A psychopath who maintains certain abilities to think and to operate, from out of the disguise of rationality, never REALLY has self-control. Psychosis is not in one’s control; it only seems that way to the psychotic.
Never is there any authentic originality! Every concept is borrowed or purloined and then twisted to fit the psychosis, in and of itself.
Over and over again, throughout Keith Raniere’s trajectories, his interactions and his transparent egotism, one observes him telling on himself. He couldn’t help himself and was compelled to gamble and to bust himself about his status.
No doubt part of his pleasure was seeing HOW MUCH he could put over on others, particularly those who were the closest to him.
This would be one of his secret, private means of self-glorification, of hideous and false happiness, smugness.
With whom might Raniere have been able, to some extent, to share any frankness about his demonic pleasures?
Well, for one, and throughout almost all of this, Nancy Salzman, who was his psycho-sexual “rearrangement” partner in crime.
He is likely to have revealed the most to her.
With others too, Raniere would have revealed himself, at least once in a while, especially when he had reassured himself that he definitely had the upper hand. But those foghats, to whom he would have enjoyed dropping hints, would’ve been too caught up and/or too gullible to take notice.
Raniere could simply have his fun, quite unabashedly, with any of his most consumed and consumable asshats. These would prefer not to be seen as his “victims,” whether it was true or not.
Raniere was also very likely to have been unaware of Nancy’s abilities to make conclusions about his madness and how she could use his madness for her own organizational benefit. She could subtly hide behind him, often enough, as if he were a deployable weapon.
I think Nancy Salzman wanted money and status even more than Raniere.
The main fascinations Raniere seems to have had?
Sexual dominance-plus-cruelty and its perversions and playing God have been his major propellants and motivations, whether conscious or “unconscious.” He is a naked beast.
Nancy knew enough not to be quite so naked.
Part of playing God is giving oneself the power to decide who can live, who can die, with tremendous indifference. This inability to completely hide one’s own chaos is in no way unique to Raniere.
These uncontrollable urges to “reveal the self” are symptomatic of psychosis. It is typical for him to tell on himself. What better and more effective method of self-congratulation would he possess?
Ejaculation is so temporary as a means of self-satisfaction. Plus it might have become not only too physically taxing eventually but also boring.
An Ugly Scene
So Flabturd and the Salzman grande dame were regular breakfast companions?
Regular is not meant here as having anything to do with constipation, but the more you know, the less you need Dulcolax.
If only I could not imagine Raniere pretending to serve his mummy breakfast. But it’s too late, you see.
He never really HAD another incestuous Mummy until Nancy Salzman needed some supplements to usurp her constipation. [This was gleaned from The Gospel According to Toni Natalie, overly-titled and published by Grand Central Publishing and co-written by… oh never mind. Now $18.04 at your Amazon Shopping App.]
Plus Nancy appeared sober most mornings, but unfortunately raising Flabturd’s flag was not one of Nancy’s better services. Too vulgar? Too lecherous? Could be Nancy. Probably she had been around the block a few too many times to pique the Vanguard to full attention.
Only when necessary.
Too bad she wasn’t 11 or 12 and had no vaginal reconstruction, like trying to hit an edge in the world’s driest Hoover Dam.
”Chocolates for Breakfast again, Mummy dearest?” panted Keith to Nancy, who was (always) locked into her commode, ruthlessly engaged in squatting but barely managing a few muted farts.
”Yes, my sweet Wet Kisses, chocolates and our usual milky white beverage. You know, the way that we like it. Then mummy will make us both our eggs and toast.”
Off in the kitchen, Flabturd mumbles under his breath, “Okay, you fat bitch with the varicose veins, all of the chocolates have been injected. And this time, your milky white liquid is a carcinogenic Vanilla protein smoothie, not the blowjob you crave. I have better lips lined up and waiting for me, right after this damn breakfast. And I need to get to sleep.”
At last, he hears a toilet flush and re-flush several times. Not another enema! Gawd. Then Mummy Nancy twaddles into the kitchen, dressed in her hog-ligee, eyes on the box of chocolates.
She was so much better, you see, than either of her daughters or even both of them rolled together and gift wrapped for Flabturd, by Mummy herself.