They always called it a rabbit hole
like it was some playful spiral,
a psychedelic slide into harmless madness.
But this hole stinks.
Like burned paper and blood on old currency squeezed together by melting rubberbands.
Like the back alley of a failed empire.
I didn’t fall —
I was pushed.
By smiling men in tailored suits,
by ads that knew my name before I did,
by the unblinking god-eye of surveillance wrapped in convenience.
They called it progress.
I called it a muzzle with a firmware update.
The rabbit?
He was half-rat, half-fed.
A jittery informant with bugs stitched into his fur.
He sold me a map in exchange for my fingerprints.
Told me,
“You’re not gonna like what you find,
but you already paid the toll.”
We passed the Mad Hatter —
ex-Blackrock, now peddling immortality
through neural lace and lithium smiles.
His tea was laced with lithium, too.
Served in a chipped mug etched with OWN NOTHING. BE HAPPY.
Said free will was a glitch in the old system,
and the new patch fixed it.
“Congratulations. You’re cured of choice.”
The Cheshire Cat was just teeth.
Rows and rows of them —
each one a microphone,
a camera,
a contract.
He spoke in brand slogans and court settlements.
His grin was sponsored by Pfizer.
And Meta.
And Lockheed.
Deeper still:
a hallway made of CRT TVs,
each screen playing a different lie on loop:
Weapons of mass destruction.
Flatten the curve.
Hope and change.
Trust the science.
God Bless the Troops.
Epstein died alone.
The vote was secure.
Everything is fine.
The Queen of Hearts ran an NGO now,
dressed in recycled virtue-signaling and diversity hires.
She didn’t shout off with their heads anymore —
she just clicked shadowban
and let the algorithm do the killing.
I found a room.
Locked.
Inside:
documents stamped TOP SECRET in 1965,
pages soaked in oil and redacted like a priest’s confession.
Operation Northwoods.
COINTELPRO.
Project Stargate.
And something called “The Adjustment Bureau.”
No files, just a single line:
THEY MOVE FASTER THAN YOU CAN THINK.
And that’s when I saw it —
not in ink,
but in code.
A string of data,
buried like a landmine:
Jack McCarthy.
Snapchat geolocation.
Aron Miranda.
Proximity trigger.
Behavioral prediction confidence: 93.6%.
Outcome: Fatal.
Status: Acceptable Risk.
I stopped breathing.
Not out of fear,
but because I finally understood:
It wasn’t a coincidence.
It was an execution.
Sanctioned by silence,
written by code,
delivered by convenience.
This isn’t a rabbit hole.
It’s Hell’s sewer system.
A machine that eats your sons
and calls it a glitch.
A system that makes you watch,
and then tells you you’re crazy for screaming.
I used to call it theory,
Now I call it murder.
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