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Nation Gagged: The Barbara Awakens, 2025
Location: Television Studio on the Federated American Globe, 2024
The first film opens in 2025, in a solar system with two habitable planets—Planet France and the Federated American Globe (the F.A.G.)—and several inhabited moons. The planets orbit a single lavender sun, a mere five sashays apart.
A fabulously androgynous newscaster announces: “F.A.G. stunned as EPA Jr., Minister of Healthiness, explodes on air—and is revealed to be made of sentient Cheetos.”
The feed cuts to EPA Jr. behind his desk, sipping Diet Coke, smugly delivering his purity sermon. His gravelly voice urges Faggots to feed their sons bear semen to shield them from solar winds. He smiles into the camera—then his skull splits open.
From the chrysalis inside his head, Barbara is born: the Warrior Princess of the F.A.G.—a glittering fusion of Barbarella and Xena—radiant as a star, loud as a trumpet. Orange dust floods the studio. The audience screams. The newscaster drops their papers.
Barbara’s first breath rings out: “Truth cannot be contained.” The broadcast flickers. Respectability shatters.
The war begins.
The first film opens in 2025, in a solar system with two habitable planets—Planet France and the Federated American Globe (the F.A.G.)—and several inhabited moons. The planets orbit a single lavender sun, a mere five sashays apart.
A fabulously androgynous newscaster announces: “F.A.G. stunned as EPA Jr., Minister of Healthiness, explodes on air—and is revealed to be made of sentient Cheetos.”
The feed cuts to EPA Jr. behind his desk, sipping Diet Coke, smugly delivering his purity sermon. His gravelly voice urges Faggots to feed their sons bear semen to shield them from solar winds. He smiles into the camera—then his skull splits open.
From the chrysalis inside his head, Barbara is born: the Warrior Princess of the F.A.G.—a glittering fusion of Barbarella and Xena—radiant as a star, loud as a trumpet. Orange dust floods the studio. The audience screams. The newscaster drops their papers.
Barbara’s first breath rings out: “Truth cannot be contained.” The broadcast flickers. Respectability shatters.
The war begins.
The Daddy of the Dunes, 2025
Location: The Daddy Desert, Federated American Globe
To understand the woman who rises from a minister’s head, we return five centuries earlier—to the desert where wind learns to speak.
In 1525, The Daddy—immortal seer of The Daddy Desert on the F.A.G.—foretells the rise of orange overlords and declares that only an alliance with Planet France can save the galaxy from their corruption. A cliff dweller with boyish beauty, a leather codpiece, and a billowing hooded robe, he listens to the wind as if flirting with the cosmos themselves. His metallic facial jewelry glints in the sun; his eyes shimmer like mercury. When called, he is both oracle and warrior, appearing only to the pure of heart and teaching one lesson above all: be who you are—fully, loudly.
He dwells within a vast leather tent at the heart of the desert; its walls painted with prophecies that shimmer in the heat. Inside, he tends to wandering souls—those lost between selves—cradling them in patience and prophecy until they are ready to return to the world. At night, the wind presses against the tent like a lover, carrying his voice across the dunes. The desert will one day bear his name, for those who need him most will hear his sweet whispers riding the wind—half comfort, half command—a reminder that freedom is learned through surrender.
At the dawn of humanity, it is The Daddy who first split the Life—a pulse of raw potential buried beneath the desert sands. The universe’s first act of surrender, it thrums with every possible form of love. When The Daddy divides it, queerkind is born: Achillean and Sapphic Faggots of the F.A.G., bodies shaped by desire and defiance alike. Yet within the Life Seed’s shimmering heart, something remains. In its depths, the Life Seed still holds a third pulse—unawakened, waiting for another hand to divide it again.
His gift is creation; his curse, foresight. He hears the coming of the orange-skinned Cheezmalites—sentient overlords who infect minds through misogyny and disinformation.
To prevent the coming darkness, The Daddy calls for a healed bond with Planet France, their estranged sibling world. Once, the two planets shared a radiant exchange of art, pleasure, and rebellion. But The Daddy sees what lies ahead: France’s hunger will grow. In its quest for dominion and divine favor, it will twist faith into a weapon—declaring queerness a sin to sanctify its own greed. Under banners of purity, France will colonize and strip the F.A.G. of its cosmic resources—art, beauty, humor, invention—mining them to feed its empire.
This conquest culminates in the reign of Louis XIV, the Sun King, whose brilliance is rivaled only by his cruelty. In his radiant court, he masks violence as virtue, launching a campaign to cleanse the universe of Faggots on every planet. The arts bow, desire hides, and queerness burns beneath the crown’s golden glare.
To understand the woman who rises from a minister’s head, we return five centuries earlier—to the desert where wind learns to speak.
In 1525, The Daddy—immortal seer of The Daddy Desert on the F.A.G.—foretells the rise of orange overlords and declares that only an alliance with Planet France can save the galaxy from their corruption. A cliff dweller with boyish beauty, a leather codpiece, and a billowing hooded robe, he listens to the wind as if flirting with the cosmos themselves. His metallic facial jewelry glints in the sun; his eyes shimmer like mercury. When called, he is both oracle and warrior, appearing only to the pure of heart and teaching one lesson above all: be who you are—fully, loudly.
He dwells within a vast leather tent at the heart of the desert; its walls painted with prophecies that shimmer in the heat. Inside, he tends to wandering souls—those lost between selves—cradling them in patience and prophecy until they are ready to return to the world. At night, the wind presses against the tent like a lover, carrying his voice across the dunes. The desert will one day bear his name, for those who need him most will hear his sweet whispers riding the wind—half comfort, half command—a reminder that freedom is learned through surrender.
At the dawn of humanity, it is The Daddy who first split the Life—a pulse of raw potential buried beneath the desert sands. The universe’s first act of surrender, it thrums with every possible form of love. When The Daddy divides it, queerkind is born: Achillean and Sapphic Faggots of the F.A.G., bodies shaped by desire and defiance alike. Yet within the Life Seed’s shimmering heart, something remains. In its depths, the Life Seed still holds a third pulse—unawakened, waiting for another hand to divide it again.
His gift is creation; his curse, foresight. He hears the coming of the orange-skinned Cheezmalites—sentient overlords who infect minds through misogyny and disinformation.
To prevent the coming darkness, The Daddy calls for a healed bond with Planet France, their estranged sibling world. Once, the two planets shared a radiant exchange of art, pleasure, and rebellion. But The Daddy sees what lies ahead: France’s hunger will grow. In its quest for dominion and divine favor, it will twist faith into a weapon—declaring queerness a sin to sanctify its own greed. Under banners of purity, France will colonize and strip the F.A.G. of its cosmic resources—art, beauty, humor, invention—mining them to feed its empire.
This conquest culminates in the reign of Louis XIV, the Sun King, whose brilliance is rivaled only by his cruelty. In his radiant court, he masks violence as virtue, launching a campaign to cleanse the universe of Faggots on every planet. The arts bow, desire hides, and queerness burns beneath the crown’s golden glare.
