Phil's Philosophy

Mind Meanderings of an Alchemist


On its most fundamental level, you cannot understand the decadence and corruption of society without understanding the pathology of the human mind. But it’s not just the diseased mind that needs to be scrutinized, the frail mind needs to be examined as well because the latter lacks the fortitude and immunity to resist the dominance and tyranny of the former.



The Toxic Legacy of Machiavelli’s The Prince


Criticism of Søren Kierkegaard’s Phrase: Once You Label Me, You Negate Me…


What is the Purpose of Demons?


Anatomy of Narcissism v1.0


Musings on the Purpose of Death


Introducing Three Degrees of Evil


Musings on Atheism, Religion and God


Would God Condone Attempts to Root Out Evil with the Sword?


Musings on Free Will – Letter to Prof. Alfred Mele


Meet Mr. Ego and Mr. Spirit


Vindicating Existence of Conspiracy Theories

Recently, the website with the promising name of “I Fucking Love Science” published a rather inane article (link below) seeking to offhandedly dismiss the entire field of conspiracy theory on the basis of depreciating some of the more outlandish mental concoctions casually swept into its category, such as flat-earth speculations & existence of alleged giants covered up by the Vatican.

Using flat-earthers & giants as straw-man arguments to discredit the entire field of conspiracy theory?

Really? Are we back in primary school again?

How do they intend to be taken seriously in a world of adults if they lower the standard of debate to infantile la-la-land levels?

Nevertheless, if it were not for this ridiculous piece from IFLS, I would not have been inspired to write my counter-article; and so for facilitating—albeit antagonistically—me writing it, I am grateful to all those souls who—in whatever way, shape or form—have contributed to the production + publication of said article (including the misguided featured neuroscientist), and as such bring it to my attention.

Call it Good Karma of an Antagonistically Facilitating kind on their parts benefiting Yours Truly.

Just because there exist loony conspiracy theories out there (such as the exposed Trump-Russia Collusion Hoax) as sure as misguided & misinformed people exist, does not mean (non-sequitur) that ALL conspiracy theories which have ever been conceived are—by necessity—unfounded; untrue to the possible point of outright absurdity/fantasy.

Since Big Pharma is a profit-obsessed industry tainted with a long documented history of corruption, the products they push unto the public should be received, by everyone valuing their health, with wary and skeptical eyes — every, single, time. Regardless of what the souls affiliated with IFLS think, Covid shots were indeed rushed through production, having already from the get-go dubious and at any rate rapidly waning protective efficacy, where long-term side-effects are unknown by necessity. Since Big Pharma is held beyond legal liability for any health-damages sustained from receiving Covid shots, since they do bring plenty of side-effects and since they in fact were pushed fanatically by governments—burning up civil rights in the process, promoting medical apartheid at the particular cost of your typical “anti-vaxxer”—there was more than enough cause to jump-start ample Covid-based conspiracy theories.

Rather than offhanded dismissal, chemtrails also merit real scientific investigation, preferably done by real scientists tainted by as little bias as possible.

Science is all about trying to fit (mathematical) theory with pertinent experimental or observational physical reality; such is the essence & purpose of the scientific method. Science is all about asking questions, adapting theoretical models until they fit as best as possible the available facts gained through measurement or observation.

Science is NOT about shirking questions for fear of looking like one of those icky “conspiracy theorists”, paralyzed by fear of entering the dreaded taboo domain of “conspiracy theories”. If asking questions is stopped, the domain of science is left & the domain of religion is entered, the latter where it is considered blasphemous to ask the out-of-the-box kind of questions that clash with the established dogma which then is factually albeit implicitly worshiped — Thou Shalt Not Entertain Conspiracy Theories (on pain of ostracizing shame).

Said insubstantial clutching-at-straws article churned out by IFLS,
honors no noble scientific endeavor of progressive enlightenment pertaining to objectively verifiable reality, purely speculative yet ultimately detached from reality its waver-thin message really is.

Conspiracies do exist; hatched & executed they are on a daily basis still to this day all throughout the world since time immemorial, as sure as crime in organized form has existed the world over since time immemorial.

Conspiracies exist simply because organized crime exists. It’s only a salient if shady fact of human life that shady people like to get together in shady backrooms to make shady deals and or hatch out shady plans.

Since organized crime is traditionally fought by law enforcement,
police forces—by necessity—have to take on the role of conspiracy theorists themselves, all in order to meaningfully (scientifically) fight organized crime, using theoretical constructs (in conjunction with surveillance) to anticipate possible crime-scenes and or reconstruct past who-done-what crime-scene reality.

Police, if effective and if do taking their jobs seriously, basically are acting like scientists of crime, constantly engaged in trying to fit crime-centric theory with that portion of physical reality which encompasses pertinent criminal reality (e.g. crime-scenes), in the broadest most abstract sense: the world of the criminal. If their crime theories do not hold water—if, indeed, their conspiracy theories are insufficiently accurate—then criminals don’t get caught. It’s really that simple.

Hence, courtesy of the existence of organized crime as well as (scientifically-minded) police tasked with the burden to solve organized crime, conspiracy theories & conspiracy theorists by necessity already have to exist. If still in doubt, why not call up any big-city police department and verify for yourself the existence of investigative tables or offices (specifically) devoted to fighting organized crime?

Hence, it’s already shown that believing in the existence of conspiracies as well as believing in conspiracy theories & their possible merit, is entirely vindicated.

Since a rich bouquet of Mafia fragrances has existed the world over, since Cosa Nostra & Camorra & ‘Ndrangheta & Mara Salvatrucha & Solncevskaya Bratva & Yamaguchi-gumi & Yakuza have existed, since Black Hands & Triads & Cartels & terror orgs & all manner of gangsters & gangs have existed, if conspiracies have existed among those who occupy the odorous lower rungs of power, it’s then only a small step to wonder if such could also be the case for any arbitrarily higher rung on the ladder of power (culminating perhaps in the absolute power to dominate the world?).

Might conspiracies be hatched & executed also on the highest rungs of power? — why not world power?

As sure as the thrill of power is as seductive as it is narcotic,
as sure as people lust for power to meet the demands of their greed,
shady people look for utility in shady means of power to accomplish certain shady goals that they imply to feel could not be achieved (in time or with available resources) using non-shady above-board regular means.

“Power corrupts & absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
Lord Acton

If corruption—defective moral agency—affects humanity universally, all walks of life,
if it is in the nature of the still imperfect human being to put any conscientious hesitation aside in the pursuit of power (for power’s sake), then how could the elite (of the elite) of the powers that be, the supposed masters of the universe, themselves escape what would have to be an all-pervasive reach?

If it is true that certain crimes—say, more elaborate ones—have better odds of success when executed in organized form, if two criminals working together are statistically-speaking more successful than said two criminals going at it separately & alone, if indeed—since many hands make light work—cooperation among criminals yields better odds of success as well as accessibility to greater rewards than what solitary criminals may hope to gain, then over time—as the history of human crime progressed—there had to have emerged an evolutionary selective pressure naturally favoring crime—specifically, more elaborate crime—to be executed in cooperative group-form rather than on individual solitary basis.

Over time, criminals were only bound to organize themselves into groups simply because it was more effective + lucrative than flying solo.

Indeed, it is straightforward to argue that the practice of international espionage as a categorical whole is conspiratorial in nature; where GovernmentX—through military or civil channels—recruits and sends out spies into potentially inimical territory, foreign camps governed by say GovernmentY; all with the aim of obtaining the kind of information that GovernmentX implies to think is impossible to gain through legal above-board means.

By virtue of GovernmentX being guilty of doing the necessary conspiring as such, it might already constitute fertile breeding ground for conspiracy theories; in this case, ones that are naturally invented by GovernmentY, having the practical & defensive aim of uncovering & neutralizing said spy networks.

But espionage does not have to be international of course. The American government has proven to excel—through its National Security Agency—in violating the privacy of its citizens by illegally (and unconstitutionally?) spying on them; as the now-exiled American citizen and whistleblower named Edward Snowden has extensively shown to the world, with the necessary and entirely justified media fanfare, back in 2013.

Why not declare that conspiracies are but a figment of flat-earther-like imagination right in Snowden’s face and gauge his reaction? (by Skype or phone of course, unless you fancy traveling all the way to Russia, where he is staking out, hiding from his conspiratorial government)

A False Flag attack is a Machiavellian device where GovernmentA conducts a military operation against GovernmentB, while in so doing GovernmentA’s involved military forces pretend to be part of GovernmentB (by flying the national flag represented by GovernmentB, a literal or proverbial false flag); all in order to give the mistaken & deceptive impression to naïve observers that it was GovernmentB guilty of mounting the attack; so as to provide GovernmentA with an apparently plausible pretext to expand their military campaign against GovernmentB; & yet come out looking as if GovernmentA is entitled to occupy the moral high-ground, the ostensibly relatively noble victim entitled to now act in “self-defense” against GovernmentB deceptively advertised as the aggressor.

It may thus be argued that—since obviously GovernmentA is conspiring against GovernmentB—False Flag attacks likewise constitute ample breeding grounds for conspiracy theories. As casual internet searches show, False Flag attacks have been carried out by governments throughout the world since God knows how long already.

It has come out—by governmental admission even—that for example the Gulf of Tonkin incident, which catalyzed if not spawned the Vietnam war, was in fact a False Flag operation conducted by the US government itself. In 1939, the German armed forces carried out attacks on its own troops gathered at the Polish border, to justify their pending invasion of Poland. The sinking of the USS Maine in Havana Harbor in 1898, while blamed on the Spanish government, could very well have been conducted by the US government itself, so as to propel the US toward an ultimate veritable state of war with Spain.

Another more elaborate and persistent False Flag operational paradigm from the Cold War era was known as Operation Gladio:

“Operation Gladio is undisputed historical fact. Gladio was part of a post-World War II program set up by the CIA and NATO supposedly to thwart future Soviet/communist invasions or influence in Italy and Western Europe. In fact, it became a state-sponsored right-wing terrorist network, involved in false flag operations and the subversion of democracy.

The existence of Gladio was confirmed and admitted by the Italian government in 1990, after a judge, Felice Casson, discovered the network in the course of his investigations into right-wing terrorism. Italian prime minister Giulio Andreotti admitted Gladio’s existence but tried to minimize its significance.

The main function of the Gladio-style groups, in the absence of Soviet invasion, seems to have been to discredit left-wing groups and politicians through the use of “the strategy of tension,” including false-flag terrorism. The strategy of tension is a concept for control and manipulation of public opinion through the use of fear, propaganda, agents provocateurs, terrorism, etc. The aim was to instill fear into the populace while framing communist and left-wing political opponents for terrorist atrocities.”

As a more recent example, a plausible case may be built in favor of the idea that the attacks on US soil taking place on 11 September 2001, also constituted False Flag attacks; where criminal elements of the US government (in possible conjunction with supportive shady elements from foreign governments like Israel’s) organized what then were to cardinal extent self-inflicted wounds. The purpose of then self-inflicted attacks were to provide the US government with a plausible excuse to launch what came to be known as the global “War on Terror”; as well as a pretext to expand domestic surveillance in order to hunt down “terrorists” on American soil (Patriot Act — Office of Homeland Security).

Another natural breeding ground for conspiracies is the business entity called the corporation. Every time it comes to light that a member corporation of the already mentioned greed-fueled pharmaceutical industry conducted fraud, the existence of any package of judicial indictments that might accompany it, already counts as pretty convincing circumstantial evidence that there had to have been at play some kind of underlying corporate-level conspiracy. Since Big Pharma over the years has been proven awash with fraud, it concomitantly has to have been awash in conspiracies; and where there are conspiracies, there is justifiable cause to generate conspiracy theories aiming to detail & expose said concerted if concealed efforts to commit crime in group-form.

And last but not least as to here-broached examples of high-level conspiracies, is of course the coup d’état — (Wordnik) “the sudden overthrow of a government by a usually small group of persons in or previously in positions of authority.” Coups cannot take place without the involved coup-members first locking heads together, conspiring to overthrow certain key positions of the government in their crosshairs. As it happened, Ukraine was subjected to two recent coups, in 2004 & 2014. See for example the documentary, Ukraine on Fire; directed by Igor Lopatonok & produced by Oliver Stone.

