THE TRIANGLE MOON THEOREM

“Did you always want to be an oral surgeon?” 

Juan Natán parked the flooring machine and stood on the opposite side of the aluminum security gate separating the two men, as it did each morning the surgeon and cafeteria custodian united at the end of the breakfast shift. 

“Like, when you were a kid, did you dream of this moment? Did you have a bunch of cavities or a cleft palate or one of those Freudian oral fixations?” 

Dr. George Grantuskis took his final sip of espresso and abandoned the crust of his chocolate hospital croissant. “Honestly, Juan, I don’t think I ever wanted to do this. Not before practicing, in the four decades of school beforehand, and certainly not now, after experiencing work in the field. It’s not that I’m grossed out by the things I see—at least not from a biological perspective. Sure, it’s disheartening to witness what’s happening in the medical industry and this health insurance nightmare. And though I’m not as money motivated as some of my colleagues, take Herman Munger for instance, I have to dig myself out of this quicksand pit of debt I stupidly threw myself into.” 

Juan spread his legs to shoulder width, so he could meet the doctor’s eyes between the bars of the prison cage. 

“So, how’d you get into it?” 

“Perceived societal pressure, I guess. My Jewish grandmother. A limited appreciation for the value of time and a fear of shifting gears into the unknown. I hated every minute of dental school. I hated undergrad too. But instead of dropping out after my first week with just a few grand in debt, I decided to double down, stick it out, stay in school for another 12 years and accrue well-over a million in IOU’s. That’s why I’m still driving my old Accord. I’m trying to pay this off in my lifetime. At least in the lifetime of my children, and they haven’t even been conceived yet. Biologically or mentally. I don’t even have a girlfriend. You want some tea?” 

Juan nodded and reached around the breach in the drop-down security guillotine, between the pillar and the window. Over the past few years, they perfected this trick. “Enough about me and this abysmal career. What about you? How do I reciprocate the question? Did you always want to be a janitor? Does that sound demeaning? How’d you end up in this line of work? Now that makes it sound like this was a last resort and you’ve got some kind of dark history. What’d you do before this, Juan?” 

“Man, I thought you’d never ask.” He laughed. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a comedian. I was always the class clown and all that. Grew up on the classics: Charlie Chaplin, Katt Williams, Dave Chappelle, the old Steve Harvey, the Marx Brothers. I still watch the modern bozos to see how the landscape is shifting. Waiting to see if the pendulum will ever swing backwards and comedians will be able free to speak freely and perhaps utter something actually funny and profound once again—but I’m not banking on it. This modern media landscape’s more barren than the scorched earth outside. If I’m going to be real with you, doc, the dream hasn’t died. But it’s definitely deferred and dormant. Plus, I’ve got a wife and kids to feed. For a while, I thought about acting or writing fiction, but I couldn’t find a female Harvey Weinstein who was interested in what I have to offer, and nobody reads these days. More tough times in America, I guess.” 

“Well, at least you’ve got health insurance.” 

“Yeah, for now.” Juan took a sip of his mint tea with honey and looked out towards the parking lot. “You ever talk with that valet guy, Osmanthus?” He started to chuckle. George looked at the man in question and said, “Not directly, but I’ve heard some rumblings. One of the nurses said he asked another nurse if we have any adrenochrome.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Pure nonsense. One of a few things QAnon and Hunter S. Thompson have in common. It’s basically a conspiracy theory about rich old people harvesting adrenaline from babies as some kind of aesthetic fountain of youth. I’m not too sure on the specifics. I never looked into the reaction pathway or anything.” 

“It sounds plausible. You hear the one about our ropa vieja lunches?” 

“Do I want to?” 

“I’ll tell you anyway. Basically, Doug in the basement, our shipping and receiving clerk, kills our CFO’s enemies and all those temp workers who just stop showing upand they mix their remains in with the regular beef. That’s how they’re able to combat inflation and keep the prices down below forty dollars a sandwich.” 

“You don’t actually believe this, right?” 

“It’s less plausible, but still possible.” He laughed. “I know Doug. I’m on his good side…” 

“Nobody reads. Hollywood is dead. The news is all one-sided propaganda. And the tools of modern art are bananas and duct tape. But the field of conspiracy theories is thriving. If you want to make it in the world of entertainment, I think you need to learn from my own professional blunders and shift gears.” And with that, their morning meeting was nearly adjourned. “Well, I guess it’s back to the old salt mine.” 

*** 

“How’re the impacted wisdom teeth?” 

For George, it was a new day on the calendar, yet exactly the same as the day before. Same time. Same coffee. Same chocolate croissant. 

“Unimpactful. What’s up with the bathrooms?” 

“Flooded. Septic tank’s backed up again. You should have seen it when I got here. There were turds and tampons floating by the checkout counter. That’s the second time this week! What year is it? What the hell are we doing with a septic tank? This ain’t the Middle Ages!” 

Even after combatting a literal shit storm, the same shit storm as a few days earlier, Juan seemed infinitely happier than the oral surgeon. Perhaps that’s what drew the duo together. There was mutual respect, intrigue, and this time together further solidified their unique psychological positions. On one hand, it distanced the difference in their dispositions, yet, it also kept them glued together. 

