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Rabbit Hole

A short story.

By Conor MatthewsPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
Rabbit Hole
Photo by Tarik Haiga on Unsplash

I was the one man standing up to save the world from Satanist Aliens; that's how bad things got. I used to be a family man. A father. A husband. Now... now I'm a laughingstock.

It started one night. I had finished read my daughter Jessica a bedtime story, “The Silly Rabbit and the big carrot”. It's about a rabbit that has a dream about a big carrot, goes looking for it the next day, only to fall down and become trapped in a hole. She was asleep, cradled in my arms, when my wife, Mary, came looking for me, telling me she was heading for a shower before bed. So I figured, to kill the time, I'd listen to the listen podcast episode of the Mick Murphy show.

Mick Murphy was the kind of guy you feel like you could have a pint with, who isn't afraid to say what's on his mind, even if it's not “woke”. Usually he interviews celebrities, politicians, escaped mental patients, Onlyfans creators; anything goes. This time he had another podcaster on, some controversial guy I've never heard of at the time; Stephen Basil.

He seemed similar to Mick, opinionated, unafraid, and making sense. Mary was taking a while in the shower, so I figured I'd check his show out. How was I to know? I clicked on an episode called “White Minority by 2031”. I sat there, listened, and entered a world I had only glimpsed; an unspoken conversation I knew was happening, but could never hear over the tinnitus of my life. He was talking about migrants, cultural Marxism, “positive Eugenics”. Now, I'm not a racist. I'm not. It's just... something about all this resonated with me. He had to be right about all this; why would he make it up?

The next day at breakfast, I tried talking to Mary about it, but she wasn't too receptive. She just rebuffed that it didn't make any sense and it seemed a bit conspiratorial. I left it at that, seeing as I had to drop Jessica at school, but that was me. I was hooked. I started listening to episode during commutes, whenever I needed to zone out with work, or even just to drift off to sleep. Even Mick seemed tamed by comparison.

Around the same time, a new lad, Darren, joined us at work. And as it turned out, while I, him, and my best friend Sean were having after-work drinks, he was even more clued in that I was. I was trying to tell Sean, despite his dismissal scoffs and eye rolls, that according to Basil we'll all be enslaved, when Darren uttered two words that send me spiralling further down.

“Great Replacement.”

Sean and I turned to Darren, who looked pleased with himself as he made us wait for him to finish gulping his pint. He elaborated, saying that was the name of the plot by global elites to enslave the world by breeding a subservient underclass. Sean called this tripe, but me... I finally found someone who was seeing things like me. And what more, Darren introduced me to so much more.

At time went on, during our many break time conversations, Darren recommended online groups to check out. Sean lost interest in joining us for these discussions. Darren didn't care. He called Sean something he assured me he only meant as a joke when he saw the twinge of recoil on my face. I took his word for it, like an idiot. In hindsight, he was preparing me for the kind of thinking I would soon come across more frequently.

Aside from Spotify and Netflix, I never really saw the point of being online. Why would I want to talk to strangers? But now was different. Page after group, message board after chat room, Discord server after Telegram chats, they were all filled with people like me, people who had wandered into this world of uncovering conspiracies, government secrets, corruption, and greed. One group specialised in telling you how they put tracking chips in flu vaccines. Another group was to protect yourself against 5G radiation. This other group talked about Liberal Communists turning out children into oestrogens filled zombies.

I know this all sounds crazy... because it was. But you have to understand it was nice crazy. These weren't people running around panicking; they were proactive. People were sharing tips, answering questions, explaining things. Outside of these groups, I was being laughed by the likes of Sean or Mary. In these groups, I was part of something bigger, appreciated. Why would I fall for them?

It soon got to the point where I wanted to take things to the next level. I had moved beyond Darren and Basil discovering my own stuff, through my own research, that wasn't being talked about in these groups. So I did what everyone who thinks they're right about how the world works does; I started a podcast.

The first couple of episodes I was just regurgitating what I've been fed. I guess this kind of stuff works like learning a language; listen, repeat, listen, repeat. “Maraíonn vascaíní agus is nimh é uisce. Repeat”. Maraíonn vascaíní agus is nimh é uisce. “Maith an buachaill”. At first, I wasn't attracting any attention. See, that's a big thing too in all this; the viral element. If you're the first guy to talk about Satanists controlling the media, you're a hero. If you're the tenth guy, well, that's old news. What kept me involved was the engagement, the excitement. Everyday presented a new chapter in this ever unfolding story. So, as you do, I started talking about the lizard people.