The Mommy Receives the Arc Light, 2025
Location: Planet France, 15th Century
Yet in the centuries leading up to France’s decline, another divine figure has taken action. The Mommy takes mortal form as Joan of Arc, her divine purpose disguised in armor and fire. She descends not as martyr but as strategist, determined to help The Daddy reshape France from within. Openly queer and radiant with conviction, Joan fights not only for faith but for the freedom to love beyond gender or crown. Louis XIV’s ancestors fear the audacity she prefigures; when later rulers condemn her to burn, the flames devour a Life Seed clone—the true Mommy steps unseen from the blaze, untouched, eternal, ascending as the planet’s patron saint of rebellion. (History remembers the smoke. She remembers the strategy.)
Yet in the centuries leading up to France’s decline, another divine figure has taken action. The Mommy takes mortal form as Joan of Arc, her divine purpose disguised in armor and fire. She descends not as martyr but as strategist, determined to help The Daddy reshape France from within. Openly queer and radiant with conviction, Joan fights not only for faith but for the freedom to love beyond gender or crown. Louis XIV’s ancestors fear the audacity she prefigures; when later rulers condemn her to burn, the flames devour a Life Seed clone—the true Mommy steps unseen from the blaze, untouched, eternal, ascending as the planet’s patron saint of rebellion. (History remembers the smoke. She remembers the strategy.)
Hunty Cuntry Slay — The Duke Strikes Back, 2025
Location: Planet France, 15th Century
In 1675, The Daddy—tired of watching his prophecy rot under golden tyranny—possesses the body of Philippe I, Duke of Orléans, during a royal hunt at Fontainebleau. Philippe, the brother of Louis XIV, already carries a spark of queerness within him: a taste for silks, lovers of all genders, and a restless hunger for truth. When The Daddy enters him, he takes a deep breath; he trembles; his eyes roll back; time folds; he moans. Through Philippe’s hands, fate arranges what history will call a hunting accident. The Daddy drives the blade that ends the Sun King’s reign.
At last, France’s long night begins to break. The Daddy ascends the throne through Philippe’s body, dismantles the Empire of Purity, and declares the F.A.G. free from France’s yoke. Across both worlds, censored art blooms again, drag houses reopen, and the queer saints rise.
Oscar Wilde flees his secret room behind the wall of L’Hôtel in France, books the next spaceflight to the F.A.G., hoping to help found the queer nation. Months later, he pens the F.A.G.’s founding charter: A Trivial Matter of Emancipation: Being a Scintillating Pronouncement Upon the Tedium of Tyranny and the Absolute Necessity of Faggot Self Amusement.
But The Daddy knows his reign cannot last within one mortal shell. Before departing, he gifts forbidden knowledge to one person alone: the Chevalier d’Éon—soldier, spy, diplomat, and the first of her kind, born into manhood but destined for revelation.
In 1675, The Daddy—tired of watching his prophecy rot under golden tyranny—possesses the body of Philippe I, Duke of Orléans, during a royal hunt at Fontainebleau. Philippe, the brother of Louis XIV, already carries a spark of queerness within him: a taste for silks, lovers of all genders, and a restless hunger for truth. When The Daddy enters him, he takes a deep breath; he trembles; his eyes roll back; time folds; he moans. Through Philippe’s hands, fate arranges what history will call a hunting accident. The Daddy drives the blade that ends the Sun King’s reign.
At last, France’s long night begins to break. The Daddy ascends the throne through Philippe’s body, dismantles the Empire of Purity, and declares the F.A.G. free from France’s yoke. Across both worlds, censored art blooms again, drag houses reopen, and the queer saints rise.
Oscar Wilde flees his secret room behind the wall of L’Hôtel in France, books the next spaceflight to the F.A.G., hoping to help found the queer nation. Months later, he pens the F.A.G.’s founding charter: A Trivial Matter of Emancipation: Being a Scintillating Pronouncement Upon the Tedium of Tyranny and the Absolute Necessity of Faggot Self Amusement.
But The Daddy knows his reign cannot last within one mortal shell. Before departing, he gifts forbidden knowledge to one person alone: the Chevalier d’Éon—soldier, spy, diplomat, and the first of her kind, born into manhood but destined for revelation.
Chevalier d’Éon: The Spy Who Lived Twice, 2025
Location: Planet France, 15th Century
For years, the Chevalier d’Éon has lived in shifting skins—performing masculinity in battle and diplomacy, yet moving through secret salons and coded letters as her truer self. She has worn gender like armor, always in service to Empire, never to her own becoming.
When The Daddy first split the Life Seed, it divided into two radiant currents—sapphic and Achillean—love mirrored in love, masculine and feminine reimagined as endless reflection. Yet within the Life Seed still slept a third current, unawakened: the power to transform.
When The Daddy places the Life Seed in the Chevalier’s hands, that dormant current stirs, its pulse divides once more, not into opposites but into flux itself. Through her, the Life Seed blossoms into motion, granting flesh the right to rewrite itself. The Chevalier becomes the first of the transformed—living proof that revelation can live in a body, that divinity can shift shape and still remain whole.
The Life Seed thrums in her palms like a heartbeat caught between stars. Light floods her veins, reshaping bone and spirit in radiant accord. Her reflection shimmers—first the man the world demanded, then the woman she has always been—until the two dissolve into one luminous truth.
The Life Seed grants her more than transformation; it grants her release. Reborn in her authentic form, the Chevalier departs for the F.A.G. to seed a new flourishing of queerkind. In her hands, the Life Seed blossoms beyond prophecy: it grants the Faggots the power to create life from love alone—no need for heterosexual reproduction, no need to bargain with patriarchy. Desire becomes generative; tenderness becomes technology. New beings emerge from touch, song, and chosen kinship—each one radiant proof that queerness can sustain its own universe.
But within the Life Seed lies a second gift, one known only to the Chevalier. Hidden in its pulse is the design for The Daddy’s secret defense force: the Castro Clone Army. Forged from her own genetic echo, they are a legion of divine masculinity—each one sculpted like a Tom of Finland fantasy made flesh: gleaming leather, impossible shoulders, eyes sharp with devotion and play. They are both soldiers and lovers, an army bound by affection and discipline, sworn to defend queerkind from the future invasion of the Cheezmalite empire.
For years, the Chevalier d’Éon has lived in shifting skins—performing masculinity in battle and diplomacy, yet moving through secret salons and coded letters as her truer self. She has worn gender like armor, always in service to Empire, never to her own becoming.
When The Daddy first split the Life Seed, it divided into two radiant currents—sapphic and Achillean—love mirrored in love, masculine and feminine reimagined as endless reflection. Yet within the Life Seed still slept a third current, unawakened: the power to transform.
