456 | Migrating Snakes Bite

456 | Evan Warns Emigrant About the Subsidized Snake Migration

Chapter 1: Evan Warns the Citizens About the Migrating Snakes

As Evan warns the citizens about the migrating snakes in the city square, the heavy, oily air of Emigrant signals a spiritual collapse. The air in the small city of Emigrant doesn’t just feel heavy today; it feels oily.

I stand in the middle of the city square, staring up at the massive digital screen hanging over the fountain. A reporter with a perfectly symmetrical smile gestures toward a series of neon-green charts that flicker like radioactive snakes.

“The migration is natural! The migration is inevitable!” she chirps. “Our complex charts show a predicted population increase of our new serpentine neighbors. It’s a sign of a vibrant, growing ecosystem!”

Vibrant, I think. Sure. Nothing says vibrant like venomous predators moving into your cul-de-sac.

I scan the crowd. Most people in the square look like they’re half-asleep, their eyes glazed, coffee cups in hand, faces washed in blue light from the screen. As long as they have their entertainment and caffeine, they don’t care what slithers into their world. They nod along to the media’s hypnotic programming like it’s a lullaby.

I shift my backpack and feel that familiar shiver in my chest—the grids and force fields of misused mystic light stretching across the city. It’s a frequency I know too well. It always shows up right before a full-on spiritual collapse.

“Check this out, Evan!” a voice calls.

I turn. It’s a guy from school, the kind who loves anything labeled “progressive” because it means he never has to use common sense. He grins and points toward the park.

“The Mayor’s already on it,” he says. “Reptile housing and feeding stations. We’re finally being inclusive to the woodland migrants.”

Near the trees, sleek metal structures gleam in the afternoon light—rows of miniature luxury condos for reptiles, complete with heating lamps and tiny artificial caves. Below them, stainless-steel troughs overflow with specialized reptile kibble.

The ultimate move of a failing state: giving benefits to creatures literally designed to bite you.

Does no one see the math here? Snakes migrate from the woods. They build nests. They have babies. Those babies build more nests. Nests stack on nests until there’s more scale than sidewalk.

I step up onto the rim of the fountain, the city square spread out in front of me like a stage. Blue fire stirs in my core. I feel like a Pillar of Mystic Flame in a sea of gray fog.

“Am I the only one who can see this?” I call out, my voice slicing through the murmur. “Migrant snakes make new nests. Those nests make baby snakes. Eventually, our city is overrun. That’s not progress. That’s a slow-motion invasion.”

The reaction hits instantly.

The reporter on the big screen pauses mid-sentence. People around me stop looking at the snakes and start looking at me.

“Stop being so negative, Evan!” someone shouts. “The Mayor says they’re quasi-legal residents now. They’re just looking for a better life!”

My jaw tightens. Memories—older than this lifetime—flicker behind my eyes: a garden, a whispering Serpent, a promise that starts as possibility and ends as a Fall.

They can’t feel it, I think. They don’t have mystic senses. They can’t identify an enemy even when it curls around their ankles.

Down by the park, a baby snake slides into one of the new shelters, its scales catching the light. A city worker refills the kibble with a proud smile.

“You get more of what you subsidize,” I mutter. “And right now, we’re subsidizing our own extinction.”

Chapter 2: The Mayor Arrests Evan for Exposing the Deadly Snakebites

Before the Mayor arrests Evan for exposing the deadly snakebites in a local restaurant, the media attempts to hide the mysterious deaths. The mysterious deaths start on a Tuesday.

By Wednesday, the media had already turned them into red bars on a chart.

I sit in the back of a greasy little restaurant, the air thick with fry oil and fake cheer. A muted TV on the wall flashes breaking news while my friends argue over last weekend’s football scores. I scroll my news feed and catch another headline.

“Another one,” I say under my breath.

A local shopkeeper—the guy who sells snake-themed merch—shows up in a grainy photo on my phone. They find him slumped in an alleyway behind his store.

