Governments, in their endless discourse on law and order, position crime as an ever-present social ill—an inherent flaw in the human condition, to be tolerated, managed, and occasionally suppressed. This narrative is comforting in its simplicity. It suggests that crime emerges organically from the social fabric, as natural as disease or poverty. But this is a lie, or at least a half-truth, carefully maintained by those in power. Crime is not merely a consequence of societal conditions, nor is it something governments simply react to. Crime, like so much else in modern governance, is a controllable variable, a resource that can be dialed up or down according to the state’s political needs.
Just as governments regulate monetary policy or control the flow of information, they can also manipulate crime rates, adjusting the levels of violence and disorder to suit their desired outcomes. This is not to say crime is wholly manufactured; human beings will always engage in acts of defiance and transgression. But whether such acts are permitted to proliferate, or whether they are crushed under the boot of law enforcement, depends entirely on the state’s objectives.
Consider El Salvador under President Nayib Bukele, where crime has been almost “switched off” in a matter of months. Through a combination of mass incarceration, militarized policing, and totalitarian enforcement methods, Bukele’s government has seemingly eradicated gang activity, once endemic in the country. Realizing that most crimes are repeatedly done by just a small percentage of people, those people were imprisoned so that crime could be stopped. Streets once terrorized by violence are now calmly patrolled by soldiers; gang members are either locked away in vast prison complexes or driven into hiding. The methods are direct and effective, demonstrating the state’s power to suppress crime when it suits its interests. With crime removed, tourism can safely return and normal civilization develop once again.
The state, when it desires order, knows exactly how to impose it. It can choose whether to tolerate individual criminals and criminal networks or to prosecute them as the law prescribes. The results in El Salvador are reminiscent of Singapore’s authoritarian policies, where strict laws, public caning, and harsh punishments have long eradicated petty criminality. Crime, when approached with enough will and force, can be nearly eradicated. It is not a permanent fixture of human life but a phenomenon that rises and falls at the whim of the ruling regime.
In these examples, crime has been decisively turned off. It is not that Salvadoran gangs or Singapore’s potential criminals disappeared; it is simply that the state chose to imprison and remove a social annoyance to make criminal behavior rare instead of normal. And yet, in other parts of the world, crime appears to be ever-increasing, spiraling out of control, as if governments are powerless to stop it. The contrast is revealing. If Bukele can end gang violence in El Salvador—a country that once had one of the highest murder rates in the world—why can’t governments in the West do the same?
The answer is simple: they don’t want to.
Governments control crime just as they control the economy or public health. It is a tool to be wielded. Crime can justify increased surveillance, military budgets, and authoritarian measures, which can be used to pursue other political opportunities. At the same time, allowing certain forms of crime to persist—whether petty theft, gang violence, or organized protest—can destabilize regions, divide communities, and serve the interests of those in power. Crime can serve as a justification for the erosion of civil liberties, the militarization of public spaces, and the expansion of state control. It is not merely something to be fought against but something to be managed, manipulated, and, when necessary, tolerated.
Crime, in this sense, becomes a strategic variable. Turn it up to create fear, tension, and division. Turn it down to instill a sense of peace and order when stability is needed. The state can modulate it like a volume knob, raising or lowering the level of chaos to suit its broader political and social goals. It is the perfect tool, because unlike overt force, crime allows the state to pretend it is not directly responsible for the conditions it creates. It can claim to be fighting crime even as it allows criminality to fester or escalate.
This manipulation of crime as a political tool is not limited to dictatorships or authoritarian regimes. In democracies, where governments rely on maintaining the illusion of control, the use of crime as a variable is more subtle, more insidious. Crime rates can be selectively reported, statistics massaged, and law enforcement selectively applied. The goal is not to eliminate crime, but to control its presence, to use it as a lever in the machinery of state power.
The examples of El Salvador and Singapore show us that crime is not inevitable. But they also reveal the true nature of crime in modern society. It is not a natural consequence of poverty or inequality. It is a policy choice. Governments choose to allow crime, just as they choose to eliminate it when it serves their interests to do so.