When The Daddy places the Life Seed in the Chevalier’s hands, that dormant current stirs, its pulse divides once more, not into opposites but into flux itself. Through her, the Life Seed blossoms into motion, granting flesh the right to rewrite itself. The Chevalier becomes the first of the transformed—living proof that revelation can live in a body, that divinity can shift shape and still remain whole.
The Life Seed thrums in her palms like a heartbeat caught between stars. Light floods her veins, reshaping bone and spirit in radiant accord. Her reflection shimmers—first the man the world demanded, then the woman she has always been—until the two dissolve into one luminous truth.
The Life Seed grants her more than transformation; it grants her release. Reborn in her authentic form, the Chevalier departs for the F.A.G. to seed a new flourishing of queerkind. In her hands, the Life Seed blossoms beyond prophecy: it grants the Faggots the power to create life from love alone—no need for heterosexual reproduction, no need to bargain with patriarchy. Desire becomes generative; tenderness becomes technology. New beings emerge from touch, song, and chosen kinship—each one radiant proof that queerness can sustain its own universe.
But within the Life Seed lies a second gift, one known only to the Chevalier. Hidden in its pulse is the design for The Daddy’s secret defense force: the Castro Clone Army. Forged from her own genetic echo, they are a legion of divine masculinity—each one sculpted like a Tom of Finland fantasy made flesh: gleaming leather, impossible shoulders, eyes sharp with devotion and play. They are both soldiers and lovers, an army bound by affection and discipline, sworn to defend queerkind from the future invasion of the Cheezmalite empire.
Ophelia Ascending, 2025
Location: The Moon of Denmark, Orbiting Planet France
Elsewhere, on Denmark, a moon nation orbiting France, Ophelia drowns not in water but in patriarchy. Hamlet’s brittle cruelty, his endless soliloquies of self, and the court’s suffocating purity drive her to despair. Ophelia dreams of Lady Stardust, the luminous icon who taught her that desire need not bow to tragedy.
In that final moment by the river, she calls not for Hamlet but for The Mommy. The Mommy—immortal goddess of Normandy’s green and surf—is The Daddy’s eternal counterpart: where he commands creation through prophecy, she sustains it through care and renewal. She is the soil’s pulse, the whisper in the wheat, the breath that coaxes life from ruin. When The Daddy listens to the wind, The Mommy listens to the earth; together, they balance the cosmos in air and root, prophecy and nurture.
Hearing Ophelia’s cry from across the galaxies, The Mommy answers. With the power of the Life Seed, she weaves an empty clone—a perfect body shaped from her own love—and leaves it drifting in the reeds. The onlookers mourn the decoy corpse, never knowing it was never alive.
The true Ophelia is lifted from the river by unseen forces, reborn in The Mommy’s arms, and carried across the stars toward the F.A.G.—a spirit remade for love and war. She awakens on the F.A.G., on a sandy beach as if shipwrecked. She rises from the tide no longer as victim but as voyager—reborn to seek both love and vengeance, guided by the echo of Lady Stardust and the fury of every woman silenced by a man’s monologue.
Elsewhere, on Denmark, a moon nation orbiting France, Ophelia drowns not in water but in patriarchy. Hamlet’s brittle cruelty, his endless soliloquies of self, and the court’s suffocating purity drive her to despair. Ophelia dreams of Lady Stardust, the luminous icon who taught her that desire need not bow to tragedy.
In that final moment by the river, she calls not for Hamlet but for The Mommy. The Mommy—immortal goddess of Normandy’s green and surf—is The Daddy’s eternal counterpart: where he commands creation through prophecy, she sustains it through care and renewal. She is the soil’s pulse, the whisper in the wheat, the breath that coaxes life from ruin. When The Daddy listens to the wind, The Mommy listens to the earth; together, they balance the cosmos in air and root, prophecy and nurture.
Hearing Ophelia’s cry from across the galaxies, The Mommy answers. With the power of the Life Seed, she weaves an empty clone—a perfect body shaped from her own love—and leaves it drifting in the reeds. The onlookers mourn the decoy corpse, never knowing it was never alive.
The true Ophelia is lifted from the river by unseen forces, reborn in The Mommy’s arms, and carried across the stars toward the F.A.G.—a spirit remade for love and war. She awakens on the F.A.G., on a sandy beach as if shipwrecked. She rises from the tide no longer as victim but as voyager—reborn to seek both love and vengeance, guided by the echo of Lady Stardust and the fury of every woman silenced by a man’s monologue.
Gin-Ja and the Crash of TeslanX, 2025
Location: Deep in the Holes of Space, 100 TeraSashays from the F.A.G., Millenia Ago
Millennia ago, in the deep hollows of space, 100 TeraSashays away, the ancient civilization of TeslanX ruled the Dogestar Belt. Gin-Ja, a copper-haired engineer-pharaoh, built the first stargate—not to explore the heavens but to own them. When he tried to monetize the gates with monthly subscriptions—selling premium access to transcendence—the network collapsed and incinerated his world. His body fused into a shard of data-amber: an eternal startup crash drifting the void.
Millennia later, the hum of satellites and the heartbeat of Wi-Fi reach him, and Gin-Ja reboots. Discovering the human internet, he does what fallen gods eventually do: launches a brand. Under the handle @GinJaFire, he streams Manifestation Masterclasses—equal parts witchy woo-woo and TED Talk. His followers—the Flamers—hang on every post.
Millennia ago, in the deep hollows of space, 100 TeraSashays away, the ancient civilization of TeslanX ruled the Dogestar Belt. Gin-Ja, a copper-haired engineer-pharaoh, built the first stargate—not to explore the heavens but to own them. When he tried to monetize the gates with monthly subscriptions—selling premium access to transcendence—the network collapsed and incinerated his world. His body fused into a shard of data-amber: an eternal startup crash drifting the void.
Millennia later, the hum of satellites and the heartbeat of Wi-Fi reach him, and Gin-Ja reboots. Discovering the human internet, he does what fallen gods eventually do: launches a brand. Under the handle @GinJaFire, he streams Manifestation Masterclasses—equal parts witchy woo-woo and TED Talk. His followers—the Flamers—hang on every post.
The Real Housewives of Don Covfefe, 2025
Location: Moon of Russia — Orbiting Planet France, June 16, 2015
Among his most loyal clients are The Real Housewives on the Moon of Russia—a coven of exiled oligarch wives turned lifestyle influencers. Over months of private “Energetic Business Coaching,” Gin Ja feeds them a slow burn revelation. “Visualize abundance,” he purrs, “and build an escalator toward it.”
