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SUICIDE OF THE WEST

hell, clan, sob

By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTARPublished 10 months ago Updated 7 months ago 24 min read
2
SUICIDE OF THE WEST
Photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

“If you can’t speak the truth without losing your job or being assaulted, you’re trapped in a dictatorship. If you can’t represent a political cause without being threatened with physical harm or permanently defamed and denied employment, then you’ve been immured within a fascist crypt.”

Phoebe, a blacklisted literary critic and creator of the AM (Ayn-Mises) Book Club, delivers a speech to the dozen or so book club members that bothered to show up, two of whom are already fast asleep.

She slowly walks out of the room after waking the sleepers by shouting, “A mixed economy is mixed philosophy; unsustainable contradictions kill freedom, inevitably leading to hellish dictatorships, or, if reality rudely asserts itself without eradicating peoplekind, a new Renaissance!”

“Is Phoebe gone?” asks a gay man who just woke up from a dream.

“She’s leaving, going home, I think, maybe, maybe leaving,” another man babbles after looking out the window.

“Are we going to have another nude Dadaist cummunist circle jerk?”

Your world is not a perfect sphere—it’s not flat like a pancake either. We see you as we float clandestinely through your atmosphere. You all waste numberless hours of time on resentment, envy, retaliation, war, destruction. Holes in the ozone layer? We noticed a new one temporarily form above the Arctic. Hysteria is not the answer. We are coming soon.

Ivan looks at the old man holding a pink pillow.

The short-tempered agent shouts, “I don’t have time for this crap! Can we leave him now?”

“Yes . . . no wait,” the old man suddenly remembers something. “There are some forms you have to sign.”

“No, we’re just agents hunting down traitors in our city,” the tall ‘Grand Inquisitor’ says calmly. “We don’t sign any forms here. Pavel, please guard him for the night.”

…..

At night Phoebe talks to herself in the shower. I can kaleidoscopically listen to every sentence tripping off her tongue while fantasizing about how happy we could be together.

Phoebe’s articulated shower talk reveals her political biases like a candid confession recorded by an investigative journalist with a secret camera. In a hopeful innocent tone, she mouths endless variations of capitalist philosophy and partisan propaganda. “End welfare state, end taxes, gun control and confiscation, ambitious career politicians that want to tax the middle class to—”

There’s a loud knock on the door.

“Just a minute.” She shuts off the cold water (there is no other kind now) and gets out of the shower and puts on her bathrobe.

Phoebe opens the door and is surprised to find a beautiful young man with perfect posture and a lean, athletic build topped with a handsome face sporting a black eye. Leonardo takes a couple of seconds to catch his breath and tells her, “I’m sorry to bother you, but something happened after you left.”

“What happened?”

“The book club you started has been hijacked by collectivist anarchists.”

“I’m not surprised, unfortunately,” she says, and then asks, “was that a right-wing, centrist, or leftist anarchist who gave you the black eye?”

“Left? Anyway, please let me in; someone might hear us. Thank you,” Leonardo says sincerely and walks into the apartment whereupon Phoebe locks the door.

She sits down on a chair facing the muted television. “I’ll probably never go back now,” she says.

“It’s a honeypot—I mean, I took part in the circle jerks they had whenever you left early; and I’m not gonna lie—they were fun. Yet some authoritarians have organized armies to demonize male sexuality. They don’t want men to jerk each other off.”

“So that’s what you were all doing when I went home early. You were avoiding potentially complicated relationships, and turned to 'safe' promiscuity instead. You embraced sybaritic whims instead of working to achieve meaningful and true love.”

“A hot and strong woman attacked some of us—a traitor in our jack off group must have tipped Jane off. She shouted, ‘Capitalism kills!’ before they (her and her boyfriend) attacked us. I don’t want to blame your cherished ideals and beliefs, but capitalism has been co-opted and hijacked by loveless promiscuity: meretricious advertisements for meaningless and dangerous sex with strangers, hook-up sites, sex in public—and leading to what exactly? And it’s anally receptive men and women who suffer the most because of this addiction, this pornography and sexual misconduct. Do you know why the world has to be like this?”

“The problem is that we still live in a world dominated by altruism and mysticism. Altruism says that we must sacrifice our values for the greater good (which changes with the culture), that most of our desires—especially natural ones that are perceived as being incompatible with the average majority—are selfish (and must be suppressed or silenced), and that we must always strive to be altruistic; mysticism says our bodies are sinful, expendable, and inferior and belong to this world, and that our souls are superior and belong to the next one.

