ANTI-TYRANNY BROS AND SISTERS

Marcus glances at the sky and notices a dark cloud looming in the distance. The cloud rapidly changes shape and leaps and somersaults all over the crepuscular sky like a deranged butterfly or a manic-depressive, shape-shifting dragon.

...

Marcus observes one of the rebel-anarchocommunists who didn’t take part in any of the violence. Dionissios smiles at Marcus who blushes, turns away, and is about to get off the bus when he decides this would be a good time to check the online dating app on his iPhone first. He sends a message and anxiously waits for a reply.

Dionissios throws caution to the wind and starts a conversation, thereby dragging Ivan away from the spider’s web composed of the absurd, counterfeit and dissonant. “Fellow traveller, how are you doing today?”

“Okay I guess. Aren’t you supposed to follow your comrades to Paradise or the Inferno?”

“Don’t say ‘comrades’: they could be listening. There isn’t much comradeship in our little group.”

Four seconds of silence ensue. Dionissios and Marcus look around at the musty bus-sarcophagus they’re sitting in, realizing they’re the only ones there.

“Our world is the New Testament now. Have I seen you somewhere before?” Dionissios sits closer to Marcus.

“Maybe in a previous incarnation when I was Mao and you were Lin Biao. I betrayed you—I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Did you enjoy our beautiful Cultural Revolution?”

“I tried,” banters Dionissios.

“This is the new flash; every cog must be smashed. Frottage is genital rubbing for naked men. We don’t need to fuck in the ass—that’s oppressive.”

“I know what you mean. Honestly I’ve never been a fan of butt stuff. Wanna go out on a date on Wednesday?”

“Aren’t you and the frat boys trying to start a tribal war?”

“No, we’re trying to start a class war. They’re ancient Greek Spartan warriors, although none of them have expressed any interest in sword fighting with me. We’ll meet at 7pm. I don’t think you’ll be safe here. You don’t look like the type that can really defend yourself, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to defend you.”

“Please don’t tell me you want to have sex on the first date.”

“Yeah . . . let’s fuck on the first date,” says Dionissios casually as Marcus observes his pale green irises that only serve to make his glassy-eyed expression all the more attractive.

“Maybe we could watch your favorite movie. I don’t know—we probably shouldn’t have sex on the first date. Netflix and chill will work better, I feel.”

“No worries.”

“What’s your day job?” asks Marcus.

“Laughter—I make people laugh. I’ll be performing at a really shitty dive bar called Dog Food.”

“I’ve never been to a gig like that before. I’ve always wanted to be funny.”

“My comrades are calling me. You have to go. Jordanna and Marie will take you.”

“Where will they take me?” asks Marcus.

“To the bus stop to take Bus 41 until you reach Abundance Avenue. ‘Socialism is the theory; fascism is the praxis’ is graffitied on the boarded up Fish & Chips or whatever’s left of it.”

Dionissios joins his racially and ethnically diverse group of revolutionaries (although, truth be told, more than half of them are white), while Marcus departs with Marie and Jordanna who are carrying the cosmic canvas of the Milky Way galaxy.

“I feel like we have a mission,” Marie says. “A higher calling.”

“I’ve forgotten mine,” Marcus says thoughtlessly.

“Stop dreaming of how you can achieve some stupid, narcissistic fantasy and try to actually help humanity,” Marie admonishes.

They reach the bus stop and sit down on the bench for twenty-four seconds. Marcus reflects for a moment, stands up, and says, “It’s like I’ve always failed to understand my fellow human beings. Maybe I should be afraid of all the temptations and dangers that I may encounter. If I love the wrong man, could that ruin my life even more? Or what if I’ll always be completely alone?”

“I think you feel too unhealthy and impaired to interact with the world. When we were sleeping on the bus, I saw you . . . It was like a dream, yet I was completely aware. Like an intensely elevated form of awareness . . . I was catapulted into a higher state of being. . . . Try to listen more to others. The world is in disarray, yet you don’t have to choose the path of least resistance.”

He glances at the painting. He starts to quietly contemplate the galaxy, the universe, the multiverse (if that even exists) . . . This mortal coil—am I necessary or de trop, prolix or blunt? Are we punished for our ugly, naughty transgressions?

“I must stop being maudlin and self-absorbed,” he reluctantly admits.

