The White Van: Kevin & Nico
The concrete of the parking structure dampened the sounds of the city outside, leaving only the rhythmic slap of Converse and loafers against the oil-stained floor. It was late, past one in the morning, and the fluorescent lights overhead hummed with an intermittent, sickly flicker.
Nico shivered, pulling his oversized sweatshirt around his small frame. He was buzzing with the residue of the concert they had just left, an underground indie-pop band from Oakland that heâd been obsessed with for months. "Iâm just saying, Kev, the way the lead synth harmonized with the socio-political commentary in the second verse? Itâs basically a deconstruction of late-stage capitalism wrapped in a 4/4 beat."
Kevin smiled. He looked the part of the quintessential academic: tall, slender, with a sharp jawline softened by a thoughtful expression. "Itâs valid, Nico. But you have to consider if the medium undermines the message. Can you truly critique the commodification of art while charging forty dollars for a t-shirt?"
"You're such a buzzkill," Nico teased, bumping his hip against Kevinâs thigh. "Thatâs why I love you. My big, smart, Pol-Sci boyfriend keeping me grounded."
"And youâre my chaotic, leftist gamer keeping me from taking myself too seriously," Kevin replied, reaching down to squeeze Nicoâs hand.
They turned the corner toward level C4, where Kevinâs modest sedan was parked. The air in the garage was stale, smelling of exhaust and old dust. It was completely empty, save for a few scattered cars.
Suddenly, tires screeched.
A white cargo van, devoid of any markings or license plates, whipped around the spiral ramp and slammed onto the brakes directly in front of them. It cut off their path to Kevinâs car, the grill aggressive and rusted.
"Whoa!" Kevin instinctively stepped in front of Nico, his protective instinct flaring. "Hey! Watch where youâre going!"
There was no driver visible through the tinted windshield. Before either of them could back away, the side sliding door of the van flew open with a mechanical whoosh.
There was no one inside. No kidnappers, no guys in masks. There was only a screen.
It was massive, filling the entire door frame. Instantly, it flared to life, projecting a blinding luminosity that cut through the dim garage. A spiral. Thick bands of crimson red and stark, blinding white began to rotate. It wasn't just a video; it seemed to possess depth, a tunnel of light that drilled into the eyes.
"What the hell..." Nico muttered, his voice trembling. "Kevin, we need to run."
"I... I can't," Kevin stammered. His analytical mind, usually so sharp at dissecting political theory and rhetoric, hit a wall. He was trying to rationalize the stimuli. Is this a prank? An art installation? A strobe effect?
A low frequency began to emit from the vanâs speakers. It was a deep, thrumming bass that vibrated in their chests, syncing with the rotation of the spiral. Wub... Wub... Wub...
Nicoâs hand went limp in Kevinâs. The gamer, used to staring at screens for hours, found his gaze locked. The colors were so bright they burned an afterimage into his retinas instantly.
"LOOK," a voice boomed from the van. It wasn't human. It was synthesized, layered, deep and commanding. "LISTEN. SUBMIT."
"No," Kevin whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "Nico, don't look."
But Kevin opened his eyes. He had to. The curiosity, the need to understand the phenomenon, betrayed him. He looked into the red and white abyss.
The spiral spun faster. The red wasn't just a color anymore; it felt like a temperature. Heat.
âThis is a psychological operation. Visual entrainment. They are trying to override the prefrontal cortex using high-frequency flashing. I know this. I read a paper on subliminal messaging in authoritarian regimes. I need to resist. I am Kevin. I am a progressive. I value nuance. I value...â Kevin thought to himself.
The thought trailed off as the sound changed. The bass grew heavier, sounding less like a machine and more like a heartbeat. A very slow, very strong heartbeat.
Kevin felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. It wasn't a cold sweat of fear anymore. It was hot. His skin felt prickly.
Beside him, Nico let out a soft whimper that slowly morphed into a groan. The small Peruvian boy dropped to his knees, his eyes wide, reflecting the spinning vortex.
"So... bright..." Nico mumbled. "Pretty... colors..."
"WEAKNESS IS LEAVING THE BODY," the voice intoned. "REJECT THE VIRUS. EMBRACE THE STRENGTH."
Kevin felt a cramp in his stomach. A sudden, violent churning. His gut bubbled audibly. The intellectual tension he held in his shoulders, the posture of a student who spent hours hunched over books, began to dissolve. He felt his muscles twitch.
