Author Archives: Solid Snake

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About Solid Snake

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

Ellie Goulding – Burn 9/11

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Joe Jukic Interviews Ellie Goulding

Joe: Ellie, whenever people talk about 9/11, there are still so many unanswered questions and competing theories. Some people see conspiracies, while others accept the findings of the official investigations. Why do you think the event still sparks so much debate?

Ellie Goulding: I think it’s because it changed the world so profoundly. When something so tragic happens, people naturally search for explanations that make sense to them. It’s important to ask questions, but it’s just as important to separate evidence from speculation and to remember the human cost of that day.

Joe: When I think about it, I’m reminded of a passage from Isaiah. It says:

“The Lord of hosts has a day against all that is proud and lofty… and against all the lofty towers… Then the haughtiness of man shall be brought low.” (Isaiah 2:12–18, paraphrased)

Some people also point to Isaiah 30:25, which speaks of “the day of the great slaughter, when the towers fall.” They see those verses as symbolic of moments when pride gives way to tragedy and a call to humility.

Ellie: Those are powerful images, but I would be careful not to claim they predict any specific modern event. Ancient prophetic writings have been interpreted in many different ways throughout history. For me, they’re a reminder of our shared humanity and how fragile life can be.

Joe: So rather than trying to prove a prophecy about one event, you see it as a broader lesson?

Ellie: Exactly. Whatever someone’s beliefs about history or prophecy, I hope we can agree that 9/11 was a terrible loss of life. If there’s a lesson to take forward, it’s to seek truth responsibly, treat one another with compassion, and work toward a more peaceful world.

Joe: Ellie, look around. The Earth is starting to cook like a Thanksgiving turkey. The situation is critical. We can’t keep pretending nature has an unlimited recovery time.

Ellie: So what do we do, Joe?

Joe: We let the plants grow now. No more endless lawnmowing. We turned too much of the planet into green carpets that need constant cutting, watering, and chemicals. It’s time to let nature breathe again.

Ellie: You mean rewilding?

Joe: Exactly. We must rewild now. Let the wildflowers return. Let the insects come back. Let forests reclaim spaces where they belong. Every patch of land can become a little sanctuary.

Ellie: A different way of thinking about our relationship with the Earth.

Joe: Yes. We have to stop treating nature like a decoration and start treating it like family. The plants are not our enemies. They are the lungs of the planet. Give them room, and they will help heal the world.

Ellie: Maybe the future is not about controlling nature, but working with it.

Joe: That’s the lesson. The Earth is sending us a warning. The answer is simple: less destruction, more growth. Less mowing, more sowing. Less concrete, more life. Let the Earth become a garden again.

Interview With Alex Jones

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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

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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!”