The Blazing Flower in the Year One Rabbit

by Yalın Karagül

Jul 12, 2025

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅🏰 this piece is part of PRINCESS, our second digital collection of works. PRINCESS responds to the problematic of modern princessdom through pieces by theorists, writers, and artists. 🏰⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

‘The best thing about planning to kill everybody in America is you can begin with anybody in America.’ — Blake Butler, 300,000,000.

One Rabbit

It is 4,730AD and the year One Rabbit has begun again. All over the titanic ash-world of Earth, a star-spangled banner flies in the mind of the blood-soaked angels. Every second, enough in profits is churned out of the gutter of the snake-shit machine to feed 30 Billion. None of it goes south. All goes to the mouth of the Atlantic. The pink-flesh and their rigid spines nevertheless whip themselves to the YIMBYmanics. The society is an angel falling and falling. A great Luciferian titan which everyone eats and eats and eats. Every second. Every day. Every week, month, and year the whipped children bleed in its holy, holy, name. The cars fly out of their handles and the treatlerites rampage in the jungle, consuming the heads of the Indian for his late-production of the Temu Maize.™

The golden lungs of light flap into the burning sky. The world turns and turns and people run into the Molochian banners that rise in the East and march West! West! West! The control machines still shake the Earth. Every second, the Gross Domestic Product of the burning world rises by 9090909090909000099090009.9%. For the past 1,000 years, ever since the sons of the Silicone Startups marched to Yerushaláyim and burnt the holy sites of Ibrahim hand in hand with the Techno-Jihadists, trumpets have been blaring in the sky for a rapture that cannot come.

There was a time no one recalls where the dictatorship of information-control was not here. But in those days, the seventh sons of the devils were laying in wait. With their golden wire hair and their copper nails and their silicon-wafer dreams and their metal minds and their terracotta twists. They dreamed up their mothers’ pool. They heard a flesh-fist come knockin’ and they were too happy to oblige. It was in those days a simple message entered the minds of all sentient loving life. ‘We have not come to negotiate. We have entered the Earth through force of arms.’

Now all the continents and oceans have veins that lead towards a great spinning centre. A centre called K.O.N.T.R.O.L. Within a spinning light, K.O.N.T.R.O.L eats the world and sweats hegemony. It has long since been forgotten how K.O.N.T.R.O.L functions, but as it has attained sentience it has transformed into an angelic engine of perpetual motion. K.O.N.T.R.O.L moves through minds and sound in shifting spheres of hate. K.O.N.T.R.O.L’s language is media. It talks through movies and sees through cameras. K.O.N.T.R.O.L guarantees that this is the best of all possible worlds. The past ceases to exist and the life on Earth cannot breathe. In the metropoles of the world, invisible hands trade countless sums. The liberal priests ride the graphs to utopia as the scorpions of famine consume the human. The skies are clear but everything is grey and creaking. Everything is doing great but everything has no future and rots perpetually. No one knows it yet, but a pink mist gathers in the gaps of space. A smile a thousand kilometers long is burnt onto her face as she flies at the speed of joy toward the burning world.

Yet under the skin of the beast a red monster grows. As the God-Bots ravage the forests and consume the villages and arm the butchers with all the MOABs and F16s money can buy, a great rot in the eye of control is raging. In the jungles and the deserts and the urban slums, for many years the Xeno-Maoists have waged a global people’s war with their bows and arrows and fleshen guns with the one mind plan of killing everyone in the Atlantic dream. Now, in Revolutionary Base Area #12 the alarms sound once more.

Attention all bases! Attention all bases! This is not a drill! Attention all planetary bases! Enemy cells have activated! Out! Out! Out! Storm the Cities! This is not a drill! Attention all bases!

Outside the thunder roars. The rains come down on the streets of Baghdad. The ‘S.’ Professor puffs his pipe and dreams up the beast with his dissertations slinged around his chest, hooded and hanging like a Spaghetti Western convict. The ‘S.’ Professor looks at the time and heaves himself off his armchair. He is not really a human. A wandering Red Skeleton with smoking hearts and Centipede eyes. A green gas mask remains fused to his face for all eternity. The ‘S.’ Professor coughs and asks ‘What say you Josie…? You think this one’s for real?’

