My night out in Cleveland with the worst men on the internet

What surprises me about Roosh is that he seems to be a true believer. Unlike Milo, he appears to be to some extent convinced of the truth of what hes saying. He is bitter and vindictive, convinced of his own victimhood. He tells me that the reason I have a column is that Im a useful idiot and all my readers have low IQs. I ask him if hes negging me.

I turn to leave, and Roosh suggests that we should start some sort of fake fight on the internet, because thats part of the game. Im good, I say, genuinely confused. There is no way I could have a fake fight with this man. We have real, profound differences. I think hes a dangerous manchild with an army of credulous misogynists at his disposal. I cannot fight him insincerely, and I dont want to fight him in good faith because he has already had too much of my attention. What truly does this extravagantly bearded sociopath think hes playing at?

The most widely accepted definition of a troll is a provocateur someone who says outrageous, extreme or abusive things to elicit a reaction. For them, the reaction itself is the win. The key distinction is between the attention-hustlers the pure troll howlers who play this grotesque game for its own sake and their own and the true believers. Roosh is a true believer, and that puts him at a disadvantage.

Roosh means what hes saying, but hes still aware that hes playing a game the same game almost everyone in this crucible of A-list internet conmen is playing. Its the game of turning raw rage into political currency, the unscrupulous whorebaggery of the troll gone pro. These are people who cashed in their limited principles to cheat at poker. Like Trump, they channel their own narcissism to give voice to the wordless, formless rage of the people neoliberalism left behind. Welcome to the scream room. Theres a cheese plate.

I run into a British writer from the Spectator, who is as bewildered as I am by the way Americans take Milo and his ilk seriously, by their willingness to take pride in performative bigotry and call it strength. It works. It sells. Its the unholy marriage of that soulless debate culture that works so well in Britain, transplanted to a nation with no social safety net and half a billion guns. It works, in part, because of the essentially cult-like nature of US culture and the structured ignorance that accompanies it. America is a nation eaten by its own myth. The entire idea of America is about believing impossible things. Nobody said those things had to be benign.

I stumble downstairs to hear the convention speeches. The hall is packed with nervous journalists and plastered with photos of naked young men in Trump caps. Pamela Geller, a minor rightwing pundit, is speaking her brains, telling the punters that Islam is the real threat to gay rights, and that Trump will save America by kicking out immigrants.

Then its Milos turn.

His speech is cabaret from start to finish. He sashays up to the podium and strips off his bulletproof vest, giddy with the attention, and announces that he has been banned from Twitter. The news draws cheers from the assembled Gamergate goons.

Im not going to quote Milos speech here. You can find it online if you want to. Its a very good speech, for a given value of very good thats designed to leave decent people keening in a corner over the death of reason. He tells a racist joke. The crowd goes wild.

Milo peddles a pageant of insincerity that is immediately legible to fellow Brits. The crowd of excitable young and young-ish people gathered to hear him pontificate believe what hes saying, even if he doesnt. Which he doesnt. And it doesnt matter.

It doesnt matter that he doesnt mean it. It doesnt matter that hes secretly quite a sweet, vulnerable person who is gracious to those he considers friends. It doesnt matter that somewhere in the rhinestone-rimmed hamster wheel of his mind is a conscience. It doesnt matter because the harm he does is real.

He is leading a yammering army of trolls to victory on terms they barely understand. This is how we got to a place where speakers at the RNC are actively calling for the slaughter and deportation of foreigners, declaring that Hillary Clinton is an agent of Satan, and hearing only cheers from the floor.

They ventriloquise the fear of millions into a scream of fire in the crowded theatre of modernity where all the doors are locked, and then they watch the stampede.

Ive seen enough. This is an evil place, as airless and soulless as the inside of Pamela Gellers head. We have to get out. In the humid dark of the plaza outside the event, a dozen young activists have got together an impromptu protest. Shellshocked members of the press stumble out into the street.

Its just theres so much hate, says one as she breaks down in tears. What is happening to this country?

Whats happening to this country has happened before, in other nations, in other anxious, violent times when all the old certainties peeled away and maniacs took the wheel. Its what happens when weaponised insincerity is applied to structured ignorance. Donald Trump is the Gordon Gekko of the attention economy, but even he is no longer in control. This culture war is being run in bad faith by bad actors who are running way off-script; it has barely begun, and there are going to be a lot of refugees.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor at the New Statesman.
A longer version of this piece originally appeared on Medium.com.