M0N0P07Y

They gave you rules. They gave you debt. They gave you just enough to blame yourself when it broke.

M0N0P07Y is what happens when the mask slips —and you realise the Monopoly Man never left the board.

This isn’t a brand. It’s a crack in the screen.A quiet riot in plain sight.A middle finger gift-wrapped as a collectible.

We use their symbols — the cash, the crowns, the concrete — and hang them out to dry in the digital wind.Every drop is a message they’ll pretend not to see.Every piece is a whisper in the surveillance state.Every glitch is a reminder:

the system isn’t broken. It’s bored of you.

So go ahead. Collect it.Frame it. Flip it.Just know you’re holding a mirror, not a prize.Because at the end of the day —

either you’re playing the game, or you are the game.

PLAY THE GAME, OR BURN THE BOARD

FOLLOW THE MOVEMENT ON SOCIAL MEDIA RIGHT NOW:

NEON GODS

BOW AND PRAY TO THE NEON GODS YOU'VE MADE

Open sea

ROCKET MAN

In a world where worship has shifted from gods to algorithms, Rocket Man stands as a satirical monument to the new high priests of capitalism: tech billionaires, memetic cults, and speculative hysteria.

A white rabbit, the eternal trickster and time-bender, stands centre stage — but unlike Alice’s innocent guide, this one bears an all-seeing eye in his palm, an omen of control masked as awakening. In his other hand, a stopwatch ticks down, suspended in glitch — a metaphor for time manipulated, markets engineered, and reality distorted.

Behind him, a dollar bill burns, consumed by the fuel of speculation and digital idolatry. The background flickers with a glitched feed of Elon Musk, SpaceX, and rocket launches — the new sacraments of tech prophecy, promising ascension but selling volatility.

The name “Rocket Man” is no accident. A double entendre: homage to space-age ambition… and the meme culture that turns billionaires into prophets and market crashes into punchlines.

Yet behind it all, the art whispers:

Who built the rocket?

Who lights the fuse?

And who profits when it explodes?

NARCISSUS

Narcissus isn’t just a reflection — it’s a possession.

In this piece, we witness a nun, the archetype of purity and devotion, caught in a haunting loop: flickering between her sacred self and the demon within. Her transformation is neither linear nor complete — it pulses, flickers, glitches — like corrupted code running in a failing simulation.

Behind her, Caravaggio’s “Narcissus” collapses into digital noise, as if the classic tale of self-obsession cannot withstand modern narcissism’s speed, scale, and seduction.

This is not just a sin — it’s a system.

In the age of filters, false prophets, and algorithmic affirmation, the self becomes both idol and executioner. The nun — a symbol of repression — becomes a mirror for all of us. Not because she’s holy, but because she’s hiding something dark. Just like we are.

What makes it more terrifying:

She’s not transforming into the demon.

She always was.

WAR CHILD

He doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t flinch.

He scrolls.

War Child is a bleak symphony of contradiction: the innocence of youth hollowed out, defiled, and reborn as a silent witness to horror. A tattooed demon-child, dollar bills etched into his skin, sits slumped on a throne of spent bullet casings, wearing headphones, eyes locked on an iPhone screen.

To his side: an AK-47, resting like a favourite toy, flanked by two skulls. One bears the fragile hope of a monarch butterfly, balancing beauty on top of mass death — a reminder that even horror wants to be poetic.

Above him, the ceiling drips with dollar bills, like a capitalist cathedral. Behind him, a glitched nightmare unfolds: Donald Trump dances like a grotesque parody of leadership, as Gaza explodes in a hellish newsfeed loop. Real suffering rendered abstract. War turned into background noise.

War Child doesn’t look up.

He’s us.

He’s what we’ve become.

CONFESSION

She kneels in silence. But she is not alone.

Confession captures the chilling ritual of modern guilt — staged not in a church, but in the panopticon of digital life. A small stone girl, childlike and fragile, holds a rosary bead. But the chain ends not in a crucifix — it ends in a gold iPhone. Salvation has been rebranded.

Across her lap slithers a serpent, its movement subtle, patient — the ancient symbol of knowledge, temptation, and betrayal. Her face is blank, statue-like, not carved in serenity, but in compliance — as if programmed.

Behind the veil, barely visible through glitch and grain, flicker three horned goat-head figures and three demonic angels — broken cherubs of a fallen algorithm. Their presence is not loud. It is whispering, watching, listening. Like the digital confessional we carry in our pockets, they offer no redemption — only data.

In this world, sin is monetised, and forgiveness is outsourced to a system that never forgets.

GODDESS FIAT

She is not worshipped.

She is obeyed.

Fiat is the divine horror of modern finance — a horned demon goddess, arms stretched on a crucifix made of U.S. dollars, her skin tattooed with Bitcoin logos and dollar signs, an eternal ledger of capital and control.

Crowning the cross: the Empire State Building, not as architecture, but as altar. Behind it, a serpent slithers — the prime symbol of deception, power, and knowledge. It doesn’t strike. It waits.

She is beautiful, monstrous, and still. Her gaze doesn’t plead. It dominates. The background glitches violently — cycling through images of Bitcoins, USD bills, and Wall Street, like the corrupted dreams of a dying empire.

She is Fiat — the spirit of value without substance, of wealth without soul, of currency created from belief, enforced by blood, and worshipped in silence.

And like all gods we’ve made,

she demands a sacrifice