Juan parked the FloorMaster 8000 and George passed him his tea and a ginger snap. Monica Kim from Food Service came out and they went through the usual line of prison jokes, centered around the drop-down security gate. How long you in for? Looks like maximum security. Is it time for the daily conjugal visit? On which side are the prisoners? We’re all prisoners in here. And so forth. 

When Monica left, Juan said, “What would you say if I told you she was a skinwalker?” “A what?” 

“The Navajo called them yee naaldlooshii. Shapeshifters. Malevolent spirits that take on human forms. According to my research, they often possess glitch-like deformities: a blurred-out nose, a messed-up ear, a missing lip or something. It’s kind of like their watermark.” 

“I didn’t notice anything wrong with her. Is she the bathroom destroyer? I really hope you’re not going to steer this into my cleft palate corrections.” 

“I don’t actually believe this. I was reading up on conspiracy theories last night. You know there’s people who think they’re 3-D printing human beings?” 

“You mean they’re not?” 

“What about skin cancer?” 

“What about it?” 

“You ever hear about plants getting skin cancer?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither. But plants have skin, right? And people on the internet are using this as proof that sunscreen is the real culprit. It’s like the same premise as COVID tests giving people COVID, only less political. That said, this could also be a covert operation bankrolled by an underground dermatological society in order to steer potential patients away from the protection that would render their services obsolete. You never know these days. All info is suspect. Nobody can be trusted. You know Jesus, Son of Mary, worked for the CIA?” 

“Good one.” 

“People believe it, though. As an undercover agent to expose communists. And there are many more who consume this nonsense, even if they don’t think it’s true. There’s an awful lot of people out there who believe Joe Biden died long before his first day as President.” 

“How’s that one work?” 

“They used AI and holograms. Like Tupac at Bonnaroo. I think the argument goes: they selected him purposely for this characteristic—being dead—plus his overall lack of charisma. Nobody would be able to tell the difference. It was the perfect negative feedback loop. The architects of this fable seemed to draw pretty heavily from Past Master and Babelandia.” 

“Don’t lose your mind, Juan. These rabbit holes are deep, terrible places. I hope I didn’t inspire your downfall. You’re the only friend I’ve got in this hellhole. Please don’t become a maniac.” 

“You hear how the Vietnam War was fabricated? It all started from an acid trip someone had at a Beatles concert. It first gained publicity as folklore fanfiction during the Acid Tests. Then, it fell into the ears of Lyndon B. Johnson, who took it and ran, commissioned the creation of those infamous napalm photos to distract the public from the fact that he was the one who bankrolled the assassination of JFK, before he ultimately pinned the whole thing back on the Chicago mob.” 

“Sounds like there could be some truth to this.” 

“That’s the key to its success! There needs to be a seed of truth in every good conspiracy. That’s what gives the whole thing wings. You know Bob Marley was an alien?” 

“Didn’t he spend his final years in London?” 

“I don’t mean that kind of alien, G. I think the UK has kinder words for their immigrants. I think they still call them ‘people’ over there. And speaking of people. Check this one out: monkeys are fake. They’re invented creatures. The racists of yesteryear devised the whole thing. They dressed up their slaves as these pseudo-human creatures as a way to justify their cruelty, inspired by Pliny and fully backed by the phrenology and pseudoscience of subsequent decades.” 

“Where’d you pull that one out of?” 

“My ass. I made it up on my drive here this morning. I was listening to the radio and eventually got so bored, I figured I might as well try it out and create my own conspiracy theory as a thought exercise. What I ultimately realized is: The Democrats are severely lagging when it comes to misinformation. Much as I hate the modern Republicans, I gotta give it to them. They’re the ones succeeding when it comes to spewing creative nonsense these days. Nothing’s off limits. I thought about what you said before, and I honestly think you’re right. Conspiracy theories are the only place free speech lives anymore. And though the majority of this garbage is garbage, if I can package something else up and place it in this dumpster bin, I may have a shot at doing something creative after all. If not in entertainment, then perhaps as a political consultant. The only way to tell the truth is to disguise it as a lie. It’s like a G.K. Chesterton plot.” 

“So, you take your message to the world. Let’s say they accept it. Then what? Does this swing the racists? Race is a touchy subject these days. You sure you want to enter in with this? They’re burning textbooks in the streets. And this time, the books aren’t demonic, Marxist, or even historical. They’re railing against math and geography. This administration’s done everything but remove the letters D, E, and I from the alphabet. How are they going to react when you go on some esoteric podcast claiming their ancestors created monkeys to perpetuate their passion for bigotry? I’m not too sure if those voting Democrat have much of a thirst for this kind of a thing.” Geoff looked at his rubber Casio watch and sighed. “It’s almost time for my next appointment. If I were you, Juan, I’d cast a wider net. Nothing too political. Who knows, this could be your chance to sew some unity here. The world could use a bit of that for a change.” 

*** 

It was Thursday and the coffee machine was broken. The bathrooms were at half-mast. And Juan was sitting at the doctor’s table, which would have been right up against the prison gate if the prison gate was down. Only today, it was fully wound-up within itself. 

“What’s this?” 

“Baklava. The baker’s trying something new. You didn’t get it from me though.” 