Hence it is shown that, while not at all seeking to justify their existence, conspiracies are simply part of human reality. As any mobster of whatever nationality or creed may testify, they certainly take place among the lower strata of power; but, given the verifiable existence of national & international espionage + false flag operations + corruption prone corporations + coup d’états, they also do exist in arbitrarily higher levels of power.

Whoever said that crime does not pay? But the more petty forms of crime typically may only hope to be successful if kept out of view from law enforcement. Whereas crime executed in arbitrarily sophisticated organized form, typically may only hope to be successful if first the police is carefully kept unawares (unless they are in on it themselves), but also—especially insofar as its victims are found among them—the general public.

For there is one thing conspiracies cannot stand,
as sure as darkness retreats from the light,
and that is EXPOSURE.

Should criminal plans—heretofore carefully kept secret—come to light,
now suddenly the involved criminals risk being identified & apprehended;
with the relevant authorities, unless bribed or blackmailed into silent paralysis, being only compelled to henceforth either try to stop the execution of those shady plans or prevent them from happening altogether.

Crime has to be fought, after all.
We wouldn’t be entitled to call our society civil & just, if we’d let crime bungle, now would we?
The more serious those crimes are, the more impactful they be upon society, the more urgent the need for their exposure & arrestation would be, now wouldn’t it?

But, of course, if the execution of certain organized crimes is deemed necessary of being covered up, if certain conspiracies are insisted upon being carried out cost what may, then all involved conspirators may only be expected to have a natural general interest in making as miserable as possible the lives of those souls who challenge the others’ existence, who threaten to expose the shady people their shady schemes & dubious devices.

Conspirators could—for example—try to tear down the reputation of those who antagonize them, trying to ridicule all those perhaps entirely decent & maybe even noble sort of people who have an interest, by hobby or profession, in trying to tweeze out conspiracies, all with the aim of finding out who exactly the occult culprits are, who any camouflaged + concealed possible string-pullers might be; and of course what the shady objectives of said conspiracies were to be.

After all, the world owes a big thanks to all those blessed people who expose conspiracies & who help put a stop to their execution, souls who save the world from the suffering such conspiracies were to have foisted upon the world if otherwise their execution had gone on in unabated unimpeded fashion.

Those who conspire may only be expected to find “conspiracy theorists” a disagreeable general breed, as sure as criminals may only be expected to find police poking around in their shady affairs likewise a disagreeable general breed; and so those who conspire are expected to have a most natural interest in seeing to a demonization of conspiracy theories & theorists, across the board.

What sane individual would stoop going anywhere near believing whatever nutty quirks of the mind those crazy tinfoil hat-wearing conspiracy theorists happen to come up with at any given time of the day?

“Conspiracy people”. . . is what Klaus Schwab, the chieftain of the odious WEF, belittlingly called their kind recently at this annual elitist heavily-policed get-together in Davos, Switzerland.

Oh, but they’re all just a bunch of well-meaning philanthropists of course.
Nothing to worry about.
Nothing SHADY going on at all.

IFLS link:

Demonic Manifestation by Alter Ego – Secret Window (2004)


The movie titled Secret Window (2004), starring Johnny Depp, having a script based on a short novel of Stephen King, gives an interesting cinematographic impression of a demonic alter-ego (in conjunction with Jungian Shadow).

Morton is a recently separated writer since hiding out in a secluded, if scenic and cozy, little lake-side cabin. Mort’s productivity likewise has stalled of late due to suffering from one of those infamous writer’s blocks; when all-of-a-sudden he is rudely shaken awake from one of his many writer’s-block-induced naps. Someone’s banging on his door and keeps on pounding right up until a slouching drowsy Mort opens his portal to the impatient joker already causing quite a commotion by trying to make an obnoxiously urgent entry. The groggy writer is greeted—if figuratively not literally—by an entirely unanticipated and unknown man of about his age, looking like a stony-faced farmer on a mission to make a serious dent, talking with a menacing Southern drawl to boot and wasting no time at all to basically accuse Mort of plagiarism; claiming—in no uncertain terms—that the author “stole” this hostile stranger his story.

Before leaving Mort’s porch, the mystery man—who calls himself John Shooter—after having stressed this to be a matter between the two of them only, hands over as incriminating evidence a manuscript titled “Sowing Season”, indeed signed by “John Shooter”. On comparing the contents of his own story “Secret Window” with “Sowing Season”, Mort discovers they are in fact virtually identical.

From that foreshadowing encounter onward, this Shooter feller keeps on returning in Mort’s life, while simultaneously strange and increasingly disturbing events take place around him.

During a lake-side stroll, Mort happens to bump into a Shooter immediately challenging the writer by claiming to have written the fateful story as early as 1997. Mort confidently counter-claims he wrote it in 1994 and had it first published in 1995, in magazine form. If therefore Mort could show Shooter a copy of the magazine’s pertinent issue, he could prove being the original author and—as such—reap the relieving reward of a Shooter voluntarily slinking off of his back and slithering back to whence he came in a defeat-conceding whimper.

Unperturbed and dead-serious, Shooter gives Mort no more than three days to produce and submit into evidence the relevant magazine, a copy of which—the challenged writer suggests—is currently in the possession of Amy (the wife with whom Mort is going through a painful divorce); stored at the house he once shared with her, located at a place called Riverdale.

That night, Mort is plagued by a nightmare in which he dreams to be teetering on the edge of a cliff; tipping over and tumbling all the way down at near free-fall speed until finally crashing on the floor laying underneath the couch he was napping on — snapping himself awake.

Venturing outside of his cabin now, he first finds a note pinned to one of his windows carrying the dire message:
“You HAve 3 dAys
i am NoT JokiNg
No PoLice”;
only to, moments later, underneath the window, be shocked to his core when finding his dog stabbed to death with a screw-driver.

During another night, Shooter once again makes a more concrete entry into his life; this time pushing Mort to obey Shooter by way of changing the story they virtually share (one which Mort “wrecked”, according to Shooter), so as to reflect Shooter’s exact un-wrecked ending of it; also insisting the story be signed by Shooter’s name instead of Mort’s.

A violent altercation takes place when Shooter icily conveys the gravely urgent nature of the matter by letting Mort know not being deterred from involving Amy should her ex—upon failure to comply—leave Shooter, so he states, not having any other option. Mort responds by taking a swing at his unnerving harasser with a shovel; only to be parried by a sharp Shooter in one fell swoop getting the better of him, instantly turning the tables, utterly humiliating Mort in a completely overpowering way, punishing the embattled writer only even more by—at the same time—threatening to harm Amy in painfully explicit terms; as if the eerie spiteful bastard had it beforehand all worked out down to terribly meticulous detail, as if Marquis de Sade himself had risen from the grave, stepped in and penned it all down for the creep — in blood and with ample love + devotion.

Sure enough, a distraught Amy calls him on the phone the next morning to say that her home—the house she once shared with Mort—had befallen the horrible fate of burning down to the ground overnight; a clear case of arson it turns out, yet arsonist unknown.

Cui bono?

It’s easy to guess who benefits from a Mort suddenly no longer able to retrieve the one fateful magazine that otherwise could prove his righteousness concerning the affair he suddenly found himself in, up to his eyeballs.

On the final day of his ultimatum, inspired by a Shooter moments earlier instructing him on the phone, Mort can be seen out on foot running upon a solitary lake-side parked car, containing—upon nerve-wracking inspection—two brutally-killed bodies. One belonged to the owner of the car, a local elder man named Tom, who happened to drive by and witness Mort talking to Shooter during that earlier lake-side stroll. The other dead body belonged to a private investigator named Ken, hired by Mort to look into this enigmatic Shooter character, and who had told Mort the night before to bring a gun to a meeting Ken had arranged for that next morning between himself, Mort and Tom. The fact that Mort was urged to bring a gun, signals a raise in stakes that Ken speculated could have been due to Tom secretly having been put under straitjacketing pressure by Shooter. Ken further told Mort that he thought Tom had been acting strangely when meeting him alone earlier.

Mort passes out from the overwhelming sight of the gruesome scene; and when—a good while later—he comes to, a since-materialized Shooter is there to tell him that Tom and Ken had become liabilities for “getting in the way” of their business, which he emphasizes once again was to involve nobody other than himself and Mort.

Shooter then leaves the scene. On urgent advice from his tormenting stalker, Mort gets rid of the incriminating bodies (nearly getting himself killed doing so) by making the tainted car ride off of an adjacent cliff, plunging into the deep lake-water down below, never to be seen again.

At 3pm that day, Mort visits the post-office down-town and finally manages to get his hands on a copy of the magazine which Ken earlier had arranged to be sent. When examining the postal envelope upon driving home, however, he notices that—even though clearly received in tact—it has somehow been breached now already; and on inspecting the actual magazine contained inside, to his befuddled consternation fails to find the pages otherwise narrating his story; torn out they evidently were. . . gone missing.

The plot thickens.


Inside the cabin now, a revelatory session of supernatural introspection soon hits him. A brainstorming Mort talking to “himself” is finally brought to a position of understanding when confronted with the truth regarding this strange new nemesis of his. Shooter turns out to be but a figment of Mort’s troubled imagination; giving form to an extra identity—inspired by apparent innocuous and playful fiction—raised to life by his own disturbed mind; and to which he mentally relegated his own gangster-like dirty work, while simultaneously accomplishing the extraordinary feat of remaining utterly unconscious of it all (“black outs”), conveniently remaining unaware of being responsible in actual fact for the ghastly kind of deeds he was too averse from doing while going around in his normal every-day identity of Mort the pencil-pusher, touchy + eccentric maybe but otherwise perfectly respectable; thus conveniently, in a selfish unscrupulous sense, remaining oblivious of producing a grisly body of immoral deeds, which ultimately were fueled by an unresolved hatred for his wife due to her traumatic betrayal for a new lover named Ted, that he never really forgave her nor him for.

Indeed, during a previous other brainstorming session with his since-departed private investigator friend, Mort initially had speculated—gratefully (egosyntonically) painting himself as innocent mere victim, pure as the driven snow—that Shooter could very well be an ally of Ted, a goon hired by his wife’s new lover given the task of waging a war of terror on Mort; that Ted were the secret mastermind, vindictive and intimidating, behind all the ill befalling Mort; the poor writer who—by implication—himself could not possibly have any kind of incriminating causal connection to the suffering currently happening around his person, the one person to be held automatically altogether free from any trace of suspicion.

One time, Mort could be seen encountering Ted at an out-of-town gas station. Amy’s new lover said he happened to be on his way to visit Mort and have him sign the divorce papers (after already having to stand half-a-year of his feet-dragging). Mort right away made the mistake of letting himself be led by his prejudice that Ted would be the bad guy mastermind behind it all; readily challenging Ted by telling him that Mort knew what the other was up to. In turn, implicitly letting Amy’s ex know to be fully aware of his own cardinal share in ruining Mort’s marriage, Ted made the mistake of letting himself be hamstrung by guilt (instead of choosing to go for probing rational inquiry); affirming his guilt in front of Mort, misinterpreting Mort’s allegation to somehow refer to the writer’s tanking marriage.

When Ted physically brought out the divorce papers, Mort became evasive on top of defensive; telling Ted to send them to Mort’s lawyer. Ted said he already had done so, but that the lawyer told Ted—in turn—that Mort had failed to return the lawyer’s calls.

With Mort now rising in anger, Ted urged Mort to sign the papers. The writer countered by declaring to not respond well to intimidation and proceeded to use both arms to physically taunt Ted by pushing his torso away aggressively, furthermore seeking to strengthen his position of righteousness by stating that he just buried his dog (implicitly pinning his loss on Ted’s), as such making himself seem the victim and Ted the implicit perp; stating moreover that while Ted “started this shit”, Mort’s determined to finish it; instructing Ted to tell that to his “filthy little friend” (which, in Mort’s prejudicial mind, was Shooter hired by Ted; but in Ted’s guilt-riddled mind, this would have to be Amy). To fortify the offense, a contemptuous Mort then pushed Ted’s head back with his hand. Thoroughly pissed-off by now, Ted retaliated by trying to punch a Mort nevertheless deftly dodging the incoming fist by a simple step aside; making Ted hurt himself when it accidentally landed on one of the unyielding windows of his own car.

