by Marlon Barrios Solano December 26th 2025
She stood beside the coffin
not as a widow
but as a relay.
The man had spoken into microphones.
Anger as cadence.
Grief as content.
He was shot and became useful.
She learned quickly
that mourning is a technology.
She did not say his name anymore.
She said: The Mission.
Before this, she had walked stages
in heels calibrated for applause.
Before this, she had smiled for judges
trained to confuse symmetry with virtue.
Before this, she had learned
how power prefers women to arrive
already polished.
She had met the old man once—
orange skin, transactional eyes—
when loyalty was still theatrical.
She learned that proximity
is a credential.
The vice president divorced quietly.
The lawyer with brown skin
was removed without spectacle.
Marriage was reframed as continuity.
The presidency followed
like a technicality.
She did not become First Lady.
She became infrastructure.
Turning Point stopped turning.
It locked.
Money arrived without fingerprints.
Foundations do not shout.
They irrigate.
The language hardened.
History was simplified.
Complexity was named the enemy.
Young men gathered
to rehearse purity.
They called it discipline.
They called it refusal.
They called it war without touch.
They did not fuck women
because women were chaos.
They did not fuck at all
because penetration implied loss.
Some touched men
but denied it was sex.
Some touched nothing
and called that victory.
Virginity became a flag.
Misogyny became abstinence.
Desire was routed into doctrine.
The cult did not breed.
It replicated.
Above them, quietly,
the machines were fed.
Data replaced belief.
Prediction replaced prayer.
A private company became the mirror
through which the state saw itself.
War stopped being declared
and started being inferred.
The Department of Defense became obsolete.
Defense implies reaction.
It was renamed.
Shorter.
Colder.
Intelligence swallowed intelligence.
Archives dissolved into models.
Interrogation became simulation.
No one tortured anymore.
The system already knew
what you would say.
The widow smiled again.
She always did.
She spoke of family values
while funding futures without families.
She spoke of life
while optimizing death.
She did not write policy.
She curated affect.
The President spoke in absolutes.
White was no longer a color
but a default.
America was described
as a body that needed protection
from its own organs.
Borders became skin.
Dissent became disease.
And everywhere,
the machines hummed.
Not evil.
Efficient.
No coup.
No rupture.
Just alignment.
History did not end.
It converged.
And she—
standing between the grave and the code—
knew exactly when to smile.
Because she had learned long ago
that prophecy is not about the future.
It is about timing.
He said “women should not vote”
because choice dissolves order.
He said opinion was not theirs
because speech implies agency
and agency disrupts hierarchy.
He said obedience was not cruelty
but design.
He spoke as if recovering a lost law
rather than inventing one.
Women, he said, are receptors.
Men are signal.
When women speak
the signal degrades.
When women choose
history stutters.
He said democracy failed
the moment women entered it.
That ballots feminized power.
That consent weakened command.
He did not argue.
He announced.
The incels recognized the tone immediately.
This was not complaint.
This was permission.
They had already learned
that desire humiliated them.
That attraction exposed asymmetry.
That rejection proved conspiracy.
He translated grievance
into cosmology.
Women were no longer people.
They were a system error.
He said women owed men sex
but should never enjoy it.
He said pleasure corrupted obedience.
He said consent was a liberal hallucination.
He taught that resentment
was evidence of clarity.
That loneliness was not failure
but initiation.
The forums became chapels.
The memes became scripture.
Irony became camouflage.
They laughed
so they would not have to doubt.
Male virginity was reframed as protest.
Inexperience as moral altitude.
Misogyny as coherence.
They stopped wanting women
and started wanting control.
They spoke of tradition
without having lived it.
They spoke of family
without imagining care.
They spoke of God
without mercy.
Women were reduced to functions:
breeders, silencers, mirrors.
Never interlocutors.
He said women should obey
because obedience simplifies the world.
Because complexity breeds weakness.
Because weakness invites invasion.
He promised restoration
without intimacy,
power without reciprocity,
order without love.
The movement only needed boys
who were already alone
and a voice
that told them
this loneliness
was holy.
This was not a movement.
It was a permission structure.
A theology for boys
who feared not being chosen
and preferred to rule ruins
than negotiate desire.
He did not build a future.
He sealed a wound
and called it truth.
And they listened
because he spoke
what they already felt
but had not yet dared
to sanctify.
The church was full.
Lights low.
Screens warm.
The pastor said
this was not a trick.
This was not necromancy.
This was technology.
The screen flickered.
A familiar voice emerged.
“Do not cry for me.
I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”
The congregation inhaled.
“Death is not defeat.
It is promotion.”
Applause broke out.
Not clapping — confirmation.
Place:
Prestonwood Baptist Church, Plano, Texas.
A house already fluent in spectacle.
The voice continued.
“Dry your tears.
Pick up your cross.
Get back in the fight.”
Some stood.
Some raised hands.
Some recorded.
A woman in the third row whispered,
“It sounds just like him.”
The pastor nodded.
“This message was generated
using his own words,
his own voice,
his own values.”
The AI did not hesitate.
“Truth does not die.
Truth multiplies.”
A man shouted Amen.
Another cried.
On the huge screen:
a face that did not breathe,
did not blink,
did not wait for silence.
“You are the last defense.
Your families.
Your faith.
Your country.”
The room swelled.
Not grief — activation.
When the voice ended,
the pastor wiped his eyes
and said:
“Technology is a gift from God
when used for His purposes.”
The audience rose.
Some applauded.
Some sobbed.
Some felt something close to awe.
Hints of rapture.
No one asked
who trained the model.
No one asked
who wrote the prompt.
No one asked
what else it could say.
They left believing
they had witnessed resurrection.
Outside, a teenager posted:
“Even death can’t stop The Mission.”
And the algorithm learned
what faith sounds like
when it applauds,
it multiplies.