In contrast to the hard-handed suppression of crime in regimes like El Salvador, where criminality is stamped out with military precision, other governments prefer to let crime fester, allowing chaos to spread while maintaining an authoritarian grip over the larger machinery of society. This deliberate tolerance of disorder, while simultaneously enforcing draconian measures on law-abiding citizens, creates what can be described as an “anarcho-tyranny” dynamic—a system where the state turns crime into a service, a necessary element of control, modulated as it sees fit.
In these systems, crime is not an enemy to be vanquished but a tool for maintaining a kind of inverted order. It is allowed to flourish selectively, destabilizing certain parts of society while leaving others intact. The role of certain district attorneys (DAs), often funded by figures like George Soros, illustrates this perfectly. By choosing not to prosecute a wide array of crimes—from petty theft to violent assaults—these officials create zones of lawlessness where criminal activity is effectively legalized. In doing so, the state subtly transforms crime into a public service: a means of maintaining chaos at just the right level, without ever fully losing control.
The effects are not random but part of a larger strategy. Petty criminals, emboldened by the lack of consequences, find themselves in an open playground, while more organized forms of criminality spread like a virus. The decision to selectively enforce laws is not incompetence; it is a choice. In an anarcho-tyranny system, certain areas are allowed to descend into chaos as part of the state’s broader objective. For example, the refusal to prosecute shoplifting in major American cities doesn’t signify a failure of governance—it signifies the state’s tacit approval of this chaos, a permissive signal that such behavior will be tolerated.
And yet, while crime flourishes in these pockets, the state retains its overarching authority. The bureaucratic and political structures are untouched by the disorder they help to foment. Anarchy reigns in the streets, but tyranny governs from the offices of the powerful. Those citizens who attempt to resist or restore order on their own, without state approval, are swiftly punished. The law is selectively applied, creating a split society: one in which crime is tolerated or even encouraged, while ordinary citizens find themselves constrained by ever-increasing restrictions on their freedom.
The manipulation of crime statistics adds another layer of illusion to this dynamic. Crime, we are told, is decreasing. Cities once plagued by violence are supposedly safer than ever, but the numbers are deceiving. Through the selective categorization and reporting of incidents, governments can paint a picture of success while the ground reality worsens. Violent attacks, when framed as “disturbances” or “altercations,” slip through the cracks of official crime reports. Entire categories of crime are conveniently redefined, reclassified, or not reported at all, creating the illusion that society is becoming more orderly, even as it unravels in plain sight.
The manipulation of these statistics serves a dual purpose. On one hand, it provides cover for the government, allowing it to claim success in reducing crime, reassuring the public that things are under control. On the other hand, the true rise in criminality fuels the very disorder that the regime finds so useful. In this sense, crime becomes a shadow currency in the economy of state control—a phenomenon that exists just beneath the surface of public consciousness but is never fully acknowledged or addressed.
Consider the rise of crime in many Western cities, where authorities seem unwilling or unable to act. This is not the product of weak governance or a failure of resources. It is the result of a deliberate decision to allow certain forms of crime to proliferate, while ensuring that it remains invisible to those who do not live in its direct path. The media, hand in hand with the state, plays its role by underreporting or misrepresenting the nature of these crimes. A riot becomes a protest, looting becomes an expression of frustration, and a surge in violent crime is dismissed as an anomaly, unworthy of serious concern.
In this way, crime is not only tolerated but actively turned “on” to serve the state’s objectives. Rising crime serves to divide communities, sow fear, and destabilize any cohesive opposition to the regime’s broader goals. And yet, the same government will simultaneously claim that crime is under control, that statistics show a decrease in violent incidents. The manipulation is total, seamless—like a magician’s trick, where the audience never sees the real hand at work.
The key to understanding this dynamic lies in the way crime is managed, not solved. Where the government of El Salvador turns crime “off” by policy and force, many Western governments have found it useful to keep crime simmering at a manageable, yet destabilizing level. The chaos it produces is harnessed to justify further surveillance, the erosion of civil liberties, and the expansion of police powers. Crime, rather than being an aberration, becomes the foundation for more control. The appearance of disorder allows for the justification of more authoritarian measures, all in the name of public safety.