So now Mort had managed to avoid signing the divorce papers while at the same time presenting himself to Ted as only being the righteous victim between the two of them; whereas Ted—in Mort’s mind—was still the mastermind bad guy; when Ted in his own mind sooner would not be a mastermind psycho but more like a guy who got caught up in a romantic affair but managed to come out a winner, getting away with the prize woman; yet was left crippled by due guilt — arguably sadly even artificially amplified from his own end (courtesy of self-scapegoating Masochism and or implicitly self-flattering Narcissism?).

Ah, miscommunication is such a shame; lack of communication, likewise.

Why wouldn’t Mort get it over with and sign those freaking divorce papers? As long as he doesn’t do so, as long as he keeps dragging his feet, Amy is still forced to keep returning in his life; and so the Sadistic part of Mort, the vindictive shady part of himself eager to mete out shady punishment that—just like the divorce papers—he doesn’t want to deal with, continues to have opportunities to punish her for infidelity manifested (or for whatever convenient reason however distantly related to her unfaithfulness). In other words, Mort—the pesky little bloodsucker he is—gets to keep sitting on the backs of Amy and Ted; and yet—at least in his own mind—also manage to appear the good guy (still deserving compensation for being flung into a state of victimhood) — even though maintaining such a parasitical relationship, obvious to any external observer having rational eyes to see, does go at the expense of his two hosts.

Shooter’s ultimate goal becomes clear at the finale when he persuades Mort to set out and kill an Amy just pulling up his drive-way, armed with the firm intention of having him at long last sign their divorce papers; not greeted by Mort she is though, but only by some of the missing pages belonging to the aforementioned magazine that were now freely blowing in the wind, after—without clear cause—being emitted from Mort’s car, presumably not having all of its doors shut tight.

By following through with murdering his otherwise soon-to-be ex-wife, Mort is to make sure that the story ends the way Shooter wanted all along.

They finally do meet inside of the cabin shrouded in a tremendously amped-up atmosphere of suspense. While now clearly taking on the shady persona of Shooter, Mort in actual fact goes on to take Amy’s life in a show of shovel violence; together with—as welcome bonus—that of Ted, who arrived minutes after Amy — to back her up, ironically enough.

By burying their bodies in his “secret garden”, Mort ensures that life imitates art in that he got rid of his wife (+ lover) Shooter’s way — or, more accurately, the way of Mort’s own Shadow. This is also the magical moment that Mort’s writer’s block lifts ;and his whole demeanor notably changes for the better, taking on a fresh new guise of improved self-care and spruced-up self-presentation; albeit improvements of exterior appeal that do happen to correlate with newfound antagonistic wariness coming from the regular folks around him, who now give off rather salient signs of no longer trusting him.

John Shooter was Mort’s sinister alter-ego; or rephrased, Shooter gave (cinematographic) body to Mort’s demonic alter-ego, a fiendish spiritual manifestation that was able to act predatorily through him during times when he was low on conscious command over his own person (blackout-ish), during sleep or during his [liquor-intoxicated] virtual sleep-walking slumber sessions (of depression); a state of spiritual vulnerability that may have been induced or catalyzed by said trauma of betrayal, which may also have induced or catalyzed his writer’s block — insofar as being creative relies on being able to tap into your own inner well of love enabling you to be creative, which perhaps may not always be easy when (being in the middle of) processing trauma.

However, since Shooter’s deeds did benefit Mort to the extent that they were consistent with his unmitigated hatred for his wife, he tacitly must have given green light—during sleepwalking slumber sessions—to his demons manifesting in the shape of “John Shooter” to go ahead with their shady work using him for bodily medium, their choice human instrument to execute demonic conduct.

The centerpiece story featured in the movie may be thought of as an allegory of will — or more precisely, human will suffering interference from a super-imposing bold demonic will seeking domination, eagerly seeking to reduce its human host to an absolute [zombified] state of submission. Mort’s will is rendered by the showcased story he wrote years ago (1994). Shooter’s will is rendered by a later (1997) facsimile that is almost the same as his, except for a (suggested) darker and bloodier ending, indeed a more demonic conclusion.

Also note that the notion of demons weighing down on Mort’s soul, impeding his will otherwise as free-as-a-bird as it gets, could serve to represent his writer’s block. Only when Mort (by alter-ego) succeeded in fulfilling the creepy will of his demons, was his writer’s block finally lifted (like a curse); and he—once more—was able to go “on a roll.”

Mort killed to fulfill the will of Shooter; but his bloodshed was also in line with his own will, one deriving from his Jungian Shadow, the native home of “Shooter” — the demonic predator lurking within (aiming to “Shoot her”). In terms of idolatry, Mort may be said to have brought—if in a hushed-up non-advertised <<black out>> mode of sleepwalking—sacrifices to the altar catering to the belligerent and dictatorial spiritual entities residing within; manifesting themselves in the idolic form of the John Shooter figment, made to look tangibly real in his mind — an idol existing exclusively mentally and having for identity an entirely fictitious but no less hostile and demanding person. While assuming some unconscious state of sleepwalking animation, cleverly bypassing the wide-awake conscious internal checks otherwise in place to stop himself from following through with his secret shady agenda, Mort is prone to bouts of slavishly serving the consciously-disowned darkest part of his will, contained in the hidden and repressed part of his psyche, which he naturally has trouble to acknowledge insofar as having (conscientious) trouble to admit to himself being anywhere near (gravely) unrighteous, anywhere near capable of acting in (gravely) immoral fashion.

It is but a consequence of the imperfection of our human world, that sometimes you have to defend yourself—or those under your wing of protection—from impending or already developing evil, forcing you to do evil (deployment of destructive power) yourself in order to stop the evolution of that other evil, ideally dead in its tracks.

Seeking to corrupt HostX (the possessed human being at hand or possessee), the basic challenge for demons seems to be, how to inspire into the mind of HostX: FALSE motives for deploying destructive power (or engaging in evil), backed up by FALSE righteousness and derivative FALSE entitlement to act evilly.

Specifically, HostX could be bedazzled into FALSELY believing being—for example—either a pending victim deserving [imminent and forceful] protection; or an actual victim deserving [immediate and substantial] compensation (e.g. in the form of revenge, or reparations).

The film concludes with a quotation of Shooter’s alternate ending of Mort’s story:
{{{“I know I can do it,” Todd Downey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. “I’m sure that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery… even to me.”}}}

As such, the story ended the way Shooter wanted, the way Mort’s demons wanted, which—on an unconscious/semi-conscious level—is also the will of Mort himself insofar as he still hated his wife (+ Ted); insofar as he had yet been incapable of forgiving her (+ him).

Furthermore, likewise fully consistent with the desire of low-key demons within, as is evident from the carefree way he afterward presents himself to the people in the nearby town at which he does his shopping, Mort shows to indeed have [virtually] forgotten what he allowed himself to do through his demonic alter-ego; thereby conveniently allowing to let slip into a mental sink of oblivion, the corresponding otherwise conscientiously-crippling guilt-load he had naturally incurred for his sleepwalking excursions into moral dementia (perpetrating a quadruple murder ain’t peanuts. . . . neither is burning down a house, for that matter; or even killing that cute little doggie).

Besides being well-made and entertaining, the significance of the Secret Window movie shows also in another perhaps hitherto unaddressed way; in that in it may be found an allegorical illustration of what—in reality—might be a rather fundamental phenomenon of human life; one in which otherwise perhaps relatively well-behaving people go on, in secret, to commit deeds arbitrarily immoral; and yet also manage to remain [virtually] oblivious of doing so, on account of those deeds being executed under the command of demonic alter-egos that had succeeded to come-to-the-operational-fore during moments when their hosts were strategically reduced to slumbering consciousness—all the way down to pure unconsciousness—turned, with a bit of bad luck, into full-blown sleep-walkers left easy to manipulate by autonomy-hijacking non-human evil-minded spirits, invasive and determined. To have blacked-out human bodies rendered malleable and left easy to artificially animate, aiming to do some good-old-fashioned demonic dirty work, is a time-ticking bomb of a problem—if-not-catastrophe—waiting to happen.

On a personal basis, since I have been possessed myself (until 2009), I have experienced several black-out episodes myself years ago. They all happened while my conscious self-command was (next to) non-existent; had pulled an all-nighter and was under the influence of a variety of drugs. I had to be notified of what I had managed to say during the blackout at hand by the people around me. Fortunately for me and said folks, I have done no-one harm other than swearing at someone one time (or maybe a few times. unknown to me?). At one other time, I allegedly managed to garble non-sense of a logical nature (a demon called Logic, was within me). I have no conscious recollection, none whatsoever, of what came out of my mouth during my blackouts.

Have you ever heard stories or come across testimonies, as I have myself, of people who really were guilty of arbitrarily grave misdeeds but who—when confronted—managed to flat-out deny having done whatever it was they were accused of doing, even in spite of sizable bodies of odorous evidence possibly stacked against them? Of course in some of these cases, the perpetrator at hand may have been deliberately lying his or her pants off. However, what if—alternatively—the perp at hand really was convinced of having done no wrong, but that their conviction would actually be based on self-deception in that they, like Mort, happened to have been the victim of demonic possession and that their demons had worked through them during times when their conscious guard was down, only to fail registering effectively allowing their bodies—during memory-compromising slumbering sleepwalking sessions—to be abused for committing evil?

After it turned out it was Mort himself behind it all the carnage, it may be tempting to now brand him as evil; and regard Amy and Ted as just two more of his victims, innocent and inculpable; that Mort, in feminist language, was just one more case-example of toxic masculinity (gone haywire).

While what he did certainly was evil, to attribute culpability exclusively to him would nonetheless be an exercise of injustice.

First and foremost Mort was sick, suffering from psychotic breaks and maybe even leaning toward schizophrenia, possessed by demonic spirits who cleverly exploited his unresolved hatred for his wife, manipulating his weaknesses to make him dutifully do the work of his demons like a sleepwalking slave, operating in a self{delimiting + sabotaging} haze of predatory self-satisfaction, the causes of which probably do not yet quite transcend the boundary of his conscious awareness.

As such, Mort would be best off if he got rid of his sleepwalker problem at root-level, meaning first of all getting rid of his demons — through deliverance service of some kind. All the people he killed won’t be able to get their lives back and so Mort does need to own up to all of the Bad Karma which his murders brought into the world, all the suffering he caused, all the mourning or worried-sick surviving loved ones he left behind.

And yet he is not exclusively responsible for it all. His wife and Ted also have some share in Mort’s blame. Had his wife not been unfaithful, had they still been married (however happily or unhappily), history would have taken a different turn and the current bloodshed would not have happened. Also had his wife been honest with him right from the start of her affair with Ted, had she not deceived him so extensively, had she not time-and-again presented a false version of her conniving self to Mort in the formative period of a few months running up to the pivotal moment when he caught her sleeping around, the cuckold would then have been spared the temptation to buy into the false reality spun around his unfaithful wife; time-and-again shoved in his face, as if it were as real as death and taxes. Hence, by doing their bit to draw Mort away from sound and sure reality, by tempting him not to divorce from her but from the truth, his wife (+Ted) did have a hand in driving him away from perfect sanity of mind (as well as perhaps facilitating an increased general apprehensiveness toward people; and a downgraded readiness to trust them — ever since finding out so brutally having been duped + stabbed in the back so sneakily, yet so overwhelmingly).

She (+Ted) therefore did have a facilitating role in promoting his progressively psychotic (going on schizophrenic?) states of mind; and she (+Ted) did have a facilitating role in all the evil Mort went on to commit post-separation, inspired he was by a demonically amped-up disconnect from reality; fantastical states of mind during which he may have been mesmerized into viewing himself as nothing but a perfectly-righteous sort of punisher out on entirely vindicated-to-the-possible-point-of-holy kind of missions—immaculately just, indeed dutiful—in which he saw nothing wrong whatsoever in meting out punishment unto those who merely deserve it, squarely so and without question. . . never mind mercy (no chance in hell).

