“How to Start a War” is a short story by yours truly.
I’ve never shared fiction on this blog before, and it makes me quake in my boots, but this year will be a year of firsts. The story was originally published in NFT form to learn more about the technology and play footsie with my friend Kevin Rose.
It’s a little tale about mercenaries, modern life, and the games we all play. The prose, handwriting, and concept is by me. The graphic design, which you can see at this link, is by Lisa Quine.
And how much of this is actually fiction?
Well, that’s a damn good question…
“If you want to start a war, call me.”
He handed me his card. It was nondescript: name, number, AOL email address, stock art of an eagle. He could have passed for a plumber, handyman, or tree remover.
We were parting ways after a long weekend together, and the pieces of the puzzle had only started to coalesce in the last hour. I’d known he was former military from the outset, and I had guessed he was in his early 60s from the gray hair, weather-beaten face, and close-cropped beard. His language also dated him. But beyond that, I knew little, as he was quiet and sullen.
The gathering was roughly 15 male guests, all self-made in some industry and all pretending to be Jason Bourne. Perhaps Jason Bourne with a drinking problem. I, on the other hand, was a jack of all trades, master of some, but it had never added up to dynastic wealth. Nonetheless, here I was, invited by a back-slapping half-acquaintance who got my email years before. Once I’d signed the NDA like everyone else, folks seemed happy to forget I was there.
The stated purpose of the weekend was to learn evasive driving, hence we had some ex-Marines signed up to teach. I spent my days listening to the attendees peacock about finance, old sports injuries, and third homes. I spent my nights sipping whisky around a campfire with the instructors. Perhaps it was because I shaved my head, perhaps it was the shared silence, but one by one, they began to ask me questions. That’s how “Stan,” as we’ll call him, eventually opened up. We bonded over hunting and Hunter S. Thompson.
And now, at the very tail end of our time together, Stan was filling me in on his next gig. It turned out that he was a tree remover of sorts, or at least an obstacle remover. This all came to light because I asked him where he was headed after our make-believe excursion in nowhere Arizona. I’d been wondering how he paid the bills the rest of the year.
“I’m headed to Burma. I’m a God-fearing Christian, and there are some Christians who need protecting.”
He went on to explain that a large and pension-friendly nonprofit had reached out to him through friends of friends. The nonprofit was decidedly Christian but no longer advertised itself as such. It had pivoted to a broader donor base in the 1980s. Still, their roots remained intact, and they’d asked Stan if he’d be willing to “support” several small enclaves of Christians in northern Myanmar whose rural villages were being attacked and, in some cases, burned by one particular paramilitary group. While most of the West thinks of Buddhism as a doctrine of peace, it turns out that no faith is immune to extremism. The violence was being inflicted by self-avowed Buddhists, who were also ruthlessly effective at cutting off supply lines of food and water to these encampments. They viewed any belief system outside of Buddhism as a betrayal of the truth, and that was justification enough for forced removal of both Muslims and Christians, often to Internal Displacement Camps (IDCs). The attacks routinely included murders, and the murders were rarely investigated. The entire situation was mostly ignored by the Myanmar national army and local law enforcement, if not condoned. The whole thing was a spectacular mess.
I asked Stan what he could possibly do to protect these groups.
After all, he’d mentioned that it was just he and two other silver-haired vets who’d been hired, all well past their prime.
“Well, that’s pretty easy. These Christian villages can only be reached by helicopter. We have intel on the six or so primary pilots. They all live in one hub, a small city. So the plan is to kill two or three of the pilots in their homes in a single night, in front of their families, and leave letters as written warnings. That should slow things down. If they don’t stop, then we kill the rest at longer range. It’s important to realize that these pilots aren’t trained to deal with this type of thing.”
The conversation went on for some time, each new revelation dwarfing the one preceding it.
Flying home that evening, the encounter prompted dozens of questions I didn’t have answers for, like:
How many times per year did Stan do something like this? And who hired him?
How many mass conflicts have been started, or prevented, by similar low-tech strikes?
And… how on earth did the U.S. 501(c)(3) in question categorize this expense?