"Hedonism is a bittersweet fruit harvested from trees that grew out of the seeds of the animal, the physical, and the unconscious. These anti-intellectual seeds are so corrupted and poisoned by amoral toxins or pollutants that they only produce dysfunction. We need organic seeds that are not modified by amoral sociopathy.

"Eroticism without reason, sex without love or values, empty sensuality totally divorced from ethics, and sexless theoretical romantic love held up as a perfect ideal are the poisoned-apple stepping stones marking a path to destruction that begins with whims (‘why not?’) or wishes in service of the collective or greater good (to belong to the group, to be ‘loved’ or ‘liked’ regardless of the consequences).”

“Gay men feel they need--”

“Don’t define yourself in relation to a group—you’re an individual; don’t give up on yourself, your life, your future.”

He notices something he thinks might be worth listening to on the mainstream news. “May I please turn the volume up?” he asks.

“Sure, help yourself,” Phoebe replies, pointing to the remote on the table. He picks up the ingenious device and presses the UP button.

A reporter continues speaking: “—iberal representative delivered an unprecedented public statement. Maya Clingon, a white and straight cisgender woman, is claiming that she knew what it felt like to be queer in the past, and that she heard the voice of God say ‘all queer people must vote Liberal to be saved from the sin and depravity of the Conservative Party.’

"Here is Maya in the flesh to analyze the Donnie Orange Parade’s evil and laughable festivities . . . Sorry, something must have happened because Maya isn’t coming through. Here is one of our star correspondents, Sonny Normal.”

“A botched, miscarried terrorist attack occurred near the site of where the Donnie Orange Parade is supposed to occur. Luckily, no one was killed or seriously injured. I found a peaceful anti-Donnie protester--”

Dionissios yells, “The capitalists are responsible for this cowardly attack! Fuck--!”

“I think we should go to this ‘orange parade,’” Phoebe says to Leonardo.

“Okay, let’s go,” Leonardo says. “Hopefully this will be more interesting than the gay parade I went to last year.”

“I’m going to my room to get dressed and then we’ll go; feel free to go to the bathroom first.”

“Thank you.”

….

Mark calls in a favor and gets a bus to transport patients and staff to the Donnie Orange Parade. Mark, Sadie, Shane, Jenna, Sergei, Larry, Carl and the rest of the patients from the Melrose Adolescent Mental Illness Facility board the bus.

Virtually all of them (barring Jenna) are behaving strangely, as if under the influence of some psychedelic drug. The bus takes fifty-five minutes to reach the most discreet parking spot in relatively close proximity to the downtown area booked for the Donnie Orange Parade festivities.

“Why do so many TV shows and movies have murder in them—not to mention all the movies and shows over the past decades that had weak, unlucky, or negative Black and gay characters?” Shane ponders out loud.

“I don’t know about every single movie or TV show,” Dana says, “but it’s a strange and worrying reflection of our times; I guess a lot of scriptwriters had a tendency to make minorities or other scapegoated groups into villains, victims, and footnotes.”

“I think the capitalist upper class knows they can gain more money and power if they divide and conquer. They want us to kill each other in our cities and neighborhoods, they want us to die in battle overseas, and they want us to vote for their representatives and tribunes while they’re profiting from our blood.”

When the bus finally stops and parks, Sergei escapes first, imagining that he will find a global bridge on which he will walk toward the setting sun and meet his old friends. “Please don’t leave without me,” Amanda cries out in a plaintive voice and runs off to join him.

Jenna wonders why everyone is acting so strangely, and, after catching up with Sergei, she confides her suspicions to him. She whispers in his ear, “Do you think someone spiked the Sunny Delight?”

Sergei giggles and wears a polyester smile that the drug has only recently designed—an unearned joy.

“You drank it too, didn’t you?”

Sergei walks out of the bus, clearly eager to be close to Carl.

Jenna watches a group of walking sticks that look like they’re talking to each other. Should I tell Sergei my plans? What if I’m the only sane person here?

Shane and Dana are immersed in an intense conversation that would not have occurred were it not for the psychedelic drug’s influence.

“I know Larry drugged us. It doesn’t matter; we are wards of the state.”

“We are drugged because we are sick,” Shane says.

