The System: Series 1: Level 4: Red Pill

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You know the problem with the 1%? They think their money makes them invincible. They think they exist on another plane. They think nothing can touch them. Well, they're wrong. We are gonna make them shit their silk boxers. The System. Level 4. Red Pill. Present day. An unknown man lies alone in a hospital bed, his face bloodied to a pulp. A hundred miles away, another man rips the packaging off the PSUGO mobile phone he's just spent his last 20 quid on in Tesco. He turns it on.

watches the screen blink to life, stares at it for a moment. Then, before he changes his mind, that was one of the only numbers he knows off by heart. Hello? Brian. Jake? What's going on? Did you find it? No, no, no, not yet. Shit. He's the only one. He's the only thing I could think of. Jake, are you okay? Are you safe? I'm freaking out.

I'm so sorry. I should never have dragged you into this. It's too dangerous. No, it's okay. I'm just going to call them now. What? Who? I'm going to tell one of those where I am. They can come and get me. Do what they're going to do. I can't hide anymore. Jake, what about the police? Why don't we just take this to them? No, no, no way. The stuff they make me say am I don't make it like I'm one of those lone wolf incel freaks. Okay, okay, okay, okay. Just take your breath.

Calm down. I'm losing it here. It's going all over and over my head. I'm such an idiot. Don't do anything. Just stay where you are. I will find him. There's no time. It's tomorrow. Judgment day. Whatever they're gonna do, they're gonna do it then. Jake, listen to me. Everything is going to be fine. I am going to sort this out. Just sit tight. Stay where you are. Just please don't do anything, okay? Okay. Okay. But if there is anything, you can tell me to help it. Jesus!

Christ, it's so annoying. I'm sorry, but the person you've called is not available. It's D.I. Cohen, the detective looking for Jake. I told her I'd lied, that I'd been in touch with Jake. She leaves me a message. She's heading over here now. Okay, okay, okay, okay. Take a breath. Who is there? Grace. Told me everything she knows. Alex was a dead end, which leaves.

Coyote. The only thing I know about him is his ridiculous codename. Apart from what he looks like. Apart from the picture I took of him on my phone. Well... Thanks, facial recognition software. One quick search takes me to an old article in the South London Press about some boys setting up a coding club in Elton, including one Ranjeev Ligari. Also registered as a director of Tech Solutions UK. Solutions with a Z. It's a few miles away. I look out the window.

The SUV is still there. I'm wearing a pair of my baggiest jeans, one of my dad's hoodies, a cap and sunglasses. I slipped out through the back garden and hopped over a few fences, hoping to God none of the neighbours saw me. If I walk in the right way, with just the right level of swag, I look like a teenage boy trying way too hard to look like a thug. In other words, quite like a lot of other kids wandering the streets.

A woman and her kids cross over the road to avoid me and I can feel my mood hardening, my fuse shortening. Act like a thug. And you are one. Here it is. Tech Solutions. squeezed in between a subway and a Jamaican patty place. Behind a glass counter full of cheap tablets and novelty phone covers, a tall guy turned away from me, reaching up to a high shelf. Just a sec. Coyote? Coyote is nervously replacing my unbroken screen with another one. Did anyone follow you? I don't know.

I don't think so. I told you to stay at home. I need your help. Yeah, well, I don't need to be in a wheelchair, so can you please go? My brother's in a bad way. He needs our help. Our help.

This is not our problem, this is your problem. Look, I have let him down so many times, I can't do it again. Still not my problem. When I was 11, Jay got expelled because of me. What's that got to do with anything? This kid was giving me a hard time. They're just the usual racist, misogynistic teenage boy stuff.

And Jake found out and he went after him. And it got out of hand. So? He broke the kid's nose. When his school found out he was expelled, my mum kicked him out and he went to live with his nan. His life never really got on track after that. You were 11, mate. Get over it. And then this morning I called the police. What? I told them that I'd lied and that he'd been in touch. So now they're going to be looking for me too. Oh, my...

God, do you think this is making me want to help you? Do you think this is making me happy that you are in my shop? That you are on the run from the feds? Please, Coyote. Rangiv. You said you were friends with him. You know, I haven't slept for weeks. I keep having the same nightmare that day inside my mattress. Like, three guys inside my mattress, recording my thoughts. Well, maybe we can find a way out for you too. What, you?

The boy detective. Tell me what you were doing. I need to understand. He turns to me. His eyes bloodshot. You really want to know? Yes. He pulls down the blind of the shop, locks the door. Fine.

Nine months earlier. Jake. You're gonna hurt. You're gonna suffer. Chads and Stacys, I am coming for you. One by one. And I will not show you mercy. This is the beta revolution. I am armed and dangerous, but I can also kill with my bare hands if I want to. What? Why have you stopped? What is this? Just read the script, Dingo. Yeah, but what is it? What's it for? Look, we've all done it. Don't worry about it. Just...

