Planet Fugazi: An Allegorical Tale
Prumzok
Welcome to Fugazi, the universe's most magnificently chaotic planet. This cosmic circus operates under the iron fist of Prumzok a dictator who has turned contradiction into performance art.
Every morning, citizens wake to a skull-rattling ping from the planetary satlink, beaming Prumzok's latest "20 Commandments" directly into their neural implants. Today's decree might demand eating orange foods while hopping on one leg; tomorrow could declare both activities treasonous. If their glorious leader wakes up cranky, the populace might find themselves walking backwards while whistling the planet's anthem double quick to avoid having their grandmothers vaporised.
Living in this perpetual anarchy takes its toll. The population suffers from "Contradiction Fatigue Syndrome," marked by chronic eye-rolling and spontaneous venting of gibberish so as not to offend or contradict the leader. The citizens stockpile anxiety meds—at least on days when medication is available. Relationships are almost impossible to maintain as "I love you" today may mean "I hate you" tomorrow, or next week the whole idea of romance could become heretical because it makes Prumzok jealous.
The infrastructure reflects this institutionalised chaos. Roads twist and turn because "straight lines are for deviants." Traffic resembles a deranged ballet, with half the vehicles driving in wavy lines while others from the day before still languish in ditches after "paying attention" got canceled mid-commute. Sanitation bots short-circuit daily, alternating between composting and launching garbage into orbit to "make the skies look festive!"
Healthcare operates on similar whimsy. Doctors toggle between prescribing religious, herbal and scientific remedies to the population, depending on Prumzok's mood. The military's state-of-the-art fleet sits idle as pilots struggle to interpret whether "attack" means "retreat" or "perform interpretive dance." They once invaded a moon because their leader screamed, "I WANT CHEESE!."
Prumzok himself remains the eye of this perpetual storm. His daily broadcasts—mandatory viewing on every screen, toilet, and toaster—feature endless rants about "fake stars" and "loser planets" who fail to grasp his genius and those who are just not nice. Citizens cope through gallows humour: "How's your day?" "Oh, you know, breathing's been outlawed, so I'm holding my breath until dinner." The alternative is a one-way ticket to the colony of ‘Very Bad People’.
Fugazi serves as a funhouse reflection of a world drowning in weaponised nonsense, where reality twists at the whim of a loudmouth with a grudge. It's what happens when the circus never leaves town, and the clowns are always running the show.
