The Hollow Man

Adam Pratt had always prided himself on being a centrist: a man who avoided extremes, who neither preached revolution nor clung to tradition. To him, the glass wasn’t half-full or half-empty—it was just a vessel, requiring careful balance. He valued peace over principle, and anonymity over activism. “Go along to get along” could have been engraved on his tombstone, though he’d never have risked choosing anything so permanent.

As a white, cisgender male, Adam excelled at avoiding attention or controversy, a sort of modern-day Bartleby who would “prefer not to” engage. His career as an actuator—a job defined by precision and neutrality—mirrored his philosophy on life. Even his church, the First Laodicean Church of San Francisco, was a Protestant congregation so bland it could have doubled as a Rotary Club meeting, perfectly reflecting his aversion to anything remotely polarizing.

But living in San Francisco—a city where ideological fault lines ran deeper than the San Andreas—was testing his carefully curated balancing act. Sacramento’s sweeping policies made him uneasy, though he buried those thoughts deep, like a Roman censor expunging inconvenient truths. Adam voted Democrat because it was the safest choice, the one least likely to attract the ire of his coworkers or neighbors. Fitting in was easier than standing out—a kind of political Stockholm Syndrome he justified with vague murmurs about “keeping up with the times.”

Still, cracks were forming in his carefully constructed neutrality. Deep down, Adam suspected he was living in the twilight of an empire. Policies that once seemed progressive now felt radical. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he remembered a quote from his high school history class from several decades earlier, something by Sir John Glubb to the effect that, all civilizations think their way of life will last forever and they are always wrong. But speaking up? That wasn’t his place.

These days, neutrality was his refuge, his shield, his excuse.

The Summons: An Unremarkable Tuesday

Then came the summons.

It arrived in the mail on an otherwise forgettable Tuesday: an official-looking letter from the Bureau of Social Enlightenment (BSE). The envelope bore no postage stamp, no markings to suggest it had passed through the usual bureaucratic channels. Adam hesitated before opening it, his curiosity outweighed only by his unease.

The letter was from a prestigious law firm specializing in activist causes, informing him of his “grave infraction.” Apparently, Adam had misgendered and deadnamed an old high school acquaintance who now identified as genderqueer, nonbinary, and trans.

He wracked his brain until the memory surfaced. He had been in the grocery store, idly browsing the produce aisle, when he turned a corner and came face-to-face with Kevin—or rather, the person who used to be Kevin. Adam had stumbled over his words, resorting to the only name he knew. “Kevin, is that you?” he’d said, smiling awkwardly. The encounter had been brief, polite, and unremarkable.

Or so he thought.

Now, the letter declared, he was being given a choice: pay an exorbitant fine or attend a one-day re-education program at the Bureau of Social Enlightenment.

The Descent of Adam Pratt

Adam chose the latter, not out of conviction but necessity. He arrived at the Bureau’s headquarters on Saturday, his curiosity tempered by dread. The building loomed like some bureaucratic Babel, its facade adorned with banners proclaiming platitudes: Equity for All, Love is Love, Silence is Violence. It was a spectacle worthy of Dickensian satire—think A Tale of Two Ideologies.

Inside, a blue-haired receptionist greeted him with a mix of disdain and rehearsed cheer. “Welcome to the Bureau of Social Enlightenment,” she chirped, sliding a pamphlet across the counter. Its title read: The Nine Circles of Progressivism.

Before Adam could question what fresh Orwellian nightmare this was, a figure appeared at his side: a man—or something approximating one—dressed in a tailored purple suit. A pride pin glimmered on his lapel, and wire-rimmed glasses framed eyes that seemed to see straight through Adam, weighing him and finding him wanting.

“Ah, Mr. Wright,” the man said, his tone smooth and unsettlingly formal. “Welcome. My name is Virgil, and I’ll be your guide today.”

“Guide for what?” Adam asked.

Virgil’s thin smile widened. “For your enlightenment, of course. Follow me.”