“Yes, and stop being so fucking racist!” Marie commands. “This world can feel like hell at times.” There’s a loud explosion in the distance. “Do you think that might’ve been a bomb?”

“I hope not.” Marcus notices their bus approaching from the distance.

“I’d like to be the one to tell Marcus about the mission we’ve been assigned,” Jordanna tells Marie.

“What mission?” Marcus asks eagerly.

“Our comrades told us to complete a task that will help create a better world,” Jordanna explains. “We have to find a place in this city that can function as a bridge to the future.”

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough to help you,” Marcus says. Their bus stops and they all walk inside. “It’s not like the destiny of the world hangs in the balance.”

“You’re wrong,” Marie tells Marcus. “We need to work together. In past lives you feared and disrespected life and women, everyone . . . This is your chance to become good. You don’t have to fear the world, and you don’t have to get lost in it.”

The bus driver turns on the radio. “In the last few hours, sixty-six terrorist attacks have occurred in Herodoma. The deadliest involved the recently-suspected Jahar McVeigh, a white supremacist who drove a truck full of explosives into a building.

“I can’t believe this,” Marcus says.

“Bloodthirsty sinners who fail to attain salvation will cling to any belief, any dogma, ideology, religion, or theory, and ultimately turn it into a justification for their violent bloodlust,” Marie says. “Evil white populists are the worst extremists. They contaminate the world with their empty, narcissistic politics, and are less likely to follow the honorable examples of Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. They are more likely to condone and perpetuate violence in an attempt to make the world bend to their will. Our world is still possessed by the spirits of strife and war, Eris and Ares.”

“I refuse to believe that violence and rage can create a better world,” Marcus shouts. “Although I have to admit, I can understand their allure: communism, socialism, nationalism, and fascism are tempting, a lot more tempting than anal penetration. Narcissistic sociopaths think murderous civil wars could be an opportunity to prove their inherent heroism when they’re actually looking for a way to act out their traumas. And then there are some simpletons or robots who can’t live without the soap opera of politics and wars… For some of these freaks, a third world war—or even a nuclear holocaust—would be a necessary climax to our never-ending story of relentless backbiting, hypocrisy, injustice, ignorance, and conflict.”

They all sit down and remain silent for the rest of the journey. Marcus meditates on the vividly mesmerizing Milky Way galaxy. Swirling indigos, navy blues, and sparkling turquoises oscillate and vibrate; the Milky Way traverses the canvas, and the painting moves upward.

“Marcus, it’s time,” Marie says. “Wake up, it’s our stop!”

When they leave the bus and start walking outside, they notice a vast assortment of actors, celebrities, and reporters. Some are holding signs, some are being whipped, yet ever since he lost his glasses, he can’t see anything clearly. A communist antifa punk is plucked from the sidewalk and shoved into a black van.

Marcus is surprised by a brief hug from Robert De Niro who commences an impassioned monologue about Dante and Virgil. “ . . . Because Hell is here on Earth, we must fight to transform Hell into Paradise. . . .”

They abandon the privileged thespian and meet a group, a congregation, of youthful Donnie supporters who mention a Donnie event they wish they could go to.

Marcus glances at the sky and notices a dark cloud looming in the distance. Everyone turns their eyes in the same direction. “A storm is coming,” Marcus whispers, overwhelmed by inexorable terror.

The cloud rapidly changes shape and leaps and somersaults all over the crepuscular sky like a deranged butterfly or a manic-depressive, shape-shifting dragon. “It’s a dragon cloud.”

“It actually looks more like a Transformer robot,” one of the Donnie supporters observes blissfully. And Marcus realizes that the cloud does very much resemble a Transformer robot now. Yet no one says anything as the cloud turns into a vast interstellar vessel similar to the one depicted in the film Prometheus.

The U.F.O. slowly descends until it becomes a rather imposing building standing just a hundred feet away from Marcus. They warn him not to, but Marcus is so mesmerized by the building’s awe-inspiring beauty that his feet carry him towards it.

Marcus walks towards a door that at first glance seems to be the entrance to the building, yet it turns out to be an elevator. He presses a button and walks into the elevator to find himself surrounded by transparent orange glass windows.

He presses the tenth-floor button and catches glimpses of the city as the elevator ascends: glistening rivers and streams cascading through the urban landscape, lush greenery, toxic smoke, rampant destruction. Marcus can’t keep his eyes open when confronted by liquidation and mobocracy, and opens them again when he hears a gruff voice say, “You must be Marcus.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Abaddon.”