“Thanks.” George took a bite. “Wow, I can hardly believe it. After tomorrow, I have two whole weeks away from this godforsaken place. And after that, I only have to do this for another twenty-five years. Maybe I should have listened to my college roommate back in ’09 when he got on the crypto bandwagon. If I did that, who knows where I’d be now.” He took a sip of matcha and grimaced. “I tried reading those bitcoin whitepapers once. There’s no shot in hell Satoshi Nakamoto’s a real person. I bet you Elon, Donald, Peter Thiel, and that other Palantir clown sat down with bunch of M.I.T. grads and put the whole thing in motion to sink George Soros. How’s that for a conspiracy theory?” 

“Not bad,” Juan said. “I got a draft of my own here. I’ve been workshopping this for the past few days. Now, hear me out…” He took a sip from his paper cup. “You ever see a photo of Elon Musk when he was younger?” 

“I’m not sure. Why?” 

“He used to be bald.” 

“Okay.” 

“And now?” 

“I guess he got hair plugs.” 

“And Donald Trump?” 

“Hair plugs as well. No question.” 

“Good, you’re still with me. Now, what if I told you they both had them done at the same exact medical facility?” 

“It’s possible, I guess.” 

“Now, this is where things can veer off in a number of directions. Was it a government-backed facility in Russia which polluted the minds of these quote-unquote leaders? The new hair serving as something much more—something deeper than aesthetics? With close proximity to the brain, could these plugs also be receivers—antennas—allowing the Kremlin to control their every thought—and in turn, their actions—creating the perfect high-profile marionettes with enough degrees of separation to keep the whole thing under wraps?

“Or worse—bear with me, George—they got the follicular sample from Das Fuhrer. A high profile Nazi paraphernalia collector purchased a war helmet worn by Hitler that had a few stray hairs left behind. These were then cloned and grafted onto these men’s heads, further complicating things by causing infections which rapidly spread… 

“Or, perhaps, we appeal to the juvenile crowd and say they were Hitler’s ass hairs, taken from a pair of his Third Reich tighty-whiteys, hence, all of the shitty ideas which have since emanated out of these men. And I’ll park it here for feedback. My mind’s really been racing. I’m grappling with a lot and want to hear your reaction, G.” 

“It’s a shame you can’t make a living writing political sci-fi novels.” 

“Okay, really. I’m not looking to discuss the biological mechanisms making this possible. I just want a first impression. You’re the only person I’ve told about this.” 

“Well…” The doctor took a deep breath. “Grafted remains from Adolf Hitler. That could be off-putting to some. But, then again, maybe not. Core consumers of this nonsense seem to revere the man, claiming the Holocaust was a scam, something contrived by the radical left media and all that. So, it could be a point of appeal, I guess.” 

“So says the Jewish oral surgeon.” 

“I guess my real question is: Who’s your target audience? And also, how’s it end?” 

“I don’t know if it needs an end. That may be the power in it: an opening, questions unanswered, an opportunity to continue the conversation in the next episode, until viewers lose interest and I launch my next big idea.” 

“What about Jeff Bezos?” 

“What about him?” 

“Right now, I’m referring mostly to his baldness.” 

Juan’s eyes lit up. “It’s further proof! Evidence that the real point of contention between these men, their historical beef, battles and strife, has nothing to do with competing for the title of wealthiest man on Earth, father of the most illegitimate children, or the United States Postal Service. This piss fight has everything to do with hair vanity and mental autonomy. While Bezos embraced his baldness, the others tried to hide it, harboring deep contempt, which only grew as the procedures doomed Elon and Trump to live out the rest of their lives as Joe Dirt puppets and proxy agents. Yet, it goes much deeper. Vladimir Putin: bald. Kim Jung Un: another botched plug-job. It all boils down to this, folks.” 

“Okay,” said George. “It’s plausible enough. So, what do you do with this now?” “I’ve got a plan. I only need about twenty-five hundred dollars.” 

*** 

His two-week vacation consisted of nothing. Absolutely nothing. No work. No social media. No anti-social media. No media at all besides, food, water and Gregory Rabassa’s translation of Seven Serpents and Seven Moons (an early Hanukkah gift from his conspiratorial/janitorial friend Juan). No dating. No travelling. He did little cooking and even less cleaning. And before he knew what happened, The Wizard Bulu-Bulu had worked his magic, and he was back in the old Accord. 

Fumbling through the radio dials in his ’03 Honda, George seemed to hit every empty small talk radio program, sanctioned and unsanctioned to broadcast. According to some, school shootings were “all fake inventions of the radical left.” The carnivore diet was devised by butter tycoons and statin manufacturers. Chemtrails were concealing alien activity and the second sun in our very own solar system. It all sounded like Nazi cell ham radio gobbledygook. Yet all of these messages were interspersed with a heavy dose of commercial breaks. Propaganda within propaganda. Commercials within commercials. Lies within lies. 

By the time George reached his parking space on the penultimate floor of the parking structure, he was knee-deep down the 9/11 rabbit hole. There were signs of melted steel, but rocket fuel doesn’t burn hot enough to melt steel. The collision defied Newton’s Laws. Speaking in the archetypical indignant evangelist pentameter, the man on the radio claimed someone stuffed the building with explosives. “In 2001, this was the new gold standard of corruption…” 

This, George was willing to see play out to the end. Some of his friends lost their parents when those buildings went down. What was the point of this treachery? That’s what he wanted to know. The endgame. All this secret, shady underhanded scheming for what? What was to be gained from all this? Insurance fraud? Real estate development? An elaborate stock market shock and engineered buying opportunity? The spurring on of more Islamophobia? Initiating a false sense of national pride? A reason to invade countries that had no hand in this whatsoever? 

