Dinner In Hell

There are no metaphors here — this painting doesn’t symbolize. It is accused.

Trump and Putin aren’t just faces; they’re systems, twisted into human form. The knives in their hands aren’t tools — they are verdicts. The globe isn’t a prop — it’s a carcass.

As they carve the world calmly, coldly, eyes burning with power, blood drips from the plate — a grotesque after-dinner course served on the ruins of our future.

Hovering above this grim feast is a new Christ: Mickey Mouse. Once the icon of global childhood and packaged innocence, now a pop culture crucifix with no smile. Instead, a crown of thorns and a hand shielding his face. What could he say? What could he do? He only watches as the world he was meant to entertain becomes a playground for the powerful.

Behind them, the shadows don’t dance — they watch. Perhaps no longer people at all, but the weight of consequence.

At the table’s edge, two child-angels shaped like Mickey but with fragile human bodies look up, hesitant, pleading. No answer comes. Because what they see isn’t their future — it’s their fate.