He gestured toward an elevator at the end of the hall. Adam hesitated, but Virgil’s expectant gaze left little room for argument. Reluctantly, he stepped into the elevator, its gleaming doors closing behind them with a foreboding finality.

The air inside was heavy, and the hum of the machinery felt almost alive. Virgil pressed a button marked B1, and the elevator began its descent—not with the jolt of most elevators, but with a smooth, unsettling glide. Adam gripped the railing, a pit forming in his stomach.

“What exactly are the Nine Circles of Progressivism?” he asked, his voice barely steady.

Virgil’s smile didn’t falter. “Think of them as an opportunity to reflect on the choices you’ve made—and the ones you haven’t. Each circle offers…perspective.”

Adam's throat tightened. “And what happens at the end?”

Virgil’s expression darkened, just for a moment. “That depends entirely on you.”

The elevator slowed, then stopped. The doors slid open, revealing a vast, shadowy cavern. Adam could just make out the faint sound of voices—some whispering, others wailing. The walls seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive.

“This,” Virgil said, stepping out, “is where your journey begins.”

Adam hesitated, his feet rooted to the floor. For the first time in his carefully managed, conflict-averse life, he had the distinct and chilling sense that he might not come back the same person he was when he entered.

Circle 1: The Domain of Virtue-Signaling

The elevator doors opened to a cavernous hall where countless banners dangled from the ceiling. Each one proclaimed a vague platitude: "Equity for All," "Planet Over Profit," "Black Lives Matter," "Love is Love," "From the river to the sea," and "Silence is Violence" to name just a few. Below the banners stood throngs of people clutching smartphones, chanting slogans, and marching around in circles in unison.

"What is this?" Adam asked.

“Like you, these are they/them who decided to hold on to traditional values,” Virgil said mechanically. "Here they stay until they truly understand the significance of shouting your virtues."

“Yeah, but what are they shouting?" Adam asked puzzlingly. "They're all shouting over each other, and no one can hear what they're saying?"

"That doesn't matter. What matters is that they are present, and representing the underprivileged of the world," Virgil responded.

Adam looked around to see who exactly they were shouting to, but before he could ask another, obvious question, Virgil pointed to the back of the throng and instructed Adam to walk over there, pick up a sign, and shout with them.

"I'm sure this is all done with good intentions, but I don't think me chanting down here will resolve anything,” Adam replied sheepishly. "How long must I do this?"

"Being that this is your first infraction, today you just get the tour. Next time though, you will spend an appropriate amount of time here."

"How long is that?" Adam asked.

"It's long enough that you won't want to violate anything ever again."

"What if I don't have a cause to protest for?"

"My dear Adam, that doesn't matter," Virgil replied. "Welcome to the Domain of Virtue-Signalers, where words matter more than actions.”

A man in a Free Palestine shirt approached, holding a clipboard. “I’ve organized 27 rallies this month alone,” he said, beaming. “All carbon-neutral, of course.”

“And did they achieve anything?” Adam asked.

The man looked aghast. “Achievement? That’s not the point. The point is awareness.”

Adam watched as the crowd posted selfies with their protest signs before promptly discarding them into an overflowing trash heap.

“Nothing says saving the planet like a landfill of cardboard slogans,” the guide remarked dryly before guiding Adam to the next level.

Circle 2: The Pyramid of Identity Politics

After what felt like hours of watching angry crowds yelling indecipherably, his hearing was nearly gone. Just when he didn't think he could take anymore, Virgil reappeared, seemingly from out of nowhere.

"I'm here to take you to your next block of instruction," Virgil said emotionlessly.

Adam threw his "Free South Africa" sign into the massive and growing pile of discarded signs, walked back over to Virgil, and asked, "How long have I been here?"

"Time is a funny thing down in the BSE," Virgil replied cryptically.

"So how long is that?"

Virgil remained as silent as a Sphinx but led Adam down a hall to another elevator. This one, somewhat duller than the former elevator, slid open and beckoned them. Compared to the other, this felt like a more obvious but no less deadly trap taking him to a place he didn't want to go. After a few moments, the lift began descending and after what felt like an eternity, the doors slid open effortlessly. The next level was a swirling chaos of booths and tables, each labeled with a different identity and task at hand. People stood in lines before each table, loudly proclaiming their grievances and demands as to why they should be identified with the name on the table.