“NO!!!” the irate broadcaster shouted. “The whole thing was done to send a message… So it’ll never…be done…agiin!” 

“Come on!” He took his key out of the ignition and threw open the car door. This was a total letdown. Fifteen minutes down the rabbit hole and no signs of a rabbit. There was absolutely zero payoff. Not even a semblance of purpose. Sure, it had the hallmark sound of simplicity, but this was no way to end things. No way to reward people for their time and attention. George made a mental note. It was like one of those bad 1970s sci-fi books all caught up on the gizmos with no plotline. He had to tell Juan. 

***

It was almost coffee time. Meth Jeff, Juan’s custodial accomplice with the faded forearm tattoos, was cleaning the outer hall bathroom, chewing his lips, muttering something to himself. If only George was allowed to donate a free set of implants. M.J. would have been a worthy contender. It’d sure make those ropa vieja lunches go down easier. Yet, like the Information Age giving rise to the Misinformation Era, the society permitting selfless good deeds was officially dead. It was closer to suicide than in Jeffrey Epstein’s case. 

In the five-or-so years they’d spent together, separated by the aluminum safety curtain, George had never seen Juan like this. In fourteen days, he grew a full beard. “Did you get hair plugs too?” 

“No.” Juan laughed. “But I did plant some seeds. And it only gets crazier. The deeper I go, the more I discover.” He paused. “I should have your money in about two weeks.” 

“No rush,” the doctor said. “Two grand’s a drop in my bottomless well of debt these days. Sure, it might be more than my car is worth, but at least this is giving me hope…” 

“Well check this out,” Juan said. “It begins next Tuesday. We’ve secured a few strategically placed features on some of the more established podcasts with guaranteed advertising plugs—no pun intended. They’ve got Rogaine and Nair backing us. I’m not kidding. My cuñado’s a hustler when it comes to these kinds of things. Our blank slate media channel has over 15,000 followers—about a third of which are actually real, live human beings.” 

“Listen, Juan, I appreciate the use of ‘we’ and ‘our’ and everything, but I want to make it clear, I’m not a part of this rodeo. I loaned you a little money and I want to see you succeed, but honestly, I don’t care if I ever see that money again. What’s important to me is that you try—but this is your enterprise.” 

“Actually…” Juan said. “Funny you brought that up—because it’s actually not. It belongs to A.O. Martinez. He’s our—the—surrogate. A voice with no face. Vaguely Mexican, he walks a fine line between the high and lowbrow. Scientific and whimsical, empirical and notional. Nobody knows what he looks like. I heard he’s half-Jewish.” 

***

On the surface level, Tuesday of the following week was about as regular as any other day since George Grantuskis started working at Fairview Hospital. Yet in the turbulent undercurrents of the internet, things were starting to stir. Truthfully, it was a bit shambolic in the shallows too. On Wednesday, he started to see his cleft palate patients in a new light. Then, he had a nightmare where Monica’s nose disappeared. Yet, he justified all this by saying too much work and not enough friends could do this to a man’s mind. And by Thursday morning, the fomenting had frothed up the flanks to the superficial fluff of the mainstream media. 

Anderson Cooper was talking about hair plugs. His own silvery fox feathers looked like some kind of superimposed hologram. Gavin Newsom: same deal, only with a bit of Batman mixed in for effect. Yet these plug contenders were at odds with Trump, Musk and the rest of the reds, providing A.O. Martinez with no shortage of angles to surmise from. 

My analysis leads me to believe we’re being manipulated by oppositional forces in discrete corners of the world—or it originates from a singular nucleus. The rock-em-sock-em robot politicians are all controlled in the same underground operating room, most articles quoted. It was perfect. Seemingly everyone was getting roped in. From household names to general Joe Schmoes. It truly was, as Joe Rogan said, “The conspiracy of all conspiracies.” 

A few days later, they started selling t-shirts that said Lettucehead, Lox 4 Love, and The Real Mt. Baldy. And his various media outlets featured prominent advertising spots by Dollar Shave Club, Norelco, Old Spice, and various niche male beauty products. Orthodox Jews and Black America added wigs to the equation, further complicating things with the possibility of sub-conspiracies, double agents, and special ads for Mane ‘n’ Tail. 

It held a rare power that Donald Trump’s Don Quixote Wind Turbine Theorem did not: the potential for unity. Hair vs. No Hair. The categories were too big to follow social, political, racial, or economic divides. Both sides held mixed bags, and so, it got people talking. And, for George and Juan, the most unbelievable part about all of this was just how quickly it went from a nonsensical joke to captivating the minds of millions. 

“Isn’t it possible we all have hair plugs and just don’t know it?” the prominent podcaster Derek Kirkland surmised. “Perhaps that whole Neuralink thing makes sense after all…” 

*** 

Juan was out of work on Thursday, Friday and the following Monday. He must have been busy. Joe Rogan unearthed an old video clip of Michael Jordan talking about how some shady Eastern European doctors approached him after a game in ’97, soliciting free hair plugs, claiming to have an extensive collection of clippings, including some from Jackie Robinson. Whether this footage was real or AI-derived, most couldn’t tell. And in an age post-truth, where Truth Social pushed out nothing but lies, it didn’t matter. It was the perfect segue of speculation into MJ’s baseball career. What counted here was that people were talking to strangers again, even if only to argue that one’s blind beliefs were better than another’s. 

