Already the scent of musk, originally derived from secretions of a deer gland so named because it resembled a scrotum, is hanging about Trump Admin II. The current Musk is mostly synthetic, having originated from artifacts of field-grazing among South African hyper-capitalists. Nonetheless it is real, and the scent essential if not as pungent as sometimes thought.
An essential in Trump-world, where its primal associations are coveted. The whiff of darkies working and dying in the mines. The aroma of sweat, an air of despair, and overhanging all the electrifying energy of knowing one white guy is making obscene profits -- the ultimate adrenaline jolt and aphrodisiac -- from all that suffering. Those lashing galley slaves would be envious.
Power. It's all about power. The raw feel of it. The primal experience of it, with the special edge of its reliance on human suffering. On death. Man, it's so primal. Such a rush. You must feel it, imagine it, to understand the lure of Trump-world. And the role of Musk, owner of the biggest money-dick in the world, plays into it. In its intoxicating effects. The scent of Musk.
The closer the proximity to power the more it smells of Musk.
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