Josie the Cut is stuck in an awkward stick, completing the language bomb. The pirate of the seven seas, she is not really human either, though you’d never guess it. Her mother was born in the City of the Holocaust as the Adriatic shook with revolution. Her next mother was born in Yemen in the opening years of the great global people’s war. Every speck on her has been stolen and rebuilt for her own ends, she had built herself up from the murder-brains and fashioned her spirit from the particles of the nuclear mist. Those parts that worked came in, those that didn’t were culled until a perfect mujahid was formed. Amidst her digital mind covered by an eyepatch and a squawking parrot are all the crystal-coated roads towards an aristocracy of the bomb. With her hook she closes her eyepatch and turns to the ‘S.’ Professor, instinctively pointing her AK at him.

‘I told you ‘Doc! Don’t ask me those types of questions! They piss me the hell off. Every day is the one that’s for real.’

The ‘S.’ Professor cannot protest. Everyday the Amerikan nuke falls on the world and Josie’s right to be on edge. He raises his crimson bony finger to speak but Josie the Cut vomits a cutlass right between his eyes.

‘I told you to can it ‘Doc! You know the deal! No questions or diatribes until the bombs get from A to B. Now get your bony ass up and move! Move! MOVE! BEFORE THE WHOLE SHITHOUSE GOES UP!’

The ‘S.’ Professor sighs, taps his feet together and salutes Josie the Cut like a proud Cockroach. The two were tasked by Angkar to pierce K.O.N.T.R.O.L and at last hope to win the happy war through the deployment of a language bomb. One which would contort K.O.N.T.R.O.L’s mass-production of hyper-waves and media-machines to one which could bring the rest of the control-spirit down with it. When that had occurred, the sleeping slaves would awaken and the engineers of this world order of hate and whips would be vulnerable to the mind-attacks of the world. That was the key. Millenniums of ruling as the bloated lords of genocide had the made them nought but proletaryans. They would not know anything else, even as half their number were tortured, since they knew others were being tortured even worse. They could never join their number. If they were equalised, the ‘S.’ Professor would often argue, one day they would come out and storm the studios and bring back the old world.
He latches himself onto the cosmic-motorcycle’s side-car that Josie has conjured from the megadeath archives. No two atoms of this metal statue are sourced from the same torrent to ensure complete anonymity from K.O.N.T.R.O.L’s almost-all-seeing eye in the Atlantic world capital. So all at once, the go-ahead is given, and the race is on. Josie slams the gas and explodes her atoms into the face of hyperspace. Steam rises from her eyes and she grits her teeth. Space spirits scream around them as they stab their brains into the vortex of calamity. Chemical blue toxins and cobalt poison threaten to burn their minds and flay their skin… or bones…. The ‘S.’ Professor is their only guard against Hell itself. He handstands on the sidecar and recites the knowledge of the arcane goats as dictated by Steely van Eyck to the Nahua mujahids of 1709. The souls of cops and anarcho-vampires are scared off and whimper. This maelstrom of shrill blue and pink shows gaps in the world and Josie stares at them as she rides through the infinitely-branching pathways on their journey to the heart of Amerika. As the ‘S.’ Professor somersaults and her eyes catch an odd sight.

The vision of a pink meteor falling over the universe. Josie the Cut almost collides with an information tsunami as she stares at this wondrous sight. Amidst the consumption of humanity, the soul of the world has been drowned in nothing. Even in the liberated zones, the fear of horror, the fear of entropy, the ever-suffocating smoke of a nothing world surrounds them. The truly devoted to the cause of murder and the call of the Angkar can elude its grasp, but they are few among many. Even the ‘S.’ Professor seemed unsure at times.

But this holy flame that burned in the sky ever bright, it was something other. The sore aches of a stuck world uttered by the gibbous lip of K.O.N.T.R.O.L melted away around its ruby pink silhouette. Josie the Cut chuckled to herself and throttled upwards. The ‘S.’ Professor frowned as much as a skeleton can.
‘Josie! Josie! Where are we going?! The metal-heart of K.O.N.T.R.O.L is to the right! To the right! You know I have to get there to scour the archives on 21st Century Gonzaloism in rural Mexico! If I don’t get that dis’ out by next week the Xitter academic circles of Highland India will never let me hear the end of it! ’Paying the ‘S.’ Professor no mind, Josie the Cut roars on into the highway of oblivion. And the world sweats a nasty beat. The commands of JDPON central command can wait. Roaring on the motorbike, Josie the Cut thrusts her sword into the air and shouts to the ‘S.’ Professor.

