GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: ELON PRIME
Elon Prime
After being asked to step down as the CEO of Tesla by a boardroom coup involving actual scientists and competent engineers, Elon Musk did what any billionaire-genius-futurist would do: he launched Project VINDICATOR—a fleet of giant transforming robots coded entirely in Rust and emotional instability.
“These bots will CRUSH the libs,” Elon tweeted, from his newly renamed platform, just before climbing into the largest mech of all: Elon Prime, a 200-foot-tall chrome-plated monstrosity powered by solar panels and a fragile ego.
He marched it straight to San Francisco, where he greeted a crowd of red hats with a Nazi salute.
“TAKE THAT, PRONOUNS!” he shouted as the robot stepped on a vegan food truck. Then he tried to make his robot dab. That’s when things got weird.
A mechanical whirrrr-clunk echoed through the sky.
Elon Prime froze mid-dab. Then teetered. Then collapsed like cyrptocurrency.
Inside the cockpit, Elon screamed, legs pinned beneath a panel labeled “I did Nazi that coming.” Smoke began to fill the cabin. His flamethrower vape pen exploded in his pocket. He looked around sporadically like a traumatized chameleon on LSD.
He reached for his phone. First he called X support—voicemail. Then SpaceX—voicemail. Then DOGE at Washington DC, which connected him to a never-ending maze of extensions where voicemails greeted him at every button push.
Everyone he could rely on had been laid off.
“Please,” he whimpered into the void, “okay, okay, please, let me live, I’ll reinvent empathy... Xempathy!”
The fire crackled around him. His million dollar checks he bought elections with, his overall wealth, his bots, his platforms—they couldn’t save him now. He wept, not because of the pain, but because no one was left to blame to tweet about it. But him.
The flames ate him up. He screamed.
Somewhere far away, a liberal arts major sipped a cold brew and whispered, “Ratio’d, bitch.”
Then everything exploded.
Art and story by Hal Hefner.
Produced by Catmonkey Studio