The world had changed, though not in the way anyone hoped. Behind podiums and press briefings stood not leaders, but lizards—cold-blooded creatures wrapped in human skin. They blinked too slowly, smiled too wide, and talked in circles, spinning lies so polished they sparkled like broken glass in the sun. These politicians, if you could still call them that, were puppets—owned outright by the drug cartels that now wrote the laws, funded the campaigns, and decided who lived and who disappeared.
The cartels didn’t hide in the shadows anymore. They were the shadows. They whispered into earpieces behind bulletproof doors, their empires built on addiction, fear, and blood. In exchange for protection and power, the reptiles in suits gave them whatever they wanted—land, silence, immunity. Justice had been bought and buried in unmarked graves.
The media, once tasked with truth, had become another mouthpiece. They sang the praises of these snakes in silk ties, packaged corruption as compassion, and smeared anyone who dared speak otherwise. The people were lulled, fed a steady diet of fear and distraction—celebrity scandals, identity wars, and synthetic hope. But underneath it all, the public was beginning to stir.
Eyes were opening.
Voices were rising.
A quiet fury was taking shape in the alleys and forums and underground networks where truth had gone to hide. The illusion was cracking, the masks slipping, and the reptiles knew it. They tightened their grip, passed harsher laws, surveilled everything, and branded dissent as terrorism. But it was a desperate move—because once people see the puppeteers, they stop fearing the puppets.
Still, it might be too late.
The system was too far gone. The soil soaked with too much blood. And even if the people rose up, even if they tore down every last liar and snake in the halls of power, they’d be left standing in ruins—with nothing but ashes to rebuild from.
And yet... sometimes, that’s exactly what’s needed.
No comments:
Post a Comment