The Trojan Horse: Book Two - The Troll Farm
Vladislav Surkov, Konstantin Rykov and Alexander Dugin visit the Petersburg Troll Factory in 2012 - this is a work in progress
They had passed like ghosts through the new offices, Four stories high, clad in steel and dark blue glass, In the Olgino suburb of St Petersburg. It was past midnight for their secrecy. But as they walked toward the lifts, silently, Already state university students Blinked at their flickering computer screens Checking out talking points and avatars. Though the Russian internet was sleepy, It was still mid-evening in Great Britain, The Mail Online comment section fit to troll With stories of imminent Sharia law. In California was a bright breezy morning As retired Americans were logged onto Facebook To read horrid tales of migrants and black crime. These were early days. Evgeny Prigozhin, Putin’s famous caterer, deniable asset, Was ordering his mercenary legions To Syria and Chad, but had yet to hire Hundreds of English language students As his digital warriors online. But that was Coming soon. Fifty million dollars to spend On virtual hybrid warfare against the West, (Three times cheaper but probably a hundred Times more effective than one modern fast jet) But for now, we follow the three men up: One bearded and grey, the other blond, baby-faced, The third, dark-haired, enigmatic, sharp, As they arrive at a penthouse private suite, With views over the Neva and the city. It looked like any corporate headquarters Ten years ago. A tech hub. Open plan. Portraits of President Putin, Marine Le Pen, and Donald Trump Had yet to be commissioned. But the pivot From electoral shamanism to sham elections Was unfolding, and Russia was being tamed With a new apparatus - a panoply Of press, TV, radio, and internet, Transformed by these new apparatchiks into An illusion of pluralism and free speech, A simulacra and spectacle of fake news, In which nothing appeared to be true and so Every alternative seemed impossible. A managed democracy worked so well at home, Could it also work abroad? That was the Challenge facing these three thinkers: The philosopher Alexander Dugin, Vladislav Surkov, the state magician, And internet guru, Konstantin Rykov. All three could lay claim to Stalin’s description As engineers of human souls, but in fact The meeting didn’t feel momentous - only awkward, Surkov looking at the dark distant river. Dugin refusing vodka, while curly-haired Rykov, like some wasted would-be Adonis, Sits on the boardroom table swinging his legs Checking his Blackberry for messages. Dugin glares at him. Surkov quietly Walks to the blank whiteboard but he does not write.
“Think of the narratives of the Wild West, For over a century, when we were kids, The films we watched, scenarios we acted: Stagecoaches, teepees, toy guns, headdresses, Creating an inverted reality In which Indians pillaged, raped, scalped Innocent Americans, who fought back Against savage barbarians to reclaim A settled land of peace and lawfulness. We all played along, in our games and dreams. We thought we were the good guys, and justly killed In the name of Uncle Sam. The question is Not whether right or wrong - we are so beyond - But how did America get away with it? That’s what I have been studying all these years The magic of hyper-reality that Wraps atrocity up as a Christmas gift, Plays Empire daily on our TV sets, And crowns it all with a fake cowboy hat. “Imagine German children, after the war, Sold models of Auschwitz, gas chambers to make, Einsatz commando model figures to place Across the killing fields of central Europe. Such a thing would be unthinkable except This is how popular culture began a century ago, Mass media justifying genocide. Hitler loved characters like Buffalo Bill And cowboy tales inspired his lebensraum. Why couldn’t he do the Wild West in the East? Had he won, and the Third Reich prevailed, We might have spent childhood watching TV shows About the heroic SS men battling with The Barbarian Jews of Odesa and Minsk, Or stabbed in the back by treacherous Slavs. "It seems impossible when you think of it. But I’ve long been thinking the impossible, About the power of stories to compel A different and vindicating history. This way, for a century, America Has projected its ideology on the world. We have been blind, supplicant, oblivious, Lost these media battles on every front, Retreating under the barrage of Chewing gum, blue jeans, Coke, and rock and roll. While it happened, we didn’t really get it. By the time we got it, it was