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Holiday on Matador Island
OR: A Cosmic Occurrence in The Most Serene Grand Duchy of Stierkämpfer
[Editor’s note: The following travelogue first appeared at OrGiveMeDeath.com. This is a guest submission by freelance travel writer Nigel Mallory Smallbone. Management believed the tale to be so incredible that a Substack account was established to actually get the thing read, so please enjoy.]
By Nigel Mallory Smallbone
Don M. Patterson, editor
The crowd gathered early in the overgrown colonial plaza, eager to start the day before the oppressive, equatorial heat took hold. They laid out picnic blankets, dressed long buffet tables, and propped up an array of telescopes along the high grass. Stargazers from around the globe had journeyed to the remote Pacific island of Matador to witness a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic event.
Four years ago, astronomers began tracking an interstellar object confirmed to have originated from beyond our solar system. This object, named Aoxomoxoa, is a cylindrical, rocky asteroid noted for its symmetry, hence its palindromic name. It tumbles along an unusual orbit, ultimately passing between the Earth and the Sun. Its voyage across the Sun, or transit, promised those astronomers with proper eye protection an unprecedented view of the silhouette of an interstellar cylinder. Due to Aoxomoxoa’s comparatively small size, this celestial miracle would only be visible from a limited swath of the Pacific Ocean, leading astronomers, journalists, and cultists from across the world to descend on tiny Matador Island, one of few inhabited islands along the transit’s path and the only one with a decent motel.
Around the plaza, anxiety built as low hanging clouds loomed on the horizon. But Helga Müller, the island nation’s Minister of Tourism, a chipper blonde of 43 with eyes as blue as the surrounding ocean, assured the crowd they had nothing to worry about. Special measures had been taken to ensure the spectacle would be seen. Custom firework-like aerial explosives had been ordered from the Philippines; budget constraints did not allow for a test fire, but officials were confident a rocket barrage could disrupt any clouds. “We shouldn’t need to find out, though,” the Tourism Minister said with her perpetual smile, “the sun always shines on the Grand Duchy.”
The Grand Duchy, of course, being Matador Island; or, as it is officially named, The Most Serene Grand Duchy of Stierkämpfer. Located over 1,300 miles to the east of New Guinea and just north of the equator, the independent island nation is itself a cosmic anomaly, owing its existence to various flukes of history and geography. Aside from the occasional wayward band of Micronesians, the island had no permanent inhabitants until being claimed by the Spanish in the early 16th century. Spain did little with the island beyond giving it the name Matador. Germany then acquired the island under the German-Spanish Treaty of 1899 and renamed it Stierkämpfer, German for bullfighter (English for Matador).
The island gained independence in the closing days of the First World War. The appointed Colonial Governor at the time, Ernest Wilhelm Saxe-Schwerin, at first assumed the distant colony would not be bothered by a war in Europe. “It’s not like the whole world could go to war,” he was heard to say. But go to war it did. Thankfully for the island, its tiny size, ambiguous location, lack of resources, and rampant leprosy left it overlooked during hostilities.
In the chaos following the abdication of Kaiser Wilhelm II, the Colonial Governor, a descendant of a cadet branch of the ruling House of Hohenzollern, deemed himself the last German royal standing and declared the island to be a free and independent Duchy with himself as its monarch, styled as His Royal Highness the Archduke Ernest I. Germany, meanwhile, never received word of this secession and at war’s end believed the island had been ceded to Japan. The Japanese in turn believed the island was included in the British Pacific Mandate. The British assumed it was part of the Australian Mandate, and the Australians did not believe the island existed at all - it wasn’t on any of their maps. And so, the Duchy pressed ahead as an independent island nation under the benevolent rule of HRH Ernest I.
While many self-proclaimed nations must campaign for international recognition, the Grand Duchy must also fight for its physical existence in a never ending battle with cartographers. To this day, some maintain the island still belongs to Spain, having been overlooked by the 1899 treaty. Others say any Spanish claim was rendered moot by World War I and its sequel. Still others do not believe the island exists at all, a position vehemently refuted by the island’s visitor’s bureau.
Not helping the Grand Duchy’s case is its remoteness - Matador Island is one of the most difficult places on earth to reach. The island is too mountainous to support a runway and too distant to support land based helicopter flights. It has no natural harbor and its shores are lined with razor sharp coral formations. It is only accessible by seaplane or boat docking at the single, aging pier extending far out beyond the reefs.
