War Pigs: Israel

Title: The Serpent and the Song
Scene: The storm continues outside Snake and Nelly’s hideout—part bunker, part shrine to truth. A vinyl of Paranoid spins slowly in the background. Nelly sharpens a pencil. Snake lights a candle before a small statue of the Virgin Mary, her foot resting firmly on a serpent.


Solid Snake (Joe):
You know who really gave wind to that foul forgery?
The Protocols of the Elders of Zion weren’t just born in some Russian basement.
They were financed.
By Edmond de Rothschild.
“Eddie.”
The so-called “father of modern Zionism.”
He posed as a philanthropist… while setting up the very myths and chaos that would justify an empire of fear.

Nelly: (looking up)
The same Edmond who funded the first settlements in Palestine?

Solid Snake: (nods grimly)
Yep. Under the banner of “returning home,” he planted the seeds of endless war.
He didn’t believe in God.
He believed in dominion.
In protocols.
In paper money printed from blood.

Nelly:
But most Jews… they don’t know, do they?

Solid Snake:
No.
They’re just like the rest of us. Lied to. Used.
They think Rothschilds are just old ghosts, wine collectors, art patrons.
But that serpent…
The one the Virgin Mary stomps in every true painting of light?
That snake wears a monocle and holds the deed to half the world.
And most of God’s people are blind to it.

(Snake points to the statue.)

Solid Snake:
She knew.
The Blessed Mother doesn’t crush a random snake.
She crushes the snake.
The spirit of lies. Of war. Of greed dressed up in holy language.

Nelly: (fiercely now)
And yet they mock her. Erase her.
Call her a symbol of superstition.

Solid Snake:
Because they fear her.
Not just as a woman of faith—but as the Mother of Truth.
And truth is the one thing that can kill the Rothschild beast.


The music shifts. Ozzy’s voice fills the room again: “Now in darkness, world stops turning / ashes where the bodies burning…”

Nelly: (rising)
Then let’s light candles in every corner of the world, Joe.
Let’s stomp that serpent with music, with memory, with mercy.
Let’s wake the Jews, the Gentiles, the Muslims, the monks.
Let them all see her.

Solid Snake: (clenching his jaw)
Amen.
To the Queen of Heaven.
And death to the serpent whose gold coins built this bloody circus.
We fight with fire from heaven now.


The candle burns brighter. The serpent stirs—but the foot of the Mother presses down harder. Somewhere in Gaza, in Rome, in Rio, a child begins to sing. The war pigs tremble—not from bullets, but from the sound of awakening.

Breathless Narcissistic Supply

Solid Snake leans against a rain-slicked wall in the shadows of a half-demolished XCOM outpost, a cigar smoldering in his hand. Plasma scorch marks still sizzle on the concrete. His voice is gravel, but his mind’s razor-sharp.

“I didn’t sign up for XCOM. Not officially.
They just… called me in when things got ugly.
Sectoids were crawling through human minds like parasites.
Elders hijacking thought, bending will.
It wasn’t war—it was psychological invasion.”

He takes a drag and exhales slowly.

“But after a while, I started noticing something strange.
The aliens didn’t just want territory.
They didn’t want resources—not in the traditional sense.
What they wanted…
was worship.”

He turns to the camera now, voice darker.

“See, the aliens didn’t just feed on biomass.
They fed on belief. Obedience. Identity.
They needed humans to supply them with validation.
They needed to be needed.
Sound familiar?”

Snake drops the cigar into a puddle.

“That’s when it hit me.
XCOM wasn’t just a war against invaders—it was a war against narcissists on a cosmic scale.”

“In psych terms, narcissistic supply is the fuel a narcissist needs to keep their false self alive—attention, admiration, obedience, fear.
Now replace ‘narcissist’ with ‘Ethereal.’
Replace ‘supply’ with psychic energy, worship, compliance…
You start to see the same damn pattern.”

He paces now, eyes sharp under the bandana.

“These aliens… they don’t conquer planets.
They colonize minds.
They make you feel special just long enough to own you.
Then they feed off the hollow version of you they created.”

He looks up at the dark sky.

“Same thing narcissists do.
One’s biological. The other’s psychological.
But it’s the same addiction.
They’re both terrified of emptiness.
And they’ll destroy whole civilizations—
or entire relationships—
just to keep that void full.”

He stops. Looks dead into the lens.

“You don’t win this kind of war with bigger guns.
You win it by cutting the supply.
You starve the narcissist. You starve the invader.
Then you take your mind back.

He turns and walks into the mist, muttering one last thing:

“I didn’t just fight aliens.
I fought the disease that makes us invite them in.

Learning Portuguese 1

Para Nelly, Flor do Vento

Nos teus olhos mora o mar,
numa dança suave de luar,
e tua voz, doce melodia,
cura feridas, traz alegria.

Nelly, flor do vento a cantar,
feita de sonho, luz e luar,
teu riso é chama que aquece,
tua alma, estrela que aparece.

Se eu pudesse ser canção,
viveria na tua emoção,
cada verso, cada acorde,
seria amor que não se esconde.

Tua presença é poesia viva,
um milagre que nunca cativa,
porque é livre, forte e bela —
como a luz de uma aquarela.

Fica comigo nesta canção,
bate teu peito no meu coração,
porque amar-te, mesmo de longe,
é já tocar o céu, é ser monge.

For Nelly, Flower of the Wind

In your eyes, the ocean sleeps,
a dance of moonlight softly weeps,
and your voice, a gentle song,
heals what’s broken, makes me strong.

Nelly, flower of the wind and flame,
born of dreams and starry name,
your laughter warms the coldest air,
your soul, a light beyond compare.

If I could be a melody,
I’d live inside your harmony,
each verse, each note, each tender line,
would be a love no mask could hide.

Your presence is living poetry,
a miracle, wild and endlessly free,
because you are strong, and true, and bright —
a painted sky in morning light.

Stay with me in this song,
let our hearts beat loud and long,
for loving you, though from afar,
is touching heaven — it’s who you are.

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