TOXIC

He stands in front of a camera, his chest puffed out like he’s the last man on earth worth listening to. An expensive unlit cigar clutched between his finger and thumb like he’s Jimmy Savile’s predatory soul reincarnated. 

If you can imagine a tanned, life sized human cock, wearing a garish kimono and parading the illusion of wealth, then you won’t be far off the vision.

His words spill out, fast and loud, designed to cut deep, to draw blood. He tells his followers they’re kings, that the world owes them respect, obedience, fear. He tells them to take what’s theirs, as though women are property, as though kindness is weakness, as though the world needs more men like him.

And they fucking believe him.

Young men, boys really, hang on his every word. They call him a legend, a role model, the voice they never had. His lessons are simple, brutal, easy to swallow and easy to follow. Women love bad boys. You’re owed everything. Empathy is for losers. His words poison their minds and harden their hearts, transforming them into foot soldiers in a war they don’t even understand.

They start small. A joke at a friend’s expense. A comment under a stranger’s photo. A shove disguised as play. Eventually it becomes following women home in the dark. Sexual harassment. Sexual violence. They test boundaries, push limits, until their behaviour becomes second nature. Until they can no longer see the line between what’s acceptable and what’s abuse.

The cycle repeats itself, over and over. The bruises don’t heal; they multiply. The words don’t fade; they echo. The harm isn’t isolated; it’s systemic. He knows this, the man in the camera. He thrives on it. His empire is built on the pain he encourages but never has to witness.

His followers defend him, parroting his lines about freedom of speech and cancel culture. They don’t see the irony in their cries for free thought while clinging to his every command. He says jump and in unison, they ask how fucking high?

And all the while, the rest of us watch. We see the headlines, the protests, the endless arguments online. We see the victims—bruised, silenced, discarded. We see the hate, the violence, the dehumanisation, and we wonder how it got this far. How we let it get this far.

Because it didn’t start with him. Toxic masculinity is older than him, older than us. It’s in the language we use, the way we raise boys, the jokes we excuse. He’s just the latest face of it, the loudest voice in a choir that has been singing for generations.

But loud voices fade. The problem isn’t the shouts—it’s the whispers. The murmurs of agreement, the quiet complicity, the unspoken endorsement that allows it all to continue. He’ll fall eventually. They always do. But the damage will remain.

And this is how it ends.