A sharp, foul smell hit the air. Nico had passed gas. It wasn't the usual accidental slip; it was loud, brazen.
"Nico?" Kevin tried to look down, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the screen.
"Feels... good..." Nico slurred. His voice sounded deeper, stripping away the high-pitched, excited lilt he usually had. "Stomach... making room."
"PURGE THE SOY. PURGE THE WEAKNESS."
Kevin felt it too. The pressure in his lower abdomen was immense. His body was reacting to the lights, his metabolism shifting into a hyper-aggressive gear. The fear was evaporating, replaced by a strange, aggressive apathy.
Why was I scared? Kevin thought. The complex sentences in his mind were breaking down. Why fear? Fear is for... fear is for pussies.
The word shocked him. He never used that word. It was sexist. It was derogatory.
Itâs accurate, the new voice in his head countered. Stop overthinking. Start lifting.
Kevinâs stomach roared. He clenched his fists. The fabric of his slim-fit button-down shirt felt tight. He felt hot, incredibly hot. A thick, musky scent began to rise from his own skin, overpowering his subtle sandalwood deodorant. It smelled like raw onion and testosterone.
Kevin ripped a massive, thunderous fart. It echoed in the concrete garage, vibrating against his denim. It smelled horrific, like rotten eggs and cheap protein powder.
"Nice one, bro," Nico mumbled.
Kevin froze. Bro? Nico called him babe or Kev. Never bro.
"Thanks," Kevin heard himself say. His voice was dropping an octave, losing the soft, articulated cadence of the debate team. "Needed that. Gut was full of trash."
The spiral shifted. The white bands became stripes. The red became a background. A vague shape of a star began to pulse in the center.
"TRADITION. POWER. HIERARCHY."
Nico was the first to fully crumble. The complex web of his identity, his love for obscure indie games, his advocacy for marginalized communities, his nuanced take on gender politics, was being scrubbed clean. The spiral acted like a magnet, dragging the data off his hard drive and replacing it with a new operating system.
All Nico could think about in his emptying mind was âLeveling up? No. No more games. Games are for kids. Iâm a man. Men donât play. Men conquer. The System is broken. The Left lies. They want me small. They want me weak.â
Nico stood up. His posture changed. He widened his stance, his legs spread apart in a display of dominance. He rolled his neck, cracking it loudly. The oversized denim jacket, which once looked cute and stylish, now looked ridiculous to him. He tore it off, throwing it on the oily ground. Underneath, he wore a vintage band tee. He looked at it with disgust.
He flexed. He wasn't big, he was still short, but he felt huge. He felt like a pitbull.
"WHO IS THE ALPHA? WHO IS THE LEADER?"
"Trump," Kevin whispered.
The word tasted like bile initially, then like honey.
Kevinâs mind was a battlefield, but the resistance was losing. The "Political Science" major was being dismantled.
Nuance is a trap, the spiral told him. Facts don't care about your feelings. Might makes right. Look at you. Youâre a man. Act like it.
Kevin felt a surge of aggression. He looked at his hands. They looked bigger. His veins were popping out along his forearms. He felt a phantom pump, as if heâd just done ten sets of heavy bench press. The sweat was pouring off him now, soaking his shirt. The smell in the immediate area was becoming toxic, a mix of aggressive, sour body odor and the lingering clouds of their flatulence.
Nico let out another one, long and wet sounding. He didn't apologize. He didn't blush. He laughed. A deep, guttural, frat-boy chuckle.
"Better out than in, right big guy?" Nico slapped Kevin on the shoulder. The touch wasn't tender; it was firm, a brotherhood check.
"Damn straight," Kevin grunted. He felt the urge to spit. He spat on the floor.
The transformation of their worldview was accelerating.
Climate change? Hoax. Systemic oppression? Excuse for the lazy. The patriarchy? Natural order.
Doers don't need to read between the lines, the voice said.
Kevin squinted. The red spiral was all that mattered.
"YOU ARE PATRIOTS. YOU ARE WARRIORS. YOU LOVE THE FLAG. YOU LOVE THE LEADER."
"I love the leader," Nico chanted, his eyes glazed over with a look of fanatical adoration. "Make it great. Make me great."
"USA," Kevin muttered, the acronym feeling heavy and powerful on his tongue. "USA. USA!"
The intellectual Kevin was gone. In his place was a vessel of raw, unfiltered masculinity and blind loyalty. He didn't want to analyze policy; he wanted to win. He wanted to see liberals cry. He wanted to lift heavy iron and eat steak.
