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July 8, 2025 - Freedomain Radio - Stefan Molyneux
29:56
New Novel Chapter!
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Hey everybody, this is Stefan Mollinu from Freedom.
Hope you're doing well.
So I wanted to give you guys a taste of my new novel.
This is a chapter 10, chapter 10 of course, and this is a scene between Peter, an old corrupt law partner, who is in the process of corrupting young Robert, who's kind of vain, kind of status-obsessed, and also is married to a beautiful woman named Helen.
I think that's really all you need to know.
And yeah, well, there's a certain amount of corruption that is going on from Peter to Robert.
He's asking him to delete files on a server related to a real estate transaction that's currently under litigation.
And so this is from my new novel.
I'm trying a different style of writing.
I'm trying a different style of characterization.
And I'd love to get your feedback and hear what you think.
So this is chapter 10 of my new novel.
Golf is just for people who can't handle squash, said Peter, brushing back his silver locks.
Robert laughed.
A good walk spoiled, as the old saying goes.
Don't quote people, Robert, said Peter impatiently.
That's like stolen valor, stolen brains.
Robert nodded.
How he hated his boss's constant What?
Nagging?
Corrections?
Exhortations to be better?
He felt inferior, but there was no clear way to higher status without submitting to the humiliations of being groomed.
The Eliza Dew Little treatment was the only way to the top, it seemed.
It was almost inevitable that Peter had only high status hobbies and sports.
Rock climbing, skiing, of course, squash and tennis, bowling was apparently only for lower-class losers, and horse racing.
Peter owned Liberty Belle, a fast horse, well-bred and well-trained, which won him significant purses and roamed around the country in a little horse trailer.
See, said Peter proudly, showing grainy pictures on his latest model cell phone, horses used to pull us, now we pull them.
Progress, kid.
This was not a mentor-mentee relationship.
Nothing special.
Peter made that very clear to Robert.
Peter had acolytes, a stable, disciples, perhaps, and cycled through eight or so interns and new hires.
This kept them all hungry and submissive, of course, caught up in tight, panicky, strangled competition with each other, and their own demons as well, which seemed destined to win, inevitably.
But Robert had Helen, a glowing ace up his sleeve, a diaphanous goddess that raised his status beyond the stratosphere.
Robert refused to play the all shucks, how did I land her card.
He skated close to the edge of treating Helen with contempt, like she'll do.
Implying that he settled for Helen was a bold strategy, especially as Robert battled his weight starting right after he left university.
He was prone to gaining both muscles and fat, so he looked great when he worked out and terrible when he didn't.
As an avid exerciser, he had developed a 3-4K calorie consumption habit, which worked as long as his muscles ate it all, but he lagged on lowering his intake when his muscles turned flabby and indifferent to food, so it all went to his waist,
to the strangling body hug of visceral fat that turned him into an addict of the slow, permanent sucking in of the belly that should have given him abs, if anything could be seen below the wobbly quicksand of excess eating.
But, of course, Robert knew with all the tuning fork instincts of the social climber that his indifference to Helen's beauty transmitted to humbled onlookers a truly biblical sense of Robert's own romantic prowess.
She must be an addict to something, people thought.
He's not rich, he's not famous, he's not super athletic or lean.
It must be something between the sheets.
That was worth more than gold, and the only currency Robert really knew or cared about.
Men defer to money, power, and sex.
Three sides of the same coin, so to speak.
Peter had invited Robert to join him at the Shield Club, a super exclusive and upscale social and athletic club in downtown Toronto.
Snow-white linen, towels as soft as clouds, hell-hot saunas, spotless premises, and crystal decanters of lime water by every sink.
It was like a slice of heaven for sinners.
Ten percent of the price of the Shield Club was who was there.
Ninety percent was who was excluded.
It was a haven away from wives.
Robert had yet to meet a high-status male who admired his wife.
Admiring wives was apparently the male equivalent of women over 40 pretending to be married to their cats.
Wives were for status, of course, and appearing normal, and spending money, pursuing useless pretend businesses, and producing children.
Can't live with them, can't live without them.
You want to spend money?
You have to let me network, cried the husbands while packing up their gym bags.
Ezekiel will be there.
He's a money machine looking to make a deal.
And so kitchen remodels were held hostage until the men got to escape.
Vacations and jewelry and the black psychosis-inducing infinite credit card spend-a-thons were all put on hold until the men could go and hobnob and Talk business in gasping, sweaty saunas, in the same way that women whose cash was put on hold would be too stressed to have sex until the hold was released.
It was all transactional and nakedly capitalist, often literally, and it was all frankly acknowledged and even appreciated, just as children prefer playing in yards with fences rather than open borders.
And the wives, of course, came with all the satanic powers of the modern state.