Inevitably, it eventually happened. It was unavoidable. They couldn’t not rope him in. Not just Juan and George, but all the other conspiratorialists and Hitler fans on the internet. It was perfect really. Was it Hitler’s hair? Head hair? Mustache hair? Or ass hair? It could have been all three, some said. Shitty style, shitty thoughts, and shitty public speaking skills. President Trump was born just over a year after Hitler took his own life, and this was akin to reincarnation—pitched from a highly-speculative pseudo-scientific angle believable to most. PLUGs, as the theory was dubbed, transformed from a proper word into a simple acronym: 

Papilla 
Legatee 
Under 
Guise 

Hitler wasn’t the only donor. Many claimed they were cocktail arrangements, comprised of various individuals. The tyrants of yesteryear, diluted with a few name-brand celebrities. Yet most agreed, Trump and Musk possessed the highest concentrations of Das Fuhrer on their heads. Rumor had it: they blended in some Conan O’Brien as a color-matching measure. Nobody could say for certain. The evidence cited was circumstantial at best. 

When he finally returned, Juan’s beard was gone. He had an envelope stuffed with money and said, “I put a little something extra in there for ya, along with a sneak-peek of what’s to come. I couldn’t have done it without you, G.” 

“This is getting out of hand, Juan. Just this morning I saw some footage of Rod Stewart and Boris Johnson discussing the real source of their windswept style, interspersed by advertisements for Suave and LA Looks. Honestly, I’m starting to believe some of it myself…” 

“Don’t open that in public!” 

“So where do you take it from here?” 

“Well, there’s the stuff I just gave you. Then, it’s on to build the resistance. The counter argument. We need a near-equal number of naysayers to keep the conversation going. So, it’s either introduce some very fake, easily disputable evidence or something somewhat plausible to fuel dissent.” 

“You have any ideas?” 

“Just about a million.” 

*** 

Alex Juniebee Jones jumped on the bandwagon. He claimed that before his current state of cranial thread-bareness, he, too, had plugs installed—at the very same facility in Deep State Eurasia that doctored up Trump and Elon. The only difference was: his own blend featured a bit of RFK Jr. for oratory support. This, however, did not come as a surprise to Juan. It all made perfect sense. It gave Jones the perfect cop-out for prior blunders—hence, the whole Sandy Hook thing wasn’t really his fault. It was those pesky legatee papillae controlling his mind at the time. So, Alex declared he had the plugs removed—to the extent that was surgically possible—in an effort to reclaim his autonomy and position as Chief Conspirator. And because some of the fibers were left unexcavated, as the transmitter roots burrowed too deeply, planted beyond the scope of laser hair removal, he confessed there were some aspects of permanent damage, providing the perfect alibi should his future fans turn against him again, after an even bigger slip-up. 

For Juan Natán, this was expected. Anticipated. Planned, though he wasn’t the one orchestrating it. In the envelope he handed George were some medical records, a copy of an executed contract for the exclusive rights to the PLUG story (bankrolled by the same shadow organization that fueled Jones’s original rise to misinformative glory), five thousand dollars, and a post-it note that said: A.J. bought the bandwagon. Let’s see if we can sink it.

***

From here onward, first leaks of the story would be disseminated through Alex J. Jones’s new nonsense network, HONESTFAXXX, with Juan (d.b.a. A.O. Martinez) agreeing to contribute ten hours of content over the course of the next six months, plus an exclusive option for renewal. It was still unclear whether Jones knew this whole thing was bullshit, or if he even cared. What mattered most was reclaiming his crown. And if he had to do so through publicly acknowledging his own receding hairline, that was just the cost of doing business. 

The scene flooded with evidence, backed by experimental neurology, theoretical psychology, unlicensed estheticians and corrupt psychiatrists. These thinly veiled actors and influencers, hailing from all corners of AJ’s flat world, kept the thing in motion as long as they were on the payroll and the bankroll appeared to be limitless. It was only a matter of time before the pseudoscience was backed by hard science—supported by significant evidence—or, at least by a few of its minor priests and prophets. And while this should have steered people away from this faulty religion, it only increased its foothold. 

“Does your family know about this?” George asked while unwrapping a bagel. “Egg salad and lox? You’re really innovating there.” 

“Monica said they were out of croissants and offered to whip up something special for me. Maybe she thinks I’d like this because I’ve been inside of a synagogue. I don’t know. I didn’t protest. At least she didn’t charge me for it.” 

“Skinwalker. I’m sure of it. And regarding my family: There’s no way they can know. I’m trying to keep my marriage intact. If I told my wife I devised all this, she probably wouldn’t even believe me. And if she did, she’d file for divorce. At this point, I might not even blame her.”

“Well,” said the surgeon, “where to from here?” 