Then again, it should also be taken into account that Mort—insofar as he failed as proper husband—did invite his wife to look for possible spousal substitutes. Hence, Mort does owe it partially to himself that his wife lost romantic interest in him and that his marriage took a nose-dive. Therefore Mort himself does however much share in the guilt which Amy and Ted—in turn—incurred for facilitating all of the bloody misery that ensued from the hands of Mort; and which was portrayed in, what turned out to be, a rather educational and therefore extra valuable movie.

By the way, nearly forgot, behold a real-life example of a sinister sleep-walker suddenly either stoned or high (or both) on a most toxic kind of self-righteousness: in early July 2022, a young American guy by the name of Robert E Crimo III set out on a killing spree during 4th of July celebrations. He went on to take the lives of six people in a show of shooting violence, wounding dozens more. In the video of the linked article, he said he was “like a sleepwalker” who “can’t be stopped”, implying to see that becoming a mesmerized mass-murderer was nothing short of his destiny, his mission in life, one he couldn’t get out of; and so simply gave in to the will of the demons that in all likelihood were within him; (practically sitting back while) allowing free reign to his demonic alter-ego. [pardon my prejudice, if he really was demon-free]

Sudden Reversal in Worship-polarity — Taxi Driver (1976)


Martin Scorsese’s classic Taxi Driver (1976), tells the story of Travis Bickle: a lonesome young New Yorker and honorably-discharged Vietnam veteran who drives the taxi—especially at night—to offset restless boredom and insomnia (possibly suffering from PTSD, thanks to his military service).

Soon into the story, Travis becomes infatuated with a pretty girl named Betsy, who works at the headquarters of a senator running for presidential office named Palantine. Not shying away from cavalierly projecting his own loneliness on the girl during his maiden attempt to woo her, Travis manages to convince Betsy to go out with him for coffee & pie; but then ruins it when stepping up his game by—during their second date—taking her out to a sure porn theater, which unsurprisingly is an immediate turn off for her, a regrettably fatally-severe one as it turns out.

While dating Betsy, in order to find proximity to her, Travis presented himself as a no-questions-asked champion of Palantine, even though he also showed to barely know anything of the politician’s policies. However, after she dumped him, his appreciation for Palantine waned in tandem with his regard for her — indeed, his helter-skelter enchantment for either one of them flipped right on its head, making way for bitter disenchantment (especially rapidly toward Betsy).

Critically facilitated by an utter lack of understanding of everyone involved (including most notably his own person), you might say that Travis first positively idolized both Betsy & Palantine; and then after she gave him the cold shoulder for effectively implicitly humiliating her, his idolization for both objects flipped polarity, whereby superficial love degenerated into reflexive hatred. While at no time ever pausing to think about blaming his own person for suddenly finding himself in a predicament of personal rejection, for example never taking a moment out to think about how painfully embarrassing it must be for a classy girl to be brought down to a plain smut-house or that his showcased affinity for Palantine was feigned & manipulative, it gets so bad—fueled by blind & misplaced vindictiveness he is—that Travis even tries to assassinate Palantine, albeit—luckily for all involved—being a decidedly dimwitted unsuccessful attempt.

It’s almost as if Travis—crippled by his own egocentrism—was practically unable to meaningfully distinguish the pertinent two human objects in the way he related to them, as though he now had come to think that her resolute rejection of him meant both she & Palantine were since in sudden cahoots against him — constituting a hostile conspiracy against him (potentially involving all co-workers at Palantine’s headquarters, like Tom, who even stopped him and saw to his removal from the premises when showing up to confront Betsy at work; and that therefore harming one conspirator, would harm the other(s) as well; as if he saw them—perhaps consistent with a mindset suffering from battlefield-incurred PTSD—as a hostile militant faction, an army of two (or more) eager to wage war upon him like the fanatical anti-Travis task force it were.

By never taking time out to think about what his own role in generating this whole militant tragedy could be, never looking at the (implicitly jumped-up) man in the mirror for the likely chief culprit of the war of sorts he found himself embroiled in, throughout the entire movie Travis never once shows initiative to recognize his own Jungian Shadow, the unconscious “hidden and repressed” part of his inner self that is hard to face because it is laden with dark and unflattering or unduly disowned features of his own character and nature.

Already a little red flag went up when Travis showed to be caught off-guard why the girl selling candy in the porn theater at the beginning of the story refused to give him her name, refusing to accept the advances coming from (yet another) one of those seedy smut-house patrons. Even though he was rejected then-and-there, it didn’t seem to have dawned on him that the dubious sort of establishment he frequented was inherently uninviting to women looking to be half-way decent and self-respecting; as if it follows that Travis has a questionable habit of seeing nothing wrong with interpreting women—by default—with a rather carnal measuring stick; thus only setting himself up for failure when having the blind gall to bring Betsy—classy presidential-leaning Betsy—to a similar sort of establishment.

Indeed, even though he has an unabashed habit to visit seedy porn theaters + his apartment is littered with expensive porn magazines of a Sadomasochistic bent (according to the original script) + even though he habitually pops Benzedrine pills to keep going + eats/lives like a junkie + even though he owns/brandishes a number of illegal guns (to be gratefully made use of in an upcoming mass-murdering bloodbath) + even though he lies about himself to the people he cares most about, like his parents, in fantastical hyper-flattering ways (pretending to have a girl-friend and to be working for the government in top-secret capacity) + even though he implicitly treated Betsy as little more than a whore + then, upon rejection, resorted to demonizing prejudice of hypergeneralizing flavor in his general appraisal of women (“cold and distant” they all would be as if “they’re like a union”) + even though he would try to manipulate and deceive a Secret Service agent in the run-up to his botched assassination attempt (using the magician’s trick of misdirection of attention as well as submitting false personal information), in spite of this impressive laundry list of unflattering personal traits and features, Travis nonetheless shows—throughout the entire story—to insist upon ignoring his own Shadow by self-righteously projecting its hairy elements upon other low-down city-dwellers basically serving as his scapegoats of choice.

Conveniently therefore causally excluding himself from the bleak sociological picture it paints, compressed into a few short sentences, the script captures Travis’ early metaphoric reflection on the social environment in which he was immersed, oozing with disapproving prejudgment that implicitly if unduly makes him look holier-than-thou in comparison:

“April 10, 1972. Thank God for the rain which has helped wash the garbage and trash off the sidewalks. All the animals come out at night: Whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies — sick, venal. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.”

Click to access Taxi-Driver-Script.pdf


The movie ends with a shoot-out in which he cold-bloodedly murders a bunch of guys involved in a practice of child prostitution, revolving around a tween girl named Iris. However, Travis never once showed to stop and question his assumption of righteousness in his role of radical vigilante out for pounds of flesh. Yes, child prostitution is of course a deeply immoral business of human exploitation. But taking the law into one’s own hands and committing premeditated mass-murder is not quite morally kosher either. Had he—however—acted out of self-defense or out of dire need to protect the life of Iris brought into abrupt jeopardy, his bloodshed might have been excusable to the point of ready forgiveness; but this context of emergency was not applicable.

And yet it became clear in the final scenes of the movie that Travis did go on to enjoy a judicial pardon for the bloodbath he caused; saved from having to go to prison for it; spared from having to stew behind bars on transgressions committed by himself. After all, do people have the right to act above the law by willy-nilly administering a string of capital punishments, whether they snuff out the lives of those who sexually exploit children or those who do other evil?

While talking to young Iris, the same conversation in which she—of all people—had the off-the-cuff singular wisdom to confront him with his own “high & mighty” Shadow, Travis voiced his belief that “the cops don’t do nothing” if ever he were to report to them the very real shady things she was involved in. Insofar as he really did place no trust in local law enforcement, we may infer he likely saw himself as licensed, even duty-bound, to act as vigilante hero.

On the other hand, not to be neglected either however, is the unattractive prospect of invoking the help of the police while being in the possession of not just one, nor two, not even three but FOUR illegal firearms, including a specimen of the .44 Magnum hand cannon made immortal in the Dirty Harry movies. In addition, ever since his half-assed assassination attempt went south (done all out in the open, at broad daylight, with a quadrillion witnesses around), Travis would have another concrete reason to want to steer clear from the boys in blue. Throwing a likely further obstacle in the way of contacting the police and thus risk bringing them over, was the ample S&M porn scattered throughout his floppy apartment, making up pretty compelling circumstantial evidence that the proprietor not exactly has a goodie-two-shoes choir-boy mindset himself either.

To the extent they are failing to do their natural duty of protecting citizens as they otherwise should, in particular if neglecting to actively work—and aggressively so—against child-prostitution, the police partially owe it to themselves that vigilantes like Travis show up every so often to rattle the cage, leaving blood and feathers everywhere. Insofar as the police really do neglect real crime, they are responsible for facilitating bloodbaths à la Travis Bickle. Other facilitators are—naturally—first-and-foremost the child-prostitution exploiters themselves. But also Iris’ own parents have had facilitating roles, being her guardians they are by natural law, especially so to the extent they moreover inspired Iris to run away from home.

Travis had his own Shadow to hide, needed to hide, in order to imagine himself being an entirely righteous punisher. As is evidenced from the artificially-inflated & sanitized ways in which he portrayed himself to his parents in his featured letter, but also to Iris the prostitute girl he wanted to set free (again presenting himself as someone important, doing secret work for the government), Travis showed to behave in a manner consistent with someone who longed to redeem his own miserable unfulfilled existence by playing the noble protector, the knight in shining armor saving the day — albeit also the kind of hero who was suicidal, since he did try to kill himself in the immediate aftermath of his bloodbath, yet failed to do so—not out of sudden sensible change of heart —but only because the gun he put to his head had run out of bullets.

The fact that society in general, and the legal system in particular, forgave him for his cold-blooded massacre is not entirely clean in moral sense, if only for the dubious example he went to set for all those people who not just became aware of what he had done but furthermore also found out he—to top it off—even managed to get away for it scot-free. I suppose the world can handle only so many vigilantes going berserk before the hero threatens to turn villain through only-all-too-human miscalculation, where the “wrong people” might end up “accidentally” dead.

Just like the Shadow-denying character named David in the likewise interesting movie called Fear (1996) increasingly resorting to maladaptive Machiavellianism in an awkwardly flawed bid to court the girl of his dreams, other Shadow-denying guys like Travis—even if meaning entirely well—might easily stoop to making errors of judgment in their [impromptu haphazard] missions of self-righteous vigilantism, while yearning to become that hero (whom everyone will talk about till Ragnarok comes crashing in).

In this particular case, however, things went relatively well. Even though people were killed who didn’t quite deserve to be summarily executed on the spot in brutal and gory make-shift death penalties, at least they weren’t uninvolved bystanders haplessly caught in between cross-fires. Also, Iris was saved from the clutches of her abusers; and the abuse-ring built around her: busted, no longer able to abuse other girls; so, good on Travis in that sense at least.

Car-idolatry & Demonic Manifestation by Material Proxy in Christine (1983)

A car like no other…

Imagine that demons are at war with humanity.

Imagine further that DemonX happens to be possessing you. The first thing to do for you to be able to inflict significant [[physical]] suffering on whatever cross-section of the human population around you, is to arm you. The more potent your weapon of choice is, the better. Knifes, guns, flame-throwers, even tanks and why not fighter bombers, all would do nicely—in climbing scale—if inflicting crude carnage would be the sole criterion to work with.

But the obvious down-side now is that you will have to conceal weapons of such nature in everyday life, especially flame-throwers, not to mention tanks, never mind fighter bombers. Casually flaunting them around would easily draw undesirable attention to yourself, including in particular peeping toms & busybodies belonging to law enforcement (or the armed forces if the regular police are reduced to merely scratching their heads).

In order to move around more inconspicuously, more effortlessly, fortunately for your shady possessed self there do exist also less conventional weapons to choose from, less obvious ones that in fact do not primarily serve to inflict [[physical]] damage; thus carrying the added benefit of natural camouflage, rendering the weapon at hand practically undetectable while being deployed in any mundane environment, otherwise as civil as it gets.