All the wealthy men knew that their wives, especially if they had married young, could take half or more of everything they had made at any given moment.
It was the husband and wife and the state, the thug who always took the woman's side and would happily love the process of disassembling the husband.
Robert did wonder how many of these alpha males were, in fact, gay.
More than a few, he guessed, from the crotch glances he got in the communal shower and their general impulsivity and amorality.
Everything seemed a burden, except vanity, which was a propulsion and a guide.
To what?
Robert would sometimes wonder, but had to slam that trapdoor shut immediately, lest he fall into a chasm of curiosity and thus wisdom.
Peter knocked sharply on the tall, clear plastic door of the squash court, jabbing a forefinger at his watch.
Time, gentlemen, time!
The irritated players finished their point and came out, both men pretending to be less winded than they were to show off their quasi-Olympic cardio health, of course.
Peter gave a speech to Robert while driving him to the club.
Be aware that I don't play sports.
It's all practice for war, and society is all war.
Don't be fooled.
I don't care about your feelings.
I don't encourage anyone.
I war to win, as everyone should.
I won't hold back.
If you're bad, I don't care.
War is at its most humane when it's both savage and short.
If you beat me, I'll shake your hand and learn your secrets.
If I beat you, do the same.
I did squash in college.
I made one of my opponents bleed from the nose.
Peter laughed.
Just from exertion.
I didn't even hit him.
I urged him to keep playing, but he pussied out.
He was so surprised.
Push through, I said over and over, just like being born.
God, his face was hilarious.
Robert took the place of a sponge, just soaking up strange words and tangential lessons, and he thought of his brother Shane, who sponged up all their mother's words without even getting paid.
Idiot, he thought.
And squash with Peter was a brutal combat.
A cruel Aztec ghost stalked the square white chamber with them, the red lines around the court like streaks of childish blood.
Peter's intransigent will to win was like a force of nature, impossible to resist, like gravity, except for the briefest of moments.
But youth had its way with Peter's aging muscles, and Robert did dare to win a game, slashing ferociously at the ball, even pretending he was about to hit hard than doing a gentle corner lob.
Robert could feel Peter's rage and resolution increasing, and it was fascinating to experience the older man's mindset, which was not anger at Robert, but hatred of losing.
It was not personal.
Robert could imagine Peter raging against a ball machine on a tennis court, lusting for victory over a circling, mindless metal arm.
Again, Robert briefly wondered why Peter was so competitive, had such a hunger for not victory exactly, but domination.
Over what?
Why?
The word excellence floated through his mind, but his fading conscience nagged at him that there was also excellence in love and friendship and virtue and, well, a lot of other things.
It took excellence to dominate, of course, but a dedication to domination was also a deficiency in...
In the end, Robert won one game and Peter won six.
Interestingly, Peter did not hide his own tiredness, but leaned over and panted without shame.
Robert did not understand that the older man was signalling his willpower and resolution, his power to overcome even the fading will of his aging body.
Afterwards, in the sauna, Robert was curious if Peter would go fully nude and was grateful to the reprieve of a shielding towel.
Peter was clearly in a contemplative mood.
You didn't let me win, he murmured, his eyes closed, his sweaty, silver hair pressed against the cedar wood walls.
I'm not getting out of this sauna before you either, smiled Robert.
Good lad.
They'll recover our super-pruned bodies in the morning.
That would be nice.
Robert did not blink.
He was not surprised.
Peter often made comments about wanting death, or at least not being overly concerned with its imminence.
Of course, continued Peter, they have to dispose of our bodies.
To avoid a lawsuit, How would they do it?
Robert pursed his lips.
His lungs were full of wet heat.
Tough.
It's the security cameras that are the problem, not our bodies per se.
Good.
Work in legal phrases.
So I'd put our bodies through the meat grinders.
They have them in the kitchen.
It'd be funny to feed us to members, but that's kind of risky.
Do you know that there are 125,000 calories in the human body?
Probably twice that for an American.
Peter laughed, then coughed in the boiling air.
So grind us up.
Then that's easier to dispose of.
Find your local pig farm.
They'll slurp us up like popsicles and we come back to haunt the world as bacon and pork rinds.
Our afterlife is a lower class colon.
Fitting.
But the cameras?
Peter leaned back further and closed his eyes.
I got rid of the bodies.
You do the cameras.
Remember, your life is on the line.
Well, I...
It was too obvious.
They can't sue without evidence.
No evidence.
No body.
No problem.
Yeah, but I'm younger.
Remember that from squash?
Deleting a video is a known problem, so everything is probably backed up in real time.
But that would be local too.
Probably only moved off-site once a day.
Or week, more likely.
No, that would be weird unless it's required for legal or insurance reasons.
Members need their privacy.
I don't think there are many cameras inside this club.
Entrance, probably.