Juan looked in both directions, opened the security gate and sat down across from George. “We need to sink our own ship. Position a few strategic icebergs. Make Jones crumble along with all the other jackals plaguing this sorry façade of democracy. He’s even worse when the mic isn’t hot. Just the thought of having to keep this going for another six months is really bringing me down. It’s depressing. Sure, the money’s okay—heck, at this rate, I’ll be able to send my kids to community college—but it’s holding me back creatively. Honestly, G, I think this whole hair plug thing was just a trial run, a precursor to my real grand opus.” 

“Oh yeah? What’s that going to be?” 

“I’m not sure. But whatever I land on, I know it’s big. Bigger than business, bigger than politics. Maybe bigger than the world itself. I can feel it shut up in my bones.”

“Now, I’m really scared.” 

*** 

The media bog flooded with evidence, definitively supporting and indisputably refuting any and all PLUG conspiracies. And though this did nothing to change minds or spur those on the fence to pick a side, it further solidified each group’s position, which were growing further from the midline. More importantly, at least in the eyes of those profiting off of this charade, it kept the conversation alive. The advertising income stream had grown into a major, international, polluted, underground river—and everyone wanted a piece of the action. 

In another dark corner of the internet, a new voice roped Javier Milei into the fabric of this fable, rechristening the PLUG theory “A New Hair Club for Men.” In his article featured in The Wall Street Journal, Ralph Johaansen claimed the only reason Donald J. Trump bailed out the Argentinian President was because he, too, had his plugs installed at the same spot as the rest of them. And thus, his mind was also being manipulated in the same remote control room. Only, the Argentinian’s plugs weren’t only on his head. That facility in Deep State Eurasia was also to blame for Milei’s notorious side burns, providing direct control of his jaw muscles as well. This eventually made its way to CNN and FOX news, baiting Trump into commenting on this sizeable, inexplicable bailout he offered a foreign nation for no apparent reason. “PITY,” he wrote. “That’s what moved ME! That plus, COMPASSION. Poor old Milei couldn’t even afford a PROPER HAIRCUT!” 

Religious insiders claimed this was the devil’s version of an inside joke. Others saw it as intimidation, a threat to expose the truth should any of these political puppets decide to go rogue, thinking they could control themselves—something akin to that portrait Putin gave Trump of his ear with that ketchup packet. At this point, it was all hearsay. Needless to say, Alex Juniebee Jones’s decision to splurge for advertisement in South America was already paying dividends. 

Then, Laura Loomis’s shark senses turned back on. She recognized that this was an ideal moment for self-advancement. So, she delivered an eerily provocative video message, wearing a wig, detailing how she had the distinct privilege of combing President Trump at the White House after “a routine scabies check,” and wanted to assure the world that he is “very fecund and virulent” before ultimately pinning the tail on Elon and White House Communications Director Steven Cheung. 

On Musk, she said: “What do you suppose he’s doing with that brain implant company of his? Surely you don’t believe he’s trying to solve society’s ills and ailments. He’s trying to hack in and cancel the signals from that control room to regain access to his own mind. And if he can manufacture a few robot friends in the process, good for him.” 

On Cheung, she said: “Big deal, Steve knows how to use autocorrect. He’s not even trying to hide his plugs, shaving his head all sloppy like that. He looks like a Chinese Ivo Robotnik. You should see him with a mustache. I do not trust that man.” 

Between his appointments, Dr. George Grantuskis lost track of time charting the network of rabbit holes, hoping to get to the bottom of things. Juan’s conspiracy theory had been co-opted, but it wasn’t fully stolen. Truthfully, it was none of theirs to begin with. It belonged to the country’s municipal ether like CFCs and insecticides. WikiLeaks 2.0 published a dossier containing partially redacted medical records of the main men in question: Trump, Musk, and Milei, along with countless others: Boris Johnson, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, all the way up to Brazilian soccer legend Donaldo Luis Nazário de Lima (whose infamous buzzcut bangs once made history), though there was no mention of Alex J. Jones (much to his own dismay). There were cranial x-rays, histological reports, insurance claims, and a great deal of undecipherable handwritten notes that must have been scribed by a doctor, based on the abysmal penmanship. 

Trump denied these allegations, claiming He (RJS) was god’s gift to the male beauty industry, masculinity, business, politics, organized religion, and humanity at large. At first, Elon rejected it too, claiming those photos of his balding youth were fictitious, generated by OpenAI, before he backtracked, made a bunch of strange social media posts about his bedside table in the middle of the night (which only further substantiated his baldness), and he ultimately deleted before sunrise. All this did was stoke the fiery furnace of misinformation. It was hard to tell what Jones was responsible for, what A.O. Martinez planted, and what developed organically. 

In a Reddit thread entitled “dollheads” there were links to more medical records of the rich, famous and formerly bald, along with references to scientific journal articles on cell-to-cell communication, DNA absorption, and the impacts of hair follicles on human brain development. Buried deep within a lively debate between scientists, conspiratorialists, and alopecia activists— interspersed with advertisements for just about everything—was a post claiming George Soros was selling clippings from Warren Buffet’s head on the black market. Then, the manager of the Harvard cadaver lab got caught selling body parts and the fable was forged into fact. 

Dr. George Grantuskis had so many tabs open on his computer, his glitchy broadband was now mirroring his own mental bandwidth. It had been a while since he had opened a scientific journal. And attempting to string together these concepts of cell-to-cell communication, external absorption, and DNA integration, to support the theory of hair plug mind pollution was like following some esoteric math proof determined to portray the world as flat. Yet, the longer he spent on it, the more plausible it became. Waist deep in the weeds, he almost missed his final appointment. 