Read it and try and sound like you mean it, yeah? And hold the gun up higher. Okay, let's start again from the top. My name is Jacob Dean. And I am the one true gentleman. You're gonna hurt. You're gonna suffer. An hour later. I'm sitting in a darkened room with a group of men. I look around at the others. It's a long time since we first sat on these chairs in this room. Bunch of losers. The bottom of the pile. The dregs.

The school dropout. The sweaty guy who delivers your curry in a box strapped to his back. The street cleaner. The guy sitting on cardboard next to the ATM asking if you can spare any change. The ones you don't make eye contact with.

The ones you barely register as human beings. Well, not anymore. Okay, boys. Are you ready to take the red pill? Who do you think is responsible for the current state of the world, hmm? Take a minute. Who'd you picture? Do you think it's black people? Trying to seize power from the whites? Or is it Jewish people? Do you think it's trans people?

Are they trying to take over the world, one bathroom, an athletics event at a time? Maybe it's the woke police. Those all-powerful columnists and podcasters and liberal arts professors. Or, ah, wait, maybe it's the bureaucrats. In Washington and Brussels. No, wait, I know. It's the immigrants, right? The refugees, the asylum seekers, risking their lives to cross the world in search of a safe place to sleep and maybe some menial work.

Are they the ones? Are they the ones who are screwing it all up? Wait no, I got it. It's a conspiracy of high-ranking pedophiles who meet in pizza restaurants. Bullshit! Do you know what isn't bullshit? The richest 1% own 44% of all global wealth. The richest 22 men have more money than all the women in Africa. Almost half of humanity lives on less than $5.50 a day. This isn't a conspiracy. This is fact. You've probably heard it before. it probably doesn't mean that much to you.

And no matter how much everyone else suffers, no matter how much we starve and slave and become addicted to painkillers and debt and choke on air pollution and cut ourselves and kill ourselves and stab and shoot and blow each other up, they just keep on getting richer. and fatter and richer and richer and richer and richer. How many helicopters do they need?

How many investment properties? How many empty skyscrapers? While people die alone in hospital corridors, they drink tequila on private islands. And yes, people get angry and protest and lobby and campaign and whine that it's so unfair. And yet, and yet, nothing ever seems to change. They feel no shame. Their grip on money, power, resources, our future never loosens. So maybe the time has come to apply a little pressure.

Judgment Day is coming, but we're not waiting around for Jesus or for some holy fire to rain down. We're doing it from the ground up. We will hunt them down where they are their most vulnerable, where they are at their most naked. in the steam rooms and changing rooms of expensive health clubs, the bathrooms of high-end restaurants, the luxury suites of the world's most expensive hotels, the fitting rooms.

of designer clothes outfitters when their pants are down, and so are their defenses. When we see them for the big, fat, baby men that they are, we will get them in a chokehold. We will squeeze their greedy throats in the crooks of our elbows. Watch their pampered faces turn pink and their greedy eyeballs bulge. And then... we will whisper our warning words into their hairy, old, rich ears. For those that don't heed that warning, we will return.

No matter the enhanced security, the barriers, the defense, we will pull whatever undercover black ops shit we need to. We are the international secret greed police. We are the Marines of Avarice, the Navy Seals of Avarice. We can get anywhere at any time. And if this all sounds a little crazy... That's right. That's the point. It's time for a little crazy. Seal was right. We ain't never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy. Crazy is scary, and scary is good.

You know the problem with the 1%? They think their money makes them invincible. They think they exist on another plane. They think nothing can touch them. Well, they're wrong. We are going to make them shit their silk boxers.

Well, what if they don't listen to the warning? What happens on Judgment Day? We'll get to that in time. For now, welcome to level four, gentlemen. We train. We spar, we punch, we kick, we throw each other to the ground and we imagine the faces, the bodies, the spirits of those rich old men that we're going to squeeze. When we're not at work now, we're together.

Weeks go by, weeks of training, sparring, learning. More and more about the kind of men we'll be targeting. Them and their crimes against humanity filling us with rage. Britain owns 50% of the land. The USA gained 43 new billionaires during 2020. Between 2009 and 2018, the numbers of billionaires... That's always, didn't I? What?

What do you think I mean, what? I said there'd be a big reveal. We're not supposed to talk about it. Yeah, no one can hear us. What I want to know is who pays for all this. We all put in. Yeah, but that's not enough for an operation like this, is it? Investors, like you said. What if it's like the Russians? This is the kind of shit they do, isn't it? Bro, don't get paranoid. I'm not, man. Look, they put money into some of those...