“What is this place?” Marcus asks.

“Right now it’s the blank canvas of the Simulation—a vacuum of infinite space and potential.”

“So are you straight, bisexual or gay?” Marcus asks.

“Asexual, so none of the above. I’m not a lion-man; I’m a god-demon. Your personal guardian demon, in fact. I can tell you the truth; just be warned, the truth might hurt your feelings.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll give you a tour of this art gallery of paintings that depict pasts and futures in grotesquely extravagant detail.” Abaddon’s words conjure reality as the endless void of nothingness turns into a hellish, phantasmagoric art gallery. “Many of your ilk died all over this one nation under God and all over the world. You know what I mean by ‘your ilk’—autistic socially challenged cretins and 'spiteful mutants' like you. You will die because you’re superfluous and nonessential. You’re lazy, ignorant, passive, stupid, self-defeating, cowardly, weak, impulsive…”

“How will I die?”

Abaddon doesn’t answer Marcus’s self-absorbed question and goes off on a tangent. “You see, the world was running out of resources. Many didn’t want to think about Peak Oil or other ‘conspiracy theories’ or ‘pre-fabricated truths.’ Authentic liberals, leftists, and even some conservatives, were intelligent enough to comprehend the inherent risks of indulging such denial and secretly harbored loathing of life and freedom. They decided the only way to deal with such collective hysteria would be to gradually eliminate it through surveillance, vilification, intimidation, and violence.

“Governments wanted to stifle all dissent threatening to the world view promulgated by the rich elites who ran your nations and big businesses. The elites were people with high IQ’s who made the most of themselves, both because of and in spite of the governments they were ruled by. They made the most of their gifts in life and ascended to the upper echelons of civilized society. Most of them were progressive cosmopolitans. They refused to scorn science and did not fear truth. They refused to seek shelter in the opiates of denial. They stood up for the truth no matter how much they may have dreaded being mocked, derided, or, even worse, killed for expressing at least some truths about what was happening in the world and to the planet.

“Politics is theater perpetuated to distract many humans (especially ones living in first-world and second-world nations) from the terrifying realities looming in the distance. Fascists are souls that repeatedly failed to learn from their mistakes. Perhaps they had fewer lifetimes and opportunities to improve spiritually and morally.

“Parts of the Left (the so-called anarchists and communists) reacted violently to what they perceived as the encroaching of fascism, nationalism and populism in the world. They used violence in an attempt to systematically intimidate potential and current fascists in power by indiscriminately attacking and resisting supporters of fascism. The predominant liberal message was that the next Hitler must be stopped at all costs.

“Some fascists began as insidious traitors and invidious wolves in pseudo-liberal clothes. Some championed freedom and peace and delivered their opposites. Although, of course, as long as they didn’t have political power and a significant number of strong supporters, they were incapable of assuming total control over the majority.”

“Am I being punished for all the bad things I’ve done in my life?” Marcus asks. “Maybe in past lives too?”

The diabolical angel looks up to the colossal domed ceiling of the mysterious art gallery and says, “You are being punished, and you should examine your mistakes more thoroughly. There is no reason why you cannot make more of an effort to become better. You are selfish because you want to be the hero when you’re not meant to play that role in this lifetime.”

“So what do I do with all the guilt I have?… The feeling that possesses me and tells me I should be burdened by guilt because of all my flaws and mistakes.”

Abaddon points to a Cubist painting of two vampires devouring each other’s throats, and clears his own throat to say, “Vampires are manifestations of our unresolved traumas and inhibitions."

“Will you show me Hell?”

“Maybe there is a hell—in this very building. On one level, the souls are trapped on a carousel that never stops spinning. This punishment was devised for the souls of humans who could never decide on what made them happy in life; they could never make a good decision and commit themselves to it with tenacity. The walls—that are always moving—encircle them at a vertiginous speed.”

“I don’t want to go there.”

“Of course, I’ll take you to another place—the level of Hell where those who are guilty of the sin of lust are housed.”

"I might never get out if I go there; I’m surely guilty of those sins.”

“You are scared of being punished.”

“Yes.”

"Is this Hell?"

“Well... Maybe this is not Hell, maybe this is the future. Rich and powerful elites will exploit certain advances in technology. They will exploit future scientific discoveries in genetics to grow their own army of eternally obedient servants and soldiers.”