“This is where the great sorting takes place,” Virgil explained. “The Pyramid of Identity Politics. Unity through division.”

Seeing no pyramid in sight, Adam frowned. “But shouldn’t they be setting aside their differences and coming together to unify if they want to build the pyramid?”

“Ah, but then how would they prove who’s the most oppressed? This is the beauty of intersectionality. Here, oppression is currency.”

He watched as a woman stood triumphantly atop a podium, declaring herself the most marginalized in the room due to her gender. Moments later, another person climbed over her to a higher position, declaring they had more points of intersectional hardship because of their ethnicity. Still another climbed higher claiming their sexual preferences should be the most respected.

“It’s like a game show,” Adam muttered.

“Precisely,” said the guide leading him through the lunacy. “And the prize is…well, no one really knows, because all of the infighting keeps them distracted from solving any real problems.”

Circle 3: The Feast of Cancel Culture

Adam was forced to walk over to the closest table and declare his CIS/White/Manhood, and without a second to lose, was foisted to the bottom of the pyramid along with all the other white men. He was forced to bear the burden of everyone above him. After what seemed like an eternity of and thoroughly exhausted, Virgil walked over and motioned that he follow him.

Adam thought back to something Virgil had said shortly after arriving. Was it sarcasm he had detected in his voice? If it was, it was so veiled that had he not caught the change in tone, he would have never noticed. But now he was puzzled. At first, it seemed that Virgil was all on board with this 'intersectionality' stuff. But just then, he seemed to mock it. Nevertheless, he kept his thoughts to himself and followed Virgil to the next elevator.

They departed the giant room and headed toward the elevator. Again, after an unquieting descent further into the earth, they had arrived at their destination. The door slid open, and a room appeared no less menacing than the previous, Adam's stomach turned as they entered a banquet hall. The tables were laden with plates of food spelled out into half-eaten words and regurgitated apologies.

“Welcome to the Feast of Cancel Culture,” the guide said. “Here, the menu is the past, and the main course is anyone who ever dared to say something unfashionable.”

A woman leaped to her feet, pointing at a man across the room. “He once laughed at a joke in 1997 that made fun of someone's skin color!”

The accused man stammered, “Oh yeah, well, you didn't vote Democrat until 2020! Besides, the joke was told by a person with the same skin color as the person in the joke. I didn’t know it was offensive!”

“But you're not that same skin color so that makes you a racist!” the crowd roared. "You'll never work in this town again!"

Adam turned to see who the crowd was but it was only empty space surrounding the people seated at the feast.

Adam winced. “Does anyone survive this place?”

“Oh, certainly,” the guide said with a smirk. “As long as they grovel convincingly enough or hold the right position of power. The truth is, hypocrisy, not victimhood, is the true currency here.”

Circle 4: The Chasm of Economic Collapse

The air grew heavier as they descended into the next lower level. It was a massive cavern, where glowing screens projected endless numbers. People stood at machines printing what looked like money but as soon as they held it in their hands, the money disintegrated into dust.

“Modern monetary theory in action,” Virgil quipped. “Welcome to the Abyss of Economic Collapse.”

Adam watched as one man shouted, “We’ll just print more! Debt is freedom! You'll own nothing and be happy!”

Nearby, a woman tried to explain the difference between productive investment and reckless spending, but she was drowned out by cheers for a politician promising free everything.

“Where’s all this money supposed to come from?” Adam asked.

The guide shrugged. “Future generations, mostly. But don’t worry—there won't be any future generations to complain about it so why worry.”

Circle 5: The Land of Lawlessness

The cavern narrowed and descended even further into a subterranean street of what looked like empty storefronts. Within a few moments, Adam could hear the sound of glass breaking and people laughing gleefully. Just then, masked figures darted through shadows, smashing windows and grabbing whatever they could carry. A single security guard stood nearby, looking bored.

