Notes From A Tesla Takedown
(This is satire)
We check in at tables where volunteers in pastel shirts with Tesla Takedown logos are checking IDs and passing out weapons. Or rather tickets for the random drawing from the weapon pile. A kindly old woman stands at a Pennsylvania power ball machine as it sucks levitating balls to the top. Behind her are the numbered implements, donated and dumped like bonfire kindling: crowbars, snow shovels, fence posts, baseball bats, garden weasels, concrete bricks, regular bricks, and a medieval morning star with a hanging spiked ball.
Cars are still arriving at the high school parking lot where protesters are chatting and readying their bullhorns and signs (“Elon Needs To Die(t),” “Democracy Not For Sale,” “Nazi Tycoons F*** Off). It’s a good group. Once prepared we’ll march the few blocks to the Tesla dealership. The overcast sky speaks of rain but we’re not listening. We are undeterred.
I get lucky - an aluminum bat. Except I didn’t think to bring protective goggles and don’t wish to pay twenty bucks for a pair at the merch booth. Anyway this protest is not about destroying a car, or a company, but rather the ego of a man so associated with Tesla, and space, and Twitter/X, and ketamine, and DOGE, and an undying method of such bumbling megalomania that he makes Dr Evil seem grounded.
Elon Musk was a “bright, ambitious boy” according to teachers bribed by his parents. Biographers note that Mama and Papa Musk were very supportive of their son, buying him grades and friends who punched a timeclock for parties and play dates. Elon spent his formative years in his home arcade, a full basketball sized court upon which paid servants acted out his games of Donkey Kong, running from real flaming barrels. Many were injured or disfigured; none were compensated for their medical bills because as the family’s “efficiency expert,” young Elon cut off their health care.
Some argue that his Department Of Government Efficiency is just the haphazard blundering of an incompetent billionaire, but actually he’s an incompetent multi-billionaire. His actions seem egregiously bizarre even for the Trump administration. Mr Musk reportedly drives around to government agencies in a bulletproof popemobile golf cart with one of many his children. He decides which child to strap to his neck based on the day of the week, after which they’re named. Last week he and Lil’ Thursday attempted to shut down the CIA. No wonder he’s complained lately of death threats.
Elections have always been financed by shadowy benefactors, but never before with a figure so desperate for attention. “He wants to be all up in the videos,” Suge Knight famously taunted Puff Daddy at the 1995 Source Awards, claiming some moral high ground in their rap feud. Calling Mr P Diddy an attention whore seems in hindsight a trivial charge compared to his subsequent monstrosities. But beware, Suge was saying, of infiltrators, publicity hounds, and little rich men with overcompensating ambitions.
“It’s a trap,” someone says. We all notice the three Tesla trucks conveniently parked outside the dealership. The whole street has been shut down, barricaded by police cars at either end. Most are unmanned since the local police have been the latest targets of the DOGE efficiency crunch. Instead of human officers, AI robot cops shuffle around in blue caps and flashing eye sensors, bumping into each other and apologizing. Still it does seem suspicious, these trucks parked out front. Those of us with weapons aren’t sure what to do. We’re just here for resistance, and ridicule.
The dealership has shut down operations for the day, though the faces of worried workers are visible in the windows. No one I spoke to was eager for violence. But they were pissed. “He’s tearing apart the government,” said Mary Buford, 59, of Wexford, “and he looks like a turnip.” George Granvers, retired Marine added: “It’s all unconstitutional and he knows it. He should be in prison. And what’s going on with his haircut? He looks like a Nazi turnip.” That latter point - the Nazi not the turnip bit - is most controversial.
Mr Musk recently defended his unequivocal fascist salute on the Joe Rogan podcast. “I-I was making a joke,” he stammered. “B-but the left has outlawed comedy.” Mr Rogan just nodded pensively through his cigar smoke as Mr Musk went on: “People get their feelings hurt so easily. That’s the woke virus.” What exactly is meant by woke is specious enough to make for very effective political rhetoric. It’s one of those generalized terms thrown about by armchair generals, acting out synthetic wars against invisible targets as they shadowbox guilty corners of their shadow selves.
Except the war is getting real, spilling out into the streets and toward Tesla dealerships. A police captain confers with our organizers while those of us with weapons wait like batters in the on deck circle. Elsewhere there are families with kids in hockey gear, crust punks in bandana masks, and even a trio of hip young professionals dressed for the golf course chatting casually with their crowbars. The discontent is growing, with more segments of the electorate.
But no one summed it up quite like Josephine Diggs, 19, of Pittsburgh: “Elon Musk is a dork.” It’s true - we expect a certain cool from our villains, which we get from Donald Trump who despite his clumsy rhetoric spraying randomly still manages to reach his marks. Musk, not so much. When he appeared onstage in shades with a chainsaw, we could only cringe for him and ourselves for allowing this swagless fool into our lexicon. One wonders if he’s regretting his star turn yet. Lonely kings go mad - ask Shakespeare, or Richard Nixon. Worst of all for Musk is that he can’t hide from the consequences. He’s no genius and definitely no philosopher but rather a money man who has to keep “cutting costs” like a juggler struggling with pins in the air. Fair enough, maybe. But why are his eyes so focused on the pockets of middle and working class Americans?
The negotiations are still going on between the police captain and the TT leaders, while the robot AI cops have shuffled over to the three Teslas. The captain seems contrite, begging for us not to bring violence. But we’ve made our point, no need to underline it in crayon like an unruly mob. I find one of the families who didn’t get any weapons, and spin the bat to give it handle first to a shy boy hiding behind his father. “You like baseball?” I ask.
Before he can answer, we all hear the shots, and then the sparks. “They’re shooting!” someone shouts, and we all run from the scene as the AI robot cops begin firing at the Teslas, whose hoods are opening and shutting as if they’re arguing back. We all get far enough away from the first explosion so no one is hurt, though still close enough to feel the heat and smell the cheap burning plastic. Still it’s the AI robot cops who are undeterred now, firing and surrounding the Teslas as each explodes, finally taking the robots with them in a series of impressive bursts of flames.
“That was like the 4th Of July,” someone says back at the parking lot where we’re all decompressing, as reporters are arriving over the distant sounds of many sirens. And it is, at least in terms of the meaning. Freedom from tyranny, right?