of barbarism the silly humans called the First World War. The last redoubts mopped up in the colonies of Africa and Asia after the Second bout of barbarism in the 1930s. Everyone was an imperium in imperioista now.

He saw, only too clearly, that there was one split, and only one that mattered- imperium in imperio. The humans? So few saw it, so few. The rest were busy making up new names for variations of the same thing. The insanity seemed to know no bounds. Every enemy of the concept was merely a complaint that it was not true imperium in imperio, the perversity of the situation being morbidly fascinating to him. He had no time for the labels they attached to themselves. But what fun it was, watching the best among them debasing themselves in worship to a zeitgeist of progress like a bunch of African tribespeople worshiping the sun, all the while knowing it was nothing more than a mindless process of centralised unsecure power battering society with cancer.

To preserve this idol of progress, they erected all sorts of bizarre systems. Republicanism, democracy, scientific government, rule by law. The litany of systems which could govern for the people to ensure that the cancer cells could operate independently, with each reaching their personal telos, was endless. Anything which denied this was squashed, obliterated, caste out as illegal, money came flowing to every new quack who could come up with a scheme for rule by system.Cancer or death was the cry, and they got both. Some it killed quick, some it kills slow. Every man a king now. Every man a cancer cell.

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