Marcus suddenly observes a chimeric creature resembling a pterodactyl with the wings of a seraphim and the body of a monstrous rat. Ivan points to the demonic creature flying above them and asks, “What is that?”

“My demonic pet, Pazuzu. Pazuzu is the first demon that influenced Vlad.”

“The one who ruined my life.”

“Don’t blame him, “ Abaddon says.“It’s your life to ruin or redeem . . . You can do better. The mermaids and sirens want to eradicate the bridge dwellers, the dropouts, the losers, the rebels. Watch out,” warns Abaddon.

“Do you think they will attack me because I have a Pussean name?”

“Let’s just say that if they perceive you as being sympathetic to those they deem fascists, you’re in trouble.”

Marcus remains silent for twenty-seven seconds as he reflects on the disturbing implications of this statement. He almost starts laughing, yet stops himself by trying to change the subject with a random question, “How do you say, ‘I am demonized’ in Morantean?”

“Sunt demonizat.”

“What does ‘soont’ mean?”

“Sunt means ‘am’.”

“What about the Morantean ‘I’?”

“‘Yeu’ is ‘I’: Eu sunt demonizat. Do you know about Nicolae—that dead Morantean vampire? He works here. Ceaușescu drives a bus that transports the souls of people who are technically still alive—they just happen to be visiting this realm as tourists.”

Marcus ceases to think about his mission and loses himself in this conversation with the demon Abaddon. “So I’m just another tourist to you?”

“Yes, though you’d be rather remiss to believe you’re somehow better than the denizens of Hell. Sure, you’re here temporarily; yet we wouldn’t have invited you, if you didn’t earn it.”

Marcus remembers how he was the only one who walked towards the spaceship that had descended to earth in the form of a futuristic skyscraper. “They told me not to walk towards the building.”

Abaddon says nothing and smiles. His face becomes solemn, and he beckons Marcus to follow him through the art gallery to look at some of the paintings on display.

As Marcus and Abaddon continue walking through the vast art gallery, Marcus stops when he notices a painting that evokes a strange and familiar feeling—as if the infinite memories of untold numbers of years were drowned and forgotten in the ocean’s hidden depths, and only some vague reminder on the water’s surface could shed light on a mere fraction of one’s origins. The painting is of his mother and her sister when they were young.

Looking at the painting, Abaddon assumes an exaggerated posture not entirely dissimilar to a caricaturized fascist. The demon, with pale decaying skin and animal hair beneath the angelic appearance that is no more than an illusion, seems incapable of resembling the romantic ideal of a fallen angel yearning for redemption.

Abaddon comments on the painting, saying, “Considering neither your mother and aunt nor their parents were members of the Communist Party, the painting’s depiction of their communist uniforms—one seeming awkwardly loose and baggy, the other tight and suffocating—functions as an understated reminder of the stigma and persecution imposed by communism and collectivism.”

“Why are they dressed that way at the beach?” Marcus asks.

“They are at the Black Sea; communist bureaucrats punished them because their parents were never Communist Party members. Who cares—tell me about Donnie, the tiger, tell me about Maya, the spider. I need to learn about what happened to them so far.”

“I think they’re doing fine, I hope—” Marcus clumsily rattles off one of his canned responses.

Abaddon looks distracted as he momentarily glances at another painting and then proceeds to whisper in a language Ivan can neither recognize nor understand.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, this bizarre trance-like state is abruptly interrupted as Abaddon starts to tell him about the demon Babau: “He always says he wants the next big cheese to be president—the star of the hour who follows the dictates of the Devil himself.”

“I hate politics,” Marcus says. “Why should I fight and risk my life when it’s not even a real war? I’d be willing to go to war if my government forced me to . . . yet look at what’s happening now. Chaos, civil war, increased tensions, violent attacks . . . I don’t want to fight. I don’t even know how to fight.”

Abaddon laughs heartily, diabolically. “One of the reasons you are in Hell right now is because you have always been such a querulous coward. If you want to shield yourself from the cruelty and brutality of the world, then go ahead and try. If you want to protect yourself from politics (or not)… either way, you should try to improve your life, at least when you get back to Earth—your world…”

“It’s not my world at all. I don’t belong there!” Ivan cries.

“You can still make a difference: become the best that you can be, a lighthouse with the desire to sacrifice its life to improve the world, to create a true utopia.”

