Simulation Dust – Maximiliano Guzmán

January 29, 2026

For my friend, Manuel Marrero. 

 

Maybe it’s time to drag all the shit out.
        I live in Recreo, though I know there’s another Recreo inside itself. And I don’t know which of the two I’m neck-deep in.
        Can I suggest that my parents, my sister, my neighbors from the Pedro Cano neighborhood, my boss at the butcher shop, my ex-girlfriend Dana and her filthy dogs are machines acting to make me believe I’m a loser?
        But I’m uncovering their masks, revealing.

And I have a knife.
        Cutting.
        I’m cutting the ties that connect the false Recreo to the true Recreo.
        And I spit in the machines’ faces that I’ve discovered the truth. I’m beyond.
        They only repeat:
        “The price of meat has gone up.”
        They have no feelings, they don’t know what empathy is.
        Lost.
        Lost in their robotic programming.
        They sigh, yawn, make faces of disinterest. They want their piece of meat while pretending I don’t exist.
        Pretending.
        Not listening.
        I’ve opened my eyes in the fishbowl. The fishbowl is covered by the thin skin of a jellyfish. What am I saying? I see it, and they are too blind.

It’s the nightmare. Pills, antipsychotics, antidepressants, herbs and hot infusions tasting of grass and mud.
        I’ve woken up sweating and screaming like a baby.
        There are no nurses, men and women buy their protein lunches.
        The machines are strong and know how to defend themselves in community.
        “I don’t understand, Felipe.”
        Standard response.
        Cutting.
        “I don’t understand,” they repeat mechanically.
        And there are no heroes, only me.
        Could I kill them all?
        I remember it’s a game.
        Simulation dust..
        Dust.

He plunged the knife into the headless dead body hanging from the harness.
        Ten-thirty in the morning.
        He pulled out the knife, looked around, and stabbed it deeper.
        Phones suck the faces of the customers.
        I stab the animal again and again.
        Mental health crisis. Did it happen yesterday, today, will it happen tomorrow?
        My hands are covered in cow’s blood. God is aroused creating NPC characters.
        I’m not one of them.
        My power is clumsy, sweating, demanding an explanation.
        The pieces of the cow fall to the floor.
        The floor is clean.
        The cow bleeds. It is sacred.
        And I start laughing.
        I feel electricity running through my soul, climbing my neck, opening my mouth. Laughter.
        I’m laughing.
        The customers wait.
        I’ve worked three years in the butcher shop.
        It’s my last day. I’ve earned it.
        I wait for applause or my boss’s voice telling me I’ve ruined a million pesos.
        The knife is my holy grail. I saw it in a movie but fell asleep at the end. I keep laughing. And nobody cares.
        The NPCs don’t panic.
        I’m the one in despair.
        Pornography, loneliness, streaming.
        At twenty-five my grandfather owned a chain of stores in Córdoba. There’s distance…
        The false Recreo doesn’t fade.
        The cow’s headless body slips from the harness.
        And falls…
        Falls…
        And I keep stabbing the animal. On my knees.
        I pray over the wounds.
        I sink the knife.
        The customers howl in horror.
        They’re communicating upward, sideways.
        The NPCs have activated the damage control system. They call the police.
        The main character disconnects from the matrix.
        I’m disconnecting.
        Out.
        Out.
        Pushing.
        Pushing..
        I can smell the gears.
        They smell of laundry perfume, incense, feces.
        I’m making it.

White.
        Foam.
        Siren song…
        Waves…
        Hands on my hands.
        Hands on my feet.
        Hands on my head.
        I have a knife. Remember?
        I try outward.
        But the NPCs want me inside.
        Fight.
        I insist.
        Fight.
        I think I’m running.
        Leaving.
        And a sign that says

WELCOME

Adventure companions

Selected characters.
        White T-shirts.
        Fresh.
        A boy with strange hair pats me on the back.
        He hands me a family photograph.
        He points to Christ the Redeemer behind the family.
        “Underneath is our home,” he says.

Underneath.