too late to act. Then the Berlin Wall fell and we surrendered Prostrate at the altar of the dollar. But not for much longer, now is our moment, The twenty-first century is still up for grabs. “See how it works. The costume. The dramatics. Turning the myth of mass reenactment Into ritual. We cannot motivate folk To do each other ill, except in the name of good. No one marches under the banner of evil, Unless they have dress rehearsals first. To create a politics for eternity We have to mythologise our history And to mythologise our history We have to politicise our myths. What those myths are, what icons can embody them, I rely on you Alexandr Gelyevich. And for you Kostya my only question is, What technologies can we now weaponise?” Rykov grins. “Fuck yeah. Trash Team America” Dugin grimaces and strokes his long beard…. “I don’t like this language, Slava, and I loathe The technology here on show. But while I fear It is capitulation even to use these terms, Unless ironically. All you say is true. We must Learn from our great enemy - the West. And in The final battle we must use every tool, No matter how crude and repulsive they are”
Rykov smiles and pours another vodka, Unaware of how quickly the historian Can go from philosophy to anger. “Some say that data has become the new oil, Or diamonds, gold, or some other mineral, Extracted from the earth, cooked underground. But information is never quite like this." Rykov preens. But Surkov sees the danger. For Dugin There is no intermediary between Dissatisfaction with someone and despair. He moves straight through annoyance to Animosity without missing a beat. Rykov warms to his vodka and his theme. "Data is free. It rides on a beam of light, Fast as electrons but with even less weight. Data is the Word, the Truth, the Logos. It can unleash wisdom beyond reckoning Riches more than any computer can count. Data is the elixir of humanity: Distilled, it can predict whatever happens next. Every search we make, every purchase we complete, That becomes part of our psychometric profile: Billions of data points - your favourite songs, Photos of kids, dating online, travel plans, We know more and more about you every day. After ten likes on social media We know you better than most of your friends, After fifty likes, better than your partner. A hundred, we know you better than yourself. This data technology is so powerful It knows women are pregnant before they do: That men are going to commit violence Against themselves or others, the dark triad Of narcissism, psychopathy, and hate. In silica, we can model humankind, And the data reveals the repeating patterns Of repeatable and predictable people.” Unpredictable Dugin is chafing now, Jingling his car keys in his pocket. Surkov tries To shoot a glance - warn this isn’t working. Rykov is oblivious. “You know The Matrix. Sci-fi movie. It stars Keanu Reeves,” Dugin shakes his head and taps his keys on the desk. “Don’t watch the sequels, they retrospectively Ruin the first one. But in the first one Reeves Lives in a computer program hardwired to his brain Which looks, tastes and feels like everyday life. In reality, he is suspended in a pod, With millions of other humans harvested By robots for their calorific reserves. (That’s the one big flaw in the scenario. The fourth law of thermodynamics makes this Absurd). The story would make more sense if The machines were milking Keanu for his Data. It’s already happening. Think of this: The industrial age turned us into workers. We became just hands assembled on a line, Machine-driven robots day in and day out, And all that came with it - armies of Labour, Socialism, the soviets, revolution. Then, with the crisis of overproduction, Capitalism survived by turning workers Into consumers. The post-industrial age was born, TV sets, mass media, and advertising. And resistance to it averted by turning Us inside out, industrialising our inner lives. Communism failed. The Soviet Union fell. "But Capitalism was still not satisfied. It’s greed knows no bounds — accepts no limits, So it came to its own final solution: Turn the consumer into the product itself. That’s what it’s done. Like Keanu Reeves' pod We are being milked and harvested online, Because when the product is free, you are The product. From mechanising our habits To manufacturing our desires, now Capital automates our reality. It’s invisible. Like the water we swim in. Until We see through the code. Then we can rewrite it. Then we can become, as Stalin once foretold, The true engineers of human souls.”