"What's going on here?" Adam asked as he inched a bit closer to Virgil.

"We are in Blue City USA, where the only rule is that the mob rules. When signaled by their liberal leaders, the mobs riot and then start looting," Virgil replied almost emotionlessly.

“Why isn't anyone stopping this? Are they just going to let this happen?” Adam asked.

“Of course. These are the disenfranchised. Holding them accountable would be considered unjust.”

Adam watched as one man loaded a stolen flat-screen TV impossibly onto a new sports bike.

“What about the victims?”

“The looters are the victims. Victims of the oppressive capitalist system. The stores have insurance so a little collateral damage goes a long way in the name of progress,” Virgil replied cynically.

"Yeah, but that is not sustainable. Won't the stores just close down and move to places where the laws are enforced so they don't lose all their product?"

"Maybe. That doesn't matter. All the "disenfranchised have to do is complain to their politicians who then go on to publically shame the CEOs of these corporate franchises. They'll keep the stores there," Virgil replied. “But don’t worry Mr. Corporate CIS-White Male. You can always buy a new one. Assuming the economy can survive it.”

Circle 6: The Tier of Anti-Traditionalism

They descended lower and entered a plaza filled with toppled statues and burning books.

“What happened here?” Adam asked.

“This is where the political left, I mean, the enlightened, can cleanse history,” the guide said. “After all, aren't all traditions based on the archaic patriarchal system? This means they are oppressive, and thus, it must be erased to make room for the future.”

A group of activists stood around a bonfire tossing historical documents into the flames. “Down with the patriarchy!” they shouted. “Down with the Constitution. And also algebra—it’s racist! It's colonialist!”

Adam blinked. “Algebra?”

“Anything that requires effort is considered suspect,” Virgil explained dryly.

Circle 7: The Chasm of Cultural Narcissism

In the next room, the walls were lined with mirrors. Countless people stood before them, gazing longfully at their own reflections as if posing for selfies.

“Welcome to the Chasm of Cultural Narcissism,” Virgil said cringing. “Here, you'll find some of our oldest residents as many have fallen in love with their own reflections and refuse to leave."

"How long have they been here?" Adam asked.

"Some have been years. Some decades. They just can't bear to walk away from their reflections."

"Do they know how long they've been here?"

"They'll be here forever at this rate. It's like Nietzsche said, “If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.”

“It looks exhausting,” Adam said.

“Now you understand their true punishment,” the guide replied. "They've created their own prison."

Circle 8: The Guile of the Golden Ticket

Adam found himself standing at the edge of a glittering coastline. Waves crashed against jagged cliffs under a golden sun, and beyond the shoreline stretched vineyards, towering redwoods, and sunlit valleys that seemed plucked from paradise itself. But as he turned inland, the air grew heavy with smog, the roads cracked and uneven, and the once-pristine hillsides were littered with hollowed-out husks of burnt buildings.

“This is Commifornia,” Virgil said with a note of wistful sarcasm. “The land of predetermined opportunity, where equality of outcome is more important than the equality of opportunity. Here, identity matters more than ingenuity.”

They approached a glass-and-steel skyscraper bearing the faded letters of a once-global tech giant. Inside, a hiring board was posted on a digital screen. Applicants stood in lines marked not by skillset or qualifications but by categories: race, gender, sexual orientation, and an odd new one labeled "Lived Experience Priority."

“What are they doing?” Adam asked, watching as a recruiter handed a sleek tablet to a young woman in the "Preferred Status: Intersectional" queue.

“They’re hiring,” the guide said. “But not for their abilities. Here, identity is the golden ticket. They no longer ask who’s best qualified for the job but who checks the most intersectional boxes.”

As they walked further into the building, they passed a conference room where managers argued over a spreadsheet filled with diversity metrics. A tired man in a crumpled suit waved at the data. “We’re under quota for the third quarter! Do you want the state breathing down our necks again?”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “They only hire to meet quotas, not outcomes?”