I know lizard people, who are technically called Reptillians, who control the world and harvest children, sounds far fetched. But this stuff is like hard drugs. You have to keep getting bigger, wilder hits. Like how pain killers can lead to smack, great replacement conspiracies can lead to reptile aliens who live in the centre of the Earth. You can laugh, but the sad thing is it started to work. I gained more listeners. My episodes were shared everywhere. Surprisingly, this was when Darren started distancing himself from me. He wasn't ready for the truth.

I began to get recognition. I was invited onto the Mick Murphy show. Then Stephen Basil wanted me on. Before I knew it, I was interviewed on everything from podcasts, websites, magazines across the world. Sure, it drew some unwanted attention. Sure, Mary and I were fighting more. And maybe, yes, I lost my job, but it didn't matter. They'd all know I was right in the end. It'll all be worth it when I'm proven right. Don't forget, MK Ultra was proven right. Operation Gladio was proven right. The world is full of crazies proven right. Why not me?

It was when I started attending protests I started noticing I being watched. I was getting chummy with the influencers of the conspiracy theory world. By the way, we preferred the term Conspiracy Facts. Anyway, I started to get invited to conventions and public demonstrations. They vary widely from anti-vaxxers protesting outside hospitals, to convention talks about how there are communists in Fine Gael, and public demonstrations telling people about the New World Order. But no matter where I went, I always saw the same man, standing at the back, watching, reporting me. Now, he never looked the same. But it was him. I knew it was the same person. It had to be. It made sense. I had discovered too much. I was too close to the truth, and now... they wanted to take me out.

It happened one night. It was a clear, crisp night coming to the end of January. It was already dark around seven when I began my journey home. We had spent the day picketing outside RTÉ over their state propaganda. We had just packed up when I spotted him, waking down the street towards us, pretending to be someone walking home. But I knew the truth. I rushed my goodbyes, quickly agreeing to meet up the following weekend, and walked at a brisk pace to a bus stop. I took the 46A, jerking glances behind me, watching the spy tailing behind. I took the stairs to the upper deck two at a time. I ignored the uneasy stares as I made my way to the back of the bus. Yes! They'd have no choice but to sit in front of me, giving me the chance to watch them for a change.

And sure enough, there he was. Though now he was a she. It had to be him! He must have shapeshifted. I've got you now. I watched them the entire way, right up until they got off at Fitzwillaim place. I knew their game. They were obviously swapping places with other agents of the Satanic Alien Deep State that controls the weather. It all made sense! But they couldn't fool me! Not when I saw them again pretending to be a belligerent drunk on the Luas, or again as a “blind man” with a dog on platform seven at Connolly. I bet the dog's even in on this. I took the Maynooth line, racing back and forth between the carriages, trying to avoid getting cornered by “Them”.

Finally I jumped off at Leixlip Confey. I was the only one on the platform. No one else got off. I was alone. I sighed, relieved, chuckling to myself as I wanted out of the station and down the road. Though we weren't speaking these days, I was looking forward to seeing Mary and even reading Jessica that stupid rabbit book that night.

That's what I thought.

I heard him. On that unusually silent road, I clearly heard the scraping steps on concrete, the rushed pants of racing breaths, and the swelling heft of their presence told me they were right behind me. The rest is still a little hazy, mainly due to the head trauma, but what the guards told me, when I finally came around, was I assaulted a jogger. I really don't have any defence. A conspiracy theorist who spread poorly veiled racist lies online doesn't exactly beg empathy from judges and the media.

Mary took Jessica before I came home. I just got a single text saying I'll be sent the divorce papers. I don't blame her. I'm telling you all this not for sympathy, but rather to warn you. We all believe in things that comfort us, make us feel valued, superior. Let me share some word from a book I used to read.

“The Silly Rabbit was so sad, for he never knew how much he had. He went searching for what was never real. Listening to none because of how he wanted to feel. He left those who cared, always wanted more. He had nothing; what was it all for? And now his foolishness has taken its toll. For he was forever-more trapped in a rabbit hole.”

Short Story

About the Creator

Conor Matthews

Writer. Opinions are my own.

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    Conor MatthewsWritten by Conor Matthews

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