“Oh well, we all die eventually,” Rev says, not looking up from his burger. “Anyway, did you see that touchdown in the fourth quarter?”

A calm, bright heat flares in my chest—the threefold flame of my soul. How do they not see it? People don’t just start dropping dead like this for no reason. Not before the “migrant” snake population explodes.

It’s like everyone’s inner radar is jammed by nonstop scrolling and empty noise.

My chair screeches against the linoleum as I stand.

“Am I the only one who sees the obvious?” I say, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear. “The snakes are causing these deaths. It’s not a coincidence.”

The response doesn’t come from my table.

It comes from the front of the restaurant, where the Town Mayor stands flanked by a couple of serious-faced officers and a full camera crew. They’re doing what the caption on the TV calls “a safety sweep”—checking for violations of the latest diversity, equity, and inclusion mandates.

The Mayor is the one pushing the bill to give the migrating serpents free housing, education, and healthcare. His slicked-back hair doesn’t move when he turns. His eyes lock onto me like I’m a virus on a screen.

“Arrest that young man for spreading useful information,” he says calmly, pointing.

The words don’t even make sense at first. Useful information.

Two agents in dark suits move toward me.

Before they reach my table, a pair of people in blindingly white lab coats step forward. They look like scientists pulled from a commercial—perfect hair, shiny badges, clipboards held like shields.

“We have completed our research,” the lead biologist announces, adjusting his glasses with clinical precision. “After conducting a lengthy, data-driven study, we have concluded that people are dying from poisonous snakebites. Furthermore, we have determined that snakebites come from…” He pauses, milking the suspense. “Snakes.”

The restaurant erupts in relieved laughter, like they’re in on some grand joke.

“See, Evan?” someone snorts. “Science!”

The Mayor beams, soaking in the cameras’ attention.

“Thank you, esteemed experts,” he says. “Now we can move forward with stronger safety measures to protect our quasi-legal serpentine residents.”

He lifts a pair of heavy, knee-high leather boots as if he’s revealing a sacred relic.

“Effective immediately, no citizen is allowed to capture or kill any snake,” he declares. “Instead, everyone is required to wear tall, snake-proof boots at all times. You must also maintain a six-foot distance from all snake nests. Please do not trigger the wandering snakes. We wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings.”

A few people actually clap.

I look down at my beat-up sneakers. Blue mystic fire rises in my throat, hot and sharp.

We’re not fixing the problem. We’re agreeing to live in a cage full of venom and calling it compassion.

“This isn’t safety,” I say as the guards close in, hands reaching for my arms. “It’s slow-motion suicide. You’re subsidizing the very thing that’s killing us.”

No one answers.

As they drag me toward the door, the restaurant TV cuts back to a sports recap. The red death bars slide off-screen, replaced by a slow-motion touchdown.

Chapter 3: Evan Predicts the Tempters Will Destroy Souls from a Jail Cell

While Evan predicts the Tempters will destroy souls from a jail cell, a manipulative media reporter attempts to exploit his prophecies. The jail cell is four walls of cold gray concrete and iron bars—but for the first time in weeks, I actually feel safe.

I sit on the scratchy cot and stretch my senses. The air inside the cell is stale, but it’s clean of that crawling feeling I get on the streets. The snakes can’t get through six inches of reinforced concrete.

Irony, my inner voice says. The only place in Emigrant where you can breathe is a prison.

The heavy door creaks open.

A woman steps in wearing sharp heels and sharper lipstick. She holds a microphone like a dagger, a cameraman shadowing her every move. Her teeth are movie-poster white. Her eyes are glass—reflecting everything, absorbing nothing.

Every answer I give, she’s already scripting her own version of it.

“What’s it like being in prison for prophesying?” she asks, voice smooth and practiced, as if she’s done this a thousand times.

“Safe,” I say, staring at the ceiling. “There are no snakes in here.”

She leans in, sensing a moment she can weaponize.