“Oh, absolutely,” the guide said, smirking. “It’s the law. Commifornia's golden rule: meritocracy is an outdated relic of systemic oppression. If you want to build a bridge, code a new app, or teach in a classroom, your resume matters less than your demographic profile.”

“But what happens to quality? To competence?”

The guide chuckled darkly. “Funny you should ask. Take a look.”

They stepped into what appeared to be a city council meeting. The room was lavish, but the council members sat in ornate chairs, flipping through their phones while a parade of officials presented slides with buzzwords like "Equity Synergy" and "Justice Outcomes." At the back of the room, Adam noticed a worker in a hard hat trying to patch a water pipe that was spewing into a corner of the chamber. The repairman struggled, his tools falling to the ground.

“That’s the city’s new infrastructure director,” the guide explained. “Zero experience, but a fifth-generation activist from the right category, xe/xem/xyr/xemself, so xem got the job.”

“She, er, I mean, xem, doesn’t seem to know what she’s, I mean, xyr's, doing,” Adam said as water began pooling on the floor.

“Of course not. But the council applauded her hiring last week for shattering glass ceilings, so they’re happy to let the leaks keep leaking.”

Adam sighed. “And the voters let this happen?”

At the word "voting" Virgil erupted into hysterical fits, almost doubling over. "My dear Adam, with mail-in ballot voting, it's not who has the most votes that matters, it's who counts them."

Virgil nodded toward the window, where the same coastal cliffs that had been shimmering in the distance, were now drowning in the smoke from runaway wildfires. “It’s the Commiefornia way. A state so beautiful that it successfully masks its rot. People keep voting for the dream, but they’re living the nightmare.”

As they walked back to the lobby, Adam noticed a bronze plaque on the wall. It read:

"In Diversity We Trust. In Quality We’ll Adjust."

“That’s the state motto now,” the guide said, deadpan. “A perfect distillation of modern hypocrisy: sell the image of progress, but pray the infrastructure doesn’t crumble before you finish the press release.”

Adam shook his head. “How long can they keep this up?”

The guide shrugged. “As long as the sunshine distracts the tourists and the wine dulls the locals.”

Circle 9: The Depot of Despair

They arrived at a cavern where the walls disintegrated into a fathomless void, the air dense with an almost tangible weight of hopelessness. Figures drifted aimlessly through the gloom, their movements slow and lifeless, their faces etched with an unnatural hollowness—as if all memory of purpose and identity had been drained away. A faint hum filled the space, not loud enough to hear clearly but persistent enough to set Adam's nerves on edge.

“This,” the guide said, his voice low and reverent, “is the Pit—the place where societies crumble when they abandon their foundations.”

Adam gazed into the abyss, his heart hammering in his chest. The enormity of it pressed down on him, as though the void itself recognized him. “What happens now?” he asked, his voice trembling as he instinctively looked around for an elevator, some means of escape.

The guide’s lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Now? Now you climb out—or you join them, trapped here for all eternity.”

Adam froze. His gaze darted toward the crumbling walls, their jagged edges shifting and collapsing like sand under an invisible hand. For a moment, his body felt paralyzed by the weight of the task. Could he climb this? Would there even be anything solid to grasp? His fingers twitched, hesitation clawing at his resolve. Then, with a sharp, defiant intake of breath, he seized a loose rock and began to climb.

The rock shattered beneath his grasp almost immediately, sending him sprawling back to the ground. A low chuckle escaped Virgil, not unkind, but with the air of someone who had seen this play out many times before.

“There’s no way up,” Adam said, his voice tinged with a rising panic.

“There is,” Virgil replied, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. “But it’s almost impossibly difficult. To climb out, Adam, requires a complete transformation—a systemic change in your very being. Without it, even if you reach the top, you’ll fall back here eventually. And next time, it’ll be permanent.”

Adam shook his head, sweat dripping down his face. “But why am I here in the first place? All I did was accidentally misgender someone once. I’ve played by the rules. I voted Democrat all my life. I go to a progressive church. I keep my mouth shut on social media. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do to keep the peace! Why am I here?!”