A car is an automotive transport vehicle; its innocuous original purpose is entirely civil + above-board: to transport either people or people carrying goods or life-stock or what-have-you. But due to their sturdy metallic constitution and ability to travel at fairly high speeds, not to mention their considerable weight, cars may also be used as weapons—as mass-murderers like the dastardly destructive Darrell Brooks, found guilty today [26OCT22] on six counts of first-degree intentional homicide in the Waukesha Christmas Parade attack, know only all too well—to be more precise: kinetic weapons conveniently camouflaged (ones that no-one ever sees coming. . .).

If a car is deemed the kinetic weapon of choice, the challenge for DemonX now is to usurp—at critical times—the control you normally have over your own person and to then use it for its own nefarious purposes (which, in principle, are independent from yours) — this means DemonX temporarily hijacking your otherwise perfectly autonomous personal control in order to make you use the car to inflict [[physical]] suffering upon other people; the greater the suffering turns out to be, the better (from the perspective of DemonX); for example, by ramming the vehicle squarely into people and or driving clean over them, if possible (twice if need be).

However, in order to not attract incriminating attention to itself, its own creepy agency executed in the nebulous nether regions of your consciousness proper, DemonX would naturally want to make sure that all possibly-involved human minds are fixated on anything or anyone other than itself. One way—capitalized upon in this movie—is to manipulate you and those around you into believing that evil agency resides entirely within the car, the camouflaged kinetic weapon.

[[Notice there’s an interesting parallel with those from the anti-gun lobby insofar as they are keen on attributing evil agency to the gun, yet neglect the person behind the gun pulling its actual trigger. Just like cars, guns—unlike drivers or trigger-pullers—have no agency and as such are inherently inculpable. Cars don’t drive themselves (apart from the modern likes of Google-cars and other new makes). Guns do not pull their own triggers. The focus of law-makers should therefore not so much be the gun as the possible person pulling its trigger, in particular their psyche and especially what might be wrong with it (those who use guns in killing sprees, for example).]]

DemonX therefore has a natural interest in promoting a narrative woven around the fantastical notion that the car would somehow be “bewitched”, alive in a sense; and that, at most, you are the victim of a bewitched car; that DemonX is not and could not possibly be the stealthy chief culprit behind it al; or for that matter, that DemonX even had taken up residence in your body to begin with, the brutal spiritual squatter it factually is.

Have you never noticed, by the way, how evil always manages to be outside, out there, with other people (or things, in this case)? —it can never ever EVER be within, inside of you yourself.

Let’s say you are driving your car and you really do come to believe it has a will of its own, a soul of sorts as it were. You might go on to notice that the foot you press on the gas pedal happens to “automatically” be getting heavier and heavier if only you let it, making the gas pedal go all the way down if only you don’t resist. You may even convince yourself that the car is practically able to drive itself while you barely even have to touch the steering wheel.

Yours is such a wonderful car, such a magical car!

Indeed, it may even appear as though your lovely car can drive itself totally on its own while you doze off for just a minute. And while you are conveniently reduced to a state of slumber, DemonX might just be able to gain control over your now perhaps surprisingly-malleable puppet-like person and use your body to direct the car, say, for the purpose of crashing dead-smack into certain people (e.g. enemies), even squarely driving over them if not too much to ask. Yet it may seem to you, provided such is even at all possible in your slumbering sleepwalking zombified mentally-compromised state, as if it’s the magical automobile doing such all by its autonomous self.

So now all you need is a proper motive, because unlike Grand Theft Auto (the game), you cannot just drive over any old random person in the street and plausibly claim the moral high-ground at the same time. Oh no, in order for you to do some proper damage in the human world and yet still be able to later sleep like a proper baby at night, you need to have a defendable excuse; one steeped in a need for self-defense or revenge would do nicely thank you. In fact, a motive spun out of the fabric of self-defense AND revenge would probably be best.

Backed up by my own personal experience, since I have been possessed by 6 naughty spirits myself (until 2009), it is assumed (here and in my other work) that demonic possession may manifest classically through one or more alter-egos, or alters in short. The prima facie antagonist in Secret Window (2004), for instance, could be interpreted as an allegorical representation of a demonic alter-ego belonging to the prima facie protagonist himself (thus immediately implying the prima facie protagonist being, in ultimate fact, the real antagonist all along). By the way, other cinematographic portrayals of demonic possession are (obviously) the classic The Exorcist (1973); or the fascinating later The Exorcism of Emily Rose (2005).

However, besides manifesting through the person they possess, it is hypothesized here in this analysis that demons may manifest also ostensibly externally, through a material object that happens to be associable with the possessed person, an object like a car. When it comes to committing evil (or acting with “redeeming” if destructive power), the benefit of attributing agency to an outside material object is easy to guess (if a little nutty).

If you can blame, say a car, for committing deeds factually evil, you might excuse down-playing your own evil possible agency. You might even rationalize away your own evil if a “credible” case could be made for you to have merely been acting under the command of a divine car. How can service to a Godlike agent ever be a far off from being divine itself?

Should—however—charades be blown and curtains fall, and you do have to face your guilt for misdeed involvement, you might resort to the defense of having rather been a victim (of possession by a car) than any remote semblance of actual perpetrator.

“The car made me do it. . .”
— famous last words.

((Let’s hope denial of personal responsibility, when nevertheless reached adulthood (or getting there), can be kissed goodbye in this 21st century))

Hence, we could have not one but two manifestation modes of demonic possession. Demons may manifest through either alter-egos or associable material proxies. Let’s call the former {{manifestation by alter-ego}}, the latter {{manifestation by material proxy}}.

Which brings me to the film titled Christine (1983), again—just like Secret Window (2004)—based on a Stephen King story. Normally, a car is just a soulless material object that clearly has no will or agency of itself at all. Not so with the car called Christine, special Christine. Thanks to King’s literary ability to bring images to life, turning idolatrous fiction into veritable fact, now an automobile has come to life if you will, showcasing qualities remarkably personifying — normally indicating an underlying human nature.

The question perhaps remains: what [“transcendental”] variant of human nature is this exceptional car going to resemble most closely?

Might the answer to this question possibly be consistent with the answer to the question as to what alien nature could not just possibly be at war with human nature, but also in a fashion most passionate, most intense, most tenacious, most brutal and most merciless?

Arnie, a clumsy and nerdy teenage high-school student suffers an episode of bullying during the first day at school by a group of boy peers up to no good (preying on the vulnerable). When he hears his friend is in trouble, the jock named Dennis heads over, jumps into the breach and saves Arnie from a beat-down also involving the beefy Sadistic leader of the juvenile thugs, Buddy, pulling a switch-blade. Unable to defend himself, a pathetic Arnie accidentally hurts himself—after receiving just a little push—by slipping over the contents of food-items from his own lunch now ungraciously scattered over the floor underneath his feet, thanks to Buddy and his knife. Further humiliating his victim, Buddy—while having full eye-contact with his victim—ruins Arnie’s glasses by demonstrably stepping on them. Dennis knocks down Buddy with a retaliatory sucker-punch, but is then put in his place himself by another bully from the group.

Before things could get further out of hand, however, an arriving teacher intervenes, putting a stop to the bullying scene; furthermore catching Buddy lying about the knife he did pull mere minutes ago. Before leaving the site for the Principal’s Office to be formally reprimanded, a now thoroughly angered Buddy—conveniently blinding himself to his own most prominent culpability—gives Dennis little more than an intimidating stare; but goes out of his way to scapegoat poor shook-up Arnie, menacingly violating boundaries already by getting in his victim’s face, using hand to point an accusatory dagger-like index finger mere inches away from Arnie’s frightened eyes,
trying to intimidate him even further by punching the wall behind and right next to the shocked lad while swearing loudly in his face: “I’ll fix you!” and “You’re gonna wish you were never born!”

Arnie has now been threatened to unspecific and therefore arbitrarily severe degree. For all we know, his life is now in jeopardy; and so naturally—unless suicidally depressed—would like to be able to neutralize any possible future violent actions coming from Buddy, viewed by the self-misleading juvenile delinquent (waiting to happen) himself as entirely vindicated retaliatory ones no doubt [pardon my prejudice, if I’m wrong]. Insofar as he takes his new nemesis seriously and insofar as Buddy the high-schooler deserves to be taken seriously, the decidedly emotionally-charged threat could count as a serious reason for Arnie to become alarmed and mobilized.

Being humiliated—and allowing himself to be humiliated—so thoroughly and in front of quite a few peers, including most notably his (best) friend, might be reason for him to doubt his self-esteem as a result. All in the service of apparent self-preservation, not wanting to find himself again in such painful a spot of vulnerability ever again, not wanting to be shamed in public ever again, Arnie could suddenly find great virtue in getting his hands on anything or anyone that radiates stalwart protection, together with intimidating status along with broadcasting any other charismatic quality which might help to improve his personal image [in the redeeming exact opposite direction of humiliation].

On their way home in Dennis’ car, Arnie’s attention—from out of nowhere—is grabbed by the sight of an old ramshackle car put up for sale in the yard of the house belonging to an unknown senior man named LeBay. Right then and there, in spite of Dennis warning him not to, Arnie decides to buy the worn-out vehicle on the fly — an antique 1958 Plymouth Fury that the previous owner, the now-deceased brother of LeBay, had named Christine.

Having failed to first verify his purchase with them, when he brings the car home, his parents show immediate disapproval of Arnie’s whimsical acquisition and refuse him parking space at their residence. However, a suddenly remarkably headstrong Arnie—in turn—refuses to concede defeat. In spite of now getting into a fight with his parents over it, with his mother expressly forbidding him to keep “any car at this house”, Arnie—in the loyal company of Dennis—defiantly drives a barely-running chain-smoking Christine to a local do-it-yourself garage.

With God knows how many car-carcasses in stacked fashion littering the periphery of the terrain, the place is run by a bad-tempered old man named Darnell, who right away flexes his authoritarian muscles by lambasting Arnie for flaunting the nerve to drive in with his generously fuming “mechanical asshole” without a seeming care in the world. Notwithstanding his annoying prejudicial defensiveness (perhaps the result of bad past personal experiences), clearly showing to have either a piss-poor mood or something against guys like the adolescent newcomers (or both), cranky old Darnell does show to—at least—have some mercy in his heart by allowing Arnie to park Christine inside, also granting the new patron access to the resident tools and junk pile of parts to patch his newfound love back up.

However many days later, inspired by him virtually pushing his friend Dennis out of the way for the slightly selfish purpose of running some errands for Darnell in order to compensate the cost of refurbishing Christine, his mother and Dennis together can be seen lamenting over the profound change in Arnie’s attitude they both affirm to notice since he acquired her — consistently prioritizing he indeed does do, to spend time putting the car back together; his darling automobile, his beloved mistress on wheels.

Alarmed by a disconcerting story about the worryingly transfixing vehicle which Arnie’s mother had told him, when a concerned Dennis returns to LeBay to ask about the previous owner of Christine, the older tells the younger that the brother only cared for one thing: that car—even after his own five-year-old daughter choked to death in it and after his wife used it to kill herself—and that he used it to kill himself as well.

One fine fair day, while being out on the field partaking in a football match, Dennis sees Arnie driving up in a since completely-restored Christine, looking like an attractive brand new car, a sure sight for sore eyes. However, it isn’t just Arnie climbing out of Christine. It turns out the kid—heretofore an awkward-leaning incel—managed to court a girl. . . but she’s not quite comparable to any plain girl from further down the block. Indeed, the suddenly aspiring Don Juan managed to step out with no less than the most beautiful girl of school, Leigh — the very same girl whom a smart-looking Dennis himself was having a crush on, though had yet to be able to date (even though he had asked her).

Distracted by the eye-catching sight of Arnie and Leigh going on to kiss each-other romantically like regular movie-stars for everyone to see right on the front hood of Christine, right next to the field—right there in front of his nose—Dennis has himself an accident; one so severe in fact, it makes him land in hospital.

You be the judge as to how much the jock could have facilitated his own accident by quite possibly suddenly experiencing a pang of jealousy for his friend Arnie daring to kiss Dennis’ very own crush (right in public too, mind you); knocking the lights clean out of his focus, as possible consequence.