In this system, the state doesn’t lose control—it tightens its grip. The apparent anarchy is just a cover for deeper tyranny. The people are conditioned to accept the loss of their freedoms in exchange for a false promise of security, even as crime is allowed to persist at levels that serve the regime’s interests. Crime, in the final analysis, is not an outcome of failed policies or social decay. It is a deliberate tool, modulated by the state, a shadow force that can be unleashed or suppressed depending on the political needs of the moment. It is a service in the truest sense, deployed strategically, with precision, to produce specific effects in the body politic.
Mob Outsourcing
In the intricate machinery of modern governance, where every mechanism is designed to maintain power under the guise of liberal democracy, violence has become a versatile and outsourced tool. The state’s monopoly on violence, once sacrosanct, has evolved into something more subtle, more fragmented, and yet more dangerous. Violence is no longer administered solely by the police or military; it is outsourced to unofficial militias—groups like BLM rioters, ANTIFA, and Palestinian protestors—who serve the regime’s purposes while operating under the veneer of grassroots activism.
These groups function as the Brownshirts of our era. They are mobs unleashed to apply pressure, disrupt order, and engage in politically useful chaos, all while maintaining the illusion of independence from state control. It is a strategy of plausible deniability, where the regime benefits from violence without having to bear its direct responsibility. The state, in its increasingly postmodern form, no longer needs to wield the truncheon; it has found willing proxies to do its dirty work.
The genius of this outsourcing lies in its strategic advantage. Governments, which must at least pretend to uphold democratic norms, can no longer afford the optics of overt repression. However, by empowering groups like BLM and ANTIFA, they allow violence to flourish in the streets while keeping their hands clean. The mob becomes a weapon that can be wielded without ownership. They burn cities, deface monuments, assault political opponents, and silence dissent with impunity, knowing that the regime will not intervene. In fact, their actions serve the broader goals of the state: the destabilization and intimidation of the population.
Under normal circumstances, the level of destruction wrought by these groups would trigger a forceful state response. Buildings set ablaze, businesses looted, citizens beaten in the streets—such actions would demand crackdowns, arrests, and trials. But in our current paradigm, these mobs are allowed to operate freely, protected from consequences by the very institutions that claim to oppose violence. Their immunity from prosecution is not an accident; it is a deliberate aspect of their function. They are protected because they serve a purpose. The destruction they cause is not a failure of governance but a calculated feature of the regime’s strategy.
This outsourcing of violence is evident in the ways these groups are treated by the media and political elites. Their actions, no matter how destructive, are framed as legitimate expressions of political will. A BLM riot becomes a protest for racial justice. ANTIFA’s assault on a political rally is rebranded as anti-fascist activism. Palestinian demonstrators, despite their open embrace of violent rhetoric, are praised as freedom fighters. In this reframing, the regime creates the conditions for violence to be not only tolerated but normalized, even celebrated. The more chaos they cause, the more they are lionized, while the victims of their violence are blamed for provoking it.
The result is a perfect system of control. The mob acts as the regime’s proxy, doing what the state itself cannot. They create the conditions of fear and instability that make it easier for governments to justify authoritarian measures under the guise of restoring order. Meanwhile, the state itself remains aloof and feigns ignorance, positioning itself as the neutral arbiter of a chaotic world. It plays both sides—encouraging disorder through inaction, while offering itself as the solution to the very problems it enables. The media amplifies this narrative, ensuring that the public remains confused, disoriented, and unwilling to question the deeper forces at work.
What distinguishes these modern mobs from the authoritarian militias of the past is their ideological camouflage. They are not paramilitary groups in the traditional sense; they are presented as spontaneous movements of the oppressed, rising up against systemic injustice. This narrative is essential to their function. By portraying them as grassroots movements, the state distances itself from their actions. It can deny any involvement, even as it subtly nurtures and protects them. The funding of these groups, whether through philanthropic foundations, NGO networks, or indirect state channels, ensures the planner remain intact and are ready to mobilize mobs when needed.
Yet despite their appearance as organic uprisings, these groups are anything but. Their actions are predictable, almost scripted, like actors playing a role in a theater of violence. Whenever the regime needs to deflect attention from a political crisis or silence a growing opposition, these mobs are activated, descending upon city centers with well-rehearsed outrage. They capture the media’s attention, dominate the public discourse, and achieve the regime’s objectives without the need for direct state intervention. And then, just as quickly as they appear, they disappear—returning to their state of suspended animation, waiting for the next call to action.
