Drabbles

Walls plastered with propaganda from various times, to the point where we couldn’t read some of them. If we tore some posters down, we joked, we would find cave art. We didn’t speak very loudly.

The butlerman with the walrus moustache smiled at us and asked why we were there.

I leaned in conspiratiorially: “we’re here for some alternate opinions. We hear you have the good stuff.”

And he lead us down a staircase telling us that the devil was a feminist, the capitalist crisis cycle is artificial, and there is no such thing as free will.

“Feels good, man.”