Exits?
Possibly?
Robert smiled.
And of course, we died from our own competitiveness.
We weren't murdered.
So the club would want to pretend we left.
So they just fake that we're gone.
They take our cards and backdate signing us out the night before.
Get rid of any security footage.
That's not too hard.
And there isn't any in the change rooms anyway.
So that's it.
They check the last time we show up on security footage.
Hell, nothing would even need to be deleted.
They just fake us leaving the club some reasonable time after we last show up on the security cameras and then get rid of the bodies by grinding and feeding.
They probably have a sewage vent somewhere that could flush us down there too.
Yeah, perhaps.
That does leave a trace, though, true.
But less and less each time you pour something down.
Lots of blood and guts in restaurant garbage.
Ah, everything gets diluted.
Peter opened his eyes and stared at the wood next to Robert's head.
Something about the world, Robert.
Most people can't conceive of a prestigious club like this grinding up bodies and flushing blood and faking us leaving.
Do you know why?
I find it hard to conceive of.
Yes, said Peter impatiently, but why?
I can't think of myself in that position.
What's the worst thing you've done, Robert?
Peter smiled.
You don't have to tell me.
I don't even want to know.
I mean, I think I know already, but do you have that in your mind?
The worst thing you've done?
Yeah, yeah.
And you go about your day, and you make your dinner and your money, and you make love to that goddess who puts up with you, and you wrangle with your parents and complain about me.
Of course you do.
Peter's voice grew softer and softer.
And how often do you think about this beast, this ghost that lives within you, this worst thing?
Peter paused.
No, that's a real question.
You can answer it.
HR is hell, but can't stand this kind of heat.
I don't think of it often, murmured Robert, feeling as if he were falling back past spiraling stars through superheated space.
Most people would guess it's about your ex-girlfriend, Chloe.
But I know it's about your brother, whispered Peter.
That's crazy.
Peter waved a weary hand and stood up and spilled more water on the hot sauna rocks.
The rolling heat poured from the ceiling and down Robert's back.
So that's your worst thing.
And people think that there's some really worst thing, like grinding up bodies and feeding them to pigs, that they would be unable to live with.
Peter laughed softly, his face a wet sheen of suffering.
I saw Macbeth once.
I got kicked out for laughing.
It's a freaking comedy, Rob.
This guy is a killing machine who can't sleep because he cleared his way forward by offing the old man who turned him into a killer.
It's funny.
The stupid morality tale to keep the dumb peasants in line.
Don't kill your rulers, kids.
That's super bad.
And the rulers kill and steal at will by the millions and billions.
You think presidents can't sleep because of Vietnam?
It's absurd.
Genghis Khan so tortured by all that torturing.
Did Stalin or Hitler lose sleep?
Ah, and everyone thinks that there is some line.
And there is, I can see from most people, but not all.
Not all.
The people who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, Nagasaki, they pressed a button and vaporized a couple of hundred thousand people.
Mostly women and children.
Some took 10 years of sickening before dying.
Monstrous, inhuman.
You know, I have dreams of pushing that button.
Not that I'm dying to.
I just wonder if I would.
Those women raised the children who brutally tortured those POWs, the Australians in particular.
They tested bioweapons on them, froze and thawed them, grew bamboo into their flesh, beat them for hours, dissected them without anesthesia.
Their moms raised them, taught them, made them who they are.
Should they be immune to blowback?
No evil men without more evil mothers.
I don't want to push that button.
But I dream about whether I would.
And I know I would.
I'm lying.
My dream is more about my life afterwards.
Would I be bothered?
Would I be Macbeth?
Would I wake in sweats from bad dreams?
But my dreams are great.
After the button, I'm barbecuing topless.
My wife is 30 years younger.
No kids in the house.
Do whatever we want.
It's heaven.
Robert felt unreal, dreamier, and dreamier.
The heat was consuming him.
His limbs felt leaden, immobile.
Peter's voice continued, and Robert kept thinking of his mother's voice and his brother's hollow, trapped ears filled with neurotic words and the endless estrogen of transient, inflicted perceptions.
And I have done wrong.
What people call wrong, Robert.
It never feels that way for me, though I'm scared it will.
It might.
It's like I'm an archaeologist cracking some Egyptian tomb, and the native helpers all run away because I'm going to get the mummy's curse.
And I'm scared of it.
Sure, I'm mostly human, but I'm more curious.
So I excavate the body and study the death robes and rituals out in the sunlight.
And I wait for the curse.
Will I get leprosy?
Will bricks fall on my head?
Will I get hit by a bus?
Or my luggage go missing?
And I wait because I am a scientist, an empiricist.
I wait for the curse to strike.
But it never does.
I wake up because I have to pee.
My bladder wakes me.
Never my conscience.