Their presence is a reminder to the populace of what happens to those who step out of line. The state, through its proxies, enforces a new kind of social discipline: one where dissent is met not with police batons or prison sentences, but with mob violence, public humiliation, and social ostracism. The regime can claim to be hands-off, to respect the democratic process, while in reality, it wields the mob as its enforcer. Those who speak out too loudly, who dare to challenge the prevailing orthodoxy, are met with the fury of the streets, rather than the courts.
This method of control—indirect, deniable, and effective—represents the state’s evolution from overt tyranny to something far more insidious. It allows governments to maintain the appearance of liberal democracy while exercising a form of soft totalitarianism. The mob becomes the embodiment of state power, unchecked and unaccountable. And the public, cowed by the threat of mob violence, learns to conform, to accept the erosion of their freedoms as the price for peace.
In this outsourcing of violence, we see the true face of the modern regime. It is not interested in stability or justice. It is interested in power, and power, as always, thrives on fear. The mob is not a failure of governance; it is a tool of governance. A service rendered by the state to itself, for the perpetuation of its control, disguised as revolution but functioning as repression.
At the heart of this elaborate system of outsourced violence is a carefully constructed support network—an infrastructure that allows these mobs to wreak havoc with relative impunity, while maintaining a façade of grassroots spontaneity. These groups, whether BLM rioters, ANTIFA militants, or any number of astroturfed protestors, do not act out of some primal, uncontainable rage against the system. Their actions, while chaotic and seemingly uncontrolled, are part of a deliberate strategy. Their violence is not a pure eruption of popular dissent; it is a service rendered to the regime, deployed as needed and then recalled once its mission is complete.
The true genius of this system is its opacity. These mobs, while operating in plain sight, are supported by invisible hands: taxpayer dollars channeled through obscure grants, donations from supposedly progressive philanthropists, and the quiet endorsement of media and corporate giants. The funding comes from everywhere and nowhere at once. Officially, the state and its allies have no direct connection to these groups. But follow the money, and a different picture emerges. The grants, foundations, and corporate sponsors all share a common interest: the preservation of the current order, the maintenance of a system that allows chaos to flourish just enough to justify further control.
This covert patronage allows the mobs to persist indefinitely and leaders to profit handsomely. When their services are required, they spring into action with the logistical precision of a well-oiled machine. Protest signs are printed, social media campaigns launched, travel expenses covered, stacks of bricks are delivered, comrades bussed in from many states away, hundreds of identical tents purchased for occupation. The infrastructure behind them is as organized as any corporate operation. When their task is done—when a city has been burned, a political rally disrupted, or a target of dissent silenced—they retreat into the background, disappearing until they are called upon again.
This is not an accident. It is a system designed for endurance. The protests appear spontaneous, but they are anything but. There is no accountability, no legal reckoning. The participants are rarely punished for their actions, immune to the consequences that would befall ordinary citizens. They operate above the law, shielded by the very institutions that claim to protect order and justice. The state expresses public concern, issues lukewarm condemnations, but never follows through with real investigation or punishment. These mobs are not merely tolerated; they are protected.
Plausible deniability is the key to the entire operation. The government can claim no direct involvement, no official endorsement, even as its interests align perfectly with the goals of these mobs. When communities are devastated by riots, when statues are toppled and businesses looted, the regime responds with hollow expressions of regret, always careful to distance itself from the violence. The media, complicit in this game, reframes the destruction as an understandable outburst of righteous anger, a justified rebellion against systemic injustice, lacking enough curiosity to look more closely at who is organizing or funding these events, what ideology they serve, and who benefits from the actions of the mob.
But behind this façade, the truth is undeniable: these mobs serve the regime’s purposes. They function as controlled doses of chaos to intimidate the populace, distract from political crises, or shift the cultural narrative in ways beneficial to those in power. Their violence is not random, nor is it truly subversive. It is sanctioned disorder, a form of chaos that is carefully managed and nurtured by the same forces that claim to fear it.
The immunity these mobs enjoy is another critical element of the strategy. The legal system, which would swiftly punish any ordinary citizen for even minor infractions, seems to operate under different rules when it comes to these groups. Crimes committed in broad daylight—arson, assault, vandalism—are overlooked, excused, or dismissed. Prosecutors, often aligned with the regime’s ideological goals, refuse to press charges, allowing the perpetrators to walk free. The message is clear: the law does not apply to those who act on behalf of the state, even if they do so indirectly.