Marcus seems more anxious and agitated, so Abaddon directs Marcus’s attention back to the painting of his mother and aunt when they were at the shore of the Black Sea in Morantea during the Communist era. “Close your eyes and take my hand,” Abaddon commands. Universes—of stars, galaxies, nebulae, worlds—encircle them at a dizzying pace. They emerge on the other side and find themselves on a beach just like the painting envisioned. Abaddon and Marcus are at Neptun—a Morantean Black Sea resort. From the corner of his eye, Marcus catches a glimpse of his mother as a young girl, yet she runs away and he loses sight of her amongst the vast multitude.

He attempts to make sense of the random Morantean phrases he picks out from the electrifying chaos of voices. He overhears something about the month of August when a tidal wave flies above them forcing them to turn and watch it in awe as it soars in the distance. A man shouts, “Va veni spre noi.” The tsunami begins to move backwards and quickly submerges everyone in its path. As Marcus drowns in the salt water of the Black Sea, he sees his mother.

Dionissios and his brotherhood of progressive militants are walking into the vicinity of the incipient, putative Donnie Orange Parade. Protesters and counter-protesters are shouting competing slogans at each other. “Vlad’s a socialist!” “Fuck Pussea!” “Anal is rape!” “Donnie is a plump counter-revolutionary cretin!” “Donnie is more respectful of women than Billy Klingon, the rapist, ever was!” “Donnie is sexist, homophobic, and misogynist!” Some snot-nosed practical joke artist hard at work. He’s shaking, shouting: “I hate the Pusseans—those slimy assholes! Don’t trust anyone with any Pussean ancestry.”

“I wish Marcus were here now; he might have something interesting and relevant to say,” Dionissios tells his fellow comrade Edgar.

Edgar smiles blankly.

“Nobody should get married,” an orange-haired activist shouts. “Throuples should be normalized. Love your sister, love your brother!”

“I want Ivan to join our martial commune,” Dionissios tells Edgar.

“I don’t; he’s weak and not trustworthy.”

“He has a lot of potential,” Dionissios says. “He could be even stronger than a lot of our guys if he really wanted to.”

“You’ve gotta be—” Before Edgar can finish his sentence, an earth-shattering crash and explosion discomposes everyone with electro-shocks of gut-wrenching fear and panic.

….

The fear is palpable like turpentine sap. Marcus is hurtled back into earthly reality and immediately feels the sharp sting of sea water through his nose and coughs out water onto the sidewalk. A crowd of people are still standing outside the “alien building.” He’s informed that there have been more explosions and bombardments.

Marcus stumbles upon a small, grassy oasis in the midst of the concrete food desert. He figures this would be a good spot to try to meditate, to ease his troubled soul. Unbeknownst to him, as he sits there with his eyes closed, there’s a building nearby with a door that’s ajar. He hears men’s voices and opens his eyes for a second to catch a glimpse of their origin, then closes his eyes again, pretending to meditate.

“I do not want anyone to know what we did.” The voice seems authoritative and masculine, yet empty and sterile.

“You definitely worry too much. I don’t want that either, but the Simulation we live in goes nuts over this kind of stuff. I don’t think we’ll be able to hide the truth forever.”

“That’s a good point. But let’s just keep it on the down low for now.”

Marcus’s fear of being discovered gets the better of him, so he gets up from his futile state of meditation that merely served as a ridiculous smoke screen for potentially conspicuous eavesdropping. Between the buildings there’s a dumpster, and the sky is a visible pale blue, unencumbered by clouds or pollution. Suddenly, a reporter with a microphone and an obnoxious voice accosts him, announcing, “It’s that time again! I am Sonny Normal with The Truth-Loving Press and I do not take shit from anyone. Did you see anything?”

He doesn’t know what perturbs him more: Sonny Normal’s phony tone of voice, or that he can see a crowd of disheveled people—seemingly the flotsam of the city—gradually drawing toward them. His reply comes almost automatically, without any conscious effort or calculation: “I’m sorry. I didn’t see what happened.”

“How could you not—?” The rabble is upon them, and one of the women from the crowd whispers something in Sonny Normal’s ear. At that moment, a strange smile of beauty illuminates Sonny’s face. “I have just received word that the terrorist, Jahar McVeigh, has been apprehended.” The cameraman breathes a sigh of relief as he films Sonny. “One of the terrorists may have been a woman, perhaps a family member. And as it turns out, they happen to be part of some sort of left-wing extremist group. Join us for more once we arrive at the public library for a special presentation.”