“That’s what they want us to believe. Who gets to pass judgment and decide that we need drugs to get better? What if we get worse? Will psychiatric meds and drugs be enough to turn us into compliant robots? Or will they just ultimately make us crazier and more dependent on substances to cope or stay calm when the going gets tough?”

Marie is electrified by the violent chaos. So much violence occurs in the absence of someone capable of rescuing the victim, someone capable of playing the part of the hero. Marie wants to help the oppressed and deliver the oppressors to prison.

A lone Donnie-supporter is trying to run away from a desperate mob.

“Lambs for the slaughter,” someone drawls in the darkness.

The summer leaves exude a musky fragrance.

Jordanna, Marie, and some liberal middle-class revolutionaries chase away the violent miscreants.

….

When Phoebe and Leonardo arrive at the Donnie Orange Parade, they are greeted by a young man holding a picket sign promoting a famous conspiracy cult.

“Conspiracy theories are collective, unconscious reenactments of thwarted childhood attempts at learning the truth from a trusted parent or family member,” Phoebe observes out loud. “Perhaps conspiracy theories can also be resentful tantrums of madness, bellicosity, or group alienation.”

Myra is another pioneer braving the dangerous territory of the Donnie Orange Parade. “Empty shell, hollow oracle, worthless intellectual. I know you, Phoebe.”

“I don’t know you.”

“My name is Myra. I don’t know why you worship Ayn Rand. Fiction is lies, though. It’s all lies.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Phoebe says. “Say you do a lot of research, and look at the facts, while also searching for opinions and analyses from a variety of perspectives. And then, after all of that hard work, you create a narrative that illustrates that.”

“That’s bad writing.”

“Why?”

“Because good art imitates life.”

“Obviously, for the sake of verisimilitude, you have to incorporate at least some of reality’s inescapable facts and rules into a narrative. But if you focus on verisimilitude and style to the exclusion of ideas and choices, then your art can kill.”

“Are you crazy? Art is an attempt to be less destructive. Ayn Rand chose to be a fiction writer because she knew a writer of fiction is less likely to be blamed for the future society produced by her ideas. Even people on the Left have subconsciously internalized some of her ideas.”

“So if Ayn Rand was one of the last artistic propagandists or philosophers of (atheistic) capitalism and reason, then who has been one of the most successful artistic propagandists of (Christian) socialism and mysticism? J.K. Rowling.”

“F--- Ayn Rand!” Edgar and Dionissios shout ad nauseam.

Ineffably quadrilateral, Abaddon’s bilious blue-green spacecraft lands in the last available spot.

….

After Emmanuel Dant (‘the Grand Inquisitor’) leaves, the old man sits down in the TV room to watch the live Donnie Orange Parade coverage.

Pavel walks Ivan to his room. “You can close the door, but it won’t lock, so don’t even try,” Pavel tells him.

There are two beds in the room, and on one of the bedposts, Ivan sees some pencil markings. This is hell, someone wrote. No, it’s not—someone else wrote in response—I’ve been there.

Everyone gathers near the center of the universe—the nucleus of the Donnie Orange Parade. Donnie Prumt approaches the colossal crowd of spectators and feels energized by the hero worship radiating from the hearts of men and women enamored by the political role he has expertly adopted, that of the courageous outsider.

Prumt starts his speech, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are a brave lot to all be gathered here today. To be gathered here, even when our enemies would like very much to destroy us. They would like to portray us as white supremacist fascists and demons, but they’re wrong.

"We are the brave ones willing to try our best to repair this broken system, to fix America—this country which I love as much as I love free speech, freedom, and having honest conversations with women and men who are not brainwashed sheep and who dare to offer me the truth, not just some sugar-coated fantasy or progressive, elitist distortion of reality.

“The intellectually corrupt hate the virtuous non-violent representatives of a group, be they capitalists or socialists, more than the physically violent or murderous representatives of that group. Democratic socialists, anarchists, leftists, totalitarian communists, and neoliberals don’t want to impose tariffs on Chinese products because they tacitly approve of China’s Communist dictatorship. Tariffs are a temporary and necessary evil against totalitarian regimes.

"The socialists want a dictatorship in order to destroy the meager remnants of free-market capitalism for generations . . . But by destroying capitalism, they’ll also be destroying freedom; and it’s only a capitalist society that can truly tolerate political dissidents and minorities, while a socialist or communist country seldom does . . .”

“His voice nauseates me,” Sadie tells Mark. “I hate him. Go find Shane.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask, just go . . .”