“Have you had any more inspired visions?” she pushes. “You’re already in jail, so you can’t get into more trouble. What’s your next prophecy? We can pay you $100 for each prediction. We don’t care if your foresight is accurate or not.”

I look at her properly this time.

Under the perfect makeup and studio hair, I see it—a soul stuck in a loop—someone who traded away their discernment for a paycheck and applause.

“People lack the mystic senses needed to identify their enemies,” I say quietly. “They can’t see where this leads. They’re supporting the Tempters who want to destroy their souls.”

Her smile doesn’t move, but her eyes narrow.

“Thank you for your ‘noble’ insights,” she replies, turning back to the camera. “We’ll be sure to tell everyone about your demeaning criticism of the townsfolk. It’s a good thing you’re in a protected cell. They’ll be distraught when they hear you called them senseless, blind idiots.”

She doesn’t even wait for me to respond. She signals the cameraman, and they slip out. The door slams shut.

A moment later, the screen bolted to the wall flickers on by itself.

The Mayor appears, framed by flashing emergency lights. His face glows with what I recognize as High-Voltage Anxiety. He lives for this.

“Emergency shutdown!” he announces. “To avoid being bitten, citizens are encouraged to remain indoors.”

A large red banner scrolls across the bottom of the screen: NEW EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS.

“To deal with this emerging epidemic,” the Mayor continues, “all non-essential businesses—including churches and community centers—are now closed. Essential companies, such as bars and casinos, will remain open.”

Of course, I think.

He clears his throat and smiles wider.

“To help the human body tolerate bites from adult snakes, we are introducing a new mandated program for all ages. Humans, including young children, will be placed in rooms full of baby serpents until they have been bitten multiple times. Baby snakes have less toxic venom, and this unproven method may help survivors tolerate future bites from adult snakes. Citizens must return every six months to be bitten again.”

My stomach twists.

The feed cuts to a brightly colored slideshow.

All non-essential businesses, including churches, remain closed. Essential businesses like bars and casinos are open only to citizens who can show proof of minor snakebites.

The Mayor’s voice echoes over the images.

“Anyone without bite marks is forbidden to travel. All travelers must remove their clothing at security checkpoints so inspectors can count the number of bites they have received. Those without bite marks are banned from flying, fired from their jobs, and prohibited from serving as soldiers. If you want to belong, you have to take the bite.”

A wave of nausea crashes over me.

This isn’t just bad policy. This is the Tempter strategy in its final form.

The broadcast shifts into a quick-cut highlight reel.

The Mayor stands in a crowded hall. “This crisis meeting is to inform citizens of new emergency taxes to manage this deadly epidemic. Baby snakes are being raised to help humans get accustomed to being bitten.”

The media cuts in with glossy charts and fiery graphics.

“Look at this!” the anchor says. “Snakebite deaths are really increasing—numbers higher than our entire town population!” A pause. “Fortunately, investigators discovered that pets, livestock, and insects are all included in the statistics. But big numbers get more clicks, so we’ll keep using them.”

The Mayor reappears. “Good news! A team of doctors has determined that tiny snakebites also kill humans. They say they must continue their research in hopes of reaching a different conclusion. In the meantime, they recommend that babies sleep with snakes to increase their exposure to small bites. Our mini-snake-bite distribution centers are doing very well.”

A graph labeled REVENUE rockets upward.

Humans continue to die.

The scene cuts. The interviewer from earlier appears again, facing me on a split screen.

“Have you had any more inspired visions?” her recorded voice asks.

I watch my own face on the monitor. My eyes look older than they should.

“The townsfolk are doomed unless they cast out the serpents,” my on-screen self says. “The unseen Tempters whisper dark thoughts into people’s minds and make them believe the ideas are their own. Don’t listen to them. They pretend to be harmless friends, so you’ll drop your guard. They wait until you’re unaware and strike where you’re most vulnerable. These deceptive hypnotists cannot be trusted. You should never help them. They are your deadly enemies.”

The media cuts to a BREAKING NEWS banner.