One rainy evening, Arnie takes Leigh in Christine to a drive-in cinema. Completely ignoring the silver screen, they are making out and getting the hang of it when all-of a-sudden Leigh stops his sexual advances; and to his further annoyance even dares to leave the car, despite the cats-and-dogs uninviting pouring rain even. Arnie forces himself to get out too and catches up with her, ever more wettened by the rain, while waiting close-by for a bus to take her home. There she confesses not being able to go on inside of Christine and that she hates the car, asserting—not without reason—that Arnie cares more for Christine than her.

And by hurling back a single short summarily-judgmental sentence revolving around the one word “crazy”, Arnie throws a casual lie—nonetheless full of meaning—her way in return. Might his flight into deception have been inspired by a sudden inner sting of shame + guilt upon, in fact, realizing he was loving a car more than her? Might he instinctively, if only for a second, have gauged the proper level of human regard when applicable to his intimate / romantic life?

Leigh declares, again correctly, that he is spending more time on the car than on her. She even accuses Christine of being jealous of Leigh. Note that, normally any psychiatrist or psychoanalyst worth their salt will now have reason to question Leigh’s sanity. Cars—inherently lifeless as they are—surely have no feelings, including ones of jealousy. But in this movie, where a car has sprung to life, Leigh may be forgiven for otherwise projecting her own jealousy upon the automotive vehicle, otherwise serving as her choice material scapegoat — conveniently “absorbing” and “carrying away” Leigh’s own guilt for being jealous.; out of sight, out of conscience, sort of thing.

If only Christine were now to somehow manage exiting her life in actual fact, Leigh’s jealousy problem would vanish like snow falling into a furnace — gone like magic!

In the meantime, unfortunately for her, Leigh has still not learned to deal with her own underlying psychological problem of projecting her jealousy upon other objects, including in this particular case: a material scapegoat; but perhaps, more generally, human objects as well.

Leigh could—however—accuse Arnie of stooping to the worship of Christine; and that, more specifically, his commitment to idolize the material object—or any chunk of matter, for that matter—might just get in the way of any state of Golden Rule-compliance which ideally does have to exist between himself and Leigh; in that, by worshiping Christine, he already appears to be guilty of unreasonably neglecting the neighbor he has in Leigh, the one fine very neighbor whom he—after all—had previously seduced while perhaps making use of Christine to that end; or certainly, at the very least, must have been exploiting the boost in self-confidence he is suggested to get to enjoy from his (overt or private) idolization of a Christine since turned pristine; having invested plenty of time and resources to bring him to a station at which he could gratefully make use of the gain in personal attractiveness which publicly flaunting Christine as great-looking car—maybe even trophy car—is suggested to have afforded him.

All for the glory of the Golden Rule, would he—after all—have liked it himself had the roles been reversed? — if Leigh instead would have been the one spending a ridiculous amount of spare time on maintaining a choice car of herself, say a sexy 1970 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray, and so she were now the one to neglect bestowing soothing sufficient maintenance time on poor poor Arnie?

Flowers—whether of male or female gender—do need a bit of water AND a few rays of sunshine to grow, do they not?

Utilizing the slightly manipulative pretext of wanting to prevent catching colds, Arnie nevertheless convinces her to get back in the car with him.

Stating it to be a girl, in order to express her hatred for Christine, Leigh punitively slaps her seat. Arnie tells her not to do this, and—somewhat dramatically in a self-pitying sort of fragile way—complains that seemingly “nobody likes my car these days.” In other words, by expressing this one tentative sentence, Arnie finds himself teetering on the brink of a cliff, a mere few millimeters away from reinforcing in his mind the negative prejudice that ‘everyone’ is quick to be a natural enemy of Christine, the one elevated material object which lends personal status and a steely aura of protection to his person, presumed to otherwise be naked + deficient and vulnerable.

By urging the removal from his life of the one thing which he implies to be in great need of, Leigh’s insinuation—on top of his own self-undercutting speculative prejudice—could therefore easily provoke from his end a contravening (silent) declaration of war against ‘everybody’, also sweeping in Leigh herself (if she keeps it up). It would also be but an entirely justified defensive war to wage, insofar as receiving Arnie’s prejudicially-warped idolatry-tainted perspective sympathetically.

Leigh grabs a sandwich from the dashboard when Arnie exits Christine to fix a windshield wiper suddenly croaking. The radio now automatically turns on and the car mysteriously lights up like a Christmas tree on fluorescent steroids. With the inside of the mystical car readily enveloped in a suspiciously supernatural bright white light, Leigh starts to choke on a bite of her sandwich (the second choking incident happening in Christine). A readily alarmed Arnie tries to open the driver’s door to get in and help her; but locks spontaneously. Although in the grip of rising panic, Leigh eventually manages to unlock her own door—however—by pulling up the lock plunger. An assertive bystander rushes in to perform the Heimlich maneuver on her, successfully, thereby saving her life; mind you, while Arnie was helplessly witnessing the incident of emergency from a short distance, yet misinterpreted the normally quite charitable gesture to sooner be an act of molestation (perpetrated by a Cheeky Opportunist rather than Good Samaritan) and was vocally protesting accordingly — the scene admittedly, arguably on purpose to accentuate his vantage point, does look a bit sexually charged in support of Arnie raising some concern.

In all reasonability, it’s not terribly far-fetched for him to rapidly rise in jealousy in reaction to this stranger man suddenly having his stranger hands all over the girl whom Arnie could have been calling his own with more surety had he not apparently neglected her of late.

Should someone now utter the idea that Christine just tried to kill Leigh, using guile to lock Arnie out and to make Leigh choke on her food, such might normally inspire calls for psychiatric help. But in this movie, such a suggestion may be forgiven, indeed sooner found entirely plausible; where all those who receive Christine warily, show to staunchly project creepy features of their own Shadow on their scapegoat of shared choice, normally entirely lifeless, yet for this particular cinematographic occasion brought to magical life (thus leaving their anti-Christine prejudicial takes to be entirely vindicated).

The evening having turned sour, he drops her off at her parents’ house. While standing together on its porch, Arnie tries to reconcile with a Leigh once again conveying her hatred for Christine, urging Arnie to get rid of the car—the femininely personified vehicle—her rival; blaming him for failing to perform the life-saving maneuver on her instead (thus showing to have failed in his natural duty as her protector). She once more expresses her intuition that Christine is jealous of her — therefore yet again projecting her own feelings of jealousy on what normally, with the exception of places like Hollywood, is an object entirely unsuitable for soaking up feelings, including ones of jealousy; entirely undeserving and unsuitable for bearing the guilt that goes with those feelings (and be treated in such materialistically scapegoating fashion during whatever sacrificial ritual accompanied by however much festive fanfare and or ceremonial ado — anyone ever heard of the Cremation of Care ritual btw?).

In turn, in what in reality would be a most rational imperative to express, Arnie tells her not to blame her choking mishap on Christine, normally the most unlikely suspect any master-detective could ever hope to discover, normally entirely inherently immovable, normally a perfectly statically-natured machine, the completely unalive metallic contraption it is, totally devoid of the one organic instrument which would be most welcome when it comes to inducing choking incidents: namely the lovely multi-purposed and technically versatile human hand in operative mode (two, if need be; even wrapped around your pretty little neck, in sufficiently squeezing fashion as well, if need be).

But then Arnie blows his advantage when furthermore daring to state—in an obvious stroke of countervailing projection based on prejudice (the hormonal incel he was)—that she’s acting up out of sexual frustration. Blindly misreading her, he then leans in for the kiss, smirking slightly smugly (with a touch of teasing condescension). Evidently not buying into Arnie’s dodgy slightly sexually-degrading take of things, she pushes him away and retires inside while clearly showing to have yet to resolve misgivings about all that had transpired.

That night, Buddy and his shady buddies sneak inside of Darnell’s garage, wasting little time to put on their little destroyer hats, readily transforming into little destroyer naughty boys when they proceed to totally smash up Christine while not one other soul is watching. At some point, one of the more cheeky hoodlums stoops to a more intimately intrusive offense by daring to break into her—eagerly torturing her insides, gratuitously knifing the interior—triggering the on-board radio to spontaneously turn on, playing Little Richard’s catchy rock ‘n roll song—as it happens—about how “you keep on knocking, but you can’t come in”. Yet the ominous meaning is lost—lock, stock & barrel—on the crooked kids as they continue to slavishly cater, like hypnotized buzzed-out addicts, to their dastardly destructive lust for visiting violation upon poor Christine, completely defenseless to the abuse she now is.

Left painfully vulnerable during the attack, being all by her unprotected lonely self, so easily susceptible to falling victim, goes to show that Christine and Arnie are bound together in symbiotic union, where one depends upon the other for protection, a condition mutually fulfilled when Arnie is driving her (and he would otherwise be able to store her safely in a domain under his perfect control).

Arnie and Christine are most effective when in effect acting as an army of two.

The relationship Arnie has with his car, which otherwise normally exists entirely mentally – in his own mind, constitutes conscience-wise also a most effective mental kind of License to be Naughty that you may give yourself once accepting to be a blind though gratefully worshipful servant of an external object, manifesting itself as a Dictatorial (and Predatory?) will, likely arbitrarily Petty as well. That is, if you can tell yourself: I am doing this arbitrarily dodgy thing or that randomly bloody thing for the glory of my (Brutal) Car, whose will supersedes everything – means everything to me, then no deed is too foul to commit.

While you are convinced of only doing the right thing—however ghastly that thing be—in your unquestioned service to a transcendental deemed immaculate authority, by believing to be serving perfect justice only, you might just along the way suffer few problems of a conscientious nature.

However, if you are acting on your own capacity, knowing to be acting on your own authority, you always have to deal with the full weight of the conscience you then will have to bear all on your own. In morally ideal sense, unable you then are to numb or shrug off any otherwise uneasy kind of inner feelings, no longer able to deflect any underlying guilt, knowing better than to redirect culpability simply upon whatever scapegoats are handy.

The next morning, Arnie takes Leigh to Darnell’s to pick up his wallet from Christine, where he says he left it last night. While appearing to have since made up with her, walking hand-in-hand into the garage, sweet-talking to her about how they next should go to the same college together, Arnie’s mood does an abrupt 180 when he catches the first glimpse of Christine, or what’s left of her, just around the corner. With eyes popping and hurting Leigh as he squeezes her hand in response to acute sensory shock, he sees what happened to his precious car.

As he delicately inspects a totaled Christine and Leigh touches him in what ordinarily could pass for an entirely benign gesture of comfort, it instantly only sends him flying into a blind rage; screaming at the top of his lungs, veins bulging across the face, to not touch him—even casually demeaning her by name-calling her “shitter!”—bellowing like a tsunami crashing into the shore that Christine’s terrible new state is just what she wanted.

Note that the word “shitter”—in American phonetics—is eerily similar to “sinner”, especially when pronounced in the wildly shouting manner with which he did (no offense to those who are loud due to righteous indignation or other valid reasons); the latter term also being remarkably appropriate—in his mind—to summarize Leigh, since Arnie does unreservedly worship Christine [Positive Christine-idolatry] (prostrating, tire-licking level); whereas Leigh clearly does the opposite, she shows to anti-worship Christine by reflexively hating it [Negative Christine-idolatry]. Hence, in Arnie’s mind ever more knocked out of any orbit resembling rationality and mental sanity, by openly hating his dearly-beheld object of worship (his choice object of lovey-dovey “love”), Leigh sooner does indeed engage in blaspheming sin.

Yet in all fairness, when sobering reality takes the place of hypnotic falsity [cinematographically portrayed here], Leigh was suffering from jealousy and her own envy—the mentally taxing thought-consuming state it is—may have induced her own choking incident by leaving her food-processing ability compromised correspondingly, resulting in a disturbed swallowing reflex; a regrettable state of susceptibility, in turn, implicitly encouraged—inspired + facilitated—by an aggravating Arnie being too much mesmerized by Christine. Not entirely innocent either, not a pure victim, Leigh is caught up in the same fantasy world as Arnie’s, a makebelieve type of reality conjured up in their minds by a commitment to a shared kind of idolatry — yet with conflicting polarities. Leigh is suffering from a type of insanity that is compatible with Arnie’s own insane world, but in antagonistic unsympathetic fashion.