Sadie walks away from the Donnie Orange Parade’s mundane omphalos. On nights like this, she would usually fuck Mark’s brains out, but tonight her duty to Maya and her Liberal Party compel her to be near people she hates.

Sadie looks up at the night sky and sees a handful of stars and discerns the familiar, comforting constellations of Orion and the Big Dipper. A responsibility, terrible and grave, has been thrust upon me. I am God she thinks right before her woolgathering is interrupted by Emmanuel Dant: The Grand Inquisitor.

Mark walks back toward the bus and hears Shane's and Dana's voices.

He begs them to get out and follow him.

Dana and Shane capitulate when Larry appears, shouting menacingly while brandishing a samurai sword. “Shane, this is your chance to be a true warrior. Take this sword and follow me.”

All of them exit the bus. “This doesn’t sound like a good idea,” Dana tells Shane who feels that he’s reached the drug’s euphoric summit—he’s on top of the world, being carried on the crest of a high-rise tsunami.

“I don’t care—I’m everyone. I can do anything.”

When he sees the freak holding a sign in support of anti-patriotic and anti-government conspiracy theories, Shane shouts, “Throw the sign to the ground!” Fearing for his life, the conspiracy theorist complies.

Shane destroys the picket sign with the silver sword and suddenly sees Phoebe standing one meter away from him. “Social distancing!”

She backs away and says, “Conspiracy theories are often paranoid projections used by the unfortunate and suffering to blame the fortunate and successful.”

“I think at least some of those supposedly ‘fortunate and successful’ ones share a portion of the blame for all the suffering and misfortune," Shane says.

“Why should guilt become our modern currency? Paranoia will divide us.”

“Guilt is a debt. I’ve said it before, capitalists want to divide and conquer us.”

“No, it’s us,” she says. “It’s our own envy, resentment, greed, anger. Don’t you see we’re doing this to ourselves?”

“Obedience is a virtue, and I’ve never steered you in the wrong direction, have I?” pontificates Emmanuel (the Grand Inquisitor).

“Dad,” Sadie says, “were it not for Mark Lazarus I’d still be a nobody.”

“That’s not true; you were always resourceful, ambitious, intelligent, dispassionate, and you still are... Don’t worry,” he assures her, “it’s the only way we can win this war. I’m giving you these keys to a sparkling turquoise El Camino parked nearby. Take Mark with you and drive far away.”

….

Ivan masturbates in his room as he spends his first night in the detention center. It’s not just because of lust that Ivan engages in this compulsive behavior, but also because of discomfort, anxiety, fear and pain.

All the vivid illustrations from his parental figures, all the flings, jealousy, traumas, and homophobia, all the sadomasochistic and destructive images from the Internet, all of those and more conspired to create the unconscious behaviors we may now judge to be immoral or even normal.

Only deliverance from Christ or true spirituality might save Ivan now, yet how does one know if this deliverance comes from the government, elites, those in power in this world, or the one true God? Other deists or theists might say he should do what everyone else does, be like the times or the culture or the Party, that he should obey, be submissive . . .

Mark is surprised to see Sadie smiling as she sashays toward him. It’s been a few days since I could really believe she’s still in love with me. He sees a pair of sparkling turquoise keys in Sadie’s right hand. “What the fuck are those keys for?” he asks her.

“Salvation’s a viperish El Camino.”

“Who bought you a classic muscle car like that?”

“The Grand Inquisitor. Who else?”

Mark follows Sadie as she walks toward the El Camino pickup. It sparkles in the moonlight and radiates vitality, eroticism, lust. “I can’t wait to drive it!” Mark yells and howls into the night sky.

….

The vast crowd of Donnie-supporters and Donnie opponents is mesmerized by a strange object in the night sky. Even Abaddon isn’t sure what to make of it.

“What the fuck is that?” “Look there, in the sky?” “What is that?” “A U.F.O.?”

The blinding lights of billions of colors rain down on everyone. Kaleidoscopic colors in the clouds and sky hypnotize and soothe the entire crowd for three hours.

The alien light seems to have had a profound effect on everyone. It’s opening a gateway to genuine healing.

People weep and allow themselves to feel and integrate the truth about their lives. Their fearful, delusional egos no longer feel threatened by the truths emerging from their unconscious minds, reality, and the universe.

They hold hands and discuss life, their problems and the Earth’s afflictions.

Everyone listens; everyone learns how to hear and understand the myriad thoughts, ideas, experiences, feelings, and needs people are trying to express.