To Stan’s credit, he never mentioned their name, but I could easily imagine an annual fundraising gala in a fancy Manhattan ballroom, replete with high-price auction items (a weekend at a board member’s Lake Como estate?), celebrity guests (wouldn’t the red-carpet photos look great on Page Six?), and Fortune 500 execs sitting at $50,000 tables (their comms teams picked the perfect nonprofit for great coverage!). In my mind’s eye, there is a well-dressed society woman on stage—white teeth, white dress, white pearl necklace—announcing the auction item: “Support for local partners helping at-risk minority groups in Southeast Asia.” Starting bid: $25,000 USD.
How did Stan and his team get paid? Did the nonprofit donate to a recognized NGO on the ground, who then paid Stan in cash? Who knows.
All I knew was that he was being paid for two weeks of services. Put another way, in fewer than 14 days, a number of helicopter pilots—currently having ice cream with their daughters, maybe watching TV with their wives—would meet Stan but never see his face. Those men, no doubt believing themselves on the right side of history, would find themselves unexpectedly at the end of their own timelines and the flash of a muzzle. Perhaps that very same evening, a CEO on the Upper East Side would be bragging to dinner guests about his latest philanthropic work in Southeast Asia.
So, is Stan a valiant hero, a psychopath murderer, or simply (simply!) a guy with ends to meet and skills that don’t translate to civilian life? Is he good, bad, or neutral? Or are these all bullshit questions? After all, he can be these three things at the same time. It depends on your perspective, the stories you believe, and whether he’s on your side.
I have to imagine that we’ve all backed killers. Whether through paying taxes or chasing tax havens, whether by buying shoes of unknown origin or snorting a line of coke at a bachelor party, we’ve all been complicit in immense suffering. A Stan five steps removed is still a Stan, isn’t it?
Sitting in my aisle seat, these and other thoughts floated through my mind. The orange juice I’d been drinking tasted metallic. I pulled out Stan’s card to replay the day’s events, and as I turned it over in my hands, I noticed a quote on the back:
Vanitas vanitatum dixit Ecclesiastes omnia vanitas.
Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, all is vanity.
How incredibly freeing it would be to believe it. I tried to commit the Latin to memory and failed completely, which only seemed to reinforce the point. I wondered why Stan put this on his card. As a warning to others? As a reminder to himself? A nihilistic justification?
There was a tap on my shoulder, snapping me out of my reverie, and an attractive middle-aged woman seated behind me held up my wallet. “I think you dropped this, sir.”
“Thank you very much. That’s really kind of you.”
My own voice echoed back like someone else’s, and I wondered: Was it kind to return my wallet? I’d paid for the fantasy weekend, after all, which in turn partially supported Stan. Maybe it paid for part of his plane ticket to Myanmar. But how much of me was legitimately disgusted, and how much of me was glad to be involved or even proud? I couldn’t tell.
The absurdity was dizzying, and a smile involuntarily spread across my face. It wasn’t a smile of amusement. It made me think of chimpanzees, who sometimes break into maniacal laughter in the canopy if a troupe member is torn apart by a leopard on the jungle floor. I mean, what the fuck else are you going to do?
By this time, I needed a stiffer drink. I hailed the flight attendant and ordered two gin tonics, both doubles. She paused, considered objecting, then folded and walked away.
Three minutes later, I had my drinks on my tray, and I turned back to the woman behind me:
“Thanks again for the wallet. Do you mind if I ask you one quick question?”
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Wow, my only complaint is that the story didn’t continue! Bravo, keep going . . .
I enjoyed reading that! I like to imagine that in the number of fundraisers you may have partaken in, this seed took root somewhere. I felt a real energy from this, i nearly scanned and skipped it (just because) but something caught me and forced me to read it. Thanks for sharing it, and as someone who feels an urge to write, I appreciate your openness in your journey.
Those damn Christians will do just about anything, won’t they?
This is great Tim!
Tim, this is great work! No need tongue in your boots–looking forward to the next one! I often wonder how many people like this really exist outside of movies and Netflix. A few, right?
Great work Tim. This saved me. Kept me awake thru a very mediocre high school jazz band concert. Appreciate the help. And love the opening.
I don’t remember the last time I read fiction, but I had to read this because I knew it would be good. I’m hooked and I can’t wait to read more. Cheers to sharing something new!