War is brewing.

The specific picture of a Christine not just reduced to a severely smashed-up state, thoroughly kicked out of commission; but more meaningfully, a car—formerly classy and pretty—since violently reduced to a disgracefully useless and humiliatingly worthless heap of soon-to-be scrap metal, does tend to ire those who “love” the piece of automotive machinery for its otherwise purported glorious splendor (=worship). However, its visibly verifiable crashed and burned real status does tend to please those who “hate” the femininized vehicle for its purported terribly evil nature (=anti-worship).

In Arnie’s mind centered around positively idolizing Christine, Leigh’s gesture of apparent sympathy could easily be interpreted as having an untrustworthy inauthentic feel to it, manipulative in a condescending way it would be — insofar as it was perceived to have been done out of Golden Rule-perturbing personal haughtiness; therefore a tad bit malicious at heart; thus only pouring salt on the wound he already had sustained from his sympathetic connection with a gravely-if-not-fatally wounded Christine. This could explain why he finds redeeming justice in now lashing out at his girl-friend, as a matter of standing up for his real chief object of “love”; staunchly and dutifully defending its holy honor from all those who so much as hint at mocking her or dare to dream of treating her irreverently — insolent insinuated fools who simultaneously show to have the stunning audacity to drum up and put up for sale the cheap kind of “respect” that screams out being feigned + hollow and belittling, thereby recognizably evil in essence; simulated pity, with a touch of scorn, for the loser so so sore . . . (=micro-aggression, for sure).

During dinner that night back home, his mother expresses regret for what happened to his exotic car. Rather than be open to her kind words of sympathy, however, a morose Arnie perceives them only in offense—maybe suspecting mum, even though reduced to tears, also being insincere + condescending—and immediately counters by blaming them for the tragedy unfolded.

In all fairness, Arnie does have a point to some extent. The parents were the ones who expressly forbade him to park Christine at their home. While they naturally are entitled to govern the space in and around their house as they see fit, it is strikingly odd that they evidently continued to refuse lending parking space to their own son even after he had completely renovated Christine and turned her into—what appeared to be—mint condition, conjuring up a charming set of wheels indeed!

Hence, insofar as the car would not have been touched if parked at their residence, his parents did have a facilitating role in Christine ending up getting totaled. It seems self-evident to me, insofar as parents are naturally responsible for their children (at least when still being children), that they then carry—by logical extension—natural responsibility for their children’s possessions as well (or at least share in their care).

In Arnie’s mind (especially retrospectively after fixing up Christine, after getting to optimize his reason for idolizing her), his parents had already revealed themselves as enemies of Christine—the rapidly rising princess on wheels—by their very refusal of letting her stay at their house, even after she had grown completely presentable. The “disrespectful” attitude which they ostensibly manifested toward the one object which Arnie idolized, the one object having exceptional meaning and unique value in his life, could already have inspired him to question his love for his parents (the more so, the more the basis for that love would be porous [under-developed]); his patience with them might just—if triggered again—falter and tumble down the abyss (and then pray for resurrection).

The diplomatic father offers to buy his son a new car. Little does the nonetheless well-meaning & generous parent know that Christine has exactly zero-point-zero patience for any remote kind of competition merely flirting with but the faintest of inclinations to attempt to lay claim to the son’s charm. A bitter Arnie has the nerve to retort by rudely throwing “fuck you” at his mother and promptly leaves the table in a wounded huff, in a slight notch above mumbling announcing with icy determination that he will restore Christine himself. His father runs after him, intent on disciplining someone. Yet his attempt to make Arnie apologize to his mother is only met with superseding force in which the son rudely calls the father a “motherfucker”, grabs his old man by the throat in a humiliating show of excessive and unjustified power to make him cease and desist altogether, which he does too (maybe that’s also only for the better, for now). Arnie then retires to his room for the remainder of the night.

He returns to the garage the next day. While having his arms stretched out lovingly over the battered car looking like one hell of a mess, he pours lavish affection over her. Showering kindness over a Christine looking like she was literally hit by a truck, this is what he says to her very gently:
“We’ll make it better, huh? . . Can’t hurt us anymore. . . Not if we work together. . . We’ll show those shitters what we can do. . .”

After he releases his delicate embrace from her to get some tools from a work bench a few feet away, his sweet soothing words and the invigorating application of physical affection show to have a supernaturally healing effect in that the grievously abused car, to Arnie’s repressed delight and joy, goes to repair and assemble itself back together again all by its magical self. In a matter of minutes, Christine has restored herself completely to her former spick-and-span glory.

Like a runaway freight-train fiercely chugging forward, steaming ahead full throttle, robotically rolling on like a monastic mechanical slave, impossible to stop or even slow down, blasting to smithereens any obstacle daring to get in its way — a reckoning is coming. . .

. . . you can be sure of that.

He had failed to protect Leigh, that was bad enough already; but now the one object in his life which cannot be touched, had not just been touched but grievously harmed; and such offence, utterly unholy, diabolic, is absolutely unforgivable. . .

Something’s got to give.

Little destroyer naughty boys,
watch out!

Arnie soon sets out on a gritty mission of revenge; using Christine to first go after Moochie, one of Buddy’s gang who took part in beating her up.

One night she finds him alone after work: stalking his ass, then chasing him—with unmatched fanaticism—for his life. When she soon manages to corner him like a scared little animal, Moochie pulls out a knife in a pathetic possible last ditch effort to defend himself, boldly challenging his vehicular tormentor by defiantly threatening her driver with the optimistic words, “You’re a dead man now!”

And good luck with that.

Even though the small garage type of space into which Moochie has fled cannot accommodate Christine without her sustaining severe damage to her superficial body, that doesn’t stop the killer car from slowly grinding forward, engine revving to the maniacal max, burning rubber from the wildly rotating tires swiftly smoking up the place, violently jarring her inflexible body into the claustrophobic cauldron where a taunting Moochie is standing at the opposite end. Fueled by extreme hatred-driven determination, along the way gladly busting her front lights + destroying her guards + shredding her doors, Christine keeps inching forward until the bloodthirsty and thoroughly worked-up piece of automotive machinery finally reaches the legs of a victim now utterly petrified and screaming in agony.

The poor bastard is suggested to have learned his lesson a terrifyingly hard way, suffering a most graphic and cruel death.

Such drama.

One down, three to go.

Later back in the hospital, Arnie lies cold as ice to Dennis when claiming to have just spent a “shitload of money” on making Christine “perfecto” again; furthermore lying by omission when suggesting to have nothing to do with Moochie’s murder; all the while Christine’s partner-in-crime can be seen shifting his facial expression gradually into what could perhaps pass for a demonically disaffected dead stare (as if possessed by an artificially hyped-up conviction of cold self-righteousness).

Arnie likewise lies to a detective of State Police by the name of Junkins, who shows up at school to ask him a few questions: about how he managed to get Christine so squarely back on her wheels again when the detective heard from Leigh and others, she was gone for good, a total loss. After Arnie retorts by making a case built on concealed mere quicksand that the damage inflicted turned out to not be as bad as it looked, Junkins next asks about where he bought the suggested rare kind of paint for redoing Christine; inspiring Arnie to theatrically fantasize he tossed away the receipt. Junkins finishes up with the tragic Moochie incident, to which Arnie lies and lies by omission when affirming to know nothing of his gruesome murder, even managing to crack a joke when the detective says they had to scrape off Moochie’s legs—cut in half they were—with a shovel.

In the evening, smitten with apparent despair, Arnie phones up Leigh, declaring with seeming aching heart that he loves her, and that they should be given one more try. Leigh says she cares for him, but when she wavers to respond in a for him favorable way, an emotional and impatient Arnie—within seconds—slings a rude “fuck you bitch!” her way and smashes down the receiver on the phone’s base in a burst of frustrated anger, albeit at once followed by a show of heart-felt remorse for his impulsive action.

That same evening, Buddy together with a buddy can be seen heading out in Buddy’s snappy 1970-ish Ford Mustang to pick up another buddy named Vandenberg. Before long, Christine pops up in the rear-view mirror and starts tailing them. They drive to an out-of-town gas station where Vandenberg turns out to be working. Moments later, Christine breaks unto the scene and immediately drives full-speed ahead—like a self-propelled battering ram on wheels from hell—straight into a flank of Buddy’s now empty + parked Mustang, figuratively breaching the gate by wrecking the accursed rival vehicle to fairly decent degree already. Even though having trouble to release her eager fangs from the wounded Mustang, Christine eventually manages to let go while pulling back, only to switch to an even more cataclysmic role—that of destroyer invader—and after having eked out a doable runway for herself, smashes headlong into Buddy’s car with the pedal to the metal for a second time, like a rocket torpedo on wild wheels now jamming herself all the way into the compound until grinding to a halt far into the station’s garage, punching a gas-leak into the pushed-in helpless Mustang as she goes, unabashedly crashing the place—sprung ablaze—a few seconds later when the whole bloody circus accidentally ignites, pulling out just before the host of her prey suffers a devastating secondary explosion, unceremoniously sending the sorry site sky-high — suddenly and remorselessly reduced to the volatile fate of exiting its existence in a huge balloon of fire.


Within minutes burned and roasted to a clear crisp, Vandenberg and Buddy’s other buddy have thus come to a painfully shameful abrupt end; instantly gone up in a furious spectacle of flame-fueled violence.

So tragic.

Three down, one to go.

Now bountifully doused in burning gasoline all over, eerily enveloped in menacing flames, Christine purposefully if leisurely chases after and then carelessly and nonchalantly drives clean over a formerly intimidating and heretofore over-towering bully named Buddy—in sharp diametrical contrast—now, like a wounded prey fearing for his shivering life, desperately trying in vain to scamper away on foot with his pathetic tail tucked between his pitiful legs; suddenly so very naked + deficient + vulnerable himself without the benefit of the armor-like protection afforded by the one car which—while carried on the metallic wings of automotive Valkyries—should be arriving in automotive Valhalla any minute now.


Such a shame.

The hero on wheels of steel has made sure that all bullies who trashed her the other night, and who earlier happened to have humiliated Arnie, have since been taken care of; permanently and in thoroughly humiliating fashion too (you betcha).

Lethal power steam-rolling all over your bullying ass, just like that. Mess with Christine (or Arnie) only if you are tired of living. Shaming her (or Arnie) is but inviting your own demise. Destruction and annihilation in a torrent of blood and gore is all you will ever know. Pain and bloody shame, my friend, is yours to keep for every single second of the remainder of your miserable life, artificially + drastically cut short with extreme (if furtive) pleasure.

Insofar as Arnie had been yearning for revenge, he now may savor the satisfying culmination of his redemption. The inevitable consequence of his bloody rampage going at the expense of his own humanity, does not seem to matter to him. Getting to soak up the intoxicating awe he might (tacitly) be hoping for—coming from all those souls who do turn out to appreciate his ferocious vehicular notoriety—transforming into that Fearsome Specter of Steel, does come with a price, but one he might just be willing to pay.

After all, where some see a villain, others see a hero.

When a banged-up Christine returns to the garage, smoking like a generous chimney from all possible cavities, in desperate need of a new paint-job and windows left impossible to see through from obscenely rich soot + tar deposits, grumpy old Darnell receives the mysterious car—looking like it had one hell of a rough night—warily from a distance in the office he was otherwise about to vacate for home. He had warned Arnie already on day one, not to bring his vehicle in any exorbitantly fuming kind of state to the garage. Hence, on edge from the start, the apprehensive garage holder—armed with a shot-gun (because you never know)—tentatively sets out to inspect Christine when parked, though strangely with no-one disembarking. To his astonishment, he finds her utterly abandoned upon managing to open the driver’s door still hot as hell.

Darnell hesitatingly enters yet unapologetically sits right down in the driver’s seat, only to make the door close shut all by its mystical self; and the old grumpy garage holder is unforgivably punished for his unchecked nosiness by slowly-but-surely getting crushed, dying a horrific death of suffocation when the seat automatically adjusts itself in the direction of the steering wheel, further and further — as if moved by evil magic.

