Author: Solid Snake

A strong Man doesn't need to read the Future. He makes his own.
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Humiliation Rituals

[Scene: A dimly lit bunker. The sound of dripping water echoes through the halls. Solid Snake is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, while Arnold Schwarzenegger paces back and forth with a cigar in hand. A faint oinking comes from the corner, where Schnelly the pig lies on a blanket.]

Solid Snake:
(gravely) Arnold… I’ve been watching how you treat that pig of yours. The fat jokes. The humiliation. It doesn’t work. Fat shaming doesn’t make anyone stronger. It just breaks them down.

Arnold Schwarzenegger:
(throws his hands up) But Snake, look at Schnelly! She is so fat! Like a balloon with legs. I am trying to motivate her. No pain, no gain!

Solid Snake:
(shakes head) That’s not how it works. You can’t punish an animal—or a person—into being better. Fear and humiliation just eat away at them from the inside. I’ve seen it in soldiers. And I’ve seen it on bigger stages.

Arnold Schwarzenegger:
(brows furrow) Bigger stages? What do you mean?

Solid Snake:
Nelly Furtado. I saw her at the Junos once. Suspended by wires. Hung up like a bird for everyone to laugh at. It wasn’t art—it was a ritual of humiliation. She was almost crying. The audience clapped, but they didn’t see the pain. Just like you don’t see Schnelly’s.

Arnold Schwarzenegger:
(pauses, looking down at Schnelly, who oinks softly) …You think I am humiliating her?

Solid Snake:
(steps forward, voice low) I know you are. And if you keep it up, she’ll carry that shame forever. You’re supposed to protect her, Arnold. Not break her.

Arnold Schwarzenegger:
(sighs, rubbing his temples) …Maybe you’re right, Snake. I remember when I was a boy in Austria, the other kids called me names too. Skinny. Weak. Like a pencil-neck. It made me angry… but it also made me hungry to prove them wrong. I thought that was the only way.

Solid Snake:
You fought back because you had fire inside you. But not everyone works that way. Most just get crushed. Schnelly’s not weak, Arnold. She just needs someone to believe in her.

Arnold Schwarzenegger:
(softly, kneeling down to pet Schnelly) …Okay, Schnelly. No more fat jokes. From now on, we train together. You and me. Pumping iron. Eating clean. We will show them all.

Solid Snake:
(smiles faintly) That’s more like it. Remember—real strength isn’t built on shame. It’s built on respect.

[Schnelly snorts happily, nuzzling Arnold’s hand. The bunker grows quiet, only the sound of her satisfied breathing filling the air.]

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Ashton Kutcher Versus Hyperinflation

Title: “Rule of 72”

[A cigarette dangles from my lips as I stare at the flickering numbers on the Bloomberg terminal. The glow of the screen reflects in my tired eyes. Another sleepless night. Another war—only this one doesn’t involve guns. Just numbers. And numbers, I’ve learned, lie harder than politicians.]

Ashton Kutcher said to double my money using the Rule of 72. Divide 72 by the interest rate, and boom—you know how long until your cash multiplies. Cute trick. Real cute.

But I’ve seen tricks before.

The kind where a man in a suit smiles, shakes your hand, and promises you the world—right before he pulls the rug out. Madoff did it. Countless hedge fund ghouls still do it. And now Kutcher’s acolytes are nodding along like sheep, lining up for the slaughter.

“Just invest, bro. The market always goes up.”

Yeah. Until it doesn’t.

I’ve seen hyperinflation before. Not in textbooks. Not in some billionaire’s TED Talk. I’ve seen it in the eyes of men trading wheelbarrows of cash for a loaf of bread. Weimar Germany. Zimbabwe. Venezuela. Soon? Everywhere.

The suits in D.C. keep printing. The banks keep leveraging. And the little guy? He’s stacking pennies while the fire gets closer.

One day, the register won’t stop at billions. Or trillions. It’ll hit quadrillions—then keep going. Buzz Lightyear was right: “To infinity… and beyond.”

Money won’t just be worthless. It’ll be a joke.

And for what?

I can’t buy Nelly’s love. Can’t buy loyalty. Can’t buy back the years I lost crawling through vents, planting C4, watching good men die for bad reasons.

So why bother?

The system’s rigged. Always has been.

I take a drag, exhale slow. The terminal’s still blinking. Numbers rising, falling—meaningless.

I shut it off.

Some wars aren’t worth fighting.

[Mission Failed: Economy Broken.]

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Beasts of No Nation

[Scene: A ruined village in sub-Saharan Africa. Smoke rises in the distance. Solid Snake crouches in the dust, surrounded by wary child soldiers. Nelly’s Warchild stands at the front, clutching an old rifle.]

Warchild: Who runs Africa, Snake? They tell us it’s the generals, the presidents, the ones with gold and guns. But we know better. We feel the chains.

Solid Snake (gravelly voice): Chains go back a long way. Since Cecil Rhodes carved this land for diamonds and empire. But he wasn’t the last. The Rothschilds… they’ve been funding wars since Napoleon. Every bullet has a banker’s signature.

Warchild (bitter laugh): So we fight for ghosts? For men we’ll never see?

Snake (lighting a cigarette, then putting it out in the dust): Not ghosts. Names. Old men who hide behind the curtains. Jacob Rothschild. Still alive. Still pulling strings. And Epstein—yeah, he didn’t vanish. He’s hiding. Israel. Places the world doesn’t want you to look.

[The children shift uneasily, whispering.]

Snake (reaching into his shirt, pulling out a small silver Virgin Mary necklace): I’ve got UN berets and medals for you. Every war child deserves recognition. But medals don’t stop bullets. So here’s the only law that matters—no one shoots unless it’s self-defense. You hear me? You live, you protect, you survive.

Warchild (staring at the necklace): And what of her? The woman you wear around your neck?

Snake (soft, almost a whisper): That’s Mary. She’ll defeat him. She’ll put the old men in chains. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But the web always unravels. Remember that.

SOLID SNAKE’S ECONOMICS LESSON:

Snake: You kids ever hear about GDP? Gross Domestic Product. That’s what they say measures a country’s wealth. Politicians love it. Economists worship it. But it’s a lie.

Warchild (frowning): GDP? What does that mean to us? We don’t eat it.

Snake (grim chuckle): Exactly. GDP means nothing. A hurricane rips through your home? The economy grows. A war burns your fields? GDP goes up. A famine makes food scarce? That’s profit for someone. Even a wasting disease—big money for pharmaceuticals. They call it growth. I call it blood money.

[The children glance at one another, the rifles on their knees feeling heavier now.]

Snake (voice tightening): When I was younger, I tried college. Sat in lecture halls. Studied economics. They said I’d learn how the world works. You know what I learned? Nothing. It was worthless. The textbooks never talked about the real costs—the graves, the orphans, the child soldiers. So I dropped out.

Warchild (quietly): Then who writes the numbers? Who decides what matters?

Snake (pulling on his cigarette, exhaling slow): Old men. The same ones who’ve run things since Rhodes. Rothschilds. Bankers. War profiteers. They don’t measure your life, or your pain. They measure their profit. That’s the truth of GDP.

[He grips his Virgin Mary necklace and lets it dangle in the dust.]

Snake (softly): Don’t worry. Mary’s justice doesn’t measure in numbers. It measures in chains. And one day… those old men will wear them.

[The children lower their rifles, a silence falling over the camp as Snake’s words sink in. The Virgin Mary pendant catches the last light of the sun, glinting like a promise.]

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