All Rebels Sell Out And All Right Hand Men Defect

They all turn state’s evidence, man. Every last one of those righteous bastards who howled at the moon about revolution, about tearing down the chrome-plated temples of oppression. Give it a few years, a taste of air conditioning and a decent spread at the country club, and their righteous anger curdles into lukewarm gravy. They swap their combat fatigues for three-piece suits, their Molotov cocktails for

They all turn on you, man. Every last one. You crawl out of the muck, spitting bullets and gasoline, a one-man wrecking crew for the status quo. You gather the freaks, the ostracized, the beautiful losers who see the truth shimmering beneath the surface rot. You build a rebellion fueled by pure, uncut rage, a goddamn supernova ready to scorch the whole damn system.

But the heat gets to you, alright? It warps your vision. You start squinting at the faces around you, the ones who bled beside you in the trenches. You see dollar signs in their bloodshot eyes, the glint of ambition replacing the fire of revolution. They’re sniffing the air, catching a whiff of power, and the stench of betrayal hangs heavy.

martinis shaken not stirred.

And the right-hand men? Forget about it. They were never anything more than glorified yes-men, their loyalty as thin as a Vegas Elvis impersonator’s hairpiece. The first whiff of a sweeter deal, a fatter paycheck, and they’re out the back door faster than a roach with the lights on. Judas in a cheap suit, selling out their leader for a handful of blood money and a corner office with a view.

Your right-hand men, the ones who held your secrets closer than their own lives, they start whispering in hushed tones. They attend fancy galas, hobnobbing with the very leeches you swore to drain. They bring back whispers of deals, compromises, the sweet, seductive song of selling out for a gilded cage.

One by one, they melt away, these Judases in fatigues. They take their piece of the pie, a cushy job, a fat bank account, leaving you with the tattered banner of a dead cause. You’re adrift in a sea of broken promises, the revolution a mirage shimmering in the heat.

But here’s the thing, chief: even in the wasteland of betrayal, there’s a twisted beauty. You might be left standing alone, a pariah howling at the moon, but your rage, that pure, unadulterated rage, it doesn’t die. It just mutates. It becomes a cold, simmering fury, a promise that the fire they doused will one day reignite, hotter and more merciless than ever before. Because unlike them, you can’t be bought. You can’t be broken. You are the goddamn storm, and the storm never truly dies. You just wait for the next lightning strike. * * *

But then you remember the look on that bartender’s face when you ordered your tenth tequila sunrise, and you just kinda settle for another round, watching the neon signs bleed promises you know they’ll never keep.

Maybe that’s the real rebellion, Raoul. Not some grand gesture, but just hanging on, refusing to blink in the face of the bullshit. Sipping your poison slow, with a sardonic grin and a middle finger raised at the glittering mirage in the desert.

So raise a glass, my friend, to the dreamers and the double-crossers. To the flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. But keep your expectations low, and your trigger finger twitchy. This ain’t a fairy tale, it’s a Hunter S. Thompson fever dream, and the only happily ever after is the sweet oblivion at the bottom of a bottle.