To get to Matador Island, I first had to travel to the outlying United States territory of Guam. There, I waited a week for the only regularly occurring transit to Matador, a freight and passenger ship departing once every two weeks - depending on the weather. I decided to arrive ahead of those coming for the transit of Aoxomoxoa so as to get a sense of everyday life in Matador. Due to the limited departures, this meant arriving nearly a month before the event.
I found myself alone in the passenger compartment on my voyage across the Pacific. The handful of visitors the island usually sees are supply ship crews and the occasional Australian contractors hired to maintain the island’s teetering infrastructure. Tourism to Matador is exceedingly rare and they are ill-equipped to handle it. Travelers must bring their own cash as there are no ATMs on the island and no businesses take credit cards. The official currency is the Swiss franc, a vestige of the Grand Duchy’s European heritage and necessitated by various economic sanctions imposed upon the island.
There are two hotels on Matador. The Grand Stierkämpfer Hotel is a small, but luxurious hotel built in the colonial era to receive foreign dignitaries and official guests of the royal family, should they ever decide to accept an invitation. The hotel was reserved by the Crown in hopes that their European cousins would come to witness the transit. As such, I reserved my stay at the second option, the Matador Inn, a collection of mismatched cabins organized as a motel.
Booking one’s stay in advance can be a challenge as the Grand Duchy uses a royal era calendar in addition to the standard Gregorian calendar. This calendar, like that of Japan, is based on eras signifying the monarch’s reign. The current monarch, HRH Ernest II, took the throne in 1968, making 2024 AD the 57th year of his rule, or II Ernest 57; the II being necessary to distinguish from the era of Ernest I (1918-1948) but placed in front of the name to separate it from the year, otherwise it might be confusing.
Communicating on the island is less complicated as English is in wide use. The Grand Duchy is home to many language groups, having been settled first by the Spanish, then Germans. German remains the official language of government and is still prevalent on the island, but over the years English has overtaken German as the lingua franca as the population of Australian castaways has grown. Some Pacific indigenous tongues can still be heard, although none are native to Matador. A unique form of creole developed on the island, one of the few to mix German, English, Spanish, and Micronesian dialects. For the benefit of the reader, all conversations will be related in English, as this writer luckily speaks most languages spoken on the island, save only the most obscure dialects.
Matador Island came into sight from the transport ship at sunrise. I walked alone down a narrow pier to a cinder block shack on the coast that served as the customs office. The half-asleep customs agent barely looked up while stamping my passport. “Welcome to Matador,” she said, fighting back a yawn. There’s a payphone attached to the side of the building you can use to call the cab.”
“The cab?” I puzzled.
“Yes, we only have the one,” she explained.
Ten minutes later I was greeted by Matador’s only taxi driver, Gustave Reinke, owner-operator of Gus’ Yellow Cab of Matador. The taxi was not in fact yellow, but rather an off-white cream color. “The original cab was yellow, but that was two cars back,” Gus explained to me as he loaded my suitcase in the trunk.
As we made our way to the motel, another quirk of the island became apparent. As a former German holding, Matador’s motorists drive on the right; however, because Matador exists in a near-captive auto market to Australia, most cars now have right-hand-drive steering. Passing on the narrow, winding roads looked quite perilous. Gus seemed well adapted to this peculiarity and spent more time looking back at me than at the road. A jovial man with spiky gray hair, he seemed grateful for the business and keen to share his knowledge of his homeland. Gus soon became sort of a fixer for me on the island, serving as my primary transportation and guide.
Since there were no other fares that morning, Gus offered to give me a driving tour of the island. Matador is a thick crescent of an island with an area of roughly nine square miles, much of which is occupied by steep mountains in the interior. Its population of roughly 4,500 live scattered along the outer perimeter in structures ranging from ramshackle huts to opulent, European-style estates. The closest thing resembling an urban center is a cluster of shops and government offices surrounding a plaza on the north, inner shore of the crescent. The island’s southern, outer coast is rocky and dotted with vast phosphate mines, the Grand Duchy’s primary source of income.
The island is divided into 537 administrative units, some as small as a few square feet. Members of the Bundesrat, the nation’s legislative body, often represent several dozen districts at a time. This is a byproduct of what can best be described as inflationary feudalism. Matador Island belongs solely to the Crown and parcels of land are held as fiefs from the Archduke, making the Grand Duchy perhaps the last holdout of Old World feudalism. During an economic downturn in the mid-seventies, the Crown saw a market for titles of nobility and began enfeoffing those willing to pay with titles to unusable fiefs on the island, creating a glut of absentee Barons owing fealty to the Archduke.
