Chapter 1: First We Meet Salvia

A slim white American woman, wearing nothing but a Che Guevara T-shirt, hunches over the single cum-stained couch in her shared housing. One shaved leg is awkwardly angled up, revealing her nethers.

The thick air is heavily perfumed with the scent of unwashed ass as she carefully angles the broken front screen of her iPhone to capture her winking butthole.

"Ahh, activism," she sighs aloud, posting her brown eye on Twitter with the caption:

Buttholes for Communism

The tweet sends. Her notifications explode.

She watches with hunger as the engagement numbers climb, the darkest parts of her body and soul laid bare for the proletariat masses to see.

First a trickle, then a downpour. Anonymous accounts, self-proclaimed Marxist theorists, all the scraggly hangers-on of left-wing social media.

Somewhere in the tangled mess of quote tweets, a verified leftist podcast account reposts her glorious bung with the caption:

"The Revolution Has Never Been More Raw."

Dopamine hits her. An almost orgasmic, grimy pleasure swelling from the pit of her stomach as her fingers dance across the glowing screen of her iPhone.

Her cinnamon ring is now a theater of ideological warfare, the subject of heated discourse among thousands of lusty strangers.

Some hail her as a fearless comrade. Stunning and brave, weaponizing her own flesh for the cause. Others sneer, condemning her as the peak of Western decadence.

Some cite this event as proof that leftist activism has rotted into nothing but performative debasement.

The criticisms elude her eyes, blind as she is to anything but the adoration in the words of her prospective lovers.

She is on the hunt.

Hunched on the cum couch, forbidden peeper tucked into her musky crevice, her breathing has become rapid and shallow.

Her pupils are dilated, mouth slightly agape. The device in her hands is a portal to infinite attention, and she its willing servant.

"I would die for you, comrade."

"You make me believe in the revolution again."

"Let me tribute, mommy."

Behind her, the dim glow of a laptop screen illuminates her roommate's disapproving face. He sighs loudly.

"Salvia, what the hell are you doing?"

She doesn’t look up, her fingers hypnotic in their eternal dance.

"I’m doing the work."

The work. The holy labor of exhibition, of sacrifice, of surrendering her flesh to the algorithmic tide.

The digital masses demand a martyr, and she has stripped herself bare to meet their needs.

Her roommate groans, the dull whir of his laptop fan struggling against the oppressive weight of the room’s stench.

"Jesus, Salvia, your wrinkle winker reeks."

She smirks, her attention rapt on her phone.

"Hygiene is a colonialist construct."

New notifications roll in. More supplicants, more men hungry to spill their seed in the name of class struggle.

One particularly unhinged reply catches her eye:

"Your poopchute is praxis."

Her roommate slams his laptop shut. "I can’t live like this."

Salvia doesn’t respond. She is past the petty grievances of flesh. She has transcended into the digital plane.

She is a beacon, a temple, a symbol for the revolution.

The glimmering phone screen reflects off the oily sheen of her massive forehead, the only illumination in an otherwise dark and squalid room.

She is a lighthouse guiding lost souls through the turbulent seas of digital yearning.

Her thumbs flit across the screen, conjuring discourse, summoning desire.

"You are the future of the movement."

"Tell me what to read, mommy."

"Your chocolate starfish radicalized me."

Salvia stretches languidly. The crusty Che tee rides up, exposing her thin, pale hips.

She is an underfed vessel, an emaciated conduit, a hungry sacrifice upon the altar of eternal engagement.

Her roommate coughs, fanning the air in front of his face as if to disperse the festering aroma of sweaty holes and abandoned responsibilities.

"For real, you smell like fermented opinions," he mutters. "And shouldn’t you be taking care of Flower?"

She rolls her eyes and ignores him, hunching back into herself as if to hide from his accusing words.

Her iPhone chimes with a notification, a message from a potential lover.

The profile picture is a gaunt man in a beanie, his eyes shadowed by the weight of his own rhetoric. His bio reads:

Malcom Fleabag. Full-time Marxist. Part-time poet. Aspiring lover.

He has sent a single message:

"I want to smell you."