“After a long period of solitary meditation,” the anchor announces, “Evan, the notorious prophet, has made new predictions. He claims our town is being invaded by ghostly serpents called Tempters who bite our souls like vampires. These unseen monstrous leeches ‘eat souls’ to sustain their pitiable existence.”

The Mayor appears again, rubbing his temples like he’s tired of dealing with weirdness.

“To protect the mental health of our citizens,” he says, “the government recommends that everyone use headphones to play loud rock music to drown out any mental suggestions projected by our uninvited serpentine foreigners.”

Then a different story flashes on-screen.

“A radical group of anti-snake warriors is pushing to expose the truth that snakebites kill people,” the anchor says. “They’ve created a website showing the locations of snake nests, tagging and naming each reptile. Using sophisticated tracking technology, they record how many people each snake has bitten.”

My recorded voice cuts through the noise again.

“Exposing the truth and talking about the problem does nothing to reduce the number of snakebites,” I say.

The media counters immediately.

“We must keep exposing the truth,” the anchor insists, “and eventually the snakes will stop biting.”

The town splinters on-screen into two clashing colors: SNAKE SUPPORTERS vs. SNAKE-BITE CONSPIRACY THEORISTS.

“Pro-snake supporters are fighting back,” the report continues. “They’ve launched a campaign for citizens to adopt oppressed serpents as legal children and move them into their homes. They claim snakes are only biting in response to homelessness and being disliked.”

Clips show people cradling snakes like infants.

“Snake lovers believe that a serpent’s behavior will improve if it is loved and supported. The city has officially declared itself a Snake Sanctuary.”

I hear my own voice again, flat and tired.

“Loving the serpents will not change their evil nature.”

I stare at the screen, heart hammering. We’re not just subsidizing the enemy anymore.

We’re being forced to join the nest.

Chapter 4: Diesel Visits Evan to Discuss the Snake Haters and Sympathizers

When Diesel visits Evan to discuss the Snake Haters and Sympathizers, the ideological war consuming the city finally reaches the prison cell. The cell door buzzes. It opens just enough for Diesel to slip through, escorted by a bored-looking guard.

Diesel looks the same—broad shoulders, faded T-shirt, hair sticking out under a cap. But his eyes carry a new kind of confusion.

“The Mayor officially declares Emigrant a Snake Sanctuary,” he says before I can speak. “To ‘please the snakes.’”

He sits on the edge of my cot, rubbing his face.

“The city has cracked in half, man. I don’t know which side to support.”

I lean against the wall and study him. He’s not the only one caught in the split.

“On one side,” I say, “you’ve got the Snake Haters—a bunch of tech-savvy rebels who run that website with all the nests and tagged serpents. They think that if they expose enough data, the problem solves itself. But talking about fangs doesn’t stop fangs from sinking in.”

Diesel nods slowly.

“And the other side?” he asks.

“The Snake Sympathizers,” I answer. “They’re lost in a fantasy where snakes come to teach us enlightenment. To them, serpents are spiritual guides who show us how to live in harmony with the planet and fight evil humans destroying the Earth.”

I see the disbelief on his face, so I keep going.

“They’re launching campaigns to adopt the oppressed serpents as legal children and move them into their bedrooms. They teach that death by snakebite earns you an automatic ticket to Heaven. They claim snakes only bite when they feel unloved, offended, or homeless.”

Diesel stares at the floor.

In the back of my mind, my oldest memory stirs again: a garden, a voice promising secret wisdom, a single bite that rewires everything.

It’s the ultimate beguiling.

They think they can love the evil out of a predator. But all they’re doing is feeding the miasma of despair.

The news proves me right a few days later.

A retired teacher—one of those sweet souls who believes everyone deserves a free pass and a hug—starts a “Snake Good Manners School.” The media shows her arranging tiny plates and cloth napkins.

“She invites the neighborhood cobras to a lovely luncheon,” the anchor says, voice bright.

