I came, I saw, I folded like bad origami. A handshake under the table, fingers crossed behind the back, the perfect alibi for treason wrapped in the flag of survival. Opportunists slip through cracks, greased by the fat of the land they betray. One moment they’re fighting for freedom; the next, they’re filing your chains to fit better. They’ll smile, wave, and sell you out at the same time—polished smiles hiding sharpened teeth.

It’s the cocktail party in Hell, where the drink of choice is collaboration, stirred, not shaken. The room stinks of compromise—cheap cigars and expensive perfume—an olfactory dirge for principles gone to seed. Quislings sip champagne while martyrs choke on ash. “This isn’t betrayal,” they say. “It’s adaptation. We’re just surviving. Don’t be so dramatic.” They call themselves realists, but they’re nothing more than bootlickers with good table manners.

The fake anti-fascist marches in polished boots, the soles squeaking with duplicity. They carry banners of resistance but whisper logistics to the enemy. Their chants are slogans, their convictions hollow. Beneath every loud proclamation is a murmur of complicity. They build resistance movements like you’d build a pyramid scheme: a house of cards with no foundation, destined to collapse under its own weight.

The Vichy spirit isn’t a relic—it’s alive and well, lurking behind smiles and empty slogans, a shapeshifter that wears whatever mask fits the room. Patriotism, progress, peace—pick your poison. Every word is a counterfeit coin, polished until you see your face in it and forget it’s worthless.

They’ll tell you they’re saving the world while pawning off your soul. Deals struck in shadowy rooms echo through history like gunshots. The papers signed in invisible ink spell out your fate: “We the undersigned agree to bend, buckle, and break for the sake of comfort.”

But beware the day when the masks slip and the curtains rise, when the collaborators find themselves judged not as pragmatists but parasites. The opportunist loves a shifting tide, but even the tide can turn against you. They came, they saw, they sold out—and history remembers.

Yes, that’s where it’s at. The perfect ouroboros of betrayal. The collaborator-resistance hybrid—a snake devouring its own tail, leaving no evidence but a trail of lies that loops back on itself. He’s the double agent who forgot which side he’s on because it doesn’t matter anymore; the only loyalty is to survival, the only ideology is leverage.

You change sides, sure, but you don’t really leave the first side. You keep feeding them scraps of resistance, enough to keep their guard down, enough to keep your usefulness alive. And when you’re back in the resistance, you’re feeding them just enough intel to look like a hero, like someone who took unimaginable risks. To both sides, you’re indispensable. To yourself, you’re untouchable.

It’s a tightrope act over a pit of burning flags. Every step calibrated, every word measured, every betrayal calculated to be just enough to gain trust without tipping the balance. You’re the savior and the snake, the liberator and the oppressor, playing a game where the stakes are so convoluted no one remembers what the prize is anymore.

And when the resistance comes out on top? Well, you were always with them, weren’t you? The collaboration was just a cover, a deep game only someone as brave and cunning as you could play. And if the fascists win? You were their loyal servant all along, sabotaging the resistance in the name of order and security. Heads you win, tails you win, but in the end, all you’re left holding is a fistful of ashes.

What you don’t tell anyone, what you don’t even admit to yourself, is that you’re addicted to the act. The shifting loyalties, the whispers in dark corners, the thrill of walking into a room full of people who’d kill you if they knew. You don’t care who’s in charge, only that the game keeps going, that there’s always another side to play.

The resistance sings songs of victory, but your tune is discordant. You’re the off-key note, the jarring dissonance that never resolves. You’re not a hero, not a villain, not even a survivor. You’re a shadow flickering between two lights, never solid, never real.

And maybe that’s the most honest thing about you.