"When you accept money in payment for your effort, you do so only on the conviction that you will exchange it for the product of the effort of others. It is not the moochers or the looters who give value to money. Not an ocean of tears nor all the guns in the world can transform those pieces of paper in your wallet into the bread you will need to survive tomorrow. Those pieces of paper which should have been gold, are a token of honor -- your claim upon the energy of the men who produce. Your wallet is your statement of hope that somewhere in the world around you there are men who will not default on that moral principle which is the root of money." ~ Ayn Rand
Harry Potter and the Princes of Darkness
Harry awoke from a sound sleep, rubbed his eyes, and wondered if his dream was only a nightmare. He dreamt that, in a world of witches, warlocks and spells, a dark spell had been cast on two mighty nations. The people of America and England adored diversion, fast food filled with toxins, children's books and childish movies, cosmetic makeovers, brutish sports, mindless millionaires and vacuous celebrities.
What these people couldn't see, refused to see although they loomed right before their eyes, were a coven of highly visible demons, called Warjocks, who loved the sport of war, loved to sit on the sidelines and count their profits, without doing any of the actual fighting themselves. These Warjocks (not to be confused with warlocks) looked like real people and lived in affluent Hollywood, New York and Washington DC. They called themselves Republicans and Democrats, Conservatives and Liberals, and lived, not underground or in dark places, but flourished above ground, in marble mansions and granite monuments and soaring skyscrapers (at least the ones that didn't fall down), in the full light of day, enjoying the beloved glare of publicity and approval.
Harry fetched his wand. The batteries were dead.
What if the Warjocks, Harry wondered, who possessed all the riches and power of the world but were relatively few in number, succeeded in seducing the sheeple forever? The latest bombing in London, allegedly done by evil demons fiercer in appearance than Hagrid, were condemned by the Convention of G-8 Voldemorts, convening just to the north. That evil Islamic genius, Elzarwalkie, capable of walking in many places at once, had evidently struck again.
At least according to that legion of scribes called Azkaban Skinks. While the G-8 Voldemorts had the power to conjure the Lord of Darkness himself-- yet cast themselves forever in the most positive light--they employed an army of Azkaban skinks, called Op-Ed columnists, news editors, talk show hosts and pulpit shouters to hypnotize parents and little children alike. They often employed a saccharine, storybook power to calm and yet mesmerize--when they weren't terrorizing these same citizens--and followed the Five Simple Rules of Sheeple Hypnotism: Sleep, Believe, Buy, Follow, Die.
Harry looked worried. He flipped on the telly with the flick of an eyebrow. The perilous problems of Hogwarts seemed simplistic by comparison to the Real World. Treacherous false flags flew from every castle. The world couldn't be fixed by a simple swish of his wand. No, the Voldemorts of the world controlled all the production and distribution of wands. That was why his wand seldom worked and only if he subscribed to the premium cable package for specialty wands.
Throughout the land, any wizard with the power to see false flags was ridiculed and scorned and called a traitor. Any wizard who once served in the Voldemort's military immediately lost credibility in the eyes of the Shifty Skinks, especially if that former soldier spoke out against the Warjocks.
The Voldemorts and Warjocks controlled the vertical and the horizontal. They controlled the World Bank and the IMF. They controlled the media. Most of all they loved to befuddle the muggle-headed masses, who had never even heard of the Illuminati, befuddling them with movies about alien terrorists. They controlled most if not all book publishing, thus heralding self-help books, diet books and boy wizards books as wondrous elixirs and thus distracting the masses from the true Princes of Darkness working, not behind the scenes but happily in plain sight.
Harry angrily swept his wand into the waste basket. How many more years would he waste his virtuous powers fighting childish demons and absurd villains? What good were super powers if all you ever fought were ridiculous, fictional creatures and fatuous foes? Didn't Pat Tillman try to do as much?
Tillman, unlike Harry, had at least died for his sincere beliefs. Died for his efforts to go abroad in search of monsters to destroy. Killed by Azkaban mercenaries, his uniform was burned and then the deed covered up by the truest sorcerers of all, a complicit media.
Suddenly, like a bolt of celestial lightning, Harry recognized where he still lacked. He recalled a quote by Mencius, that Chinese wizard known as Meng-zi: "That in which men differ from brute beasts is a thing very inconsiderable; the common herd lose it very soon; superior men preserve it carefully."
Weren't the true heroes of the world not wizards at all, Harry wondered? Indeed, only children--or their deluded parents--believed in such fairy tale nonsense. He broke his discarded wand angrily. The true "wizards" of the world conjured not spells but words and deeds, everyday acts of quiet resistance. They refused to buy prepackaged ideas, prepackaged foods, prepackaged info-tainment and prepubescent fairy tales that became instant movies. They worked hard not to become millionaires, but without scorning anyone who had through honest labours.
Their wizardry consisted of an abiding service to higher laws, and they recognized other wizards worldwide by the same standards. They needed no wands. They spread the word, not by flying around, but by a firmness of manner in the face of adversity and deception. Harry now began to see things clearly. Hogwarts, like most schools, had been almost a complete waste of time.