Mind Matter Manipulation Pt. 1

Awaiting execution, a controversial thinker faces judgment for a crime unlike any other — not for what he did with his hands, but for what others claim he did with his words.

As the clock ticks down, one question refuses to go away:

Was he a manipulator, a madman, or something the world was never prepared to understand?

Welcome to the Podcast of the Estranged.

Written by Eye Q
Story Consultant: Jamaal Zyad
Produced by CLUBS Productions

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:31

This is storybook radio. Secluded from the world of the righteous free, I sat behind the cold iron prison bars, an observer in a world that feared what it could not understand. For seven months, the authorities had contained me for the so-called manipulation of the mind. A prison guard trudged toward my cell, his uniform stretched over an expansive girth, coffee-brown pants straining against his bloated form, his chest sagged like a deflated balloon, his belly distended, making him resemble a Brunswick score bowling pin. Behind him stood another guard, red-haired, lean and rigid, about 5'5, no more than 130 pounds. He was a familiar face. Our history dated back to my last imprisonment for violating house arrest. In his grip, a notepad and pen, ready to document the conversation as I had requested. Hey boys, I greeted, my voice carrying a hint of amusement. The heavy guard groaned as he plopped onto a tiny stool, while the wiry one remained standing, ever watchful. I leaned forward, my piercing gaze settling on the fat man. Tell me, if a crime is committed by the mind rather than the body, is it fair to imprison the person? The fat guard's brow creased in confusion. I don't follow. The mind tells the body what to do. That's just how it works. I pressed my bare back against the damp shadowed wall, crossing my legs on the cold concrete floor. You aren't listening? Answer me. If a person's mind, not their body, commits a crime, should they be punished? The guard exhaled heavily. For argument's sake, if the mind could commit a crime on its own, I guess it wouldn't be fair to imprison the person. But that's impossible. A crime requires some kind of physical action. The second guard shifted closer, his pen gripped tightly, his bushy red mustache twitching as he absorbed my every word. You say it's impossible, I mused, tilting my head. Then why am I here? I've never lifted a finger against another human being. Never struck, never strangled, never stabbed. You didn't have to, the fat guard snapped, his disgust evident. You made people kill, rape, steal, without lifting a damn hand. You're a sociopath, an abomination to mankind. And yet, I said, you claim a crime cannot be committed without the body. Tell me, which part of my body is guilty? Your tongue, he spat. You used your words to manipulate people. Uh, so now my tongue is to blame for their actions. I chuckled. Do you punish a sword or the hand that wields it? The fat guard face began turning bloodshot red. You used your tongue as a weapon, convinced people to do unspeakable things. I lifted a single finger, the others curled into my palm. So my tongue then. If it is my tongue that committed the crime, why imprison me? Take my tongue instead. The wiry guard let out a sharp, amused exhale. It's your mind and your tongue. A crime can't be committed without both working together. Your mind planted the ideas, your words made them real. I push myself up, limping toward the cell bars, the overhead light glinting off the tattoos that adorn my flesh. Before I respond, let me tell you a story. Hear me out, and you'll understand how I got here. The wiry guard glanced at the fat one before nodding. Go ahead, we still have an hour before your execution. Might as well make the most of it. I met the fat guard's gaze, locking him in place. I led a group of believers, those seeking liberation through the power of the mind. They wanted freedom from stress, from fear, from the chains of morality. And so, I guided them. The fat guard scoffed. I attended one of your sessions undercover. You weren't even there, just recordings of your voice echoing through an abandoned train station. Of course, I admitted with a small smile, I knew the police would come. That's why I never showed my face. But let me continue. My followers would envision images, random at first, then evolving into scenes, full and vivid, like dreams made tangible. After two sessions of meditation in absolute darkness, they would act out what they saw, bringing those visions into reality. The fat guard sneered. You told them crime was just a state of mind, that morality was an illusion, that guilt was weakness. Indeed, I agreed. Some images were innocent, but most were not. Rape, murder, theft. These visions dominated their minds, and they hesitated. Fear of prison held them back. So I helped them see that incarceration was just another illusion, another mental shackle. I told them that to live freely, they must break free from all fear, including the fear of punishment. The acts were deliberate, calculated. A woman, trembling with adrenaline, stood over her husband's lifeless body, her knife clutched tight in her hands. A boy, barely sixteen, set fire to the home of a man he despised. A man, eyes blank as if entranced, strangled a stranger in an alleyway, guided only by the phantoms his mind had conjured. These were the works of my teachings, my philosophy manifesting into reality. You made them believe evil was beautiful, the wiry guard muttered, his pen frozen above the page. I didn't make them believe anything, I corrected. I simply removed the barriers they had placed on themselves. They followed willingly, eager to become gods in their own right. And soon, my influence stretched beyond the underground. My followers built an empire, writing my words into scripture, treating my voice as sacred. The authorities couldn't stand it. My voice turning softer, contemplative. You see, I envisioned images of my leader in prison, saw him prosecuted for manipulation of the mind. Then I pretended to be him. What more could a devoted follower like myself ask for?

SPEAKER_00 6:35

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