Virgil sighed, sliding a hand onto Adam's slumped shoulders. The gesture was oddly gentle, even compassionate. “Adam, my dear sir,” he began, his voice almost fatherly, “your sin isn’t misgendering someone. That’s merely the symptom, not the cause. Your real sin is far deeper: it’s trying to stay neutral in a world that demands conviction.”

Adam blinked, confusion mingling with frustration. “Neutral? But isn’t neutrality the best way to survive in a world like this? Isn’t it better to stay out of the chaos and just… mind my own business?”

Virgil’s expression darkened, his smile fading. “In times of great moral crisis, neutrality is a choice, Adam. And make no mistake—it’s always the wrong one. By refusing to stand for anything, you stood for everything. You became a man of shifting sands, swayed by whatever winds of approval kept you comfortable. And that,” Virgil said, gesturing toward the aimless figures in the Pit, “is why you’re here. These are the souls of those who avoided conflict, who let the world decay because they feared speaking out. They are neither villains nor heroes—they are the forgotten, the apathetic.”

Adam stared at the figures in the Pit, his chest tightening. “So… what now? This isn’t just punishment, is it? This is a warning, isn’t it?”

Virgil’s enigmatic smile returned. “Ah, now you’re beginning to understand.”

Adam looked back at the wall, his fingers curling into fists. The task ahead of him seemed insurmountable. The walls shifted, crumbled, and reformed, as though taunting him. But somewhere deep inside, something stirred—something he hadn’t felt in years. Resolve.

Without another word, Adam reached for the wall and began to climb again.

Epilogue

Adam emerged from the Bureau hours later, his clothes dusty, his hands bloodied, but his heart pounding with something he hadn’t felt in years: clarity. The city shimmered in the distance, lights twinkling like stars against the backdrop of a deepening night. He stood at the top of the Bureau’s stone steps, gazing longingly at the skyline as if seeing it for the first time.

“It’s not too late,” he murmured to himself, his voice steady. “But I was almost there."

Somewhere behind him, a faint voice whispered, so quiet it could have been the wind: “Stand for something, or fall for everything.”

Adam turned, but there was nothing there. Only the fading shadows of the Bureau’s towering facade. He exhaled slowly, adjusted his jacket, and stepped into the night, his mind racing with what lay ahead. First things first, I need a steak, and then I need a new church.

Post Scriptum: I thought I would go with something a little different today. I began writing this at the outset of the California fires in early January, in particular, at the minute I heard the fire hydrants were empty and the governor, mayor, and fire chiefs so miserably failed in preparing their state for what seemed like the perfect storm where disaster and inevitability clash headlong exposing the rot of progressive ideology. Granted, the first thing anyone needs is a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, who is the only One who can change us from the inside out.

Borrowing heavily from"Dante's Inferno," written by Dante Alighieri as part of his epic, The Divine Comedy, the Hollow Man (also borrowing the title from T.S. Eliot of the same name) was meant to address the rot that had been lukewarmness that has for so long plagued our society. Moreover, this fiction is meant to be a commentary on how social neutrality always leads to the collapse of kingdoms and nations, which more often than not, begins with the silence of the churches. Let's close with the stern warning from Christ Himself on the dangers of neutrality.

“And to the angel of the church of the Laodiceans write,

‘These things says the Amen, the Faithful and True Witness, the Beginning of the creation of God: “I know your works, that you are neither cold nor hot.

I could wish you were cold or hot. So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth.

Because you say, ‘I am rich, have become wealthy, and have need of nothing’—and do not know that you are wretched, miserable, poor, blind, and naked— I counsel you to buy from Me gold refined in the fire, that you may be rich; and white garments, that you may be clothed, that the shame of your nakedness may not be revealed; and anoint your eyes with eye salve, that you may see.

As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten.

Therefore be zealous and repent. Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me. To him who overcomes I will grant to sit with Me on My throne, as I also overcame and sat down with My Father on His throne.

“He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches.” ’ ”

Revelation 3:14-22