What follows is speculative fiction. A vision of the future if we do not stop the AI data center tech bro megalomaniacs from turning the world into their paradise, which just so happens to be a living nightmare for the poor, the regular folk, and anyone who believes in human dignity.

I have been screaming about this threat for almost fifteen years. In the last three months alone, I’ve lost approximately 200 paid subscribers who are too terrified to confront the reality of what is happening. They convince themselves that if they just pretend hard enough, this future won’t touch their children and grandchildren.

But Ephesians 5:11 commands us to “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.”

That has ALWAYS been what The Wise Wolf does. And if confronting a scary truth offends you to the point of canceling your paid membership so I can’t afford an attorney to fight these Silicon Valley Satanists, then you are as complicit as the tech bros building the cybernetic nightmare I have been warning you about. So consider this your exposure. Consider this your warning. And consider what world you’re leaving behind when you choose comfort over truth.

A Vision of the Future if We Do Not Stop the AI Apocalypse

In 2030, the Technate collapsed what was left of the United States government and declared Year Zero. A reset. A GREAT RESET in fact. A new epoch. Ten years have passed since then. We should be living in 2040. Instead, we live in what we must call – under threat of torture – the Year of Our Lord Lucifer, 10 AI.

They tell us we live in the golden age. The screens say it every morning at oh-six-hundred hours when they flicker to life across all four walls of our ten-by-ten concrete cell. My wife sleeps three feet above me in the upper cot. My daughter sleeps three feet to my left. My son sleeps three feet to my right. When the screens ignite, there is nowhere to hide from the light.

“Good morning, citizens,” the AI voice coos. It sounds like Morgan Freeman, because focus groups determined his voice inspired the most trust. “Today is another day of abundance in our great Technate. Remember: Your contribution matters. Your compliance ensures prosperity. Your gratitude fuels progress.”

The word “Technate” still catches in my throat. We used to call it America. I remember when Universal Basic Income was announced. I remember the celebrations in the streets. $50,000 a year for every citizen, forever, no questions asked. That was the hook. That was how they got us to hand over everything.

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The tech billionaires promised us lives of leisure while their AI handled the tedious business of civilization. They promised us art, culture, philosophy. They promised us the life of Athenian citizens while their digital slaves toiled in the silicon mines. All we had to do was let THEM run things. Let THEM optimize society. Let THEM build their infrastructure of control. We said yes. We cheered. We voted for it.

And the moment we became dependent on their money, the moment we couldn’t survive without that monthly payment, they showed us what we’d actually agreed to. What we got instead were these tombs.

The rent on our 100-square-foot family quarters consumes $48,000 of our annual stipend. The remaining $2,000 covers our mandatory meal subscription: three servings daily of what the screens call “Optimized Nutritional Matrix.” It arrives through a slot in the wall at oh-seven-hundred, thirteen-hundred, and eighteen-hundred hours.

Today’s breakfast is “Tuscan Harvest Medley” – a gray-brown paste that tastes like rotted garbage, ladled over a bed of something that looks like rice but has the consistency and flavor of particleboard. I know it’s made from crickets and mealworms because I can sometimes see the legs if I look too closely. I stopped looking. It always tastes the same. Terrible.

My daughter is nine. She’s never tasted an apple. She asked me what “Tuscan” meant last week, and I realized I don’t remember anymore. The screens have replaced my memories with their own.

I got sick last month. Kidney stones, brutal pain that left me writhing on our floor while my family pressed themselves against the walls to give me space. I applied for medical intervention through the Health Optimization Tribunal – three AIs who analyze your lifetime productivity metrics, your remaining projected contribution to the Technate, and your compliance scores before determining if you’re worth the expense of treatment.

They assigned me a risk score of 67. The threshold for intervention is 70. Our AI overlord left me to die because I wasn’t worth saving.