Hooray for braving the world of fiction (or is it…?) and pressing the “publish” button! The adventure begins…Looking forward to the next installment. 🙌🏼
Love it! As an aficionado of the short story form, this hits that very satisfying sweet spot that a good short story sometimes can. Hope this is the first of many.
Intriguing is an understatement.
Great writing! I’m wondering how much of the story is based in your own personal truth! Perhaps that was the point!
Good stuff. Intriguing. Witty. Easy to read. Page turner.
As always ahead of everybody great writing
Ever see the Jim Jarmusch film Coffee & Cigarettes? Winona Ryder is the taxi driver. A Hollywood big wig jumps hails a ride likes her look & wants to make her a big star. She says thanks but no thanks & carries on. Vanity & importance is overrated.
I think you breached the NDA.
As a middle-aged woman whose husband lost his wallet the night we first met, I’d love to hear what happens next! Riveting story, with well-told plot lines & intriguing questions.
Very cool to take your NFT work and put it on the web proper too. It’s a cool ‘meta’ move. Not long ago I put my crypto art on my mommy blog, because, honestly, I just wanted it to be seen.
Wishing you all good things in your fiction writing!
i did not know you published this here. lol i took a screen show of an NFT on open sea and read it off of that. love your work and what your doing mate keep up the great work and keeping being you! 🙂
Long time listener, 1st time commenter . . . And, I don’t read fiction. I am really impressed, and I want the story to continue! Wow Tim.
Keep it coming, Tim. Good stuff. Excellent application of your interrogative style in story format.
Nicely done!
Woah. I do have to wonder how much of this you brought from your own experiences. Really good read. Thank you 👍
Smooth, clear & fun! Reads as though the transition from non-fiction to fiction is/was a breeze (although I’m sure that’s not the case). It’s hard & daunting and you’ve made it read as though it wasn’t even a second thought 👏
I simply need.. more of this (!!!)
Tim, just keep going.. trust your creativity because this is pure gold!!!
Very good. I want to see more.
Chapeter 2: Echoes
The humid Myanmar night pressed in on Stan, a stifling cloak against his fatigue. Years in the desert hadn’t prepared him for this clinging dampness that seeped into his bones. He sat on the threadbare mattress, his back to the flimsy bamboo wall, the worn copy of the Dhammapada clutched in his hand. Moonlight filtered through the cracks, casting skeletal shadows that danced with the flicker of the oil lamp.
His mind revisited the day’s events on a loop – the intel briefing, the practiced movements at the firing range, the weight of the silenced pistol in his hand. Yet, beneath the professional veneer, a familiar dissonance hummed. Stan, the ex-soldier, mercenary for hire, and Stan, the reluctant follower of the Buddha’s path, were locked in an uneasy codependency.
He traced the well-worn Pali script on the Dhammapada. Violence begets violence, the Buddha taught. All suffering stemmed from desire, from clinging to impermanence. Stan had seen his share of suffering, the shrapnel scars a testament to his past. He’d witnessed the domino effect of violence firsthand, the ripple spreading outward, engulfing lives far from the initial explosion.
So how did he reconcile his mercenary work with his Buddhist beliefs? The answer, Stan knew, wasn’t a simple one. It wasn’t about achieving some state of purity, some holier-than-thou detachment. It was about mitigating suffering, about creating space for a different outcome in this interconnected web of existence.
He thought back to his younger self, fresh out of the Marines, disillusioned and adrift. It was then he found solace in Buddhism, its teachings a balm to his war-torn spirit. The concept of karma, of actions having consequences, resonated deeply. But so did the call to compassion, to act for the betterment of all beings.
Stan wasn’t naive. He knew the world wasn’t a pristine meditation hall. There were forces of destruction, those who thrived on violence and chaos. The pilots he was tasked with eliminating weren’t saints. They were cogs in a machine that inflicted misery on innocent people. Here, Stan saw an opportunity to disrupt the cycle, to create a ripple of peace, however temporary.
The decision gnawed at him, a constant negotiation between his beliefs and the harsh realities of the world. Yet, there was a strange serenity within the dissonance. Stan wasn’t seeking redemption. He wouldn’t find solace in absolutes. He was a man tethered to the world, forever entangled in its web, forever striving to find a path of least suffering – for himself, for his targets, for the innocents caught in the crossfire.