It was lunchtime when we finished touring the drivable parts of the island so I asked Gus for a recommendation. “There’s only one place, we gotta go to Lenny’s.”
Lenny’s Landlubber Bar & Grill is Matador’s closest thing to a tourist destination. The Tiki themed bar and restaurant has become a cultural mainstay of Oceania and its charismatic founder a regional icon. Lenny “the Landlubber” Kilpatrick is an American adventurer, sailor, businessman, and alleged retired smuggler. Raised in South Texas, he hitchhiked to Galveston at age 15 and began work on a shipping vessel. Legend has it he shipwrecked on Matador as a young sailor, inspiring him to return years later to open his bar. In reality, Lenny was barred from owning restaurants in the continental United States as a stipulation of his legal settlement with his former business partner and ex-wife. Lenny instead found his niche in Micronesia, the Marshall Islands, and of course, at his flagship location in Matador.
At age 74, Lenny still cuts an impressive figure. Tall with broad shoulders and dressed head-to-toe in his trademark white linen, he could be easily seen from the dirt path leading up to his open-air establishment. We found him and his barmaid as they were flipping chairs off tabletops in preparation for lunch. Ever eager to meet newcomers, Lenny welcomed me in without hesitation.
In an instant, a tall glass of Matador Punch, Lenny’s signature drink, seemingly materialized in my hand. The beverage was an achievement of mixology, a secret blend of Jamaican rums and undisclosed liqueurs. It proved to be the perfect aperitif for a lunch of Cantonese inspired finger foods and an entrée of Landlubber Lotus - diced chicken breast and smoked Spam cooked with imported Chinese lotus nuts, bamboo shoots, and chopped onion.
As I dined on the impressive tropical fare, a cast of regulars trickled in for lunch. They were fishermen, retirees, and bar-flies who had no need to tell the barmaid their orders. These were the keepers of the oral traditions of the island and Lenny was their highest culture-bearer.
Lenny is also a Baron in his own right, holding the fief to the land on which his bar sits. “I bought this place off some missionaries back in ‘91,” he explained in his booming baritone, ”I guess they had given up on Matador. It had a kitchen and plenty of room, so it was a no-brainer. The rest is history. Matador is the Monaco of the Pacific, my boy. We pay no taxes and our needs are taken care of by the Monarch, it’s a pretty good arrangement.”
It was indeed a good arrangement. For most of its existence, the island consisted of fishers and peasant farmers with very little outside trade or economic activity. The citizens live mostly by their own means, supplemented by the largess of the royal family, which owns vast guano and phosphate deposits. Due to rising demand for fertilizer for organic farming, the island has seen a modest boost in fortune in recent years. The Transit of Aoxomoxoa was to provide an opportunity for the Royal Family to showcase the Grand Duchy’s success on an international stage. “It will be the biggest event on Matador since the very first Potato Festival,” Lenny insisted.
The Potato Festival is the annual harvest festival on Matador. Throughout its history, the Grand Duchy was often forced into self-sufficiency, such as in wartime or the time the Archduke got into a dispute with the supply ship operators’ union, leaving the island completely unserviced for a year. The island turned to the only crop resilient enough to grow on Matador: the mighty potato. For many years, the people of Matador survived almost entirely on potatoes, goat’s milk, and fish.
Thanks to a bounty of guano-based fertilizer, potato supplies exploded. To absorb the surplus, the island began to produce its second main export, potato vodka. The cheap, but high-proof, vodka carries the official crest of House Saxe-Schwerin, giving the bottle a classy enough look to fetch $17 American per bottle.
Following a bumper crop in 1952, Archduke Gunther I declared the first harvest festival - a celebration of the new bounty on the island and a remembrance of all they had endured as a people. At the urging of the Minister of Health and Agriculture, a drinking competition was held to commemorate the day - and to shed excess potato vodka and population. The event, which has gained some international acclaim as a premier drinking competition, annually claims anywhere between five to a dozen lives. When Lenny the Landlubber entered the competition in 1992, the island came to a halt as he drank most of the adult population under the table, consuming almost the entire year’s yield. Lenny would go on to win the next five years in a row before gracefully retiring to serve as emcee. As night descends on the festival, the celebratory potato fights erupt in the streets. Drunken revelers run around the island throwing potatoes at one another, resulting in thousands of dollars in damage and countless concussions each year.
I was regaled with legends of Potato Fests gone by and other tales of Matador mythology by Lenny and his regulars over long days spent at the bar awaiting the Transit. Lenny’s became my local haunt and where I did most of my work. As the event approached, I was joined by a smattering of fellow visitors. Most came by way of ship from Guam; those with better resources arrived by private boat or chartered seaplane. Regardless of their origin or status, they all found themselves at Lenny’s Landlubber.