Arnie returns to Darnell’s the next morning to pick up Christine, but instead of having his heart warmed by the brightening sight of his favorite set of wheels, is first greeted inside by detective Junkins on account of the garage owner earlier having been found dead in Arnie’s car. In sharp contrast with the abysmal condition she sported yesterday evening, Christine is now suspiciously looking like a snazzy brand new automobile once more. Like a true devotee of Machiavelli, Arnie manages to hang up a bullshit story revolving around the entirely fictitious theme of having no clue what the hell happened last night.

Innocent as doves.

That evening, Arnie drives to Dennis’ home to fetch his friend. Since dismissed from hospital, while approaching Christine, Dennis is walking on crutches and—already defensive (perhaps rooted in however much [consciously disowned] self-guilt for helping to cause his own accident)—casually teases with blasphemy when derogatorily referring to the car with special powers as an “old rust bucket” — a cheeky remark which already noticeably ticks off Arnie. In the mind of the one true champion of Christine, Dennis’ offhandedly vulgar filthy words effectively constitute a likely minor though-not-to-be-neglected verbal act of Negative Christine-idolatry—offhandedly disrespecting the one object that must be held immaculate, beyond reproach—instantly begging for an honor-restoring parity response from the one who does the exact opposite from Dennis by practicing Positive Christine-idolatry.

Also interesting, Arnie doesn’t admit being directly offended himself so much as Christine’s when he counters all grim and solemn with “You wanna watch out what you call my car. She’s real sensitive.” In his own mind, Arnie is only standing up for his true love, which can only be a cardinal virtue, even found entirely selfless and easily noble. Within the context of the movie, Arnie is right on target; yet normally would otherwise be projecting his own hair-triggered defensiveness upon Christine — scapegoated once again, yet inherently unsuitable to even bear personifying qualities due to the material object she still is.

Dennis apologizes for his off-the-cuff apparent indiscretion, which somewhat appeases Arnie; who nonetheless doesn’t look well, gradually growing an ever more disconcerting maniacal look on his face, with dark and foreboding circles around the eyes.

[[Projection is an ego-defense mechanism by which certain unattractive personal traits are disowned, only to—with however much judgmental noise/spectacle—recognize them in someone else, say an enemy or scapegoat or persona otherwise non grata (whether those traits are really there to be found in that someone or not). Projection by proxy may be defined as an eXternalizing generalization of projection in that now traits are disowned associable not with the projector themselves but another (eXternal) person, which then as usual the projector judgmentally ascribes to yet someone else. Note that, although in real life such would be an absurdity (nut-house material), Christine is here taken to be a person of sorts (personification of a material object). If Christine’s personhood is to be denied, as is—strictly speaking—perfectly rational yet not applicable in the movie-context, it might be better to instead speak of Projection by material proxy.]]

While sitting inside of Christine, drinking beer together on the road, Dennis expresses his worry for Arnie lately and how much he has changed over the last few months. In what normally could count as a little red flag indicating the execution of an act of projection by proxy (more accurately in psychiatric sense: projection by material proxy), Dennis shows to lay chief blame upon Christine for what he sees happening with his friend and thereby neglects to recognize that Arnie’s own psyche is growing increasingly dark and ominously volatile.

Note that normally Dennis would now be lying since cars are inculpable; but in the surrealistic context of the movie, Dennis is being prejudicial instead of deceptive.

Effectively denying the fact that his friend either disposes—or has the right to dispose—over proper agency and responsibility (also seen in the racist / condescending phenomenon called Bigotry of Low Expectations), Dennis therefore fails to identify the real chief focal point of culpability for all the drama unfolding in the world around the spellbound car-idolater: which is Arnie himself, while being unconsciously allied to the evil residing within, alien spirits that may be expected to work together as a team however deep in his unconscious mind to raise artificial more consciously-experienced mental image impressions revolving around the theme of his car having a personifying identity, not just of a living object having humanoid nature, but having deadly will as well, of deadly goes-without-saying importance too, naturally preferring perfect loyalty + reflexive obedience.

On top of oil and gasoline as usual, the committed car-idolater’s bewitched wayward automobile gobbles up autonomy like a pro.

Power does come with a price.

Arnie shows—in turn—to be in denial by countering with the likewise slightly condescending prejudicial claim that his friend would be animated by jealousy, but that they’ll always be friends just so long as he sticks with him; menacingly and dismissively referring to “shitters” who don’t — the logical next-step implication (of a negatively idolatrous / demonizing flavor) being that members of said fecal category are only prone to be found entirely worthless pieces of shit, best off dead (and ground into meat) if so much as daring to get in the way of things. . . such as, most concretely, the frontal bumper of Christine.

Dennis brings up Leigh and that she would be on his side too; which readily inspires Arnie to launch into a fiery little speech about love.

“Let me tell you a little something about love. It has a voracious appetite. It eats everything: friendship, family. It kills me, how much it eats. I’ll tell you something else. Feed it right, and it can be a beautiful thing; and that’s what we have. When someone believes in you, you can do any fucking thing in the universe; and when you believe right back in that someone, then watch out world, cause nobody can stop you ever!”

Little does Arnie know that technically he is not talking about love as much as worship, a superficial version of the former. The difference between the two lies in how they relate to the pertinent object of love/worship. In genuine love, there is a natural incentive to learn more-and-more of the object, in the hopes of precisely gaining progressive proximity to the object, since a better understood object is an object easier to love (and conversely: the poorer an object is understood, the easier it is to hate); whereas worship—on the other hand—typically seeks to maintain a distance with an object typically held in awe and, unlike with true substantial love, there is little if any incentive to understand the object beyond a relatively shallow—though typically intensely advertised—appreciation of some preferred image representation of the object, the type of object that often is also expected to be granted however many significant if redundant sacrifices, arbitrarily greedy and hungry said type would be.

worship ↔ idolatry =
stagnation + redundant taxation

Arnie idolizes his car, yet manages to euphemistically name his slavishly surrendering devotion to it, love; which may count as an act of perversion or prostitution of the word (since real love precisely should be about liberation, not submission; freedom, not possessiveness). Practicing Positive Christine-idolatry, which he does most avidly and most determinedly [if mentally, not concretely], is sure to demand the necessary significant sacrifices. While trying to sate Christine’s “voracious appetite”, Arnie hints at along the way having burned—or being in the process of burning—his relationship with parents and girl-friend alike; as well as bringing to the altar catering to his [mental] practice of Christine-idolatry: the lives of the foolish boys who bullied him, indeed who trashed Christine herself—the Concrete original body of which all possible idolatry practices devoted to her revolve around—in what to him effectively at once must have been an utterly unholy practice of Concrete Negative Christine-idolatry, yielding an utterly unholy end-result.

Something which evidently escapes his sleepwalking attention is that Arnie’s four bullies, imperfect as they were, still were his neighbors, still young guys in the process of socialization; and since not having been done in a context of clear + present emergency (e.g. self-defense), their murders therefore being unwarranted and wrong, inherently and utterly.

Dennis mistakenly thinks his friend was talking about Leigh and how much he were to love her, but an incredulous Arnie is quick to dismiss by laughing it off with scorn and says he was talking about Christine all along; and that furthermore “no shitter” ever came in between himself and her; boyishly further fortifying his position with the words that “there is nothing finer than being behind the wheel of your own car. . . except maybe for pussy.”

The next day, in order to send an aggravating message to an Arnie for the moment out of evident sight, Dennis can be seen using a screw-driver to key the provocative words, “DARNELLS TONIGHT”—in hideously large letters as well—right into the unguarded front hood of a Christine parked at the school’s parking lot. This blatantly blasphemous gesture should be certain to stir up ample vindictiveness in Arnie; and to be honest, to some extent, I couldn’t blame him for it in principle (as Vincent the gangster in Pulp Fiction [1994] puts it so eloquently in the unforgettable words: “don’t fuck with another man’s vehicle”).

At Darnell’s that night, with nobody else present, an apotheotic showdown takes place between Dennis and Leigh versus Arnie and Christine. Dennis—for the occasion—has hot-wired a resident big caterpillar, an uncompromising and daunting heavy-lifting piece of automotive machinery.

Near the end of the battle, while trying to kill Leigh by aiming to drive over her—however—Arnie accidentally maneuvers Christine right into Darnell’s built-in office, haplessly gets himself ejected through the frontal windshield, only to catch a large shard of glass in his gut, tragically making him die on the spot. Dennis then moves in to squash Christine by excruciatingly slowly driving the weighty crawler loader length-wise over her; pancaking her, royally — thereby giving the hexed car from hell, in Karmic sense, a taste of her own medicine (she who lives by the sword. . . and all that).

To recap, Arnie positively idolized (“loved”) Christine; whereas Dennis + Leigh + Arnie’s parents all negatively idolized (“hated”) the car. In other words, the car called Christine served as an object of worship for Arnie in a [mental] practice of positive idolatry and a [mental] practice of negative idolatry for Dennis + Leigh + Arnie’s parents; [mental] Positive vs Negative Christine-idolatry.

Firstly, Arnie used Christine to offset his vulnerable nerdish image, brought only into further disrepute through the humiliating shake-up he suffered at school; inspiring him to improve his social standing with a status symbol that lent a thorough boost to his personal image, enabling him to muster the courage to court—and successfully so, initially—the prettiest girl of school. Since Christine served as his choice status symbol and since idolizing Christine also meant idolizing it as status symbol, it may be said that his [mental] practice of Positive Christine-idolatry also contained an additional [mental] practice of StatusSymbol-idolatry with Christine for object of worship.

Secondly, Arnie used Christine in “defensive” capacity to both take vengeance upon his school-bully “enemies” as well as making sure that they could never harm him in any physical capacity ever again. Every kill that Arnie made using Christine, may be seen as an involuntary human sacrifice which he proverbially dragged to the [abstract] altar connected in imagination to a [mental] practice of Self-idolatry with Arnie for object of worship + practices of {Car+StatusSymbol}-idolatry with Christine for object of worship. Each human sacrifice brought into reality served to perversely promote his own name—in poetic if infamous sense—as a Dark & Deadly Angel of Vengeance using Christine as his choice Heavenly Chariot, or—if having better ring to it—his choice Steel Stallion (dapperly dashing unto the mean scene with a chilling will of its own).

The final shots of the movie show a Christine since only even further degenerated from pancake form to one of those convenient car-crusher cubes. But while the camera homes in on the solitary metallic cube, closer + closer, suddenly music starts playing, seemingly coming from the cube; the suggestion being that it’s Christine’s car-radio; meaning that she’s still not dead and done for.

In light of the analysis of this movie, interpretable as a cinematographic allegory of demonic possession manifesting by material proxy (car), this open ending could serve as a symbolic hint at the notion that the demons involved are still out there, still not destroyed (due to having a non-physical essence stubbornly defying any physical means of destruction), still ready as ever to cause a depraved ruckus in the human world; that, even if you kill the human host or any “magical” material object associable with that host, the real source of trouble will persist; and headaches are bound to recur if and when those demons find new human hosts to possess.

While every breathing involved soul—for better or worse—had fixed their attention on the evil spellbinding car called Christine, after it was destroyed nay annihilated (along with her human master & fellow conspirer, the possessee), the real spiritual culprits were nonetheless perfectly capable of getting away unscathed; already on the lookout—on the salivating prowl—to possess whatever suitable new victim happens to come into view; Dying to once again have the pleasure of breaking into a new human psyche; Dying to again be able to apply their cunning techniques of misdirection of attention; Dying to all over again make any newly involved humans stare themselves blind upon anything or anyone but the wicked little tricksters themselves: disembodied non-human spirits—ethereal beings said to be made from smokeless fire (sort of how the alien predator in Predator [1987] appeared when assuming a camouflaging invisibility-simulating cloaking-mode) and said to have been created right here on Earth—that were operating within the secret shadowy side of what we know as reality doing the real if invisible string-pulling; greatly elusive they are, yet shy they are not and more than anything they are Dying to once again be able to leave behind an arbitrarily wide new trail of bloody victims. . .
Next time.