*** 

“The more I have to deal with this fake electrolarynx asshole the more I want to blow my brains out. I think that’s his superpower. Guess it serves me right for associating with one of the truth’s greatest proxy villains. But then again, I’m trying to sabotage him. So, that’s got to count for something. The only problem is: I just can’t seem to fail. Or succeed. I guess it all depends on which angle you approach it from. What do you think, Dr. G?” 

Juan had been sitting at the surgeon’s cafeteria table, waiting for him to arrive. He was eating some kind of quiche that was definitely not on the menu. 

“Is that a real mustache?” 

Juan pulled at a few hairs, demonstrating its veracity. 

“There’s some pretty convincing stuff floating around the internet. I was listening to Black Mr. Rodgers on National Podcast Radio in the O.R. and he was interviewing some kind of forensic barber, World War II historian and investigative economist, and the evidence seems viable. I made it through most of those scientific journal articles you sent me, too, and I can no longer tell the difference between fact and fiction. I hate to say it. But I think I’m starting to believe. Not the George Soros bit—but the Musk, Trump and Putin parts. I’m not one hundred percent on the Hitler component, but I’m softening up to the possibility. It just makes sense. Appeals to my lower senses. My lizard brain and all that. You know, I heard Laura Loomis isn’t even Jewish.” 

“Come on, George. Not you too. You know the truth behind this malarkey. Last weekend, my wife brought it up. She asked if I thought it was possible. All I said was ‘Hell no!’ She, however, seems open to the idea. I can’t even avoid it at home!” He sighed. “If I had a lawyer, I’d go after Jones. I can make all the icebergs I want, plant the landmines, detonate the dynamite, and go Edward Abbey on the billboards, but it’s still not going to make anyone open their eyes!” 

As always, Juan was five steps ahead of himself. Done with PLUGs and unable to pull the rug out from Jones, he was growing despondent. It was only a matter of time before the whole world caught up. Whether it took days, months, or perhaps even years, he didn’t care. Juan Natán was over it. It was time to move on. 

Whatever the next thing was, it had to retain that eye-opening, ha-ha, I fooled you moment. Exposing the sham as a means to open other’s minds, instead of permanently sealing them shut. And so, he planned to hand the whole thing off to another cousin—and this one wasn’t even a blood relative—to finish the job. “Not in the extermination-sense.” He laughed. “Just to ride out the remainder of the contract. You can do all sorts of stuff through A.I. these days.” 

Meanwhile, a new storm was brewing. 

*** 

“This is exactly why there’ll never be a female president of this juvenile country,” Juan was telling Monica as George entered the cafeteria. “She’d bring about a sense of unity these morons wouldn’t be able to tolerate. That’s why my money’s on The Rock.” 

“What?” 

Dwayne T.R. Johnson, wrestler-turned-actor-turned-aspiring politician, was complicating things. He made balding look good. Rumor had it, he was a shaver, just feigning to be bald, which obviously obscured things in the political arena. It was hard to tell whose side he was on. Blue or red. Shirts or skins. Good or evil. Power Rangers or the putties. Who held the levers in that control room? 

“Well,” Monica said, “at least he wouldn’t get bruises from all those handshakes.” “Trump’s a dealmaker, alright.” Juan looked at George. “You know who else is?” “The devil?” 

And with that, Monica retreated to her culinary substation. 

“I had an idea…” George leaned across the table. “Say, Jeff Epstein’s client book was more than a list of prominent pedophiles. What if it was a black box and a Redbox, but also…a key to a safe deposit box? You know the majority of those underaged girls he was peddling originally hailed from the same dark corner as the plug doctor.” 

“Not bad,” Juan said. “But I gotta get away from Eurasia. Check this one out: Laura Loomis, Kris Jenter, and Ghislaine Maxwell are all the same person. Three different sides of the same female devil, Luciferette. It’s kind of like the negative reciprocal of The Holy Trinity.” He laughed. “My daughter helped me come up with that one. She doesn’t know it though. She’s eleven. In all seriousness, it’d never work. The people consuming this garbage don’t know the first thing about principalities, the spiritual forces of evil in the high places.” 

“Maybe not, but they sure claim to be champions of the cross.” 

“Pharisees of the upside-down cross.” 

“I almost forgot to tell you. I had a patient ask me if his health insurance would cover plugs on his upper lip.” 

“Will they?” 

“Of course not! They don’t cover anything.” 

“Juan, come in, Juan!” barked the walkie talkie clipped to his waist. 

“Copy.” 

“Girl’s bathroom’s backed up again. Copy.” 

“Copy.” 

He sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to wait till next week to share my idea.” He loaded his custodial cart. “You know there’s many who think this type of work isn’t mentally stimulating. But if you dive deeper than the superficial small-talk and the bozos I work alongside—and the bigger bozos I must report to—if you consider the workings of the inner-man—I think it’s quite the opposite. My external world’s so dismal and diarrhea-infused, I’ve been forced to develop my own alternative reality. One where goodness prevails and everyone knows how to laugh at themselves. I think you’re going to get a kick out of this.” 