Far right wing American groups. I've been reading about it online. Listen, online's a cesspit. You shouldn't go on there. You know who's not online? Bo Leach. Not a thing. Who is he? Does he even know we exist? When do we meet? Don't worry, we will. Coyote pulls something out of his bag. It's a black box. What's that? It's a USB duplicator. I borrowed it off my uncle. I ripped all the files off Griffin's USB.

The ones with all the Bo Leach talks. I'm going to find out who he really is. Why are you telling me all this? Man, you had doubts too. Not anymore. What if we're all being used? We're not. The system wouldn't exist without us. Bruv, we're expendable. That's what those manifesto videos are for, right? So that we can get passed off as not just... No, it's because they don't want anyone being able to track them down. And who decides who the targets are? I trust them.

You know what the security services do to people who get involved in this type of thing? Go on, what do they do? They get disappeared. Do they? Yeah. They get taken to the high seas and they get thrown off. I've read about it. You know, you need to get off 4chan, mate. Bruv, what if this is all bollocks? Like, is it worth it doing what they want us to do? Is it worth it? It is to me. Hello, what's up?

There's something I need to talk to you about. The next day, training. Coyote's gone. Did the right thing. Yeah, good runners. I'm going to need your help for a little mission in a couple of weeks. What's that? Just to make sure he's got the message. There you go. One, two. One, two. That's it. Present day. Maya.

How did they do it to your leg? It was like a month after I was kicked out. I'd been so careful up until then and nothing happened so I just went out one night to get some milk and then boom. There's a hood over my head. I'm dragged back inside. And he's whispering in my ear. What you need to understand is that you can never really leave. It's like the Hotel California, mate.

We'll be watching you. And if we want you to do something, you'll do it. Then I wake up in hospital. My flat's been ransacked, so it looks like I've been burgled. My computers, hard drives, all gone. And they smashed my ankle, my shin, and my knees to bits. Who do you think's behind it all? I don't know. Man, whoever can pull off this next level... Dark art, disruption, shit. What about judgement day? Never got to that bit, did I? But I don't think it's gonna be a small fine. And Bo Leach?

I've been on every forum, every chat room, every lunatic thread on Reddit and 4chan, but nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just some dairy farmer in Virginia. So, basically, you've got nothing? Didn't say that, did I? He reaches into a drawer behind him, pulls out a USB stick. I made copies. I'm not an idiot. And after all this searching, suddenly, there he is. Bow leech. 30ish. Dark hair. Tattoos. Biceps. I mean, I would. At the same time, he looks kind of familiar.

One of them faces, isn't it? Not that it helps much. I've done some face searches, but nothing. It's like he's been wiped from the internet. I can't look out where I know him from. And there's...

One other thing you might want to know. What? Have you heard of the Bethany Beach experiment? Six months earlier. Jake. Look at this guy. Hedge fund manager, guess how much he paid himself last year? £343 million. That's 9,000 times the average salary. Hedge funds, extremely complex, not that regulated and only open to high net worth individuals.

The training, the drip-drip of statistics, of facts and numbers and who controls them goes on for weeks, a month, too. These shadowy men who we're conditioned to admire, to envy, whose lifestyles we should so... desperately aspire to they come into super hd focus their features become grotesque their perfect white crowns the tans the botox the occasional hair transplant It's not hard to see them as monsters. Monsters with smartphones. They can kill with an email.

Delete a line in a spreadsheet and destroy a community. They're the reason I will never own a house. Why I can barely afford to live in my own city. Their greed is destroying our society, our people, the planet itself. They start to appear in my nightmares. Playing golf with human eyeballs. And then finally, one night I get a call at 3am. Why the middle of the night?

Couldn't it wait till the morning? Hello? Dingo, I've got a message from Bull. You have a first warning target. We rendezvous at 7am. He passes me a picture of a nondescript white man in his late 50s. Glasses, balding, slightly overweight. He looks like he might be a deputy head teacher or the minister for work and pensions.

Who is he? He's on the list What's his name? You don't need to know that Why not? It's not necessary, he's a target But why is he on the list? Can't I know why he's a target? Of course He's based in Monaco to avoid taxes He made his money stripping assets He moves businesses abroad to avoid regulation and the inconvenience of having to pay people properly

He folded a company and left its pensions unpaid. Another one's responsible for a third of Scotland's industrial air pollution. He's got three super yachts. His ex-wife got screwed in the divorce settlement when he left her for his daughter's show jumping coach. Do you need more? No, I'll do. Good. He looks at me.

We're making the world a better place, Jake. We're the closest you can get to being superheroes. And there I am, three days later posing as an agency cleaner in a fancy bar from Rackets Club in Mayfair. All dark wooded panelling and stacks of rolled up fluffy white towels. Barely anyone looks at me. As a cleaner you're expected to be invisible anyway.