They cut to the headline: LOCAL TEACHER FOUND DEAD IN ‘UNPREDICTABLE’ TRAGEDY.

She serves them lunch.

They make her the dessert.

The final straw snaps during an anti-snake rally in the city square.

The footage plays on loop: a protester shouting into a megaphone, the crowd chanting, boots stomping. The guy loses his balance and drops to one knee—right on a snake’s neck.

The serpent dies instantly.

The Snake Sympathizers erupt.

They slam into the crowd like a wave. Fists swing. Signs shatter. Citizens fight citizens in a blur of rage while, in the shadows, snakes watch from cracks in the pavement and holes in the walls.

They don’t intervene.

They don’t have to.

The news shows empty homes next—a row of houses with curtains hanging and toys left in yards. Families once lived there. Now each abandoned home is filled with coiling shadows and the soft scrape of scales.

Multi-level snake nests.

The city isn’t just falling.

It’s being handed over.

Chapter 5: The Mayor Revokes Snake Citizenship and the Super-Mice Evolve

After the Mayor revokes snake citizenship and the super-mice evolve in the surrounding forests, Evan realizes a much darker alliance is forming. The Mayor finally slams the reset button.

Not because the people are dying.

Because the treasury is.

“Effective immediately,” he announces on every screen in the city, “all snake quasi-citizenship is revoked. Mouse farming is illegal. We are deporting every migrant serpent back to the woods.”

From my cell, I watch the footage: trucks loaded with cages, workers in thick gloves, long lines of snakes driven out of town like exiles.

Finally, I think—a sliver of Absolute Justice.

For a while, the charts show what everyone wants to see—the snake population drops. For a heartbeat, the lines dip.

Then they flatten.

Then they climb.

“They’re migrating back in faster than they’re being kicked out,” I say to the empty cell. “You can’t send an enemy across an open border and then act surprised when they come back for the free food, housing, and healthcare.”

The Snake Haters don’t wait for the Mayor to solve the math.

The media’s tone shifts.

“Radical anti-snake warriors are now legally hunting the snakes,” the anchor reports. “War has been declared. Our enemy is finally identified. Hunters are exterminating snakes by the thousands.”

Footage shows people in camo gear, hauling limp serpents like trophies.

“The hunters are selling the snake meat to citizens,” the anchor continues. “There is no poison once the head is removed. Snake meat has become a new sustainable food resource. As demand increases, hunters begin harvesting snakes in the forests beyond the city.”

The Mayor appears again, hands folded.

“Our town is finally free of the invading snakes,” he proclaims.

The celebration doesn’t last.

“Oh no!” a new anchor cries, barely hiding their excitement. “A new crisis has arisen. The specially bred farm mice have gradually become better at surviving. This new strain of ‘super-mice’ grows larger and stronger. Without snakes to eat them, they’re expanding in number, creating another illegal invasion.”

The Mayor sighs dramatically.

“We must raise taxes again,” he says, “so my brother’s firm can research the super-mouse phenomenon.”

Charts flash.

“A recent study concludes that removing the snakes allowed super-mice to breed unchecked,” the media explains. “Protests are now pushing to defund serpent deportation. Many believe the only way to control the mice problem is to employ the snakes to eat them.”

I shake my head at the screen.

“Feeding, supporting, or employing your enemy is never a good idea,” I say.

But the Snake Sympathizers are already ahead of everyone.

“Our cameras have spotted Snake Sympathizers in the woods,” the anchor announces. “They are inviting forest serpents to form caravans and return to the city to eat the abundant mice. In exchange, they promise guaranteed housing and medical care. Multiple caravans of ‘slithering saviors’ are now on their way back to Emigrant.”

On another channel, the Snake Haters glare into microphones.

“We’ve learned to identify our enemy,” their leader says. “We will not support snakes or mice. We declare all-out war on the super-mice.”

Days later, the media celebrates.

“Hooray! Both the snakes and the mice are gone,” a cheerful voice reports.

A follow-up segment features the Mayor’s brother, a scientist in a lab coat.