‘Our job ain’t gonna be done until every single drop of living matter in the Atlantic is dead. Every single one of them Doc! And don’t you forget it! So get ya’ spunk on Doc! I saw a light of the world shining out there! The one that’ll take civilization in its muddy hands and tear it apart! Raise your claws to all things that trample us Doc! See a wave of a million needles rising from the dirt and know that we are the real cut-throats! The real barbarians! Come to vanquish democracy and civilization forever!’ Josie the Cut tears her head back and roars toward her vision of hope with hate fleeing from her eyes.

The W.A.M Gang

In the Martian landscapes of the Amerikan Blight, the Princess cometh. Within her astral mind is the force of infinity. She rises from the crater, now doused in glitter, and a rainbow grows over her. In universes outside of here, the existence of perpetual bliss and whimsy had forced through its will and violence a young ball of pink to venture the worlds yet unseen. A sphere of hearty laughs whose heart pumps toys. Whose flesh is smiles. With teeth made of candy and eyes made of honey, she frolics through the prairies. Though once burnt and slashed by the storm-troops of K.O.N.T.R.O.L, flowers made of silk bloom at her step.

All at once, her eyes rise to the sky. Above her a halo of digital evil gathers. Purple clouds dashed with screaming hardware rips open the air and glimpses of the silver nights flash in her skull. Flowing rivers of thick blood vibrate their cells and iron atoms as a motorbike cuts forth. Josie the Cut stands atop the bike, cutlass in hand, laughing with a hat made of lava. The ‘S.’ Professor does his job as he sees the Princess, casting theory-lined spells against the necro-mites. They crash in front of the Princess as she holds her hand over her face, eyes wide eyed. The ‘S.’ Professor’s bones spill over the land while Josie the Cut steadies her hat and holds out her hand. The Princess giggles and yells ‘Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!’ She zooms across the landscape. Appearing at one moment over a tree, and another floating and glowing in a space behind the sky. The ‘S.’ Professor’s hands slowly piece himself back together as the Princess speaks.

‘Isn’t this place just the greatest?! Look at all the scenery! Look at it! Are you looking at it? Huh? Huh?!’

Josie the Cut and the lone head of the ‘S.’ Professor looked around. Around them is nothing but grey sand and cobalt. Two snakes copulate on the burning sulfur rocks in the shadow of the pipeline that funnels liquid brains to act as coolant for the heart of K.O.N.T.R.O.L. The Princess giggles and a group of beasts in suits and ties turn their heads.

The ‘S.’ Professor gasps and rubs his sockets. ‘Fascinating! Just fascinating! Look at her! She’s a real go-getter alright! I wonder if… I wonder how… Just look at it! The exuding of cosmic energy of… something… something I can’t describe! Just wow!’ The ‘S.’ Professor’s calipers grow out of the air and measure the Princess’ head.

‘Now this is something! Something…. I can’t begin to describe! Just who are you?!’

‘Knick knack paddywhack! Give that dog a bone!’ The Princess smiles and sings.

‘And that’ll be the best you’ll get out of her.’ Sneers Josie the Cut. ‘Doc you don’t know how to talk to people, let me at her, alright?’ Josie the Cut approaches the princess, stares into her and clicks her jaw. But before Josie the Cut has a chance to speak, the Princess pushes Josie the Cut’s face out of the way and runs toward the pipeline of K.O.N.T.R.O.L.

‘Woah… What the hell is that?’

Josie the Cut grits her teeth and swallows her annoyance. ‘The pipeline of K.O.N.T.R.O.L. It’s the-’

‘What’s K.O.N.T.R.O.L?’

‘It’s the-’

‘I like K.O.N.T.R.O.L. It sounds fun!’