No one wants to think too hard about the feelings of the girl who mops up the piss and pulls the salt and pepper pubes of the super rich out the brass plated plug hole. And then there he is. My target. He's just finished a game of squash. Passes me. Flushed. Breathing hard. Into a changing room. My heart is pounding. I move towards the door. Reach down for the brass handle. He's sitting on a bench facing away from me, undoing his trainers. His shirt off. This pale man.

Folds of hairy flesh hang loose at his hips. For all his wealth, his power. Right now he's feeble, helpless. Barely master of his own shoelaces, let alone the universe. I shut the door behind me. I slip on a pair of gloves I have in my pocket. Excuse me, what are you doing? Theory is about to become practice. There is half a second's hesitation before all the training kicks in. I grab him from behind.

Slide my hand and forearm under his jaw until his neck is in the crook of my elbow. I bring my other arm behind his head and push it down into my elbow. I have to get the balance just right. If I push too hard, it will cut off the blood supply to his brain and he'll pass out.

Claws feebly at my forearms and hands. My sleeves and gloves stop him getting any DNA under his fingers. This is a warning. I lean down to his ear. You have too much. Give it away or we'll take it from you. Judgment day's coming. I push just enough that he's almost on the point of fainting and then I release. He slumps to the floor. I slip out the side door and into a back street. Pulling on a hoodie I concealed under a wheelie bin, I walk rapidly, but do not run.

Keeping to the back streets, ducking in and out of shops until I'm miles and miles away on the other side of the river. Finally I sit for a moment on a bench, the adrenaline still coursing. There's no getting away from it. And that moment when I felt his windpipe in the crook of my elbow and whispered those words, feeling the fear pulse around his body, for the first time in my life I felt...

But now as I sit here, as the chemicals ebb away, I look down and see my hands start to shake. Present day, Maya. Coyote has led me deep into a YouTube hole.

The Bethany Beach experiment, it turns out, is one of those classic mid-century psychology experiments like the Stanford Prison Experiment, the Milgram Experiment, the Third Wave, or the whole CIA mind-control project known as MKUltra. Conspiracy theorists love this stuff because it actually did happen. And it shows us that the human mind is so fragile, so susceptible. We think we're in control, but we're not.

We're all programmed, and we can be deprogrammed and reprogrammed. In the right circumstances, any of us could do pretty much anything, and if you think otherwise... Frankly, you're kidding yourself. Bethany Beach was a six-stage indoctrination experiment carried out in a small coastal town in Delaware in the early 60s. And amazingly, Dr Khalida Hassan, a psychology undergrad who assisted on the project, is still alive. Hello? Alive and well and living in Massachusetts.

Hi, is that Dr. Hassan? Yes. This is Dr. Zakini Varma from Balliol College, Oxford. I know where Balliol College is. Of course. I tell her I'm a postdoctoral psychology student doing research into US military experiments. Well, no one's asked me about this for years, and now suddenly everyone wants to know. Really? I'll tell you what I told the others. For me.

the most interesting thing was how it proved just how unimportant ideology is emotion and relationships and that terrible word identity that's what really matters how so If you took young men who were in some way vulnerable, socially excluded, marginalized economically or otherwise, people with what you might call unstable identities, you understand?

The ones searching so desperately to fill in the gaps in their own lives. Then you gave them a structure, a routine, a set of rituals, and most importantly, a sense of belonging. A family, basically. And then you gradually cut them off from their other social networks. You form their primary relationships and keep them under this level of control. Hi. control yeah then with the lack of risk aversion they have at that age you can get them to do pretty much anything really oh yeah

They want a story. They want something to make sense of the randomness. But it almost doesn't matter how arbitrary. It helps if you choose an outgroup that's most different or if there's some existing grievance. But really they just want to be the hero of some story. So can I ask what happened in the end? It always just says it was shut down. Well, they killed a man. Why?

The supervising professor went off with his girlfriend and left a couple of undergrads in charge. It was a game to them. One morning they said, young men with long hair and glasses, that's who you got to look out for. sent them out to the beach to see what would happen. They dragged a guy into the bushes and stolt his head in with a rock. Jesus Christ. Yeah, and they covered it up somehow or another.

So, what are you going to do with this? Oh, this is going to go into my research. Because I never heard from the other man. I'm still waiting for the expose. Flew all the way over here, wanted to know every last detail, every part of every stage. Then I never heard from him again. What was his name? Weird name. Bo Leach. Did you say Bo Leach? Yep. Not a very British-sounding name. Didn't suit him much. Sorry, he was British? He had an English accent like mine? Not like yours.

But he was definitely from somewhere over there. Okay, guys, it's coming. Get yourselves ready, because we are counting down to Judgment Day. How was that? Yeah. That was good. But can you just make it a little bit more... apocalyptic? Uh, sure. Okay, guys. It's coming. Get yourselves ready. Because we are counting down to Judgment Day. That was great. Thank you. Really, really great.

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