“The mice were eradicated long before our study even finished,” he admits. “They should never be farmed again. They must be wiped out completely.”

But it’s too late.

Without snakes to eat them, the super-mice had already multiplied for months. They grow bigger, stronger, smarter. They slip past traps, chew through walls, swarm in packs.

Soon, the Snake Lovers are back on every channel, shouting that only the serpents can save Emigrant from the rodent invasion.

I sit on my cot and think.

Humanity’s blind belief that every creature that looks human has a divine soul warps everything. We cling to the idea that anything can be redeemed if we hug it hard enough. So we keep feeding, supporting, and hiring our enemies.

And then we act surprised when we get bitten.

Deep in the woods beyond the city lights, a different story unfolds.

The super-mice gather in a hollow lit by moonlight. Their eyes glint like tiny coals. Across from them, coiled around a broken tree, the leaders of the snake colony watch in silence.

They don’t fight.

Not anymore.

They’ve evolved past that.

They’ve realized something new: humanity is the real problem.

Humans—with our dulled mystic senses, with our addiction to fantasy worlds where predators become pets—are easy to trick. Easy to use.

Spiders drop down from the branches, their legs whispering secrets across the bark. Bats hang upside down from dark limbs, eyes gleaming. Snakes uncoil. Mice twitch their whiskers.

They form a council.

They pool their dark thoughts, their poisons, their germs, their whispers. They design something bigger than any of them alone.

Not just migrants.

Not just pests.

An anti-human super-species.

A force built to target our greatest weakness: our hunger for comforting lies and our willingness to breathe in the miasma we create ourselves.

The day my cell door buzzes open, the guard barely looks at me.

“You’re free,” he says.

Free.

I step out into a city that looks normal from the surface. Streets are swept. Screens are bright. Bars and casinos glow like beacons.

But I can feel it.

The snakes are gone from the sidewalks.

The real war—spiritual, invisible, and deadly—moves into the shadows of the woods.

And those shadows are getting much, much bigger.

Chapter Synopsis:

In the city of Emigrant, a strange spiritual collapse unfolds as venomous snakes begin migrating into urban areas and are welcomed by the Mayor and local citizens as "quasi-legal residents" given free housing, food, and healthcare. While the town plunges into emergency protocols, strict vaccine-like snakebite mandates, and a deep ideological split between "Snake Haters" and "Snake Sympathizers," Evan warns citizens from a jail cell that these creatures and their invisible Tempter counterparts are destroying human souls. As the town frantically cycles through policies—banishing snakes, letting "super-mice" overpopulate, and then inviting the serpents back—Evan realizes the true threat runs deeper: a coordinated anti-human alliance forming in the shadows of the woods, preparing a spiritual and biological assault against a population addicted to comforting lies.

Core Themes & Laws:

• The Subsidized Infiltration: How failing societies invite, subsidize, and normalize their own destruction under the guise of "compassion" and inclusion.

• The Blindness of Sensory Distraction: How constant media programming, entertainment, and digital noise jam human inner radar and mystic senses, preventing people from identifying their real enemies.

• The False Redemption Trap: The human illusion that predatory, dark forces can be "loved" or hugged into goodness, leading to self-sabotage and the feeding of enemies.

• The Escalating Crisis of Misplaced Priorities: The absurdity of bureaucratic mandates, emergency protocols, and statistical inflation designed to control populations rather than solve root problems.

Key Entities Featured in this Document:

• Evan: A perceptive young man with active mystic senses who tries to warn the citizens of Emigrant about the snake migration and spiritual collapse, landing him briefly in jail.

• The Mayor: A slick, media-driven politician who champions serpentine inclusion, enforces bizarre snakebite mandates, and shifts policies based on financial panic.

• Diesel: A local resident caught in the ideological crossfire between the pro-snake and anti-snake factions.

• The Tempters: Unseen, vampire-like spiritual entities that whisper dark thoughts, drain human energy, and orchestrate the downfall of souls.