This selective enforcement of the law creates a chilling effect. Citizens understand that certain forms of violence are not only tolerated but encouraged. The state will not protect them from the mobs; in fact, it will protect the mobs from them. Those who dare to defend themselves, or their property, find themselves swiftly punished, while the vandals and looters are celebrated as symbols of resistance.
This two-tiered justice system—one for the regime’s enforcers and one for everyone else—ensures that the mobs can continue their operations with impunity. The knowledge that they are untouchable emboldens them. They know that their actions, no matter how destructive, will not be met with real consequences. The state may issue a few token arrests to satisfy public outrage, but these are exceptions, not the rule. The real power lies in their untouchability.
The regime’s control over these mobs is not direct, but it is absolute. Their violence is outsourced, their chaos subcontracted, yet the results are as predictable as if the state itself were pulling the strings. The mobs act, the state benefits, and the system grinds on. In this arrangement, everyone involved gets what they want. The mobs receive funding, media attention, and the moral high ground. The regime maintains its plausible deniability, allowing it to appear neutral, even as it reaps the rewards of the chaos.
What is perhaps most disturbing about this system is how effortlessly it can be scaled and replicated. There is no shortage of causes that can be weaponized, no lack of grievances to be exploited. Whether under the banner of racial justice, anti-fascism, or liberation, the mobs can be summoned at any moment to serve the regime’s needs. Their actions may be violent, but their function is coldly calculated. They are the shock troops of a new kind of governance, one that operates not through the blunt force of dictatorship but through the sophisticated manipulation of violence and fear.
The outsourcing of violence to mobs does more than simply create chaos in the streets; it warps the social fabric in ways that go far beyond the immediate destruction. There is a deeper, more insidious consequence: a chilling effect that permeates the lives of ordinary citizens. People come to understand, often without fully realizing it, that certain forms of violence are not only tolerated but tacitly encouraged by the regime. There is an unspoken agreement: the mob can destroy, terrorize, and humiliate, but only those whose views or actions oppose the dominant narrative. Dissenters will be punished swiftly and ruthlessly, while those aligned with the regime’s goals—however loosely—are allowed to operate freely, immune to the consequences of their actions.
This duality in the application of justice is not just a quirk of modern governance; it is a deliberate tactic. By selectively punishing dissent while allowing mob violence to flourish, the state makes clear its priorities. Citizens understand that opposition to the regime, in whatever form, will invite swift retaliation. But more importantly, they learn that certain violent expressions, if properly aligned with regime objectives, are not only safe but heroic. This reframing of violence is central to the regime’s control over public discourse.
The mob, in this sense, becomes more than just a tool of physical violence. It is a mechanism for media manipulation, a means of steering the public conversation in ways that reinforce the state’s objectives. Whether the cause is racial justice, anti-fascism, or Palestinian liberation, the regime uses these groups to channel outrage, to create a spectacle that diverts attention from deeper systemic issues. In doing so, these mobs are framed as the moral arbiters of the moment, their actions justified by the righteousness of their cause, regardless of the destruction they leave in their wake or the harmful implications to civilization if their stance is tolerated and normalized. Their violence is packaged and sold as a form of resistance, a necessary corrective to the ills of society. The actual damage they cause—the lives destroyed, the businesses ruined, the communities fractured—is rarely discussed. Instead, the focus is on the supposed legitimacy of their cause, a narrative crafted to shield them from criticism.
This manipulation of perception serves a dual purpose. First, it positions the regime as the protector of justice, standing on the side of the oppressed, even as it cynically uses these mobs to further its own political objectives. Second, it creates a climate of fear and confusion, where citizens cannot easily distinguish between genuine protest and state-sanctioned violence. The line between the two becomes blurred, and in this haze of ambiguity, the regime thrives.
For the regime, this arrangement is ideal. The mob acts as both sword and shield. It is a weapon used to attack critics, but also a buffer that protects the state from direct blame. The government remains aloof, pretending to be neutral or even sympathetic to the suffering caused by these groups, all while benefiting from the chaos they sow. The violence, far from undermining the state, actually strengthens it. By creating a climate of uncertainty and fear, the regime consolidates its control, justifying ever more intrusive measures to maintain “order.”