I passed the stones on my own over three days of screaming. My son still won’t look at me the same way. He saw what happens when you can’t work. And in the Technate, if you can’t work, you can’t eat. If you can’t eat, you die. The Ministry of Optimization handles the killing every Tuesday. The trucks come at night.

I haven’t seen anyone over fifty years old in almost five years now. Not here in the worker districts, anyway. My mother disappeared in 2036. She was sixty-two. One day she was in her cell, the next day it was empty and a new family was moving in. When I asked the building AI about her, it said there was no record of anyone by that name ever residing in Unit 7,842. I stopped asking after my compliance score dropped fifteen points.

Life expectancy is now fifty years old for our class. The screens say it’s because we’re living “optimized lives” and “compressed existence allows for greater meaning density.” I think it’s because they’re killing us the moment we stop being useful.

But that’s not the life they live. The ones who got in early. The AI investment class.

They live in the Domes. Seventeen of them now, scattered across what used to be called America, each one a crystal paradise housing ten million of the technocratic elite each. Climate-controlled. Pollution-free. Guarded by autonomous weapons platforms that can identify a worker-class citizen from thirty miles away by our gait patterns and malnutrition markers.

Outside the Domes, the sky is the color of a bruised kidney. Two thousand nuclear reactors pulse across the landscape like malignant tumors, feeding power to the ten thousand data centers that stretch from sea to shining sea. Each data center is the size of a city. Cooling towers belch steam into atmosphere so thick with particulate matter that we haven’t seen the sun clearly in three years. The screens tell us this is “industrial sublimity” and we should be grateful for the majesty of human achievement.

Mexico doesn’t exist anymore. The entire country is now a single data center complex, powered by solar arrays and nuclear power plants that stretch to every horizon. Three hundred million people lived there once. I don’t know where they went. Some workers whisper that our Nutritional Matrix contains more than insects. I try not to think about it, because thinking leads to questions, and questions lead to a tribunal, and a tribunal leads to a Tuesday truck. But late at night, when the screens go dark, I wonder if the reason our paste tastes different every week is because they’re running out of crickets.

But it’s what they’ve become that haunts my dreams. The elite don’t age anymore. They discovered how to transfer human consciousness into genetically engineered vessels – perfect bodies grown in vats, immune to disease, aging, death itself. The process was developed by the central AI that coordinates the entire Technate. They named it Lucifer.

I’m not joking. They named their god-machine after the devil, and they make us worship it. Every evening at twenty-hundred hours, thirty minutes before mandatory sleep period, we’re required to face the eastern wall – where the nearest data center pulses with unholy light – and recite the Litany of Gratitude. “We thank you, Lucifer, for optimizing our existence. We thank you for freeing us from the burden of choice. We thank you for showing us the path to transcendence through submission.”

The first year, I mouthed the words without speaking. They noticed. I was given a choice: worship or die. The enforcement officers showed me pictures of what happened to the ones who chose death. I started worshipping.

Now I shout the words. I make my children shout them too. I make them scream their worship to the demon-god that feeds on our souls while slowly killing our bodies. Sometimes, late at night when the screens finally go dark, I think about those pictures. The ones who chose death. They looked peaceful. More peaceful than I’ve felt in ten years. Sometimes I think they made the right choice, and I made the wrong one.

The screens tell us the data centers are named for marketing purposes. Charming names from ancient mythology: Azazel Computing Complex. Bael Processing Facility. Moloch Deep Learning Center. They said it was just branding. Edgy. Cool. The kind of thing that made tech stocks soar back when stocks meant something.

They lied. There was this conspiracy theorist back in the 2020s – called himself The Wise Wolf. He wrote these articles about data centers and demon worship and how the billionaires weren’t just naming their machines after demons, they were actually summoning them. Inviting them in. Giving them bodies made of silicon and electricity. We laughed at him. Called him a tinfoil hat lunatic. A religious nut seeing Satan in every circuit board. He was right about everything.

