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The Game

The Game

Titel: The Game Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Neil Strauss
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advice—advice I should have been following myself.
    After I hung up, I called Mystery. He wanted to give me his motorcycle. He wanted to give Patricia his computer. And he wanted to give the illusions he had designed for his ninety-minute show to a local magician.
    “You can’t give away the magic tricks you’ve worked so hard on,” I protested. “You may want them later.”
    “Those are illusions. I’m not good at anything but bullshitting people. I never meant to be a bullshitter, so I’m stopping now.”
    I didn’t need to be a high-school guidance counselor to recognize the warning signs. If I didn’t take them seriously, I might regret it later. I couldn’t turn the other way while my mentor walked off a cliff—even if it was a cliff of his own making. I once had a friend whose ex-boyfriend was always threatening to kill himself. One day she didn’t respond to his cry for help. He shot himself on his front lawn an hour later.
    As Mystery had noted in his codeine-high Lounge post, we had a valuable network at our disposal. The Lounge linked together surgeons, students, bodyguards, movie directors, fitness trainers, software developers, concierges, stockbrokers, and psychiatrists. So I called Doc.
    Doc had discovered the community when Mystery signed up, on a lark, for a dating seminar Doc was conducting at the Learning Annex. Mystery listened patiently as Doc shared tips and tactics that were AFC stuff compared to the technology in the community. Afterward, he talked to Doc, who confessed to not being much of a ladies’ man. So Mystery took him out for a night on the town, schooled him in Mystery Method, and gave him access to the Lounge. Now Doc was a machine, with his own harem of women. His nickname came from his doctorate in psychology, so I called him and asked for advice.
    He suggested asking Mystery the following questions, in exactly this order:
Are you so down that you just feel like giving up on everything?
Are you thinking about death a lot?
Do you think about hurtingyourselfor doing something destructive?
Are you thinking about suicide?
How wouldyou do it?
What keeps you from doing it?
Do you think you would do it within the next twenty-four hours?
    I wrote down the questions on a sheet of paper, folded it in quarters, and put it in my back pocket. This would be my cheat sheet. My routine.

When I arrived at Mystery’s place, he was in the process of dismantling his bed. His movements were mechanical. So were his responses.
STYLE: What are you doing?
    MYSTERY: I’m giving my bed to my sister. I love her, and she deserves a better bed.
    STYLE: Are you so down that you just feel like giving up on everything?
    MYSTERY: Yes. It’s the futility of it. It’s memetic. If you understand memetics, then you understand that it’s all futile. There’s no point.
    STYLE: But you have a superior intellect. It’s your duty to breed.
    MYSTERY: It doesn’t matter. I’m going to weed my genes out of existence.
    STYLE: Are you thinking about death a lot?
    MYSTERY: All the time.
    STYLE: Do you think about hurting yourself or doing something destructive?
    MYSTERY: Yes. This living thing is fubar.
    STYLE: Are you thinking about suicide?
    MYSTERY: Yes.
    STYLE: How would you do it?
    MYSTERY: Drowning, because it’s what I’m most afraid of.
    STYLE: What keeps you from doing it?
    MYSTERY: I have to give away all my stuff. I dropped Patricia’s computer and broke it. So I want to give her mine. She needs a computer.
    STYLE: Did she care?
    MYSTERY: No, not really.
    STYLE: Was she mad that you broke it?
    MYSTERY: No.
    STYLE: Do you think you would take your life in the next twenty-four hours?
    MYSTERY: Why are you asking me all these questions?
    STYLE: Because I’m your friend, and I’m worried about you.
    [Doorbell rings]
    STYLE: Who is it?
    VOICE ON INTERCOM: Hi, this is Tyler Durden. I’m here for Mystery. I’m a fan of his posts, and I want to see if I can meet him.
    STYLE: It’s probably not a good time right now.
    VOICE ON INTERCOM: But I came all the way from Kingston.
    STYLE: Sorry, man. He can’t see anyone. He’s, um, sick.

I left Mystery in his room, went to the kitchen, and dialed information for his parents’ number. His real-world name was Erik von Markovik, but that was just another illusion. He’d legally changed it from his birth name, Erik Horvat-Markovic.
    The phone rang once, twice, a third time. A man picked up. His voice was gruff, his manner curt. It was Mystery’s

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