Obedient and trashed, they obey. On June 16, 2015, during a global livestream, the Housewives gather beneath the night sky, Chianti sloshing in goblets. They chant Gin Ja’s algorithms to the rhythm of brand jingles and planetary hums. Their voices ripple through the cosmos, striking the molten core of the Cheezmalite underworld. And from that orange inferno, an escalator—orange and gold—erupts onto Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, the theater capital of the F.A.G. Riding it upward comes Don Covfefe—Gin Ja’s eternal servant, his gilded apostle, the first influencer literally born from sponsored content. Behind him, a pale aide creeps one step lower—Stellan Mire, the Blood Registrar—gloved, expressionless, clutching a slim Crimson Ledger. The orange dust of the Cheezmalite empire begins to spread through the air and the airwaves. The infection does not kill; it converts.
Among his most loyal clients are The Real Housewives on the Moon of Russia—a coven of exiled oligarch wives turned lifestyle influencers. Over months of private “Energetic Business Coaching,” Gin Ja feeds them a slow burn revelation. “Visualize abundance,” he purrs, “and build an escalator toward it.”
Obedient and trashed, they obey. On June 16, 2015, during a global livestream, the Housewives gather beneath the night sky, Chianti sloshing in goblets. They chant Gin Ja’s algorithms to the rhythm of brand jingles and planetary hums. Their voices ripple through the cosmos, striking the molten core of the Cheezmalite underworld. And from that orange inferno, an escalator—orange and gold—erupts onto Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, the theater capital of the F.A.G. Riding it upward comes Don Covfefe—Gin Ja’s eternal servant, his gilded apostle, the first influencer literally born from sponsored content. Behind him, a pale aide creeps one step lower—Stellan Mire, the Blood Registrar—gloved, expressionless, clutching a slim Crimson Ledger. The orange dust of the Cheezmalite empire begins to spread through the air and the airwaves. The infection does not kill; it converts.
The Blood Architect, seen here announcing a bold new initiative to protect straight white men from any consequences, 2025
MONTAGE: ORANGE ASCENSION
• F.A.G. — CITY PLAZA — DAY. A giant holo-screen replays the escalator shot. Don smiles. One step below, silent, Stellan Mire, the Blood Registrar—gloved, expressionless, Crimson Ledger tucked to his chest.
• NEWS CHYRON: “WHO IS DON? // WHAT IS THE ORANGE?”
• PORT AUTHORITY — NIGHT. Workers cough as orange dust snakes along fluorescent ceilings. A new poster goes up: SAFE CITIZENS // SAFE STATE (tiny seal: Office of the Blood Registrar).
• SOCIAL FEED GRID. Hashtags multiply: #OrderBegins // #SleeveUp // #MakeItSanitary.
• DON — RALLY STAGE. “We’re bringing back order.”
• MIRE — BACK OF STAGE (SILENT). He checks the Ledger; nods to a handler.
• TIME CARD: MONTHS LATER.
• PRESS ROOM — DAY. Don at the podium; Mire steps to a side mic—his first public words.
MIRE: “Registration precedes representation.”
• NEWS CHYRON: “BLOOD REGISTRY PILOT // PORTS + POLLS.”
• STREET — DAWN. Orange dust halos streetlamps. A COMPLIANCE VAN rolls by with a gentle jingle. Side panel: THE BLOOD REGISTRAR.
• DON — INTERVIEW CUTAWAY. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”
• MIRE — CLIP PACKAGE. “Sanitary borders, sanitary ballots.” / “We count because we care.”
• CUTAWAY PACKAGE — EPA JR. Clips of his clinic tours and “healthiness” sermons. A lingering freeze-frame on his smile—then glitch.
• COVER SHOT — THE DAILY GAG. DON COVFEFE STUNS PLANET WITH HUGE WIN AT POLLS.
• OFFICIAL GAZETTE — CLOSE. Seal stamping: THE RED DECREE. Subhead: A universal blood registry for public safety.
• PORT CHECKPOINTS — VARIOUS. New signs: SLEEVE UP FOR SAFETY // REGISTRATION
• PRECEDES REPRESENTATION. Finger-stick booths pop up. A clerk flips a page in a centralized Crimson Ledger.
• F.A.G. — CITY PLAZA — DAY. A giant holo-screen replays the escalator shot. Don smiles. One step below, silent, Stellan Mire, the Blood Registrar—gloved, expressionless, Crimson Ledger tucked to his chest.
• NEWS CHYRON: “WHO IS DON? // WHAT IS THE ORANGE?”
• PORT AUTHORITY — NIGHT. Workers cough as orange dust snakes along fluorescent ceilings. A new poster goes up: SAFE CITIZENS // SAFE STATE (tiny seal: Office of the Blood Registrar).
• SOCIAL FEED GRID. Hashtags multiply: #OrderBegins // #SleeveUp // #MakeItSanitary.
• DON — RALLY STAGE. “We’re bringing back order.”
• MIRE — BACK OF STAGE (SILENT). He checks the Ledger; nods to a handler.
• TIME CARD: MONTHS LATER.
• PRESS ROOM — DAY. Don at the podium; Mire steps to a side mic—his first public words.
MIRE: “Registration precedes representation.”
• NEWS CHYRON: “BLOOD REGISTRY PILOT // PORTS + POLLS.”
• STREET — DAWN. Orange dust halos streetlamps. A COMPLIANCE VAN rolls by with a gentle jingle. Side panel: THE BLOOD REGISTRAR.
• DON — INTERVIEW CUTAWAY. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”
• MIRE — CLIP PACKAGE. “Sanitary borders, sanitary ballots.” / “We count because we care.”
• CUTAWAY PACKAGE — EPA JR. Clips of his clinic tours and “healthiness” sermons. A lingering freeze-frame on his smile—then glitch.
• COVER SHOT — THE DAILY GAG. DON COVFEFE STUNS PLANET WITH HUGE WIN AT POLLS.
• OFFICIAL GAZETTE — CLOSE. Seal stamping: THE RED DECREE. Subhead: A universal blood registry for public safety.
• PORT CHECKPOINTS — VARIOUS. New signs: SLEEVE UP FOR SAFETY // REGISTRATION
• PRECEDES REPRESENTATION. Finger-stick booths pop up. A clerk flips a page in a centralized Crimson Ledger.
Ello, the Princex of Parley, 2025
Location: Castro Colone Archives, Federated American Globe, 2024
With the Cheezmalite corruption rising, the Chevalier acts in secrecy. She splits the Life Seed once more. From that act of queer alchemy are born Barbara the Warrior Princess and Ello Princex of Parley—twins of the same essence, divided between flame and reflection. Barbara bears the solar half: incandescent, impulsive, aflame with desire. Ello bears the lunar half: lucid, deliberate, strategist of feeling. To protect the balance, the Chevalier hides Ello deep within the Castro Clone Archives to be raised by philosopher queers and historians who teach that language itself can cut like steel.
With the Cheezmalite corruption rising, the Chevalier acts in secrecy. She splits the Life Seed once more. From that act of queer alchemy are born Barbara the Warrior Princess and Ello Princex of Parley—twins of the same essence, divided between flame and reflection. Barbara bears the solar half: incandescent, impulsive, aflame with desire. Ello bears the lunar half: lucid, deliberate, strategist of feeling. To protect the balance, the Chevalier hides Ello deep within the Castro Clone Archives to be raised by philosopher queers and historians who teach that language itself can cut like steel.
