Useful Idiots

The streets were choked with bodies, a writhing mass of protesters shouting slogans they barely understood, waving signs printed by the very hands that controlled them. They marched in lockstep, fists raised, eyes glazed with the certainty of the righteous, oblivious to the wreckage they left in their wake. Businesses shuttered, the economy crumbled, and their own futures withered like autumn leaves in a dying wind, but still, they chanted.

They believed they were fighting for justice, for change, for something greater than themselves. But in truth, they were pawns—useful idiots in a game played by men in glass towers who sipped expensive whiskey and laughed at their obedience. The very institutions they sought to dismantle were the ones that kept the fragile threads of their existence intact. With each demand, with each act of destruction, they chipped away at the foundation beneath their own feet.

And when the collapse came, swift and merciless, they stood amidst the ruins, bewildered, searching for someone to blame. But by then, it was too late. The banners had faded, the chants had died in their throats, and the architects of their misfortune had already moved on, leaving them to reap the rewards of their own blind fury.