The half-rhyme irritates. Stalin even more. Dugin stands up as if ready to walk out. Only Rykov’s smug grin stops him at the door. “The Matrix? Every word you utter reveals The rot that consumes you. Vladik, how can I Ever work with this man? He speaks a language I don’t want to even begin to understand” “But we have a greater mission at stake here,” Placates Surkov: “Russky Mir. Our home. Our dream.” “I have a nightmare,” Dugin snaps quickly back. “He’s standing right here in front of me. Right now.” “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Says Rykov quietly, unfazed, almost amused. “We’re on the same side, Sasha. And I can help..” Dugin isn't going to be allayed . The truth Needed to be said. “I know full well how you Made your ruble millions Konstantin Rykov And rose in the Duma. From delivering Pizzas to escort agencies you have sold Appetites online. You turned technology - The brilliant insights of our mathematicians, The wonderful workings of our engineers Into fast food, fast sex, hot to Moscow doors. I abhor you, and this place. Look at those students Glued to their screens like zombies. They should be out, Out in the world, out among the people, Out in the countryside where our peasants sing. The scent of apples. Humid tilth of wet hay. I hate this place. Fluorescent lights. Glass. Plastics. All the deadly smells of unreality. It’s a curse. This is the arid prison That globalisation has given us. There’s no depth, No darkness, and hence no light. It represents All the wrongs I’ve fought against. So you ask me To join forces with everything I detest, To embrace this world of liberal emptiness In order to defeat it. It makes no sense. "You know my mission. To create a new world, One not lost in those fluid identities Of those seaborne empires like America, Britain and France, the IMF, NATO, This turgid flux of flot and jetsam that has Emasculated us: turned men into women, Women into men, children into monsters. It is my dying wish to bring all this down, To counteract this liquid modernity And restore a holy dominion based on Mother Earth, and God in the Sky: where people Knew where they stood, on our rich dark soil, And knew who to look up to, the Cross and Tsar, To return to the politics of eternity. And yet you want me to work with a porn webstar, To forsake the tang of birch tar and cedar For dry dead data, to immerse myself In a firehood of falsehood. To become a drain For all the excrement that this man extrudes. It is not sustainable - it is not right, It is not workable or moral." And with that, it seemed the whole project was over. There was no comeback for any of them from Dugin’s deep and devastating aria.
"In the Lord’s house there are many mansions. And in our dear President’s mansions, There are also many rooms. His roof is broad. He will shelter us”. Surkov’s invocation, The dropping of the presidential name, Stopped Dugin before he made it to the door. He knew the consequences of defiance, Understood the call that was now being made, The roof or krysha that was being offered. For years Dugin had written books and pamphlets Trying to catch Putin’s eye. This was the first Confirmation he had from the Kremlin. “And what about the Eurasian plan?” “It’s all understood” replies Surkov. Whether understanding meant agreement Was not something Dugin yet dared ask. To be heard was good enough. For now. "I understand your discomfort in this room. The political technical solution Whether kinetic or cognitive in kind Is like a surgeon’s blade. Cruel. Bloody. Sharp. But we have to accept the world as we Find it, in order to change the world into What we want it to be. My dear professor. At this juncture of time, this looming crisis, Where our nation stands on the brink of either Irrelevance or greatness, please ask yourself What would Dante do?” Dugin gulped back guffaws. “You laugh. I’m serious. Don’t forget Dante Was a soldier first, then a politician Sent into exile for his imperial beliefs. In exile, he wrote his Divine Comedy, The gossip of eternity in which He consigned his political rivals to hell, His friends to purgatory or paradise. It was divine revenge, and when in heaven, Apart from his childhood sweetheart, he saw The universe as some vast cosmic library, And that we humans were just like gathered leaves, In God’s abundant and omniscient book. That was before Gutenberg ruined it all, And the printing press and enlightenment, Scattered authorship and authority Far and wide - from the sacred and the holy To the mass produced, demotic and profane. We are now at another turning point in History. Those pages of humanity Have been gathered again, under the Watchful sleepless eye of a World Wide Web. We can now read them. We can rewrite them. Not to replace divine mysteries at all But to reinstate them. The ruin you foresaw The unreality you have so aptly Discomposed, is really our friend and ally. You ask me why? Or you wonder how? It’s so simple. The chaos we will unleash, The confusion I have already sown, Doesn’t make modernity adored, But more abhorred as you so rightly say. So faced with a thousand disconcerting, Contradictory narratives, people Will rise up against them all. From fluidity They will flee to security. They will crave The old gods, the old ways and certainties. As the liberal edifice crumbles and This globalised order is swept away, There is room again for the longed for return Of the sacrosanct. Of the mystical. Of a Mandelstam and Akhmatova, Of a Mayakovsky or Dostoevsky. It will be a tearing of the veil, a chance For cultural rebirth, spiritual renewal But only if you two men can rise beyond Your differences, and both see through the screen.”