Barbara the Warrior Princess: Keeper of the Light, 2025
Location: Upstate Region, Federated American Globe, 2024
The Chevalier sends Barbara’s essence into the material world, hiding it within a hollow larva of orange flesh—a parasite grown from Cheezmalite residue. She buries it deep within the still-warm carcass of a road-killed bear. Then, with a flick of divine light, she leaves the body glistening on the shoulder of a desolate highway—an offering disguised as roadkill, waiting. Hours later, EPA Jr., the Minister of Healthiness, speeds past. Spotting the discarded meat, he slows, smirking. “That’s good meat,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
Devouring it raw on the side of the road, he consumes Barbara hidden in the parasitic husk of Cheezmalite dust. Inside his skull, Barbara coils—silent, patient, digesting hypocrisy. She feeds on his corruption, multiplying in secret until, one live broadcast morning, the pressure becomes unbearable.
The Chevalier sends Barbara’s essence into the material world, hiding it within a hollow larva of orange flesh—a parasite grown from Cheezmalite residue. She buries it deep within the still-warm carcass of a road-killed bear. Then, with a flick of divine light, she leaves the body glistening on the shoulder of a desolate highway—an offering disguised as roadkill, waiting. Hours later, EPA Jr., the Minister of Healthiness, speeds past. Spotting the discarded meat, he slows, smirking. “That’s good meat,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
Devouring it raw on the side of the road, he consumes Barbara hidden in the parasitic husk of Cheezmalite dust. Inside his skull, Barbara coils—silent, patient, digesting hypocrisy. She feeds on his corruption, multiplying in secret until, one live broadcast morning, the pressure becomes unbearable.
The Crowning of Barbara the Warrior Princess, 2025
Location: Back to the Television Studio on the Federated American Globe, 2024
And then she erupts. The studio fills with light and terror as Barbara the Warrior Princess tears her way into existence—the moment where our story began—splitting open the age of revolt. Across the galaxy, Ello Princex of Parley. feels their sister’s call like a vibration in their bloodstream. They rise, calm and resolute. Barbara will wield the blade; Ello, the word. Together, they become the pulse of revolution.
And then she erupts. The studio fills with light and terror as Barbara the Warrior Princess tears her way into existence—the moment where our story began—splitting open the age of revolt. Across the galaxy, Ello Princex of Parley. feels their sister’s call like a vibration in their bloodstream. They rise, calm and resolute. Barbara will wield the blade; Ello, the word. Together, they become the pulse of revolution.
Cheeto Voodoo Candle Kiki, 2025
Location: Federated American Globe, 2024
Across the F.A.G., a hybrid faith blooms: Candle Kiki, a blend of New Age shimmer and voodoo praxis. Black candles call The Daddy; white candles call The Mommy. Faggots hoard the Cheezmalites’ sacred junk food, sculpting Cheetos into poppet dolls to hex the invaders.
Across the F.A.G., a hybrid faith blooms: Candle Kiki, a blend of New Age shimmer and voodoo praxis. Black candles call The Daddy; white candles call The Mommy. Faggots hoard the Cheezmalites’ sacred junk food, sculpting Cheetos into poppet dolls to hex the invaders.
The Coronation of Brigitte Hyperion: Look What You Made Her Do, 2025
Location: Planet France, 2024
Brigitte Hyperion opens a gallery devoted to radical political art. She champions Faggots, radical women, and a few trembling men. Her brightest star, Nicolas Everbend, floods the platform Oui, Oui (the dominant social media platform on Planet France) with Armor of the Fallen Boys—discarded football pads, military gear, and riot shields melted into chandeliers and lace like armor, patriarchy recast as ornament. Selected for the Intergalactic Art Biennale on the F.A.G.’s Water Moon of Venice, he plans Daddy, Can You Hear Me?—hundreds of buried megaphones looping men crying as fans carry the wailing across the lagoon, a hymn against toxic stoicism.
Brigitte’s following swells into the trillions; only her bestie, pop nova Stellar Rift, outranks her. Political fearmongering about Danish immigrants curdles into misogyny; the ghoulish right-winger Le Crayon surges while Manuel Madeleine fades. The Hyperionics, Brigitte’s Followers, beg Brigitte to run for political office. She declines; they write her in anyway and deliver her the Ensemble Galactique nomination in a landslide—followed by a general election victory.
Location: The Steps of Fontainebleau, 2025
Learning the F.A.G. is under Cheezmalite invasion, the newly elected leader pledges France’s full support. At Fontainebleau, she calls the banners and prepares for war.
For her bestie Brigitte Hyperion’s coronation, Stellar Rift writes her now-famous call to arms:
“Look What You Made Her Do”
Brigitte Hyperion opens a gallery devoted to radical political art. She champions Faggots, radical women, and a few trembling men. Her brightest star, Nicolas Everbend, floods the platform Oui, Oui (the dominant social media platform on Planet France) with Armor of the Fallen Boys—discarded football pads, military gear, and riot shields melted into chandeliers and lace like armor, patriarchy recast as ornament. Selected for the Intergalactic Art Biennale on the F.A.G.’s Water Moon of Venice, he plans Daddy, Can You Hear Me?—hundreds of buried megaphones looping men crying as fans carry the wailing across the lagoon, a hymn against toxic stoicism.
Brigitte’s following swells into the trillions; only her bestie, pop nova Stellar Rift, outranks her. Political fearmongering about Danish immigrants curdles into misogyny; the ghoulish right-winger Le Crayon surges while Manuel Madeleine fades. The Hyperionics, Brigitte’s Followers, beg Brigitte to run for political office. She declines; they write her in anyway and deliver her the Ensemble Galactique nomination in a landslide—followed by a general election victory.
Location: The Steps of Fontainebleau, 2025
Learning the F.A.G. is under Cheezmalite invasion, the newly elected leader pledges France’s full support. At Fontainebleau, she calls the banners and prepares for war.
For her bestie Brigitte Hyperion’s coronation, Stellar Rift writes her now-famous call to arms:
“Look What You Made Her Do”
Perfect Lovers: Seeding the Stars, 2025
Location: Federated American Globe, 2024
In the darkest moments, life insists on joy. Before the Life Seed—gift of The Daddy to the F.A.G.—two faggots embrace, newly pledged to love and fatherhood. Matching clock tattoos mark their devotion to shared time; their child is born in light. It’s perfect lovers.
In the darkest moments, life insists on joy. Before the Life Seed—gift of The Daddy to the F.A.G.—two faggots embrace, newly pledged to love and fatherhood. Matching clock tattoos mark their devotion to shared time; their child is born in light. It’s perfect lovers.