The travelers ranged from scientists to social media influencers. Prominent astrophysicists and amateur stargazers alike had made the weeks-long journey to witness history. The Royal Astronomical Society and the International Astronomical Union each sent an entourage to observe the occurrence. Rich dilettantes anchored their yachts off-shore, awaiting that perfect shot for their socials. A handful of minor, more controversial members of the extended royal family accepted their invitation to the event. Matador’s disputed status may have contributed to their decision to make the trip from Europe as the island is essentially considered international waters where anything goes.
One of the more fascinating characters to arrive on the island was author and UFOlogist Stylianos Tsounis, host of the popular podcast Antiquity’s Aliens. Tsounis is one of many people who believe the interstellar object Aoxomoxoa is in fact of alien origin. According to him and other theorists, the object exhibits signs of possible technosignatures, or behaviors indicating an unnatural origin.
“Based on Aoxomoxoa’s symmetrical shape, it may even be an interstellar vessel,” Tsounis told me over a round of Matador Punch. “It has shown behavior unlike any asteroid or comet we’ve seen. It sped up when it should have slowed down. Now, this could be caused by venting gas, what they call outgassing, like comets do. But if that's the case, why no tail? One possibility is that Aoxomoxoa is a type of light-sail that moves the object by solar winds. It might even be a probe from another world.”
The possibilities, I would learn over several rounds of punch, were endless. Tsounis and his team were determined to capture evidence during the Transit of extraterrestrial intelligence on display. Regardless of the outcome, the expedition would be recorded for posterity and monetized as content.
Strange happenings were afoot on the island of a terrestrial origin as well. One set of visitors were on the minds and lips of both locals and tourists, casting an ominous shadow across the otherwise sunny proceedings. Several fanatic groups across the world had been monitoring Aoxomoxoa’s path, but only one had the financing and follow through to arrive on the island: Valhalla’s Doorway.
The purported doomsday cult is operated and financed by enigmatic tech entrepreneur Dooley Gwinn. He and his cadre of tech developers and paleo-diet enthusiasts arrived by way of Gwinn’s massive yacht. The cult is funded by its many patents. One program they recently developed is inspired by the long-running American sitcom The Simpsons and its perceived ability to predict the future. Using an algorithm and advanced probability modeling, the program analyzes past episodes to predict possible similarities to future events. “We anticipate that in the near future, a billionaire energy executive will be shot by a baby,” read a recent press release from the group.
It was widely expected the group’s members would kill themselves during the Transit, so the hotels refused to rent to them. The cult instead set up camp on the beach with their leader residing on his yacht anchored off shore. Pressed to respond to concerns over mass suicide, the island’s head of law enforcement, Constable Hans Liebkind, said, “Look, it’s hard enough for me to keep the people who don’t want to die from getting killed; I can’t spend limited resources on those who do.”
“I seriously doubt they’re going to kill themselves,” Helga Müller, Minister of Tourism, Science, Measurements, and Coin-Operated Machines, assured me. “Why would they go to all the trouble of building those lovely tents and buying those matching outfits and tennis shoes just to kill themselves? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Indeed it did not, but much did not make sense in the Grand Duchy. It was no secret to locals that the financial situation on the island would deteriorate as the island’s phosphate deposits dwindled. Over the years, the Crown sought to diversify the island’s economy with mixed results. In the 1990s, it sold the use of its telephone prefix to 1-900 sex-lines and psychic hotlines. They have similarly looked to sell use of Matador’s internet domain, .mi. The Finance Ministry loosened regulations in an attempt to become an offshore banking haven, but the island’s shoddy internet has kept investors away. Perhaps the most ill-fated plan was investing much of the treasury in the failed 2004 film Catwoman.
Around the island, I began to hear rumors of the next maneuver to steer away from the rocky shores of insolvency. Was the grand spectacle of the Transit merely an open house for potential investors? Were the royals planning on selling the island in its entirety?
“That’s preposterous!” Minister Müller said, bursting into prolonged laughter. “His Highness would never sell the island. Even though he could, I suppose. It is legally his. But who could even buy an entire island like this? I certainly don’t know anyone with that kind of money, do you? You don't, right?”
