Joe sat across from Nelly in the dimly lit visitor’s room of the psychiatric ward. The sterile white walls pressed in around them, the fluorescent lights humming like an unseen force watching over them. She looked tired, worn from the weight of too many battles fought alone. Yet, even here, even in this place meant to break souls, she was radiant.
“The Portuguese Marilyn Monroe,” Joe murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Nelly gave a half-smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Marilyn didn’t make it out, Joe.”
“Then we make it out together,” he said, leaning forward. “The only way out is together.”
Her eyes, dark with old pain, searched his face for doubt. She found none.
“You don’t understand, Joe. They don’t let people like me go.”
Joe scoffed. “They don’t let people like us go. But I’m not leaving without you. I don’t care how many doctors, how many pills, how many locked doors. We walk out of here, Nelly. We walk out, or I tear this place down with my bare hands.”
It was a cold December evening in Paris, the kind that made the Seine shimmer like silver beneath the streetlights. Wojak sat alone in his tiny apartment, staring at the screen of his old computer. The pixels of his stock portfolio bled red—his Christmas was ruined.
“Zut alors…” Wojak muttered, clutching his head. “I put everything into it… le pump! They said it was guaranteed!“
The cheap string lights around his desk flickered as a Skype call rang through. The number was untraceable, the kind that only belonged to the shadows of the financial elite. His trembling hand clicked ‘Answer.’
On screen, the twin faces of the Bogdanov brothers materialized. Their sharp, otherworldly cheekbones cast unnatural shadows across their grins. They leaned in close, their piercing blue eyes reflecting infinite knowledge—and infinite power.
“Ah, mon pauvre Wojak,” Igor Bogdanov purred, his voice thick with a French aristocratic accent. “You really believed… zat you could win?”
Grichka chuckled, adjusting his silk cravat. “Zis is not a game, Wojak. Zis is le marché—and we own it.”
Wojak’s lip trembled. “B-but… I was supposed to make it this time. I was going to buy gifts, pay rent, maybe even… afford une baguette avec le brie!“
Igor smirked, producing a single golden Bitcoin from his pocket, rolling it across his knuckles with effortless precision. “Gifts? Hah! Zis is capitalism, Wojak. You were given hope… but hope is for les pauvres.”
“Dump it,” Grichka said with a snap of his fingers.
The sound of algorithmic trading filled the air—millions of automated sell orders executed in an instant. Wojak’s screen flashed violently—his investments, his dreams, his Christmas—obliterated in a split second.
He fell to his knees, a silent scream escaping his lips. “No… non…!“
Igor exhaled, adjusting his diamond-encrusted cufflinks. “Bonne nuit, Wojak,” he whispered. “Joyeux Noël…”
And with that, the call ended. The Bogdanovs faded into the digital abyss, leaving only the cold, lifeless glow of Wojak’s screen—his balance now zéro.
Outside, the city twinkled with festive lights, as if mocking him.
Optimus Prime’s Speech to the Alt-Right on Shia LaBeouf
(Optimus Prime stands before a gathering, his blue optics glowing with wisdom and authority. His voice, deep and commanding, echoes across the crowd.)
OPTIMUS PRIME: “Sons of humanity, Cybertronians have witnessed the cycles of war and destruction, the folly of division and hatred. We have seen great civilizations rise and fall, not by the hands of external enemies, but by the poison of their own discord.
I have fought alongside humans who displayed courage, loyalty, and honor. Among them was one named Shia LaBeouf—a man who has stumbled, as all do, but has also stood up, time and again, proclaiming a truth older than any empire: Christ is King.
You, who speak of faith, of tradition, of a world anchored in righteousness—do you now turn against one who has declared allegiance to the very King you claim to serve? Do you forget the words of your own creed, that a shepherd rejoices when even one lost sheep returns?
Shia has walked a path of hardship and redemption. Would you strike him down when he seeks the light? Would you mock and belittle a man who kneels before the cross, after so many years of wandering? I tell you now, that is not the way of the righteous. That is the path of the Decepticons—of Megatron, who sought to divide and conquer through fear and cruelty.
I have battled the darkness for eons, and I have learned this: unity is strength, but division is weakness. If you truly seek to uphold the banner of faith, then act as warriors of justice, not tormentors of your own. Show mercy, as it has been shown to you. Stand for truth, not as tyrants, but as protectors.
Let this be my decree, as leader of the Autobots: leave Shia LaBeouf in peace! Let him grow, let him heal, and let him walk his chosen path. If he falls, lift him up. If he doubts, encourage him. If he seeks wisdom, guide him. For that is the way of the righteous. That is the way of the light.
I am Optimus Prime, and I will fight for all who seek the path of truth.”
(Optimus turns, his metallic frame reflecting the light. A moment of silence grips the crowd before a few voices murmur in agreement. The Autobots stand in solidarity, and somewhere in the distance, Shia LaBeouf, watching from a screen, nods in gratitude.)
