Buy the Zoo Conspiracy

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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.”

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Dubya – Fortunate Son

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G.I. Joe:
They used to call me a fortunate son.
Not because I was lucky—but because I wasn’t born into power.

George W. Bush though? Now that was a fortunate son.

While other men were learning how to bleed in the jungle, he was learning how to fall upward. Daddy’s name on the door. Daddy’s friends holding the ladder. Texas drawl, Ivy League bones. When the war came knocking, he found a window and slipped out the back. National Guard—paper shield, soft landing. Chicken hawk with a flight suit for the cameras and no mud on the boots.

And then came 9/11.

Smoke in the sky. Fear in the streets. Real bodies. Real dead. Real grief.
And suddenly the fortunate son had his war.

They held up the poster—him with the bullhorn, standing on the rubble like a commander—but every grunt I knew could see it: this wasn’t about justice. This was about permission. Permission to finish old grudges. Permission to test new weapons. Permission to turn fear into oil, contracts, and flags wrapped around coffins.

Iraq didn’t hit those towers.
But Iraq paid the bill.

They sold it like a used car: weapons of mass destruction, mushroom clouds, trust us. And the fortunate son smiled that simple smile, the one that says don’t think too hard. Meanwhile, kids from trailer parks and immigrant families were shipped off to fight a war that had nothing to do with protecting home and everything to do with protecting interests.

I buried friends who never even knew why they were there.

That’s the difference between a soldier and a chicken hawk.
A soldier pays in blood.
A chicken hawk pays in speeches.

So don’t tell me about courage from behind a podium. Don’t talk honor when you’ve never had to choose between pulling a trigger and living with the ghost afterward. History remembers who showed up—and who sent others in their place.

The fortunate son got his war.
The rest of us got the scars.

And that’s something no legacy can ever launder clean.

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Nigga Heil Hitler

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In a dimly lit, hyper-modern studio in the clouds, Kanye West sits at a mixing board. To his left, a translucent, weary Adolf Hitler paces nervously. To his right, Manfred von Richthofen (The Red Baron) sits stiffly, polishing a spectral flight stick.

Kanye: (Nods to a heavy bassline) See, this is what I’m talking about. The architecture of the sound. It’s got that Wagnerian scale, but with the 808s. It’s industrial. It’s “Empire.”

Hitler: (Waving a hand dismissively) It is… loud. But where is the melody? Where is the triumph of the spirit? You speak of “Empire,” but you do it with machines. Real power is built with the will of a million voices in unison, not a synthesizer.

Red Baron: (Sharply) Power is found in the cockpit, Mein Führer. It is found in the singular moment of the hunt. Kanye, your music—it lacks the wind. It’s grounded. A hero doesn’t need a stadium; he needs a clear sky and a worthy opponent.

Kanye: But I’m the opponent and the hero at the same time! That’s the “Ye” dichotomy. People call me a villain because I break the simulation. They called you a villain because… well, the history books got their version. But look at the design! The Red Fokker? That’s aesthetic. That’s Yeezy-level branding.

Red Baron: (Small smile) It was blood-red so they would know who was coming. It was a gentleman’s respect. If I kill a man, I want him to know it was Richthofen. There is no ego in it, only duty.

Hitler: (Bitterly) Respect is a luxury of the dead, Manfred. They don’t write operas about “gentlemen.” They write them about those who reshape the world. Kanye, you have the microphone, but you are afraid of the silence. You want to be loved too much. A true architect of history accepts being the monster if it means the vision survives.

Kanye: (Stops the music abruptly) I’m not afraid of being the monster. I’ve been the monster since My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. But I’m also the protagonist. I’m trying to bridge the gap between the divine and the dirt. You guys represent the extremes—the ultimate predator in the air and the ultimate… well, the ultimate “No” from history. I’m the “Yes.” I’m the synthesis.

Red Baron: You are a man playing with echoes. You speak of war and peace as if they are fashion seasons. True heroism is the moment the engine stalls and you decide not to scream.

Hitler: And true villainy is merely a name given to the loser. If your “Empire” of sound fails, Kanye, they will treat your shoes like they treat my paintings—as relics of a fever dream.

Kanye: (Leans back, grinning) Yeah, but the difference is… my shoes actually sold out. The vision is global. The spirit is moving. I’m just using you guys as the mood board.

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