After some fits of nervous laughter, the Minister redirected the conversation to the festivities planned for the days leading up to the Transit. Host to a very captive audience, the Minister served as cruise director, organizing various activities to keep the guests entertained. A carnival atmosphere spread on the island as vendors set up shop around the plaza and street musicians played the latest Matador polka hits. The air was filled with the smell of Spam schnitzel, the traditional street food of Matador. Confused tourists tossed potatoes in the sand, attempting to learn a local interpretation of bocce ball called Kartoffelball-Wurfspiel, or simply Karto-ball. Visitors made the best of it, fueled by ample quantities of Matador Punch, but as the big day neared, only Lenny the Landlubber seemed content to keep the pre-game festivities going.
Preparations began at sunrise on the day of the Transit. A rickety grandstand was pulled out of storage and assembled in the plaza next to a speaker riser and podium. Local school children decorated toilet paper tubes to resemble Aoxomoxoa and strung them from the trees. Several tall shipping boxes were converted into viewing stands, essentially oversized versions of shoebox solar eclipse viewers big enough for a person to step inside. A large telescope was perched high on a tall tripod in the center of the plaza, projecting a wide image of the sun onto a silver screen laid on the ground. The more advanced observers from the scientific academies stacked their jumble of monitors and other sensitive equipment inside the plaza’s gazebo. The UFOlogists hovered in the periphery, stealing glances of the pixelated sun. Stylianos Tsounis zigzagged through the crowd, frantically narrating into a recorder for his podcast.
At mid-morning, an awed hush spread through the crowd as a limousine approached the plaza, traveling approximately one city block from the royal residence. Matador’s high school band broke into a polka fanfare as the limo rolled to a stop in front of the grandstand. Minister Müller burst from the limo and escorted HRH Duke Ernest III to the riser, clapping and waving to pump up the crowd. The bookish Duke, squinting in the morning sun, took to the podium and removed a bundle of papers from his breast pocket. Feedback from the microphone squealed in anticipation.
At age 84, HRH Archduke Ernest II is rarely seen in public and has left most of the duties of government to his son and heir apparent, HRH Duke Ernest III, Chancellor and Head of Government. The younger Duke had a reputation for startling adequacy in the management of Matador’s affairs. He had prepared for weeks for what he knew would be the most important speech of his royal career.
“Good morning people of Matador,” he started in a creaking voice, echoing in the monitors. “And a special welcome to our many visitors who have traveled across the globe to join us for this once-in-a-lifetime event.” The Duke paused for light applause. “My father, The Blessed Archduke Ernest II, sends his regards, he will of course be with us in spirit as he observes this miracle from the Residence. My wife, the Countess Roxanne, sends her regards as well; she could not be with us today as she remains in Canada on her important missionary work.” The last line was met with restrained, knowing laughter from the crowd.
“It is the belief of my father, the Archduke, that this cosmic occurrence, and the Grand Duchy’s unique role in it, is a sign of God’s favor on House Saxe-Schwerin.” He paused again but to no applause. “At a time such as this, I am reminded of scripture. The book of Luke tells us ‘There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on earth nations will be in dismay, perplexed by the roaring of the sea and the waves.’ Now, how about that?”
The Duke’s speech continued for ninety minutes with a rambling history of the Grand Duchy and a lecture on the virtues of House Saxe-Schwerin. Minister Müller had planned accordingly, scheduling the remarks a full two hours before the anticipated start of the Transit.
Based on the available computer models, the Transit would begin at 12:38 pm local time. Aoxomoxoa, which is about 2% the size of Mercury, would cross just along the outer edge of the sun and take about two hours to complete its journey. On a projection of the sun the size of a stop sign, the object would appear as a shadow roughly the size of a flea. It was a competition to be the first to spot it.
“There it is!” a voice cried out from a viewing stand.
“No, that’s it!” yelled another, standing over the sun’s projection on the ground.
“No, that’s just a bug,” another voice demurred.
“This could be it,” one of the astronomers in the gazebo said, pointing to a cluster of a dozen or so pixels on a monitor, “we’ll just have to track its movement for a while to ensure it’s not just a sun spot.”
When Minister Müller was satisfied the Transit had begun, she signaled her team to light the sparklers and hit the music. Kenny Loggins’ tune This Is It blasted through the sound system as Müller took to the stage. “Thank you Matador!” she cried into the microphone. “Now enjoy this miracle!” She then revealed a bottle of champagne from behind the podium, popping it open before the crowd. Cheers rang out along with the crackle of fireworks. The scientists shrugged and went back to staring intently at their monitors.
After a half-hour of excitement, the mundanity of the event set in. Anyone who wanted to witness the Transit had their turn at one of the viewing stands and had taken their selfies next to the projection on the plaza. A crowd milled around the gazebo, listening to the astronomers discuss their findings. “The object is moving at a slightly higher velocity than our models anticipated, cutting a sharper angle across the sun,” explained Paulo Pastoriza of the Sociedade Astronômica Brasileira. “As such, the transit will end sooner than predicted.”