Backdoor Alliance: The Double-Ended Treaty, 2025
Location: Water Moon of Venice — Satellite of the F.A.G., 2025
Allies converge under occupation. Sennia Stardust—great granddaughter of Lady Stardust and Ophelia—arrives on the Water Moon of Venice, the site of the Intergalactic Art Biennale, where canals of crystal clear water thread through floating pavilions. The Cheezmalites control every official government hall on the F.A.G., so all revolutionary politics must now pass as art.
Sennia travels under diplomatic cover as a curator; at her side is Sonara Lucentis, keeper of protocols and polished side eye, armed with a forged Biennale badge that reads Assistant Registrar of Moisture Works. Their true purpose: to forge an official alliance between Planet France and the F.A.G.—a pact of rebellion, solidarity, and pleasure—while avoiding the Cheezmalite surveillance networks that monitor every public communiqué.
They rendezvous inside Nicolas Everbend’s French Pavilion installation, Daddy, Can You Hear Me? The megaphones send men’s sobs skimming across the lagoon; officially, it’s a meditation on grief. Secretly, each voice hides a sub-frequency encoded with rebel coordinates, and the Pavilion serves as a meeting place for revolution.
At midnight, the lights in the pavilion dim. Nicolas leads Sennia and Sonara through a false wall behind the main gallery, where a submerged staircase descends into the House of Queens in Exile, an underwater hall once used for private performances. There, the Backdoor Alliance is born.
Waiting amid the rippling light is Alyra Novarre, curator of the Galactic Museum of Deviant Beauties—and Sennia’s secret lover of many years. Their reunion is silent, charged, witnessed only by Sonara and the rising tide. Together, they draft the Double-Ended Treaty, inscribed in gold ink across the bedsheets of the Love (the traditional medium for Faggot alliances). The pact pledges “mutual entry, mutual defense, and mutual delight between the Sovereign Planet France and the Federated American Globe.” Its clauses are explicit: neither shall rule the other; both shall protect and pleasure their twin with consent and reciprocity.
At dawn, as the Biennale opens to collectors and critics above, Sennia and Sonara land beside Planet France’s pavilion in their stealth starship. The Pink Pony Trumpeteers—posing as Nicolas’s performance collaborators—sound a radiant fanfare, their horns rising over the tide’s percussion, calling the planets to attention.
Sennia unfurls the Treaty, still damp with golden ink, and announces the alliance amid the triumphant blare of queer trumpeters. Over the swell of crying men, the sound carries through the Venetian air, echoing across the water until the entire solar system hears them.
The Cheezmalites call it treason.
The people call it art.
Thus is born the Backdoor Alliance—an act of love disguised as law, a whisper louder than war.
Allies converge under occupation. Sennia Stardust—great granddaughter of Lady Stardust and Ophelia—arrives on the Water Moon of Venice, the site of the Intergalactic Art Biennale, where canals of crystal clear water thread through floating pavilions. The Cheezmalites control every official government hall on the F.A.G., so all revolutionary politics must now pass as art.
Sennia travels under diplomatic cover as a curator; at her side is Sonara Lucentis, keeper of protocols and polished side eye, armed with a forged Biennale badge that reads Assistant Registrar of Moisture Works. Their true purpose: to forge an official alliance between Planet France and the F.A.G.—a pact of rebellion, solidarity, and pleasure—while avoiding the Cheezmalite surveillance networks that monitor every public communiqué.
They rendezvous inside Nicolas Everbend’s French Pavilion installation, Daddy, Can You Hear Me? The megaphones send men’s sobs skimming across the lagoon; officially, it’s a meditation on grief. Secretly, each voice hides a sub-frequency encoded with rebel coordinates, and the Pavilion serves as a meeting place for revolution.
At midnight, the lights in the pavilion dim. Nicolas leads Sennia and Sonara through a false wall behind the main gallery, where a submerged staircase descends into the House of Queens in Exile, an underwater hall once used for private performances. There, the Backdoor Alliance is born.
Waiting amid the rippling light is Alyra Novarre, curator of the Galactic Museum of Deviant Beauties—and Sennia’s secret lover of many years. Their reunion is silent, charged, witnessed only by Sonara and the rising tide. Together, they draft the Double-Ended Treaty, inscribed in gold ink across the bedsheets of the Love (the traditional medium for Faggot alliances). The pact pledges “mutual entry, mutual defense, and mutual delight between the Sovereign Planet France and the Federated American Globe.” Its clauses are explicit: neither shall rule the other; both shall protect and pleasure their twin with consent and reciprocity.
At dawn, as the Biennale opens to collectors and critics above, Sennia and Sonara land beside Planet France’s pavilion in their stealth starship. The Pink Pony Trumpeteers—posing as Nicolas’s performance collaborators—sound a radiant fanfare, their horns rising over the tide’s percussion, calling the planets to attention.
Sennia unfurls the Treaty, still damp with golden ink, and announces the alliance amid the triumphant blare of queer trumpeters. Over the swell of crying men, the sound carries through the Venetian air, echoing across the water until the entire solar system hears them.
The Cheezmalites call it treason.
The people call it art.
Thus is born the Backdoor Alliance—an act of love disguised as law, a whisper louder than war.
General Cahun is Not in Training: The Pink Pony Offensive, 2025
Location: The War Room — Fontainebleau, 2025
In the basement of Fontainebleau, the French half of the rebellion’s nerve center hums like a secret heartbeat. Damp stone walls flicker with projections of battle data. A single shaft of light pierces the room. In the middle stands a large table draped with a map of the F.A.G. and another of Planet France.
Arrayed across the F.A.G. map are ceramic pink ponies and oozing orange blobs—hand crafted tokens marking the Pink Pony Army and the Cheezmalite legions. It looks like a child’s game until you notice the tension in every hand that moves a piece.
Claude Cahun—lifelong fighter against misogyny and fascism, forever rejecting the gender binary—presides over the board, General of the Pink Pony Army and an artist at once, rearranging the ponies with deliberate grace. “We advance on satire,” they say, nudging one figurine forward. “If we can make them laugh, we can make them listen.”
Around them, the Castro Clones study the map with military devotion and camp precision, moving ponies in synchronized flicks, polishing each figurine between turns. In the corner, a still veiled figure watches—her presence soft and tidal, eyes glimmering beneath the gauze.
At the far end of the table, The Mommy—in her guise as Joan of Arc, burns faintly, a steady blue fire that lights the map from below. “The Cheezmalites have taken the Parisian ports,” she says. “Their dust clouds choke the Seine.”
Ponies advance; orange blobs retreat. It’s a war of imagination, fought in porcelain and projection. Joan lifts her gaze. “The Backdoor Alliance stands. The treaty is signed. The tide is coming.”
Barbara’s smile is sharp as prophecy. “Then let it rise.”
The Pink Pony Army moves into formation—not for conquest, but to rewrite the story itself. In the shifting light, the veiled figure’s hand brushes the edge of the map, and the waterlines shimmer; the first whisper of Ondina fills the room like a tide inhaling.
