I see you Theo Francken. I see you in your business suits that have just the right amount of disdain for those you purport to serve. I see you walking the corridors of power, wondering how long you can keep up this act. I see you, calculating who you can throw under the bus this time to prop up your failing image as a self-styled alt-right strong man. And I see you asking yourself, how much more minority groups you can attack before you run out of options to cover your pathetic attempts at governing, your horrid Nazi-like deportation jargon to mask a complete lack of vision. I see you, moving like a good little lapdog for the Belgian carpet millionaires and other b-rate capitalists.

I see you looking bored at meetings of your fanbase, their stupid greetings, their drunken rowdiness masquerading insecurity caused by a system you’re helping to maintain. I see you, arranging every little move just so, like deck chairs on the Titanic. I see your failure of the imagination, your belief that there is nothing else out there. I see your mind dulled with decades in hierarchy, filled with rhetoric about leaders and followers. And I see you, each day losing another tiny piece of your soul.

But the worst part is how banal you are. How utterly, utterly mundane. If you had been born earlier, maybe you would have been the subject of Hannah Arendt’s The Banality of Evil. Then again, maybe not. And somewhere deep inside, you know. You know, don’t you, Theo Francken, that you’ve never achieved anything meaningful and you never will. I see you Theo Francken, when the doors are closed and you wished you could get away from the machine.

I see you Theo Francken, sending desperate tweets to prop up your wannabe macho image. I see you, trying to appeal to a fan base that you secretly despise. I see you wondering, when you’re home, looking in the mirror, who’s really controlling who. I see you repressing that thought quickly, with a shudder. You reach for your phone, for yet another tweet to satisfy your inflated ego in a congratulatory circle-jerk that was obsolete moments before it was published.

Like a puppet master on his own strings. I see you Theo Francken, I fucking see you.