The ‘S.’ Professor chuckles. ‘Okay Josie, let me have a crack at it again. I have an idea.’ Josie the Cut nods. ‘Now now… let me tell you a little story-’

The ‘S.’ Professor was cut off at once by the laugh of the Princess. She fell at once on the floor, spinning in circles and circles and circles within circles, pointing at the ‘S.’ Professor. Josie the Cut can’t help but snicker too. The Princess chuckling between breaths shrieks ‘Okay! Okay! Stop! It’s too much! You’re too funny! Stop! Please!’ Composing herself for all of ten seconds the Princess stretches her face like playdough and grabs the ‘S.’ Professor by the neck-bone. ‘I’m just messing with ya’ honey-bee! I know what K.O.N.T.R.O.L is. I did the second I came to this funny place. I knew it and you too! With your funny skeletons and your funny blood and your funny cells and your funny everythings. I wanna go see K.O.N.T.R.O.L and spin around in it and play with it and ride it! Doesn’t that sound like fun?!’

The ‘S.’ Professor scowls with the hood rats scurrying behind him to their afternoon alehouses. He turns to Josie the Cut. ‘Now I don’t know Josie, but this doesn’t seem like a big help to any of us at all. If this is that thing you saw there anyway. So much for your big talk in the hyper-space vortex of digital hell. It’s a good thing we still have the language bombs, right? The motorcycle you brought seems to be dead in the ground. Angkar won’t be happy, but maybe we can walk to K.O.N.T.R.O.L and I can go back to what counts!’

‘But why bother walking? Maybe those friends over there can help, hmm?’ The Princess flashes a hearty grin.

Josie the Cut at once looks to where the Princess points with a spyglass. ‘Shit.’

‘Everything alright there, Josie?’

With ice in her throat, Josie the Cut says ‘It’s the W.A.M Gang.’

Ahead of them now sits the W.A.M Gang. Women Against Modernity. In league with the Treatlerites, they will not know the sale of their labour power. Yet they will not know the queens of the sweatshop, whose brains are born from a hijack of the value-shift of the Sexual Revolution yet engineered to sell themselves to wider markets. Both are abhorrent, so they choose the promise of deals and slavery to cottoned-freaks with the dreaming bones who reduce the W.A.M Gang but give them stability. Bertha the Push and Zagnolia. The duo of madness. Josie the Cut and the ‘S.’ Professor stand no chance beside them. Before the ‘S.’ Professor can even start to run, and before Josie the Cut can even start to shoot the guns of the dungeon-kings, she was thrown on her ass and the ‘S.’ Professor was a pile of bones once more.

The Princess, however, sees only a play fight between friends. As the W.A.M Gang pat themselves on the back. Zagnolia, the all-American girl. The ‘S.’ Professor scowls at her sight. With her blue spotted dress and tied-up yellow hair, and the apparition of a faceless man in a 3-piece suit hanging over her like a rat. She’s as thin as a junkie’s needle, and Bertha’s the junkie. Round as the Earth, Bertha sighs and fiddles with her axe as Zagnolia points to the Princess. She pipes up and bakes the cakes. ‘Bertha, Bertha… Be a dear and grab this lost young deary.’ Bertha the Push ties up her axe and goes to pick the Princess up, but her skin turns to gelatin and slips through her fingers. Zagnolia frowned and knelt to meet the Princess’ gaze. ‘Oh dear Bertha, it seems these savage brutes have gotten to her already! There there… What did the mean terrorists say to you, hmm?’ Zagnolia wipes away a tear from her own face. ‘They didn’t…’ Zagnolia shudders. ‘Brainwash you? Now did they? Like those damn dastardly Chinese way back when in Korea did to my giga-great uncle? Fill your pretty little head with lies and their terrorist ideology?’

The Princess tilts her head and yawns. ‘Just who are you?’ Zagnolia gets back up. ‘We’re the W.A.M Gang, young lady! We’re here to save you!’ She wraps her arm around the Princess. ‘Don’t worry dear. Don’t worry your pretty little head. We’ll take you back to K.O.N.T.R.O.L and teach you what matters in life. Just take a good long look at these savages who we liberated you from dear. Just look at their dirty clothes (and lack thereof). Look at how they suffer. They kill civilians for God’s sake! They want to kill all of us! And for what? For what? They fight and fight against something they cannot beat! Young lady, what is the point of it all?’