“Ah ha,” said Stylianos Tsounis, emerging from the crowd to capture the exchange for his podcast, “could this change in direction indicate an unnatural origin, or perhaps that it is even currently under active control?”
Pastoriza considered for a moment before shaking his head. “Possibly...but unlikely. The change is only a matter of seconds. Distortion of the observation could also explain...”
“What are you afraid of?” Tsounis sneered.
As the debate between the UFO and astronomer camps continued, it occurred to me another group of true believers were nowhere to be found. Valhalla’s Doorway was conspicuously absent from the celebration. Among those who cared, the worst was feared. I found Gus and asked him to take his cab around the beach and check on their encampment. “It’s horrible,” he said upon his return.
“They didn’t...,” I started.
“No,” Gus interrupted, “they formed a drum circle. And it gets worse. They’re heading this way.”
Minutes later, a group of a dozen or so men, aged roughly 22 to 45, all dressed in matching tracksuits and sneakers could be seen coming up the trail from the beach. They sang a military-style call-and-response cadence as they jogged behind the ostensible squad leader who called out the tune. As they grew close, the lyrics became clear:
Leader: I was dreaming when I wrote this / Forgive me if it goes astray
Group: But when I woke up this morning / Could've sworn it was judgment day
Leader: The sky was all purple / There were people running everywhere
Group: Trying to run from the destruction / You know I didn't even care
Leader: [clapping] Say! Say!
All Together: Two-thousand Zero Zero, party over / Oops, out of time
Leader: So tonight...
All Together: I’m gonna party like it’s 1999!
The group continued this chant until reaching the plaza where they dispersed, mixing into the crowd. “Suicide cult?” one was heard to say with astonishment. “This is just our company retreat.”
“We’re dying alright,” another member said, “dying to have a good time!”
“Then you’re in luck,” Minister Müller said, retaking the stage to make a special announcement. His Royal Highness had opened up the strategic vodka reserves for the occasion, allowing for a special, off-season drinking competition. “I know I say this every year,” Müller said, “but please try to contain the potato fights, shall we? Let’s not frighten our guests.”
Shots of the royal house’s vodka were lined up, signaling the start of the disorganized competition. The shots were quite harsh but the chaser, the flavorful Matador Punch, had an even higher alcohol content. Lenny the Landlubber emerged with a pitcher of his famous libation, ensuring no cup went empty. He became an ever present, Bacchanalian figure; the Ghost of Transit Present as it were. Maybe he actually was a ghost. Many of those on the island were exhibiting translucence as the afternoon faded into evening.
[Author’s note: The events at this point in the timeline become unclear and this writer cannot fully recollect them with accuracy. Notes from the remainder of the day are illegible and the only reliable account of the evening is from incomplete audio recordings made sporadically throughout the night. To maintain journalistic integrity, these recordings are presented verbatim. The transcription begins in early evening, during the drinking competition, picking up mid-conversation with Stylianos Tsounis]
Stylianos: You’re out too?
Nigel: How’s that?
Stylianos: The game, I said you’re out of the game.
Nigel: Oh. Yes? Oh, right. Can’t say I’m sure how the competition worked exactly.
Stylianos: First to five.
Nigel: Five?
Stylianos: Five shots, first at the table to five shots goes on to the next round.
Nigel: I see. I don’t believe I got past two before being tapped on the shoulder.
Stylianos: Tough competition!
[Crowd noise drowns out the conversation, garbled noises continue for fifteen minutes. Unintelligible conversations in German are heard.]
Stylianos: Who are they?
Nigel: Who?
Stylianos: Those people by the bar, the ones in black leather with all the tattoos. They’re all so...pale. Who are they?
Nigel: I think they’re the other royals, come over from Europe.
Stylianos: Oh. [pause] I’m like ninety percent sure that one chick is a vampire. You know, I didn’t see any of those people out during the Transit. They’ve been holed up in that hotel this whole time.
Nigel: You might have something there.
Stylianos: I’m serious. Vampires. Or reptile people. You know most of the big European royal houses are suspected reptile people, right?
Nigel: Aliens?
Stylianos: No. Not aliens, man. C’mon. They’re from Earth. Highly evolved reptile people living beneath the surface, dating back to dinosaur times, influencing human events.
Nigel: Oh.
Stylianos: Yeah. Anyway, I’m going to go talk to her.