People realize how difficult it can sometimes be to truly express truth in human language.

The light has stimulated and enhanced their desire to express truth through language; and using language, and other therapeutic methods, they are working towards higher truths in order to evolve as human beings, instead of hurting and destroying one another.

….

Translucent pale purple spiders work on weaving their web—their raison d'être—until they imprison their prey. Before they get to eat, they help reveal the future from the intricate, convoluted web they weave with violet silk.

In a run-down wooden house in the Hoia-Baciu forest, Elena examines the web and says, “Kamala Harris will be the next American president.”

“I guess that’s interesting,” Paula says, somewhat puzzled and skeptical of Elena’s supposed psychic abilities. “I want to know what will happen to me and Bogdan and—”

“Yes, your twin girls will become powerful innovators and trailblazers in the global political arena. There is no doubt that the future is female. Violence, rape, perversion, and evil—all of those things will become less and less common as civilization evolves and the future becomes our present.”

….

“Some of the worst of the rich think it will increase their odds of surviving if they sow the seeds of doubt, division, and identity politics amongst the public,” Sonny says to Abaddon who looks at Sonny as if he were a disgusting alien creature. “The only way to fight it is to stop making assumptions. Stop being moved by patriotic or nationalist winds—they will inevitably turn into tornadoes and hurricanes—”

“Stop asking certain questions,” Abaddon suggests.

“Why?”

“Because Armageddon’s here.”

Sonny suddenly sees millions upon millions of spaceships above the horizon.

Many feel a mild to severe sense of foreboding. Some are praying the aliens are peaceful.

“Please tell me when one of your nations or tribes was ever peaceful when conquering another nation or clan?” Abaddon asks.

“We may all have some ancestors with blood on their hands,” Donnie responds. “What’s important, what counts, is that we who actually live in the now are the ones who will have to make the new moral decisions. Can we find a way to make the majority happy? All of us?”

“We never believed in that. All of you will be our employees. Alongside us, all of you will help build ships that will take us to God.”

“Which god?”

“The God that made all other gods possible. We will find God somewhere in our galaxy or universe. We never die.”

“It sounds like some new age conspiracy cult. This can’t be real. Am I dreaming?”

At dawn, Ivan gazes outside the black bars of his window, when he hears a sound. He suddenly sees a man’s face outside his window—the face of an angel. “My name is Leonardo, and I want to help you escape.”

“My evil makes me feel like I don’t deserve to escape this prison,” Ivan says.

“Don't give up; I know you’re better than this.”

“Why fight the world and the tidal tenor of our times? I learned that this is where I belong. Out there, the freedom was paralyzing. Fear and rage ruled my life and I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare I could never awaken from. But this is where I’m free.”

Who does Mark think he is, Sadie asks herself, Adam in the Garden of Eden? She sits in the passenger seat like always and watches him drive with the window open and his long hair billowing in the summer wind. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too, babe,” she replies. With her right arm she reaches for something behind her seat.

“What are you looking for?” Mark asks innocently.

“Don’t worry. You’ll see,” she whispers as she lifts a sharp, serrated knife to Mark's Adam’s apple.

….

Shane had also abandoned the Donnie Orange Parade as soon as he could. He walked barefoot all night, clutching the sword. His mind was silent and still. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw millions of space ships in the night sky, completely eclipsing the stars and even the Moon. He stopped walking and stood up tall and smiled, admiring this unprecedented sight—the beginning of a new era.

“The Alien Ships are Blocking the Transmission of all Pornography” is the leading headline in the Herodoma newspaper this morning. “Workers Needed To Build a New Ship to God!” is the second headline. Jordanna reads the newspaper as she sits down on a bench with Marie. “Is this the end of the world?” Jordanna asks Marie.

“No,” Marie says, smiling, “it’s the beginning of a new age.”

The voice of Abaddon floods all of Herodoma’s streets and apartments, houses and businesses. “I’m sure you all witnessed our arrival last night, and if for some reason you didn’t, I’m introducing what I’m sure will be the beginning of your Collectivist Altruistic Age. You have no choice; we need your help. We want to find God, and perhaps we believe in God more than you do. We don’t want this to be a bloody age any more than you do, so please obey our rules.”

They watch curiously as only two miles away from Donnie, a man is walking calmly with a silver sword in his left hand.

Shane feels invincible; he’s imbued with the ambrosia of the gods, with preternatural strength.