In the end, the mob is not just a tool of physical force but a psychological weapon, one that reshapes the very nature of civic life. It teaches citizens to fear not only the government but each other, to distrust their neighbors, to keep their heads down and their opinions quiet. The threat of violence becomes omnipresent, yet distant enough to feel abstract, like a storm on the horizon that never quite arrives but is always there, waiting.
This is the final, most profound consequence of the regime’s use of mobs: the creation of a society that is paralyzed by fear, where individuals are too frightened to speak out, too confused to act, too demoralized to resist. The state does not need to openly crush dissent; it allows the mob to do that work for it, subtly, invisibly, ensuring that the status quo remains intact while maintaining the illusion of freedom. And in this way, the regime secures its power—not through the brute force of dictatorship, but through the quiet, insidious manipulation of chaos.
In the modern state’s arsenal of power, the most effective tool is not brute force or overt repression; it is chaos. Chaos is subtle, pliable, and, when properly wielded, can be made to serve the interests of those who appear to be standing against it. By empowering mobs and phony protestors, the regime allows violence to bloom while maintaining the illusion of law and order. It is a delicate balancing act, one where the state benefits from the very unrest it claims to be combating. The result is a cycle of controlled disorder, a pretext for further consolidation of power under the guise of restoring peace and stability.
The state, though seemingly aloof, is the orchestrator of this chaos. On the surface, it pretends to be the neutral arbiter, stepping in only when things spiral too far out of control. Official statements are made, curfews are imposed, and there are public declarations of law enforcement doing all it can. But behind the scenes, the state is actively enabling the very disorder it claims to be combating. These mobs—whether they march under the banner of racial justice, anti-fascism, or some other cause du jour—are allowed to wreak havoc with tacit approval. The state does not merely tolerate their violence; it depends on it.
In this system, unrest serves a specific political function. It provides justification for expanding the state’s authority under the pretext of restoring order. Every wave of violence, every riot, every protest that turns into destruction becomes a stepping stone toward more state control. The regime, while claiming to stand for democracy and public safety, uses the chaos as a rationale for tightening its grip on power. Surveillance is increased, police powers are expanded, and civil liberties are curtailed, all in the name of protecting the public from the very mobs the state itself has unleashed.
The beauty of the mob system lies in its flexibility. The state can deploy these groups with precision, activating them to serve specific objectives. If a political opponent becomes too powerful or threatens the regime’s narrative, the mobs are summoned to discredit them. If an election’s outcome is in doubt, the streets fill with protestors whose “outrage” happens to coincide perfectly with the regime’s goals. When public opinion starts to shift away from the state’s favored policies, the mobs can be unleashed to create a spectacle, drawing attention away from inconvenient truths and back onto the chaos they manufacture.
Chaos begets more state control, which in turn creates the conditions for further chaos. Every time the mobs are deployed, the state tightens its grip on the populace. It becomes harder to dissent, harder to protest, harder to resist the creeping authoritarianism that cloaks itself in the language of public safety. And yet, the public, battered by the cycle of violence and repression, begins to accept this new normal. The constant churn of chaos and control conditions citizens to crave order, even if it comes at the cost of their freedoms.
The state’s reliance on these mobs also ensures that the regime remains unaccountable for the violence it orchestrates. When the mobs burn cities or assault political opponents, it is never the government’s fault. The violence is always framed as the result of popular anger, an inevitable reaction to the injustices of society. The state, far from being blamed, is seen as the only force capable of restoring order, which is only true because all other forces are afraid of being prosecuted by the state for restoring order. This paradox—the state both enabling and controlling chaos—creates a situation in which the regime can never be truly held responsible for its actions.
In the end, the outsourcing of violence to mobs allows the regime to consolidate power without ever appearing overtly tyrannical. It can maintain the illusion of law and order while actively undermining it, creating a society in which chaos and control are two sides of the same coin. The mobs become both the justification for more state intervention and the means by which dissent is crushed. And as long as the state can keep this delicate balance in place, it will continue to rule, unchallenged and unaccountable, its hands clean while the streets burn.