[Garbled crowd noises continue for several minutes before the recording stops. A second audio file starts shortly thereafter, seemingly recorded in the plaza, among the crowd. Gustave the cab driver is heard conversing with a member of Valhalla’s Doorway, we’ll call him Andy.]
Gus: What’s with the matching suits?
Andy: The suits? Oh, yeah, we get a bulk deal on them through the company, great for cross-training.
Gus: Uh huh. Shoes too?
Andy: That’s right. Our philosophy centers around fitness and comfort, both of mind and body.
Gus: Doesn’t sound too bad.
Andy: I have some literature back at the campsite if you’re interested.
Gus: That’s alright. Need a refill on that punch?
Andy: Oh, this isn’t punch, this is our patented energy drink. Would you like some?
Gus: You guys mixed your own punch?
Andy: Yeah, I guess. We brought enough for everybody.
Gus: What’s in it?
Andy: Good stuff, all natural. Lots of electrolytes, vitamins, natural energy sources. That and ayahuasca extract.
Gus: Eye-uh what now?
Nigel: It’s quite good.
Andy: Ayahuasca. It’s a traditional healing herb used by the indigenous peoples of the Americas. It’s divine consciousness in a drink.
Nigel: It’s a powerful hallucinogenic, DMT if I’m not mistaken.
Andy: That’s right. There’s also a touch of adrenochrome in there, got some from those royals.
Gus: Oh wow, let’s give it a try then.
[Garbled conversation continues under the sound of drinks being poured. A sudden crackle followed by a loud explosion is heard, momentarily silencing the crowd. Wild laughter from Minister Müller follows.]
Müller: [in German] HA! I told you assholes it would work! Haha! Look! It completely obliterated that cloud! Frederick! Fred! Load up another rocket. We paid for these things, let’s use them!
[More explosions are heard, followed by cheers. The next several hours of the recording is inaudible, likely recorded from inside a pocket. Eventually, a thud is heard before the recorder picks up more conversation.]
Nigel: I’m out of francs, this is all I’ve got.
Lenny: That’s fine, friend. Breakfast is on me, I think there’s still some Spam in the back. They wiped me out.
Nigel: Any punch left? What time is it?
Lenny: Check the coolers on the patio. Morning.
Nigel: [distant] Thanks, found it.
Lenny: Wiped me out, alright. We’re going to be living on grubs until the next boat gets here.
Nigel: When’s that?
Lenny: When’s what?
Nigel: The next boat.
Lenny: Oh, a week I suppose. Maybe the last one for a while.
Nigel: Last one? What do you mean the last one?
Lenny: Sure, the last one. No need for service boats if there’s no one to service.
Nigel: No one to service?
Lenny: You’ve had too much punch, my boy! That’s right, no one to service. Don’t you know? The Good Duke’s selling off the island to the highest bidder.
Nigel: But wouldn’t that just mean a new landlord?
Lenny: No one in their right mind would buy Matador just to collect the rent. This island’s got a lot more phosphate to give, once you relocate the people. But look at me going on while your Spam is burning.
[The recording ends here.]
The fog of hangover clung to the island for days following the event. Those with the means to do so made their quick exit, but for most visitors, including this writer, the only transport off Matador would not arrive for a week. Tourists wandered the island in a malaise, longing to set sail. With the royals gone, I had hoped to upgrade my remaining stay to the Grand Hotel but was informed the rooms would require days of deep cleaning before being made available.
Walking down the shore, I came upon Valhalla’s Doorway as they were deconstructing their encampment. A figure stood on the deck of the yacht offshore, overseeing the operation. Our glances crossed and he waved to me. Moments later, I was riding in a dinghy en route to the yacht. I was to be afforded the rarest of opportunities - a private audience with tech entrepreneur and cult leader Dooley Gwinn.
Mr. Gwinn, as you are undoubtedly aware, is a leading figure in the world of technology, artificial intelligence, and now, space exploration. Often controversial but always fascinating, Gwinn built his fortune by age 30 thanks to his innovations in digital finance and cybersecurity. Now 55, Gwinn has amassed an impressive following thanks to his charismatic public persona, daredevil feats, and wildly popular self-help and fitness videos available free online. We sat down on the deck of his lavish yacht to discuss Valhalla’s Doorway, his interest in Aoxomoxoa and astronomy, and the future of his tech endeavors.
[This interview has been edited for length and clarity. - Ed.]
Thank you for the invitation onto your wonderful yacht and for taking the time for our conversation. Let’s start with your journey here. Why sail across the globe to witness the Transit of Aoxomoxoa?
