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About Solid Snake

War, and its vast consumption of human life, has become a rational, well-oiled business

Interview With Alex Jones

In a dimly lit bunker beneath the ruins of Manhattan, Solid Snake sat across from Alex Jones at a steel table cluttered with survival rations, history books, and shortwave radios crackling with static.

A faded American flag hung behind them beside a hand-drawn sign reading: NO CENTRAL CONTROL.

Snake lit a cigarette.

“Never thought I’d hear you talking economics instead of nanomachines and secret weapons,” Snake muttered.

Alex leaned forward dramatically, slamming a stack of photocopied papers onto the table.

“Snake, listen to me! The Founding Fathers understood something modern governments forgot. In colonial America, some colonies issued their own debt-free scrip! Pennsylvania did it! They printed currency backed by productivity instead of endless interest payments to private banking empires!”

Snake exhaled smoke slowly.

“You’re saying the colonies operated without permanent national debt?”

“In some periods, yes!” Alex barked. “The people used local colonial notes to build roads, farms, mills — real production! Benjamin Franklin supposedly admired how the system kept unemployment low. Then the British cracked down with the Currency Acts because London bankers hated independent money systems!”

Snake narrowed his eyes.

“So the war wasn’t just taxes.”

Alex pointed a finger like he was revealing classified intel.

“Exactly! Control the money supply, control the population. Same game, different century.”

The bunker lights flickered. Somewhere overhead, drones hummed through the poisoned skies.

Snake tapped ash into a tin cup.

“Sounds familiar. Patriots, AI censorship, information warfare. Different uniforms, same structure.”

Alex stood up, pacing wildly.

“They’ve got people drowning in credit cards, student loans, mortgages, digital surveillance currencies—”

Snake interrupted calmly.

“Debt as social control.”

Alex froze for a moment.

“Yes! You get it! In the colonies, some communities believed money should serve labor and trade, not trap generations in interest payments.”

Snake looked toward an old map of the thirteen colonies pinned to the wall.

“In war, supply lines determine survival. In society, maybe money is the supply line.”

Alex grinned triumphantly.

“Now you’re thinking like a revolutionary, Snake.”

An alarm suddenly echoed through the bunker.

WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED AERIAL SURVEILLANCE DETECTED

Snake crushed out the cigarette and stood.

“Conversation’s over.”

He grabbed a bandanna from the table and tied it around his head.

Alex hurried after him.

“Snake! One more thing!”

“What?”

Alex lowered his voice.

“The real Metal Gear…”

Snake sighed.

“…is fractional reserve banking?”

Alex slammed the table.

“EXACTLY!”

Messiah Macron

In the heart of France, beneath a gray Parisian sky, a restless crowd gathered in the Place de la République. The air was thick with tension—not war, not chaos, but something louder than both: defiance.

At the center stood Emmanuel Macron—upright, immaculate, and somehow already regretting every life choice that led him to this exact square at this exact moment.

“I am Jupiter!” he had once declared in a fit of presidential grandeur.

Today, Jupiter was about to get hit by baked goods.

From the crowd—an absurd, chaotic mix of students, aunties, street philosophers, and one guy dressed as Napoleon for absolutely no reason—voices erupted:

“You are NOT Jupiter!”
“You are NOT the messiah!”

And then, as if a script had been written by a sleep-deprived playwright:

“France! OUT OF AFRICA!”

A beat.

Even the pigeons paused.

A man holding a baguette blinked. “Wait… what does that even mean?”

“No idea!” shouted another, already winding up a croissant like a fastball. “But it sounds revolutionary!”

The first croissant flew—majestic, slow-motion, buttery. It spun through the air like a flaky comet and bonk—lightly tapped Macron’s shoulder.

Gasps.

Then chaos.

Croissants launched everywhere. Pain au chocolat joined the rebellion. Someone threw a quiche but immediately apologized because it was still warm and “that’s just wasteful.”

Macron raised his hand, trying to restore order, but a particularly ambitious éclair exploded dramatically at his feet like a sugary firework.

“I AM NOT JUPITER!” he finally shouted.

The crowd froze.

“I AM NOT YOUR MESSIAH! AND PLEASE—STOP THROWING BREAKFAST!”

A woman in the front row lowered her croissant slowly. “Then why do you stand like a statue in a museum?”

Another voice chimed in: “Yeah, you’ve got big ‘Roman god who taxes people’ energy!”

Meanwhile, the Napoleon cosplayer had climbed a fountain and was yelling, “I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN!” though no one knew what he meant.

The chant started again, somehow louder and even less coherent:

“FRANCE! OUT OF AFRICA!”
“NO WAIT—AFRICA OUT OF FRANCE!”
“NO—EVERYONE JUST STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”

At this point, even Macron looked confused.

A philosopher-type in a turtleneck stepped forward, dodging a flying baguette. “Perhaps,” he said dramatically, “the chant is not about geography… but about existential displacement.”

Everyone stared at him.

Another croissant hit him in the face.

Macron sighed, brushing crumbs off his suit. “This,” he muttered, “is why Charles de Gaulle never dealt with pastry-based uprisings.”

In the end, nothing was solved. The chants made less sense than before. Half the crowd wandered off for coffee. The other half argued about whether a croissant counted as a political statement.

And as Macron stepped away, narrowly avoiding one last rogue baguette, he looked back at the square and shook his head.

“France,” he said quietly, “you are impossible.”

From somewhere in the crowd:

“VIVE LA CROISSANT REVOLUTION!”

Buy the Zoo Conspiracy

Solid Snake leaned against the railing outside the Vancouver Zoo, cigarette unlit for once, bandana tails moving in the Pacific breeze.

Brad Pitt—half in character, half himself—stared at the enclosures with that familiar 12 Monkeys intensity.

Snake:
“I watched 12 Monkeys again. You weren’t crazy, Brad. Not completely. Maybe the system was.”

Brad smirked. “That’s what all the characters say.”

Snake folded his arms.

Snake:
“I’m thinking of buying this place. Not to shut it down overnight. Not to play eco–terrorist. But to transition it. Sanctuary model. No more breeding programs for ticket sales. No more pacing polar bears for Instagram.”

Brad tilted his head. “So… not my character’s version. No virus. No chaos.”

Snake shook his head.

Snake:
“Freedom doesn’t mean panic. It means strategy. Rewild where possible. Expand protected land. Partner with conservation biologists. Some animals can’t just be ‘set free.’ They’d die in a week. That’s not liberation—that’s negligence.”

Brad looked impressed.

Brad:
“So you agree with the idea… but not the execution.”

Snake:
“Exactly. The film was about breaking cages in people’s minds. But in real life? You don’t open every lock at once. You build something better first.”

A peacock cried in the distance.

Snake gestured toward the enclosures.

Snake:
“Imagine this place as a rescue center. Animals saved from trafficking. From collapsing ecosystems. Public education that actually funds habitat protection in the wild. Turn spectators into guardians.”

Brad nodded slowly.

Brad:
“That’s less ‘12 Monkeys’… more ‘12-Year Plan.’”

Snake allowed himself a rare half-smile.

Snake:
“Change the world quietly. No apocalypse required.”

They stood in silence, watching a rescued owl blink from its perch.

Snake:
“Your character wasn’t insane, Brad. He just hated cages. I get that.”

Brad shrugged.

“Just make sure, Snake… if you buy the zoo… you don’t become the new zookeeper of another system.”

Snake adjusted his bandana.

“I won’t. I’ve broken out of enough prisons to know the difference.”