The ‘S.’ Professor blows out a cigar on his bones, his skull bouncing toward them he yells. ‘Don’t fall for it, kid! It is the catechism of the Trad-wives they’re going to get you to eat: No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both men and money. They’re out for your blood, kid! Your BLOOD!’

The Princess does not seem to listen as Josie the Cut gets back up to drive her metal-will through the two, though Bertha the Push holds her back with just one hand. Zagnolia pushes the point. ‘Deary, please. Just come with us. We came a-runnin’ for you as soon as K.O.N.T.R.O.L said a victim of barbarity would be here. Come with us and we’ll show you the real deal. You can just take it easy! Keep your life in a comfy house, with your kids and spouse.’ Josie the Cut shrieks. ‘Don’t buy it! They’ll sell you into slavery! That’s all they care about!’
Zagnolia moves to speak but Bertha the Push cuts her off, still holding off Josie with just one hand. ‘Now, s-sorry Zagnolia, but if I m-may? I wanted to, just, y-you know, say a word or two. You mind taking over?’ Zagnolia rolls her eyes and takes Bertha the Push’s place. ‘N-now I know this is all a bit s-sudden but. Just b-between you and me little Miss, what she’s saying… w-well… I-it can get a bit hard at times. A bit strict. A bit demanding. A bit s-suffocating. But… Listen… I know what the a-alternative is and… this is for the best. I-it’s not the epitome of fun but i-it’s mostly safe. Mostly. It’s stable. It’s secure. That’s what matters most for you and me. T-that’s why you can’t stay with these brutes, okay? ’

Josie and the ‘S.’ Professor try to protest. But the Princess only looks away and says. ‘That doesn’t sound like it’d be very fun at all.’ And at once Zagnolia gasps and faints. Bertha the Push stands aghast. In all their years of selling compromise, they never found a hint of pushback. The Princess is not fooled by the W.A.M Gang. The Princess’s pained arrival into this reality gave her all the knowledge she needed indeed. Their promises of security ring out in the Atlantic world of crawling muckworms who snivel in the ground and sneer as they suck blood and shit from the dead and the starving.
‘If I wanted security I wouldn’t have come here. I mean, come on, right? Look around! And if I wanted to work… Well… I don’t even know what that means!’ Before Bertha the Push can respond, the Princess flicks her wrist and the W.A.M gang become poly-rainbow butterflies and scarper away.

‘At least you two are funny, huh?’ The Princess squeaks as she grabs Josie the Cut and the ‘S.’ Professor by their scruffs. ‘Now, why don’t we go take a look at K.O.N.T.R.O.L? Hm?’

And so, the Princess soars over the heavens and pushes herself into the fat folds of space. The beat of drums sound in her heart and her lungs strum the strings of banjos as she pushes herself into the chamber of K.O.N.T.R.O.L.

‘No! No! No!’ Screams the ‘S.’ Professor. ‘You’ve got it all twisted!’ His frame distorts and squirms, at once he is the size of a mountain. Green mist coming out of his ribs. He shudders and heaves, curling his hands and spreading his arms. ‘This is all wrong! This is all wrong! Sure those two were a bunch of lunatics but you kicked their asses for the wrong goddamn reason! Everyone knows anyone who shows the twitch of compromise must be killed at once! Can’t leave any loose-ends lying about! We’ve no room for Sadats here! May Ruhollah Khomeini give me strength to smite and kill any who say such things! We are on a jihad here to kill all the vermin of the Atlantic! Angkar give me strength, you think that is a task which involves compromise?! You think killing everyone from New Los Angeles to Moscow 2 is an issue that calls for compromise?! If someone comes to you and says its time to buckle down and abandon your maximalism, that is all the reason you need to shoot them in the face! Temporary safety? Bah! Whoever heard such nonsense! This is a war we are in! Whether you know it or not! All compromise is surrender! If you fight for the sake of fun! You’re no better I say! You’re no better!’ Josie the Cut rolls her eyes at the ‘S.’ Professor’s pedantry.