And going through the world with these superstitious native guides and helpers, precious little help to me, is like being an Olympic athlete, competing in the special Olympics.
Peter laughed sadly.
It's so unfair.
People get their gold and then get hit by this curse.
The curse of regret, of conscience.
But it's like voodoo, I guess.
If you don't believe in it, it just doesn't affect you, you know?
Do you know that?
His voice was whisper-quiet.
It's the greatest secret, Robert, my son.
Everyone around you is crippled by conscience, paralyzed, frightened by punishments they have to first believe in in order to ever experience.
And I was willing to believe in it, Robert.
I wanted to.
I killed animals when I was a kid trying to summon my conscience.
I even tortured them trying to get the feel of being good or even wanting to be.
The animals suffered.
He laughed softly.
I guess their parents could push that button and irradiate me.
But the animals suffered so that people would not suffer from me.
I mean, we do animal testing all the time, Robert, for makeup and skin creams.
This was to save people from me, to make me feel bad for doing wrong.
He sighed.
But I never did.
I mean, I can fake it.
A good actor can fake a limp, a disability, and I can fake a conscience.
I can fake empathy.
It's needed sometimes.
Don't make me show you.
I went from animals to mental torture to people.
Their actual lives.
I've broken hearts, Robert.
Oh, I still do.
I can't tell you how many people I've sued, men mostly who've committed suicide, and it pisses me off.
It's like killing yourself because you lost a poker.
It's weak.
And for two of them, Robert, I even went to the funerals.
In disguise, of course, like at a distance.
And they went into the ground, and everyone cried and sang stupid sentimental songs.
I could murder that diddy.
Imagine pure nihilism.
And I waited to feel bad.
Hell, I wanted to feel bad.
It's like if you wake up from an accident, you can't feel your legs.
That's bad, right?
You want to be in pain.
Or you're kind of dead.
I don't want to be dead, Robert.
I want to have life in my limbs.
But all the folks at the funeral crying, it was like...
I hope you do.
It was like a kid crying because they dropped their last bit of ice cream into the gutter.
They weep and wail, but it means nothing, really.
Most things kids cry about are stupid, pointless.
And you have to indulge them, I guess, though that's more the work for women, really.
But from the larger scope of history, it's all eugenics and war and torture and murder.
Like, England became civilized because they killed the psycho 1% every year until only the rigidly polite were left.
And I know that could mean that I should be killed, but it takes the psychos to behead the psychos, right?
Until there are only a few executioner psychos left, and then they all go into politics.
And law, obviously, Robert.
So I've kind of killed people, let's be honest.
It's just the cleanup of the weak.
Who really cares?
The other weak things crippled by bad feelings for unnecessary and helpful actions.
And you are bothered by what I've asked you to do with the real estate case.
You don't want to delete the server files.
You're thinking of reporting me.
I get that.
Fine.
Play around with decisiveness.
Good.
See if you have a conscience.
But you don't, Robert.
You fake it.
And that's fine.
Camouflage is essential in war.
Peter laughed.
Do you see how frank I could be in a place where it's impossible to record?
You will toy with reporting me and fulfilling your obligations to the code of conduct for a lawyer to professional ethics.
But you will be blocked.
That terrible decision will be blocked by your lovely wife, your Helen, because she is one of us.
Of me.
I can spot that from the other side of an airplane hangar, Robert.
You'll play with doing the right thing.
Obeying slave morality.
Same thing, of course.
And she'll talk you out of it, and you will become a compromised realist who understands that morality is just a castrating lie designed to keep people like us from naturally and justly ruling the masses who clamor for freedom but secretly want us to control them.
And I'm not trying to change who you are, dear Robert.
Just stop you from pointlessly fighting who you are.
You are a killer, Robert.
Like me.
And we kill illusions.
Don't be ensnared by these silly ethics, Robert.
We win, we accumulate, and we control.
Or we die, as surely as we have killed.
Peter's voice continued its downward spiral into moral madness and monstrous power, until Robert awoke from shocking ice water to the face, lying in the change room, staring at the painted ceiling, with Peter's anxious face hovering over him.
You passed out in the sauna, idiot.
You lost.
But tell me, how much do you remember?
So that's the end of the chapter, and I'd love to get your feedback.
I personally love this kind of stuff.
It's very new kind of writing for me, and I've never really written a sociopath before, so I'm kind of curious whether that seems believable to you.
And also, I love the fact that Robert doesn't know when he passes out, and the reader doesn't know when Robert passes out, so we don't know how much of Peter's speech is the Peter in Robert, or Robert's lack of conscience versus Peter in the sauna.
So yeah, I'm curious what you think.
And thanks, of course, for your support at freedomain.com slash denate, which gives me the ability to write this kind of stuff.
So thanks, Mel.
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