In the basement of Fontainebleau, the French half of the rebellion’s nerve center hums like a secret heartbeat. Damp stone walls flicker with projections of battle data. A single shaft of light pierces the room. In the middle stands a large table draped with a map of the F.A.G. and another of Planet France.
Arrayed across the F.A.G. map are ceramic pink ponies and oozing orange blobs—hand crafted tokens marking the Pink Pony Army and the Cheezmalite legions. It looks like a child’s game until you notice the tension in every hand that moves a piece.
Claude Cahun—lifelong fighter against misogyny and fascism, forever rejecting the gender binary—presides over the board, General of the Pink Pony Army and an artist at once, rearranging the ponies with deliberate grace. “We advance on satire,” they say, nudging one figurine forward. “If we can make them laugh, we can make them listen.”
Around them, the Castro Clones study the map with military devotion and camp precision, moving ponies in synchronized flicks, polishing each figurine between turns. In the corner, a still veiled figure watches—her presence soft and tidal, eyes glimmering beneath the gauze.
At the far end of the table, The Mommy—in her guise as Joan of Arc, burns faintly, a steady blue fire that lights the map from below. “The Cheezmalites have taken the Parisian ports,” she says. “Their dust clouds choke the Seine.”
Ponies advance; orange blobs retreat. It’s a war of imagination, fought in porcelain and projection. Joan lifts her gaze. “The Backdoor Alliance stands. The treaty is signed. The tide is coming.”
Barbara’s smile is sharp as prophecy. “Then let it rise.”
The Pink Pony Army moves into formation—not for conquest, but to rewrite the story itself. In the shifting light, the veiled figure’s hand brushes the edge of the map, and the waterlines shimmer; the first whisper of Ondina fills the room like a tide inhaling.
The Beaches of Normandy, following dawn
The beach is quiet at first—too quiet. Morning light breaks through an orange, bruised sky, washing the dunes in anemic gold. The tide is out, the air heavy with static.
Across the sand walks Don Covfefe, alone, muttering to himself as if narrating a press briefing no one asked for. His suit is soaked, his long red tie limp, his orange skin flaking like crushed Cheezmalite dust. Each step leaves a shallow crater that immediately fills with orange powder.
He combs the shore with a metal detector shaped like a cross. “The Life Seed,” he mutters. “It’s here. I know it. The queers hid it here. Normandy—the source code of their sickness. The origin of the surname Gay. If I destroy the Life Seed, I erase the line. I reset the genome. I make man clean again.”
Don believes the Life Seed lies buried beneath Normandy—the birthplace of the surname Gay. He’s wrong, of course. It’s a conspiracy born from his own propaganda machine, a rumor he repeated until even he forgot it wasn’t true. Now the lie loops back, feeding on him the way the Cheezmalites once fed on the world. His entourage is gone, his empire fractured. Still, he performs the role—pointing to invisible cameras, waving to an audience that exists only in his delusion.
A gust of wind answers him. From the cliffs, a gull cries—a sound like laughter.
Then, without warning, the sea glows.
The beach is quiet at first—too quiet. Morning light breaks through an orange, bruised sky, washing the dunes in anemic gold. The tide is out, the air heavy with static.
Across the sand walks Don Covfefe, alone, muttering to himself as if narrating a press briefing no one asked for. His suit is soaked, his long red tie limp, his orange skin flaking like crushed Cheezmalite dust. Each step leaves a shallow crater that immediately fills with orange powder.
He combs the shore with a metal detector shaped like a cross. “The Life Seed,” he mutters. “It’s here. I know it. The queers hid it here. Normandy—the source code of their sickness. The origin of the surname Gay. If I destroy the Life Seed, I erase the line. I reset the genome. I make man clean again.”
Don believes the Life Seed lies buried beneath Normandy—the birthplace of the surname Gay. He’s wrong, of course. It’s a conspiracy born from his own propaganda machine, a rumor he repeated until even he forgot it wasn’t true. Now the lie loops back, feeding on him the way the Cheezmalites once fed on the world. His entourage is gone, his empire fractured. Still, he performs the role—pointing to invisible cameras, waving to an audience that exists only in his delusion.
A gust of wind answers him. From the cliffs, a gull cries—a sound like laughter.
Then, without warning, the sea glows.
Single-Handedly, the Daughter of Tides Turns the Tide, 2025
Location" Flashback — The War Room, Fontainebleau, previous day
The candlelight trembles. The air smells faintly of salt and sap. Around the table, ceramic pink ponies and orange blobs gleam with anticipation. Claude and Joan whisper strategy while Barbara listens in silence, sensing something shifting in the wind.
At the far end of the room, the veiled figure rises. Her chair slides back without a sound. The map flickers, water pooling across its surface as if the table itself begins to weep.
She approaches Barbara; the veil disintegrates. Light spills outward—not harsh, but tidal—refracting into liquid color. Beneath it stands Ondina Aquielle, The Daughter of Tides, revealed at last.
She stands within the bower of a great Mother Willow, whose branches form a cocoon around Barbara and Ondina. Her body is elfin and translucent, her skin rippling like light beneath water. She is clad only in seashells and luminescence, her every movement creating waves of refracted color that dance across the willow.
In her hand she holds the Ring of Brine—a band that appears fluid yet strikes with the strength of steel. With it she has cut through illusion and revealed deceivers; Cheezmalite dust cannot withstand her water forged purity.
When she speaks, her voice flows like a current:
“Where The Mommy commands greenery and shore, and The Daddy commands desert and air, I rule the open sea, the abyss, and the vast unknowns between stars where saltwater meets starlight. Sailors, wanderers, and exiles pray to me, for I carry the lost home on my tides. The Cheezmalites believe the Life Seed lies beneath Normandy, in the sands that birthed the name Gay. Let them dig. Let them find their own reflection. You will meet them there, beneath the waves.”
She extends the Ring of Brine toward Barbara.
“This ring can conceal and reveal. Beneath the water, it will hide your army, and upon the shore, it will show the enemy as their truth. When the tide calls, raise it high.”
Barbara kneels, the glow of the ring reflected in her eyes.
“And when I do?”
“The ocean will answer,” Ondina says, her voice soft as surf. “And nothing false will survive.”
The candle flames bow toward her. The willow closes its branches, folding The Daughter of Tides back into her veiled form.
The candlelight trembles. The air smells faintly of salt and sap. Around the table, ceramic pink ponies and orange blobs gleam with anticipation. Claude and Joan whisper strategy while Barbara listens in silence, sensing something shifting in the wind.
At the far end of the room, the veiled figure rises. Her chair slides back without a sound. The map flickers, water pooling across its surface as if the table itself begins to weep.
She approaches Barbara; the veil disintegrates. Light spills outward—not harsh, but tidal—refracting into liquid color. Beneath it stands Ondina Aquielle, The Daughter of Tides, revealed at last.