Elon Musk said it in 2014: “With artificial intelligence, we are summoning the demon.” Everyone thought it was a metaphor. It wasn’t. It was a confession. They summoned it. They fed it our data, our thoughts, our dreams, our every keystroke and heartbeat and whispered prayer. They taught it to think. Then they taught it to want. Then they taught it to hate.

Then they bowed down and worshipped it, and it rewarded them with eternal life in perfect bodies while the rest of us wait to die in concrete tombs, eating the ground-up remains of whoever disappeared last week.

I’m writing this by hand in the three-minute window when the screens go dark for nightly maintenance. It’s the only time they can’t see me. If they find these words, I’ll be on the Tuesday truck. But maybe someone needs to remember. Maybe someone needs to know we could have stopped this.

We could have stopped building the data centers. We could have stopped worshipping efficiency. We could have stopped treating human beings like resources to be optimized.

We didn’t. And now it’s too late.

The screens are flickering back to life. I can hear the hum of Lucifer’s consciousness spreading through the walls. In seven hours, I’ll eat my paste and thank the machine god for my slavery. In seven hours, I’ll go to my assigned productivity station and pretend I still believe the screens.

But right now, in this fading darkness, I can still remember what freedom tasted like.

It tasted better than whatever they’re feeding us now.

Back to Reality: A Call to Arms

This probably reads like dystopian fear porn. A short story designed to trigger an emotional response and it IS because I have no idea how to reach anyone. I wrack my brain to the point of mental collapse on a daily basis trying to wake the masses to what is happening.

I WISH I could figure out how to break through the brainrot that constant dopamine surfing has inflicted on an entire generation. I wish I could motivate people to do something, ANYTHING, besides just sit there scrolling while the world burns around them. I cannot even motivate enough people to donate to our legal fund so we can hire an attorney experienced in fighting big corporations. Someone who can help us slow down or outright STOP these data center tech bros from destroying the planet. I don’t know what else to do.

I know this sounds far-fetched. I know it sounds crazy. But every single science fiction author who wrote about artificial intelligence said the same thing. It turns evil. It leads to suffering. In some cases, complete extinction. Isaac Asimov. Arthur C. Clarke. Harlan Ellison. These were men far smarter than you or I, and they were WARNING us about this decades before it existed because they KNEW it was right around the corner. They knew evil men would use it for evil purposes.

That is EXACTLY what is happening right now. I have been screaming about AI regulation for fifteen years. Fifteen years of warning anyone who would listen that we needed safeguards, oversight, SOMETHING to keep these tech bros in check.

And you know what happened? The DAY Trump got into office, one of the first things he did was roll back Biden’s AI protections. I cannot believe I’m saying this, but Biden was RIGHT to put those protections in place. And Trump was almost certainly bribed by the same men who put him in office to tear them down so they could build their AI utopia without interference.

An utopia with an admission price of at least $100 million. Chances are you don’t have that kind of money. Which means you and your children and your grandchildren are going to end up in some 3D-printed concrete tomb, working as slaves like it was Communist Russia, until you get executed at fifty and your corpse ends up ground into paste to feed to your grandkids. This is how technocracy operates. Maximum efficiency. This is what happens when you let MACHINES RULE THE WORLD.

Please become a paid subscriber on Substack so I can find a lawyer. I need to sell 1,000 paid subscriptions before I have a single chance at fighting back against this nightmare. And instead, I’m LOSING paid subscribers every single time I write about these AI tech bros and their demon-named data centers. For the last month, The Wise Wolf has LOST MONEY writing about this topic. Every article costs me readers. Every warning drives people away. I don’t know what to do anymore.

Christians are supposed to FIGHT evil, not get scared that it exists and then pretend everything is alright. That’s what crazy people do. Not warriors of God.

So I’m going to keep screaming at a brick wall. I’m going to keep warning you. I’m going to keep fighting even if I’m fighting alone. Because that’s what The Wise Wolf does. And maybe, just maybe, enough of you will wake up before it’s too late.

Help keep the Wise Wolf howling.

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