The first chamber of the Reptilian Green Room is a little hot, but it is luxurious. The interior is incredibly leafy. Bespoke, driftwood furniture is everywhere. Clothing racks line the walls, displaying an astonishing collection of skin suits, in the uncanny likenesses of each American president. It looks like they have all been played by a single, ancient reptilian, who has won several Deep State Emmy Awards for Best Dramatic Performance in a Political Role. To the left, there is a door behind a velvet rope.
A nearby mirror reflects movement behind the clothing racks. A scaly hand emerges, gently adjusting the earlobes of a George W. Bush skin suit. The creature steps forward, still partially obscured by the shadows. His eyes flicker with ancient intelligence.
“Check this out,” he clears his throat. “‘This is not who we are as Americans.’ You like that? It gives the other side a little tickle. Whenever I do something as one of these guys, I gotta dress up like one of the other guys and say it’s wrong. It’s the only way to keep everyone happy.”
He raises a brow ridge, then gestures around the room. “We’ve been here a long time, you know. Longer than your little brains can comprehend. Presidents, senators, pop stars. All ours. We came up with all of that.”
His reptilian tongue flicks across his lips. “We’re always working on new guys. New products. Better genetics, mind control technology. You know Beeple? We’re Beeple. All of it. The works. We’re refining our frequencies. Trying to keep you little buggers soft and sleepy.”
He leans in close. “We’re not just eating your thoughts and dreams. We’re also enjoying burritos. The best burrito in the world is real. If you can find it, maybe you can join us. Listen here, mack: you either have lunch or you can become lunch. You like that? Kinda folksy.”
“Oh god, where are my manners? CBD mocktail? Maybe some bugs as a treat?”
He grins and the promise of oblivion glints in his ancient eyes.