*** 

Monday morning. In his ten-minute commute, Dr. George Grantuskis noticed the 1-877- KARS-4-KIDS billboard had been replaced. Where some young Jewish kids, likely descendants of the non-profit’s board of directors, stood holding instruments, insinuating their infamous jingle, it now displayed a reverse timeline of male pattern baldness. A bald skull on the left, two intermediate steps, and a full head of hair on the right. Below it, it said: 

No pain, no gain? 

No pain Rogaine 

No mane? Rogaine 

No brain… Rogaine!

On the radio, they were discussing President Donald J. Trump’s self-proclaimed “Golden Age.” Some believed in the power of the SACO tariffs. Some mentioned the Golden Dome. Some called it the collapse of the petro-dollar and The Golden Age of Poverty. Most narratives wove in elements of inflation, crypto currency, and the soaring prices of physical gold. More than a few claimed the president had personally stolen the nation’s gold reserves from deep storage in Fort Knox. It took all of his might to not drive off that little bridge behind the hospital and into the icy river below. He wondered if it was deep enough to drown. In the final minutes George sat listening to WFUG in the parking structure, dreading the dawn of another work week, nobody mentioned the presidential Golden Shower Fiasco from his first term in office. 

***

“Alright, G., check it out…” Juan sat down and jumped right into business. “They’re going to make me wash dishes in a few minutes. The million-dollar machine is broken again and I’m eager to spill the beans here. I’m going to need you to zoom out for a moment.”
George took off his glasses. “I’m all ears.” 

“The nation-states will pass away…all currencies eventually debase into obsolescence. What I’m working with here is timeless. As fundamental as the firmament. When I stepped back and analyzed the cost and benefits of PLUGs, observed the trends, limitations and whatnot, I realized what I really craved was something larger. Something deeper. Something eternal. Bigger than politics. Bigger than the countries themselves. Yes, we were robbed of the rug-pulling moment, removing the scales Alex Jones rasped into the eyes and ears of millions—and we learned from that—but equally important: We also missed the chance to implicate and advocate for the natural world.” 

George put down his croissant. 

“The source of the wind. That’s what I was first thinking. Then, I started reading about all of these abandoned, antiquated hollow Earth theories. This led me to Aten, the Isles of Anubis, Formosa Ultima, and the Walls of Asgard, which, ultimately, got me looking up at the night sky. Take the Pleiades, for instance—” He paused. “Are you with me, George?” The doctor put his glasses back on. “Are you making this stuff up?” 

“It depends on who you ask. The Pleiades are real. It’s a constellation and Greek myth about a group of seven sister-nymphs. They’re featured on the Subaru logo. You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.” He laughed. “All the other stuff is bullshit. The countries and continents beyond the polar ice wall on the flat earther’s Candyland map of the world.” 

“I see.” 

“Hear me out now, and this is where it starts to get a little crazy. If they’ve turned the sphere we live on into a 2-D gameboard, we must take things further. Anything less would be a step backward. And with the whole chemtrail thing, astrology’s grip on social media, and people’s general incapacity to observe the world around them, the sky is the limit here, literally. Take the moon…”

“I’ve heard it’s made of cheese.” 

“And people already live on it. And there’s water in the form of ice. And Neil Armstrong never even walked on it.” 

“I’ve heard elements of this as well.” 

“And Jeff, Elon, and the rest of them have become obsessed with it—not because of the cheese or rare earth metals, or the fact that it’s new terrain to expand their business empires, or a place to deposit more minions to consume their products—but what if I told you, it was a triangle?”

“You mean, space is a Ponzi scheme?” 

“No. I mean—yes—but that’s not what I’m saying here. Look: if they can turn 3-D into 2-D and it’s acceptable, why can’t we turn a circle into a triangle? The more unbelievable it seems, the more believers we gain. No risk, no reward. It’s as simple as that. No pain, Rogaine! Just think about it. It doesn’t have to make sense.

“The moon has stood the test of time. It’s above countries and borders. We can weave in the ancient civilizations: the Inca, Mayans, First Nations of the world and whatnot, all the way up to Rome and the birth of Christ. Plus, there’s all sorts of new technology. Satellite mirrors, black holes, and don’t even get me started on triangles. Have you ever seen the Pink Floyd album cover for Dark Side of the Moon? ‘We don’t need no education…’ Those guys were onto something. ‘We don’t need no thought control…’ They were trying to tell us something.” 

“But what about the moon’s phases?” 

“It’s part of the conspiracy! It’s a manufactured artifice. That creates the illusion of time passing. The whole thing’s built around labor output. They need to get people away from nature and focused more on their work performance. Keep the drones filling up the honeycomb for the bloated bureaucrats. That’s what it’s all about. The sungazers are going to really love it. I’m thinking of calling it Divine Trigonometry.” 

“At this rate, why not just say it’s a balloon with a really long string?” 

“It’s a decent detour. No angle is off-limits. The initial phase is to get people talking. So, the more perspectives, the better.” 

“What about the evidence thrown in our face every evening?” 

“Nobody looks up at the sky anymore. It’s not an accident that cellphones are ruining kids’ spines, giving them the posture of an invalid banana. It’s pulling them down, awayfrom the stars. Social media’s stronger than gravity. Plus, with all the air pollution, it’s really of no concern. I’ve got a pitch meeting lined up with Sony Music and an astrophysicist coming up with the math to back it. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just needs to appear plausible. So, what do you think?”