Solid Snake and the Hollywood Conspiracy
Solid Snake took a deep drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly as he sat in the dimly lit motel room. The neon lights of Los Angeles flickered through the blinds, casting broken shadows across the cheap wooden table. His hands trembled slightly—whether from the years of combat, the drugs the government pumped into him, or the sheer weight of what he had uncovered, he wasn’t sure.
He had seen the horrors of war, but this was something different. This was a battlefield without bullets, without exosuits or genome soldiers. This was a war of the mind, a war fought with contracts, manipulation, and trauma-based control. And at the heart of it all were the names that no one dared to whisper too loudly—MGM, Warner Brothers, the Bronfman family, Geffen. The real puppet masters.
The industry was more than just a machine designed to print money—it was a fortress of control. They took bright-eyed dreamers and turned them into disposable commodities, forcing them into contracts that stole their freedom, their dignity, their very souls. If they resisted, they were blacklisted. If they obeyed, they were rewarded with wealth, but at a cost no sane person would pay willingly.
Snake had been in Croatia, trying to disappear, but he couldn’t ignore the distress call embedded in Nelly Furtado’s song Party. It wasn’t just music—it was a coded SOS, a cry for help disguised as a club anthem. The lyrics spoke of control, of being trapped, of the unseen forces pushing artists into submission. Nelly wasn’t just a pop star—she was a prisoner in plain sight, like so many before her. Monroe. Houston. Winehouse. The list was endless.
He had returned to America with a mission. He wasn’t alone. Vigilant Citizen and Pseudo-Occult Media had been tracking the industry’s darkest secrets for years. They had the research, the receipts, the proof of a system built on ritual humiliation and absolute control. But what good was knowledge without action?
Snake knew what needed to be done.
With a grimace, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small metal case filled with government-issued stabilizers. They said they were for his ‘condition,’ but he knew better. The drugs kept him docile, kept him from thinking too clearly, kept him from connecting the dots too fast. He palmed a pill, considered it, then crushed it against the table. He needed his mind sharp.
The mission was simple: infiltrate the system, expose the handlers, and rescue the ones still trapped inside. The elite didn’t fear lawsuits. They didn’t fear protests. They feared the light of truth, and that’s exactly what Snake was going to shine on them.
He loaded his SOCOM pistol and grabbed his codec. This wasn’t Shadow Moses, but it was just as deadly. The enemy didn’t wear uniforms, but their power was just as insidious.
It was time to bring down Hollywood’s secret war machine.
Malditos idiotas me prometeram um médico que curaria minha doença. Foder!
Quero saber se Henri Paul, o motorista de Diana, tinha algum familiar doente ou contas médicas que não podia pagar. É assim que a Rockfellers opera
Joe não era louco, Doogie você picou. Ele apenas desligou a TV como o exterminador lhe ensinou no ano de 1997
Komm schon, Dr. Vijay, lass das Mädchen gehen. John Connor ist der Christus der Natur, nicht einer deiner Klone von Offenbarung
C’mon Dr. Vijay, let the girl go. John Connor is nature’s Christ, not one of your Jesus clones of revelation 1
Nelly Furtado and the Industry Trap
Nelly Furtado stared at the contract in her hands, the ink long dried, but the weight of its implications heavier than ever. The golden promises of fame and fortune had faded, replaced by the iron grip of a system that refused to let her go. She was told it was her choice—that she had willingly signed. But how could she have chosen when she hadn’t been in her right mind?
They called her insane when she tried to speak the truth. They dismissed her concerns, told her she was paranoid, unstable, ungrateful. If that were true, then shouldn’t her contract be null and void? How could someone not of sound mind be bound to a deal that dictated her every move, her every lyric, her very identity?
She remembered the rooms filled with handlers, the endless cycles of ‘advice’ that chipped away at her autonomy. The pills they handed her—so casually, as if they were candy. “To help you relax,” they said. “To keep you focused.” But she had seen what they did to others. The bright lights that dimmed too soon. The stars that burned out under suspicious circumstances. They weren’t given a way out. They were given an expiration date.
The music wasn’t hers anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. But if the industry insisted she was unwell, then she would use that against them. She would demand her freedom. No contract could bind someone declared unfit to make rational decisions.
She stood, the papers shaking in her hands. If they wanted to paint her as insane, then fine. Let them. Because if she was insane, then she was free.
And if they wouldn’t let her go peacefully, she would make sure the world knew the truth before they tried to silence her for good.