The cameraman stops filming, and Ivan immediately feels an unexpected sense of dejection. Is that all there is to it? Could all this trepidation really be resolved so easily? He finds himself joining them as they walk towards the nearby library, and he feels compelled to express his opinion to Sonny.

“I don’t think these terrorists could be the equivalent of our Left,” Marcus begins. “For one thing, they’ve experienced a lot more trauma and abuse in their early lives than the majority of Leftists and Rightists in this city.”

To Marcus’s chagrin, Sonny simply ignores him and proceeds to bathe in the admiration of the crowd, replete with hollow phrases and slogans, truisms and proverbs.

As they near the public library, Marcus decides he can’t wallow in self-pity and makes up his mind to try talking to Sonny again, and this time with an entirely different approach. He steels himself for the unnervingly imminent opportunity and walks towards Sonny.

They’re already within the entrance of the library, and when Sonny Normal sees Marcus, Sonny’s eyes glare and he abruptly shouts, “I don’t know what your childhood issues are, but you really need to de-traumatize!”

Marcus is taken aback. Never before had he felt so humiliated in public. He replies, “Yeah, maybe I need a really good therapist! Maybe I need to ‘de-traumatize,’ as you’ve so eloquently put it. But do you see me going around attacking people? I’m nothing like those violently intolerant activists, and brutally prejudiced tribalists, and reactionary terrorists!”

The rage Marcus gives vent to seems to know no bounds, and he notices fear in the faces that are staring at him. The only face that doesn’t exhibit any fear is Sonny’s. Sonny calmly walks toward the security guard, and that’s when everything seems to spiral out of control.

Marcus imagines that he’s swimming in the Black Sea when he’s suddenly besieged by a Teutonic Titan who picks him up out of the water and sits him down to meditate on the leaf of a potted plant floating on a cumulus cloud. But no, that must have been some bizarre fantasy, the product of an unnatural and drug-addled mind. I was later informed that tests had shown he had dropped LSD.

After this absurd hallucination, he’s abducted by FBI agents. They inject him with a sedative, and the next thing he knows, he finds himself in a dark room. To him, it feels like hours and hours of waiting. He experiences both fear and relief when he hears voices and footsteps approaching.

The door opens and Marcus sees two men.

At first, the shorter man jokes with the other man: “He peed into the drain on the floor like a dog, eh?” Then he addresses Marcus: “You know if you behave like a dog, then we’re gonna have to treat you like a dog, right?”

Marcus doesn’t say anything. He tries his best to maintain his composure and dignity no matter the cost. He is ordered to strip and they examine him. Since he refuses to speak, one of the FBI agents pushes him against the wall and uses a hammerlock pain compliance hold on him. His eyes well up with tears, yet he doesn’t cry or make a sound.

Soon after, they take him to an interrogation room and sit him down. The tall one addresses Marcus in an eerily familiar, vacant monotone: “You know who I am?”

“No.”

“I’m the Grand Inquisitor. I’m serious. You’re accused of plotting to overthrow the American regime. You’re a fascist, a counterrevolutionary.”

“No, it’s not true.”

The brutal agent interjects, “I’ll fucking smash your head in!”

The self-styled ‘Grand Inquisitor’ tells him to calm down. They stand up, walk two meters away from where Marcus is sitting, and confer in furtive whispers.

All Marcus is able to make out are the final sentences of the conversation: “Well, then you know what we’ve got to do, right?” “I don’t think we have another option.”

They lead Marcus down a corridor that he hopes will go on forever, yet instead it terminates at an elevator lobby. They take the elevator to the basement level, and Marcus is guided through seemingly interminable underground tunnels that, for all intents and purposes, look like a passageway to Hell or purgatory. Marcus tries his best to conceal his terror, and it certainly doesn’t help that they don’t speak a word.

Finally, they stop at a door with the words ‘Reactionary Mental Health Program’ emblazoned above it. The ‘Grand Inquisitor’ swipes his card that allows him official access, and they walk into a vast sterile white room with giant pink teddy bears at every corner. This room is connected to a hallway and many smaller rooms.

An old man greets Marcus with a hearty, “Welcome, young man! This is the Reactionary Mental Health Program, where our motto is: ‘We think you’re sane and we treat you teddy!’”

Marcus is incredulous. “What?”