Why not? This was a rare chance to see something from not only out of this world, but out of this solar system. I think back to when I was 8 years old and NASA launched Voyager I. I was enthralled by the idea of sending a probe with a message of peace to broadcast across the galaxy. That probe, launched almost 50 years ago, only left the solar system in 2012. Now, imagine how long it’s taken Aoxomoxoa to reach this point from wherever it came from. This is what fascinates me most about space - it’s timelessness. Most people may associate space with the future - with spaceships, astronauts, and the like - but space is about the distant past. When you look at the stars, you’re looking deep into the past. Aoxomoxoa could be billions of years old, and yet observing it, studying it, is all about looking into our future.
You seem to have a keen interest in the past, is this what inspired Valhalla’s Doorway and its use of Viking iconography?
In a way, perhaps. I’ve long been fascinated by Norse myths and pre-modern lifestyles broadly. We can draw inspiration from the adventurism and survivalism associated with the Vikings. The Viking ethos is also one of exploration - it’s now widely accepted they arrived in the Americas well before Columbus. This spirit, and an emphasis on self-care, clean living, and a traditional diet, free of processed foods, define the mission of Valhalla’s Doorway. That’s what sets Valhalla apart, we’re not just another tech company, we’re a mission driven collective committed to bringing about a better world.
Some have characterized what you call a “mission driven collective” a cult. What do you say to that?
I just have to laugh. It’s true we are a tightly knit organization, but there’s a reason we have attracted the best minds working in tech to our organization: it’s our spirit of adventure and curiosity, harnessed in a community that nurtures creativity while improving mind and body. And the pay’s not too bad either.
Fair enough, but is it possible that the sometimes cryptic, or even apocalyptic, musings on your organization’s website have created this reputation as a so-called “doomsday cult”?
But you see, we are living in the end times, isn’t that clear? The world as we know it is already over. Money makes the world go ‘round, right? Well, money is over. Gone! Fiat money’s dominance and its time as an instrument of repression is over and Valhalla’s Doorway is leading the way forward. Just as our Berserker-Bot revolutionized AI, our new secure financial instrument, Penningar, will soon revolutionize all of commerce.
Wait, you’re talking about crypto currency?
Not just another crypto, no! This is a truly decentralized currency, secure and individualized, free from the chains of central banks and predatory gatekeepers. Penningar represents a paradigm shift for the entire system of systems in which we find ourselves held captive. And this is just the first step toward a united world operating as one immense and all-embracing holding company, in which we all own and control our share of the global economy. And it starts right here on Matador.
Why Matador? Was the Transit of Aoxomoxoa seen as a sign?
Not exactly, but the Transit did give me the chance to find the perfect home for our mission. This island has exactly what we need to begin our mining operation.
You need the island’s phosphate deposits?
Ha! No, I mean a different kind of mining - the mining of Penningar, using vast amounts of computing power to create our digital coin. For an island of its size, Matador has surprisingly abundant power. At least it will once usage is trimmed to a minimum and dedicated solely to processing. This should not be difficult to achieve once the population is controlled for.
Control for the population? Are you talking about evicting the residents?
Eviction? No. Buying them out above market is more like it. I expect all will be more than satisfied. You see, I will be buying the entire island. As it happens, I’m buying all of the Archduke’s titles of nobility as well. So, as the new landlord and monarch, it should not be difficult to come to an arrangement with even the most reluctant resident. Of course, a skeleton crew will be required to maintain the operation, so some may have the opportunity to join the team.
I see. That’s quite the plan. But can just anyone take advantage of this new way of doing business?
Of course. In fact, you’re in luck, I’ve decided to let a select few join me in this venture. Let’s take a look at the current state of your investments. Care for another drink?
After learning more about Penningar and the wild plan to depopulate the island, the truth became clear to me: Dooley Gwinn is a singular genius in our time. His vision for the future of society is nothing short of divinely inspired. It is a privilege to exist on this planet at the same time as such a brilliant mind, let alone be on his yacht. The world he offers us is one of secure currency with guaranteed yields over time. Upon having this truth revealed to me, I decided this would be the last travelogue I would file. If I acted immediately, I had the chance to be a part of something special. For a minimal investment I gained entry into this exciting opportunity, joining Valhalla’s Doorway at the level of Thrall. And with the commitment of just ten of my closest friends and relatives, I could achieve Karl status. Perhaps the most incredible part of this digital revolution is that you too can share in the wealth simply by going to www.valhalla.mi. [use promo code Smallbone] Won’t you join us in Valhalla?