As the ‘S.’ Professor raves on and on, the Princess enters the eye of K.O.N.T.R.O.L. It lies as a pillar in the face of the world, stretching to the moon. A billion cogs gyrate in Four dimensional space. The eye of K.O.N.T.R.O.L is screaming in time. It sees what is coming as the ‘S.’ Professor and Josie the Cut are placed on a platform to watch the Princess do the deed. K.O.N.T.R.O.L in panic strengthens its production of Control-Media. The Princess walks vertically above the gyrating knife tower of K.O.N.T.R.O.L. She stares into K.O.N.T.R.O.L and her mind is fluttering. She will walk into K.O.N.T.R.O.L and send out new waves. New control-medias. The messages will turn from control to a simple command. Throw away your pens! Throw away your hammers! Play in the streets! Play in your minds! Repeated again and again into every atom of the universe. The technicians of K.O.N.T.R.O.L won’t have a second to react before they too are hit by this new creation.

Josie the Cut stares from the platform as the Princess walks on the burning metal of K.O.N.T.R.O.L. She bellows against the green flames and wind calling out to the Princess. ‘HARDEN YOUR HEART, PRINCESS! CLIMB UP THE PILLARS AND SMASH THE MACHINES! EAT K.O.N.T.R.O.L! FUCK K.O.N.T.R.O.L! DON’T LEAVE A SINGLE ONE OF THOSE ATLANTEAN BUGGERS ALIVE! YOU HEAR ME?! GO AND KILL! KILL THEM ALL! KILL THEM ALL! KILL THEM ALL!’

The Merge

All bled into all. The princess entered K.O.N.T.R.O.L. Her soul erupted into a thousand parts. A blinding pink light drowned the word and Josie the Cut and the ‘S.’ Professor awoke. Around them was an eternal platform of neon-green grass. In the pink sky eight golden moons rotate. The sun is a disco ball, and the face of the Princess has been engraved on every atom of the universe. In the distance, a castle rises. Its spires bend in impossible ways. Planets dissipate. Galaxies vanish. Where once was a cosmos, there is now an infinite flat field of princessdom. The chemical bases of DNA are no longer GCAT, they are now FUNK.

Looking over the lemonade oceans and the golden moons, the machines have sensed the death of K.O.N.T.R.O.L. They weep their battery acid to a new order of work. The world was a gutter blocked with shit and heroin needles in the rotting streets for thousands of years. Desperately waiting for it all to come flying out if only the blockage could be cleared. The world had stood there, rubbing its feet together waiting for it to just click. The tools were all there. But nothing moved. The relief was palpable on everyone’s faces, as it all came flying out into the depths of nothing! The universe exploded a thousand times a second. The austerity-hydra's heads were burning. The cattle of the W.A.M gangs crawled out of their trenches, bound no more. Josie the Cut stares in awe at the new burning world. ‘Is it all over? Is? I-is…’ She looks around for the ‘S.’ Professor, but he has wandered off. He hears Josie the Cut’s shrieks of joy. The ‘S’. Professor wandered down the path of cotton-candy. He looks up at the sky with the Pink One’s face engraved along each and every star. K.O.N.T.R.O.L’s shadow has been transformed into a bouncy castle which melts into the mantle of the world. The laughing things dance along it in ecstasy below the rising flames of the control images. He sighs and wracks his skull. With a move of his arm the ‘S.’ Professor takes out and clicks his pen. He begins to write a new essay. He sees the hellish tongues of the techno-singularity contorted into new tools made not for market capitalisation, but joy and play. The ‘S.’ Professor laments. He has had his revolution, and a few trillion souls of Atlantic civilization were killed to get this far. But he coughs and spits. ‘The Angkar would never stand for this! Where is the blood? Where is the fire? Where are the killing fields for Mao’s sake! The surviving Atlantics.. Still exist! What will we do about that?! No.. No… It won’t do… It won’t do at all… Perhaps… there is still another control machine out there… One I can take in my hands and have a revolution. A real revolution! What will it be? But more reality is needed. Bullets and steel! A philosophy of the gun! Well it has to end where the Princess brought it of course.. Yes… It’s perfect! I’ll steal away the world, and put it right back where it is now. Just after I make sure it got there the RIGHT way! But.. yes.. Yes.. all else will be the same.’ The ‘S.’ Professor stares at the blazing pink rays of the blooming flowers in the sky. ‘But perhaps… a bit less garish.’