The physical sensation was overwhelming. They were both sweating profusely, their pheromones filling the space between them. It was a locker room smell, multiplied by ten.
BRAAAP! Kevin unleashed another torrent of gas, relieving the pressure of his new gut. "Oh, fuck yeah," he groaned, rubbing his belly. "Thatâs pure freedom right there."
Nico looked at Kevin. He didn't see his "boyfriend" anymore. He saw a bro. A fellow soldier in the culture war. And he saw that Kevin was no longer the soft, empathetic student. He was becoming a Chad.
"You look huge, bro," Nico said, admiring the way Kevinâs shirt was straining (or seemed to be) against his chest. "You been hitting the gym?"
"Every day, bro," Kevin lied. The memory was false, planted by the spiral, but it felt real. He remembered deadlifting 405 lbs yesterday. He remembered drinking a gallon of raw milk. "Gotta get those gains. Can't be a soy-boy cuck."
"Hell no," Nico agreed, flexing his own small bicep. "We ain't soft."
The spiral on the screen slowed down. The droning bass faded, replaced by the sound of a cheering crowd. It sounded like a rally. Thousands of people screaming in unison.
The screen flashed white one last time, then went dark.
The sliding door of the van remained open. A mechanical tray extended from the darkness of the vanâs interior. On the tray sat two objects.
The white embroidery on the front seemed to glow in the dim garage light.
MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.
Kevin and Nico stared at the hats. It was like staring at the Holy Grail.
"Itâs beautiful," Nico whispered.
"Itâs time," Kevin said. His voice was deep, devoid of any vocal fry. It was authoritative.
They stepped forward in unison. The hesitation was gone. The fear was gone. The old Kevin and Nico were dead, buried under layers of new, artificial memories and gym-bro instincts.
Kevin reached out and took one. He didn't gently place it on his head; he shoved it down, pulling the brim low. He turned to Nico.
Nico grabbed the other one. He put it on backwards, the snapback strap crossing his forehead, giving him a chaotic, aggressive look.
"How do I look?" Nico asked, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.
Kevin looked him up and down. "Like a patriot. Like a winner."
"You too, bro. You look like youâre ready to storm the capital," Nico laughed.
"Let's get out of this shithole city," Kevin said, looking around the parking garage with disdain. "Need to get back to the suburbs. Real America."
"Yeah. Too many snowflakes around here," Nico spat.
They turned away from the van. The vanâs door slid shut, and without a sound, it reversed and drove away, disappearing down the ramp. They didn't even watch it go. They didn't care. They had their orders. They had their identity.
They walked toward Kevinâs car. Their walks had changed. Kevin walked with a wide, lumbering gait, imagining imaginary lats pushing his arms out. Nico bounced on the balls of his feet, full of manic, aggressive energy.
They reached the sedan. Kevin looked at it with a sneer. "Gotta trade this piece of crap in. Need a truck. Lifted. Diesel."
"Yeah, something that rolls coal," Nico agreed, grabbing the door handle. "Piss off the greenies."
They got in. The interior of the car was small and intimate, but the vibe had shifted entirely. It no longer felt like a safe space for two lovers; it felt like a locker room.
Kevin jammed the key into the ignition and revved the engine aggressively, even though it was just a four-cylinder.
"Radio," Kevin commanded.
He jabbed the button, switching off the Bluetooth which had been queued up with an NPR podcast. He scanned the static until he found a classic rock station playing loud, distorted guitars. He cranked the volume up.
"Hell yeah!" Nico shouted, banging his hand on the dashboard.
The enclosed space of the car quickly filled with the smell of their transformation, the heavy, sour sweat of two men who believed they were apex predators.
Kevin looked at Nico. "Hungry?"
"Starving. I could eat a cow," Nico said. "Literally."
"Burger King. Then the gym," Kevin decided.
Kevin shifted the car into reverse. As he looked back, he felt a massive bubble of pressure build up one last time, the final expulsion of the old Kevin.
It was long, loud, and incredibly violent. It vibrated the seat.
Nico didn't miss a beat. He lifted his leg and fired back instantly.
"Nice," Kevin grilled, slapping the steering wheel. "Let's roll."
"Rip ass and gas, baby!" Nico yelled.
Kevin slammed on the gas, tires screeching as they sped out of the garage, leaving the silence, their old selves, and a cloud of foul air behind them. They were MAGA now, and they had a country to take back.