He thinks about the Japanese samurais he always admired. He remembers what his sister told him about the Japan of the past: “Many years ago in Japan, whenever they laid somebody off, it was the Japanese company’s responsibility to find that person another job.”

“I am a god,” he yells as he follows Larry. Invisible supernatural beings intervene and deflect the attacks of all those foolhardy enough to try to stop him. Larry keeps intoning the mantra, “You are a god, you are a god.”

The moment Shane is close enough to see where Donnie is, he sprints towards him . . . In Shane’s vision of the sky, he sees celestial spheres and angelic beings praising “Shane,” saying his name in their mellifluous prayers, in their alien voices, in their eloquent and exotic language.

Donnie barely has any time to react when the blade slices through the air and his neck, decapitating him in an instant.

“I’m dead,” Donnie’s decapitated head mumbles ruefully.

Complete silence from the mainstream media. Shock. Panic. And then some screaming, some wailing. A sob, whisper, shout. Laughter, applause. Murmurs.

A pillar of light emanates from the celestial craft—the light engulfs and absorbs Donnie’s body and he vanishes.

….

Marie gets a text from Dionissios informing them that Ivan is being held hostage at the Reactionary Mental Health Program.

Jordanna and Marie run toward the Reactionary Mental Health Program where Ivan is still imprisoned.

When they arrive, they meet Leonardo and Phoebe and Ivan’s Religion teacher, Rosemary, a grey-haired human. Marie and Jordanna introduce themselves as Ivan’s new comrades: so-called anti-tyrants.

A two-headed being descends from the medical spaceship. Donnie and Job Eyeden have been fused together like Siamese twins. Everyone shuts up and listens to the eerie music emanating from the alien spaceship.

Eyeden and Trump begin to speak as their formerly distinct voices mingle in a dissonant embrace: “I have seen the Antichrist; his name is Ivan . . .”

The old man has been watching all of these events unfold on the ward television. He stands up and says, “What the fuck was that? Is Ivan the Antichrist?”

“Let’s put on these Black Bloc costumes and black masks I bought. Impotent trolls and authoritarian robots love it when dissidents are imprisoned and institutionalized, but now we’ll gain even more strength and anonymity to battle totalitarianism. Now we’ll see how they like it when we free one of their victims.”

“I’ll put on the costume, but I don’t support anarchy,” Phoebe says.

“Whatever, everyone despises your idol, Ayn Rand, anyway,” Marie replies.

“I created a quantum app on my cellular phone that can unlock any door,” Phoebe says as she points her phone at the main entrance of the Reactionary Mental Health Program.

“Aren’t you afraid that Phoebe has more power than the Antichrist?” Marie asks them.

As the doors open, Phoebe explains, “There’s no rational reason to fear science. I don’t believe in mystical beings; I believe in inventing things that are helpful."

As they walk through the dimly lit hallways, Marie says, “The aliens believe in God and they have a lot more brains than you.”

Phoebe replies, “Maybe they have more brains, but they have zero morals.”

Transmissions of Abaddon’s message split into fragments embodying every language that ever existed on Earth: “It’s not true love. Cease all sinful behavior and always ask yourselves, ‘Why do I feel this?’”

“Is that the alien preacher?” Marie asks out loud.

“More like their televangelist,” Rosemary smirks.

They keep following the signs until Marie and the gang reach the Reactionary Mental Health Program. Phoebe opens the final set of doors. “On mornings like this, it feels good to be alive.”

Marie sees a door ajar at Room 3.

The old man holds a syringe in his hand and stands above Ivan who is lying motionless on the bed. Marie runs toward the old man, and with Leonardo’s help, she stops him.

“Wake up!” Leonardo yells at the sleeping Ivan.

Marie punches him in the face, but he doesn’t wake up.

Leonardo and Marie pick him up from the bed and carry him to the TV room.

“I know I said Ivan did this to himself,” Marie says, “but they also had no right to keep him in this detention center against his will.”

“They had a right because he’s a dissident who opposed cultural and social norms,” the grey-haired lady says.

“This is still America!” Marie yells.

Ivan wakes up to hear Abaddon’s voice emanating from every device, television, computer, radio, and movie theater: “Obey and serve, or die and perish.”

controversies
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About the Creator

ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JPMOPXfHcs0

Give me other mothers and I will give you another world.

Da mihi chaste mater, et faciam tibi alium mundum.

https://twitter.com/InfraHaz/status/1763316312443416806

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