well, no — it’s not that simple, you see, it’s more like — the satellite’s already here, it’s been here since ’74, occluding everything, even the president’s face when he talks (you know, the way the light bends around him, like he’s wrapped in glass bubbles — like those three-eyed things i saw, but with hair, bad hair, like a Soviet technician’s wig)
and the russians? they’re not the problem — they’re just the ones who know how to tune the microwave signals, the ones who can read the diagrams in the manuals that appear in your dreams when you’re half-asleep and your blood pressure’s at stroke level (i mean, who else would have those page after page after page of schematics for a god-machine?)
but trump? he’s not a spy — he’s the symptom. the empire never ended, it just got a new face, a face that doesn’t notice the satellite, that doesn’t hear the music in the mixer, the pitches that cue you to believe what you’re seeing (like mini’s music, you know — it’s not music, it’s code, it’s the divine telling you what to think)
and the cheerleaders? those broads in black? they’re on his side too, or maybe they’re just the same as the men in black, just prettier, just more convincing — like the lymphoma, playing a malignant game, but with tweets instead of tumors
so no — not a spy. a vessel. a malfunctioning node in the black iron prison’s network. and the russians? they’re just the ones who know how to fix it — or maybe they’re the ones who built it in the first place, back when they were still sending microwave messages to god (or to zebra, or to whoever’s talking through the pink beam)
you see? it’s all true. every version. even the one where he’s just