'HOLO SHOW.
Suddenly the caravan was stopping, and holos filled the night. Surreal to see the ninety degree figures dancing around on stages that seemed to include the viewer. Beguiling colors. Sex for sale everywhere on the screen, from the half or undressed men and women, to the fucking idiot Celeb Coral Reef wearing his Brand penis sheath. What the hell is that thing, Ruby?
Also called a horim. It is traditionally worn by several highland tribes in New Guinea, especially in Papua (Indonesia) and Papua New Guinea. And the circus begins.
'Indeed.'
A burst of cosmic light blinds the screen for a second, alighting the night and showing the lines of cars and trucks watching the holos. Their smiling faces sicken me. The Celeb factor has some of them even clapping a bit, like they were trained to do with the rating system of stars Koch media had used for years, to get the audience involved in what they saw, and win prizes for their clapping time. I see the hands want to clap and move even when they know better. The same system that pushed me onto this pedestal.
The light slowly fades into the shape of a man standing backlit into infamy, the best looking man-creature plastic surgery and steroids can create. Atom Saner. Muscles oiled. Jaw square. Hair sculpted into a wave that defies gravity, looks like a wind is blowing his curly blonde locks back away from his sculpted face. His codpiece is so exaggerated it looks like a superhero costume designer lost a bet.
He stands with fists on hips, chest out, chin lifted toward a destiny only he can see. “People of America,” he booms, voice drenched in studio reverb, “I am here to take this River and change its course, I guess. I lost the post it. I could have solved all of this so easily.
The audience sighs — a rehearsed, sympathetic sound.
"But, I have arrived too late… again.”
They break into canned laughter at the Celeb's celebrity
Atom shakes his head with cosmic disappointment.
“If only I had known sooner,” he says, “I could have prevented Juan Rivera’s latest disaster.”
Ruby whispers in my skull:
New propaganda vector detected.
‘I see it.’
Plumage drifts into frame like a neon ghost with a six‑foot hairdo -- a cage built into her costume with a live bird drugged into compliance, barely able to stay upright even with staples pinning its feet to the swing.
She has their asses sewn up so they do not shit in her hair. Pretends to love the thing, that it is the same at every performance, Longest living canary on the planet.
Her backlight is dramatic — spiritual, compassionate, her Brand. She touches Atom’s arm like he’s a sacred relic. “Atom,” she says softly, “Juan stole our workers.”
Atom gasps — theatrically.“He stole them?” He looks into the camera.“If only I had known sooner, I could have saved them.”
The audience moans with pity.
The bird sways.
Plumage smiles like she’s blessing a funeral.
Kosmic Konan slides into frame — glittering green jacket, black mirrored sunglasses, hair sprayed into a shape that looks like a hatchet.
He points at Atom’s codpiece.
“Look at this man!” Konan shouts. “He could’ve saved Juan’s whole operation with one heroic thrust of justice!”
Atom nods solemnly.
I start to hear people in the caravan laughing at the jokes, at the people who seem right there, among them, the Celebs they had known all their lives, who were their 'friends' from the crib on up. Later, they knew the rumours, heard Juan, knew better... Long ago I learned, they prefer the myth to reality. My life is throwing the acid at their myths, trying to melt them or some shit.
“If only I had known sooner.”
The audience howls.
Ruby whispers:
Sentiment manipulation increasing.
Blaze Burns storms onstage — cheap suit, crooked tie, mic held like a weapon.
He jabs a finger at Atom.
“This man could’ve saved Juan from himself! If only we could go back in time.”
The audience roars.
“The Sons of Odin? More like Sons of Overacting!”
More laughter.
“The Panthers? Cute cosplay. Real fighters don’t use flamethrowers from Home Depot!”
The laughter becomes frantic on the screen.
The gangs finally act. I hear Jorge yell, "Shut the fuck up."
"Clap and we'll break your fucking fingers," Jake adds.
Coral Reef enters — multi‑colored skin paint, body glitter, ceremonial penis sheath strapped around his waist.
He bows to Atom, bouncing his huge dick extension.
“Cosmic brother,” he says, “Juan Rivera is a thief of destiny.”
Atom nods gravely.
“If only I had known sooner.”
The audience applauds like they’re watching a coronation.
He lifts a finger — cosmic judgment.
“If only I had known sooner, I could have saved you.”
The crowd gasps on cue.
Atom shakes his head, eyes full of theatrical sorrow.
“You’re hurting the people you claim to save.”
The holo cuts out.
I get out of Ruby and go to the group gathering near the front of the line of trucks and shit. Panthers stare at me like I am responsible for what was said about them.
Public sentiment shifting?
‘Ruby, shut up.’
Shutting up.
Jake steps forward.
“Juan,” he says quietly, “that wasn’t comedy.”
Theo nods. “That was war.”
Maya lifts her chin. “They’re scared of us." She looks at me — not angry, not afraid, just… certain.
“You started this,” she says. “Now finish it.”
The wind picks up. Dust swirls. Engines hum. The column waits. I look at the gangs. “I only care about what people who I care about me say about me. I do not give a shit about any of those fuckers. They are afraid of us. What do we fucking do? We kick their ass."
All of them.
Even the ones who wouldn’t look at me a few minutes ago.
Sanctuary Six waits ahead. Atom Saner waits behind — posing, glowing, lying.
And I stand in the middle — the man they trust again, the man they need, the man who has no idea how to win the next fight. I trust myself enough to know by now, piss me off and give me a holo and I'll do alright.
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