With that, Rykov takes his cue and saunters Over the whiteboard, flipping to a map. “Having read and re-read your Eurasian plan It is obvious what we must do. To retake Our destined place in the imperium of nations We must reassert ourselves in post Soviet space. Chechnya was first. Then Georgia. But the big prize - the black earth of our soil Is the Ukraine, where our brothers live in delusion, Foxed by coloured revolutions, co-opted By the West. We must help them. We must save them. But a mighty alliance opposes us. Here. In the North Atlantic. Britain. America. The antichrist of Anglo Saxon values. We plan two covert lines of attack. First, as you suggested, we must get the UK Out of Europe. Its already semi detached But at the moment it is a bridge, a runaway That provides much more than missile bases. It is the pipeline for America. We think we can break that. Ambassador Yakovenko has been sent to London With exactly that brief. More of that anon. More challenging still is how to sunder The power of the US from that alliance. And for this too, we have a plan. Did you See the presidential debate? Dugin shrugs. “Romney and Obama? Two performing dogs. In America there are no conservatives left.” “But we don’t want a Conservative. We want Something more radical than that. A clown, A superstar, a maverick who will, through democracy Tear American democracy down, shatter It’s constitution, demean it in the eyes Of the world.” “But where would you find such a man” Surkov jumped in. “We’ve already found him. He came to Moscow 15 years ago, Found a Czech bride (known to state security) And returned to America to declare He was thinking of running for President. Since then, we have amassed a file on him, And know all his scruples and weaknesses. He’s a man of immense unstable ego, That neatly chimes with the American dream. A property developer obsessed With women, money, flattery, status Who can easily be suborned and ingratiated With a fast woman or a loose deal.” “I know of whom you speak. He’s a chump, A liar, a vainglorious braggart, Fit for a seedy casino or reality TV. And in that, I agree, he’s the epitome Of the USA. But there is no way, In a thousand years that Americans For all their clamour and idiocy Would ever elect him as President”
Surkov shrugs. Rykov smiles. “That’s where we come in. My friend Agalarov has already set up a meeting. Trump is coming here next year to host his Miss Universe Pageant. Plans are afoot To build a Trump Tower in Moscow. By then we will have honed our alchemy, On millions of innocent Americans, And can show him, just as Vladislav showed you, How you turn genocide in Christmas, Stupidity into leadership, and shit Into pure gold. If you believe all you say About decadent democracies and liberal rot, This plan is the ultimate test of it.” An hour or so later, as dawn crept in, Down on the open office floor below, Sergei from Voronezh was trying to wake up By downing another quick espresso shot, When he noticed three men leaving the lifts, (Blond Rykov, bearded Dugin, dark Surkov), Shaking hands, with no idea that he had seen Something incredible - a dream turning real, A momentous plan at its inception, Before he went back to his computer, To start another fight in cyberspace.
Inspired by true events. As explained in previous posts this is an early working draft of an imaginatively reconstructed historical sequence of events. Book One below. Next up - Book 3: The Golden Lift
Ten Years on from the Gilded Escalator
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Here’s the beginning of Book Three. By a weird quirk of fate, it’s exactly ten years today since Donald Trump descended his gilded elevator in Trump Tower and announced he would be a candidate for the Republican nomination in 2016. Here’s the photograph.