A rooster crowed in the distance, the sound a harsh intrusion into his contemplation. Stan rose, his muscles protesting the damp chill. He packed his meager belongings, the weight of the Dhammapada a constant reminder of the duality he carried within.
As he stepped outside, the pre-dawn sky was awash with the promise of a new day. Stan took a deep breath, the air thick with anticipation. Today, he would disrupt the cycle of violence. But tomorrow, he knew, the struggle within him, the dance between the warrior and the monk, would begin anew.
Great reading. So enjoy seeing in print all the buzzing that goes on in my own head when turning over and over thoughts and ideas and observing them from all angles. I hope there is more to come.
I enjoyed reading this, Tim. I can’t wait for the next part. It’s going to be good.
Interesting read! I’ve been loving hearing you discuss fictional writing with podcast guests. It’s great to see the work coming together nicely.
A friend sent this article to me, and it hits too close to home. I grew up as a missionary kid in a tiny South American country. My next-door neighbor was the country’s dictator, who killed 15 of his political rivals after abducting them in the middle of the night. Later, there was an uprising on a long island deep in the Amazon rainforest. I remember my dad taking me to the rebel base in a dugout canoe as a kid. Later, I wondered, ‘Why were missionaries sending supplies to the rebel base?’ and ‘What was my dad thinking, taking me and my sister there during a civil war?’ I’ve spent the last 30 years trying to unpack that story and researching the role of overzealous Christians.
Wow, thank you for this, Tim! SO excited to continue witnessing your foray into fiction-land, because this was EXCELLENT writing. I second so many of the far-more articulate points shared by others here, and can’t wait to re-read this, and read more that I know is sure to come. I’m currently aspiring to follow a similar path into blogging, and unsure about the fiction realm, but you give me hope in all the domains. Thanks again.
Dearest Tim,
Thank you for taking the time and hard work to write again in the blog. Thank you for sharing your short story. Short stories are my favorite. They are such an overlooked form, yet they are, I think, seminal to humanity and to literature. Myths, legends, wisdom passed through generations, it all resides here. Some of my favorite authors, like Stephen King, Isabel Allende, and JL Borges, reach their apogee in their short stories. What I’m trying to say is, I love your choice of form.
I also like how organically the prose flows, clearly in your voice, or rather, in the voice you have us accustomed to. I admit that the subject matter is not my favorite. I love adventure, but from a more experiential, less mental point of view. But I can see how many men would adore this story and many like it. It really read to me more like part of a movie script for a shiny, polished action movie, than something that truly belongs on paper.
The part where you are already in the plane, lost in your questions about your experience, took me outside of the story and made me lost, too. I don’t know if that is good or if it’s bad.
Personally, I enjoy the Jason Bourne movies, they are fun. As a kid, my grandmother introduced me to Bruce Lee and Hong Kong movies, and to action series like The Saint and Mission Impossible, so I’m a sucker for the genre. I think the first Jason Bourne movie is very profound: to me it’s the journey of a man from “birth” as a broken, traumatized human, into a healthier, freer, more connected person. The movie, through action, tells us how, no matter how much he has been beaten into submission, he can still tap into his soul and bring out love, caring, joy, into the world, and into his life. This is a personal perspective, of course.
What I’m trying to express in my ramble is, I like your Super Tim persona, but I would like to read more about Tim himself (yourself?) In the book “Bag of Bones”, Stephen King quotes Thomas Hardy: “Compared to the dullest human being actually walking about on the face of the earth and casting his shadow there, the most brilliantly drawn character in a novel is but a bag of bones.” This quote has always moved me. I often try to be everything to everyone all the time. Sometimes I even succeed. But the price is high. I get exhausted, and people miss out on knowing “me.” I don’t want to miss out on knowing more of you.
And so my favorite part in your story is the one where I got lost. I got lost in your thoughts. I forgot about my life. I forgot about my heartbreak. I forgot about my weirdness and my shortcomings. I forgot about the regrets of the past and the monsters of the future. I got lost in you. I guess that’s what I’m looking for in literature these days: a ticket to worlds and souls far away from mine.