She stands within the bower of a great Mother Willow, whose branches form a cocoon around Barbara and Ondina. Her body is elfin and translucent, her skin rippling like light beneath water. She is clad only in seashells and luminescence, her every movement creating waves of refracted color that dance across the willow.
In her hand she holds the Ring of Brine—a band that appears fluid yet strikes with the strength of steel. With it she has cut through illusion and revealed deceivers; Cheezmalite dust cannot withstand her water forged purity.
When she speaks, her voice flows like a current:
“Where The Mommy commands greenery and shore, and The Daddy commands desert and air, I rule the open sea, the abyss, and the vast unknowns between stars where saltwater meets starlight. Sailors, wanderers, and exiles pray to me, for I carry the lost home on my tides. The Cheezmalites believe the Life Seed lies beneath Normandy, in the sands that birthed the name Gay. Let them dig. Let them find their own reflection. You will meet them there, beneath the waves.”
She extends the Ring of Brine toward Barbara.
“This ring can conceal and reveal. Beneath the water, it will hide your army, and upon the shore, it will show the enemy as their truth. When the tide calls, raise it high.”
Barbara kneels, the glow of the ring reflected in her eyes.
“And when I do?”
“The ocean will answer,” Ondina says, her voice soft as surf. “And nothing false will survive.”
The candle flames bow toward her. The willow closes its branches, folding The Daughter of Tides back into her veiled form.
The Battle of the Bulge: Sandworm Rising, 2025
Location: Back to Normandy, dawn
Don chuckles, turns to an invisible audience, and gestures broadly to the horizon. “You see, folks? This is destiny. History will remember me.”
The tide recedes. The sea holds its breath.
Then a low vibration runs through the sand—steady, rising—heartbeat becoming drum. Barbara rises from the surf like prophecy incarnate, armored in refracted light. The Ring of Brine gleams on her hand, pulsing in time with the ocean. Her hair drips with salt and purpose. She lifts the Ring. Its surface ripples, catching the sun. The reflection flashes once, twice—then shatters.
The illusion collapses. Don staggers; his flesh sloughs away like fat liquifying under a laser’s heat. Beneath the slick human mask writhes his true form: a colossal orange sandworm crowned with a man’s head—an abomination of dust and ego. His voice becomes static and bile. “Fake—news—” he hisses.
Barbara smirks. “Sweetheart, truth doesn’t care about your feed.”
She points the Ring toward the sea. The tide answers. Ondina’s waves rise into living columns that crash against the worm, each impact stripping away another layer of deceit.
From beneath the foam, hundreds of Castro Clones surface—muscular, gleaming, silent as statues. They rise in perfect formation, each gripping a leather flogger forged from the cords of The Daddy’s desert tent. Their presence is both sensual and sacred: an army of dom-daddies consecrated by saltwater and wrath.
Barbara raises her fist. “For the F.A.G.!”
The clones thunder in reply: “For the world reborn!”
They surge forward, their movements precise and rhythmic, a choreography of justice. Each strike lands with a thunderous crack, releasing plumes of orange dust that the wind snatches away.
Across the battlefield, Ondina’s voice carries—gentle, omnipotent, the sound of tide meeting sky:
“The sea reclaims what the lie dared claim”
The sandworm convulses, its shell cracking into fragments that dissolve into silt. Barbara lifts her hand—the Ring of Brine blazing like a small sun. The metal ripples, stretches, and lengthens, reshaping itself into a blade of pure light, forged from seawater and divinity.
She lunges forward, the blade slicing through the illusion of flesh and ego alike. The strike lands true—Barbara drives the light through the sandworm’s chest. The beach erupts in brilliance—white, then gold, then calm.
The tide recedes; dawn glows lavender and gold across Normandy. The trinity stands revealed—The Daddy, The Mommy, and Ondina. Barbara and Ello—the twin hearts of the Life Seed—look toward a horizon where desert meets sea. Beneath the waves, Ondina smiles. Above, the wind whispers:
With Wit We Rise.
Don chuckles, turns to an invisible audience, and gestures broadly to the horizon. “You see, folks? This is destiny. History will remember me.”
The tide recedes. The sea holds its breath.
Then a low vibration runs through the sand—steady, rising—heartbeat becoming drum. Barbara rises from the surf like prophecy incarnate, armored in refracted light. The Ring of Brine gleams on her hand, pulsing in time with the ocean. Her hair drips with salt and purpose. She lifts the Ring. Its surface ripples, catching the sun. The reflection flashes once, twice—then shatters.
The illusion collapses. Don staggers; his flesh sloughs away like fat liquifying under a laser’s heat. Beneath the slick human mask writhes his true form: a colossal orange sandworm crowned with a man’s head—an abomination of dust and ego. His voice becomes static and bile. “Fake—news—” he hisses.
Barbara smirks. “Sweetheart, truth doesn’t care about your feed.”
She points the Ring toward the sea. The tide answers. Ondina’s waves rise into living columns that crash against the worm, each impact stripping away another layer of deceit.
From beneath the foam, hundreds of Castro Clones surface—muscular, gleaming, silent as statues. They rise in perfect formation, each gripping a leather flogger forged from the cords of The Daddy’s desert tent. Their presence is both sensual and sacred: an army of dom-daddies consecrated by saltwater and wrath.
Barbara raises her fist. “For the F.A.G.!”
The clones thunder in reply: “For the world reborn!”
They surge forward, their movements precise and rhythmic, a choreography of justice. Each strike lands with a thunderous crack, releasing plumes of orange dust that the wind snatches away.
Across the battlefield, Ondina’s voice carries—gentle, omnipotent, the sound of tide meeting sky:
“The sea reclaims what the lie dared claim”
The sandworm convulses, its shell cracking into fragments that dissolve into silt. Barbara lifts her hand—the Ring of Brine blazing like a small sun. The metal ripples, stretches, and lengthens, reshaping itself into a blade of pure light, forged from seawater and divinity.
She lunges forward, the blade slicing through the illusion of flesh and ego alike. The strike lands true—Barbara drives the light through the sandworm’s chest. The beach erupts in brilliance—white, then gold, then calm.
The tide recedes; dawn glows lavender and gold across Normandy. The trinity stands revealed—The Daddy, The Mommy, and Ondina. Barbara and Ello—the twin hearts of the Life Seed—look toward a horizon where desert meets sea. Beneath the waves, Ondina smiles. Above, the wind whispers:
With Wit We Rise.
The Queer Republic Flagging Again, 2025
Location: Meat Rack F.A.G.
Four Achillean Faggots plant a makeshift flag at the crest of the dune. It is sewn from the hankies of the fallen, their colors fluttering in the newborn wind. Each square of fabric catches the dawn light, a map of every love, loss, and longing.
Four Achillean Faggots plant a makeshift flag at the crest of the dune. It is sewn from the hankies of the fallen, their colors fluttering in the newborn wind. Each square of fabric catches the dawn light, a map of every love, loss, and longing.
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