I hope you’ll find the time in your busy life and the courage in your heart to write more about you, your experiences, your thoughts. I want to read a story that’s just about you making chili. How does the quirky meat you use smell raw? How does it sizzle? What are you thinking of while you chop onions? Maybe of a song you heard earlier that day? Maybe of a text that she wrote? Do you cry, or do you place a bowl of iced water nearby, just like your mom taught you? How does the knife feel in your hand? What is it like to make chili, ten servings, order for one?
If you want to go the seductive James Bond route, I would like to know more about how you feel fear, about how your eyes see the world, about how your skin feels pain, exactly. Walk me, step by step, through the way your body moves when you dance a tango, milonga style. And what is your favorite part of being part of a menage-a-trois?
If you have to walk the Ultraman path, write about a man who, in his search to be seen and to be loved, prods and cuts his body. Tell me about the potions he ingests that make him stronger and make him sick. How he becomes so powerful, yet his back hurts all the time. How he gives bits and pieces of himself and of his life to a world unsuspecting or blind to the sacrifices behind his heroism and his greatness. And once he is loved and admired by half the world, in his hometown and in places unknown, does he feel happy? Does he feel seen and loved? Is the whole world enough to fill this hole?
I think stories, novellas, film scripts and whole books just like this one you shared, can and will be blockbusters. So feel free to ignore this comment, and go your merry way: success awaits you. It’s just that I’ve grown to like you and I’m just curious, when you stop trying to be perfect, when you stop giving yourself away piece by piece, who are you, what do you see, what do you feel.
I know this is a hefty ask. After all, you’ve already given us so much in your blog, in your books, in your podcast. You give us so much, week in and week out. Un litro de sangre y un kilo de carne. After all the prodding, and all the working (have you ever worked a four hour workweek?), I am asking you to cut yourself from your throat to your crotch and let us watch how you explode in love and pain, in light and darkness, in truth and emotion.
Or keep writing what you are writing. After all, I have no formal training, no Ivy League education, no college diploma. I just have read a lot of books. I’ll keep reading whatever you have me read, because I am invested in you as a character and as a person.
Thank you for all the lovely moments you share in your podcast. Thank you for all the laughter, thank you for the tears, thank you for the advice. Thank you for, unbeknown to you, holding my hand through dark forests and hard moments. I wish you happiness and all the good things.
Cariños y un abrazo grande,
Laureana
Love the AOL email detail 🙂
There is too much telling and not enough showing. The narrating voice sounds too like your own, and much of the language is superfluous. Language could be pared back, so that it’s tighter. We need to hear/see the characters, for them to come alive, not just be told about them.
Oh this is nice! I want to continue reading!
I agree with Bogdan’s critique but am intrigued by the story line. You are an incredible man Tim Ferris. It doesn’t yet read as a pro writer’s work- it is what I call “overworded” in places- like you’re trying to impress with phrasing and doing too much of the lifting for the reader (lists of questions etc.). It reads more like a verbal conversation than pro prose. For example, in order of their appearance here are some things that, were simpler language or omission (let the reader’s imagination do some of the work) used, it would read easier. “Had only”, coalesce”, “dynastic”, “peacock”, “tail end instead of end, “so the plan is to”, “dwarfing”, “like:” followed by several questions (too mechanical), 501c3, replete, parenthetical phrases with exclamation points- I suggest alternative phrasing phrasing that evokes these questions, “in my mind’s eye”, “put another way”, “So is Stan”…, “Is still” (could be rephrased as “no less”), “These and other thoughts”, “I noticed”, “Failed completely” (“failed’ works alone) followed by another mechanical list of questions, “hailed” could be “called”, “folded” is too much for someone that is only silently considering. To quote the father in “A River Runs Through It” when coaching his son on writing “Half as long” (repeated on 3 successive attempts from the boy). Thrift and Hemingway-simple word choice/phrasing would make this even better. You rock my friend and I admire you putting this work out for review. It is only one reason that you are a standout role model that makes all of our lives materially better. Keep going!
I think you’re incredibly talented and. I’m a big fan.. If you’re writing a graphic novel this is super cool. While reading it I wanted more which graphics will provide. I want to know the environment, the temperature, the description of characters, the surroundings,… I was pulled into the very beginning and wanted more as I read it. Without graphics it lost me pretty quick. So in my love for your work… Provide graphics or go deep into it with descriptive writing.
I like this! Intriguing storyline, eloquently written. I’d be happy to read the rest 🙂