The Day and Life of a Street Artist and The Machine

The gallery was a testament to everything that was wrong with the world—whitewashed walls trying to contain the raw, untamed energy of the streets, as if slapping a frame around a piece of art could somehow sanitize it, make it palatable for the masses.

The people milling around inside were the worst kind of tourists, snapping up fragments of rebellion like they were collecting souvenirs from a war zone they’d never step foot in. And in the middle of it all was the Street Artist, swigging from his bottle of Chimay and wondering how the hell he’d ended up here.

He moved through the gallery like a ghost, unnoticed by most of the crowd who were too busy admiring the art to recognize the man who had created it. The irony wasn’t lost on him—it never was.

He’d spent his life running from the spotlight, only to find it had turned him into something he never wanted to be: a brand, a commodity, a piece of merchandise to be bought and sold like everything else in this capitalist hellscape.

She was right behind him, as always, her eyes sharp and calculating as she surveyed the room. "What’s the plan?" she asked, her voice low and edged with satire. "Gonna give them the grand tour? Sign some autographs? Maybe even smile for the cameras?"

"Fuck That," he muttered, taking another swig of Chimay. "I’m not here to play their game."

"Then why are we here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just another part of the exhibit."

He shot her a look, but he knew she was right. That was the problem—she was always right. And that’s what made her so goddamn infuriating. "We’re here because I need to see this for myself," he said finally. "I need to see what they’ve turned me into."

She didn’t respond, just watched him with that infuriating mix of pity and amusement that made him want to throw a paint grenade into the crowd of plastic. But there was no time for that now—the vultures were circling, and he needed to stay sharp.

As they moved deeper into the gallery, the crowd started to thin out, the buzz of conversation fading into a dull hum that seemed to pulse through the walls. He stopped in front of one of his old pieces, a mural he’d painted back when Luxe Street Art was nothing more than a dream fueled by angst and a few too many late nights.

It was raw, visceral, a snapshot of a moment in time when he still believed art could change the world.

 

Now, it was just another item on a collector’s shopping list, priced so high it made him want to laugh. Or maybe cry. He wasn’t sure anymore.

"This is what they want, isn’t it?" he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "To turn something real into something they can hang on their wall and brag about to their friends."

"That’s the game," she said, her tone as banter as his own. "You knew that when you started this."

"Yeah, but I didn’t think I’d end up as just another piece of the machine," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I thought I could beat it."

"You can’t beat the machine," she said with a shrug. "You can only decide whether to be crushed by it or figure out how to work it to your advantage."

He didn’t respond, just stared at the mural, the memories of the night he painted it flooding back like a wave of ecstasy. He remembered the adrenaline, the rush of breaking the law in the name of art, the feeling of invincibility that came with knowing you were doing something that mattered.

And now? Now it was just a piece of merchandise, a talking point for people who had never stepped foot in the neighborhoods where his art was born.

"Maybe you’re right," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe the only way to win is to play the game."

"Or change the rules," she replied, a glint of something dark and dangerous in her eyes. "That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Breaking the rules?"

He looked at her, the fire in her eyes matching the one burning in his gut. She was right, of course—she was always right. He hadn’t gotten this far by playing it safe, by following the rules set by people who didn’t understand what real art was.

No, he’d made it by breaking those rules, by tearing them apart and rewriting them in his own blood. And maybe that’s what he needed to do now—tear down the whole goddamn system and rebuild it from the ground up.

"Let’s get out of here," he said suddenly, the decision made in an instant. "I’ve seen enough."

She didn’t argue, just nodded and followed him out of the gallery, leaving the vultures to pick over the remains of what used to be his soul.

As they stepped out into the harsh light of the afternoon, the city was just as unforgiving as it had been when they walked in. But now, there was a new determination in his step, a new fire in his eyes. The game wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

He still had a few tricks up his sleeve, a few rules left to break. And this time, he wasn’t going to let the machine win.

 

 

"Where to now?" she asked, her voice lighter, almost playful.

He took one last swig from the Chimay bottle, then tossed it into a nearby "recycle" trash can with a grin that was equal parts defiance and madness.

"Wherever the hell we want," he said. "We’re rewriting the rules, remember?"

She smiled, the kind of smile that promised trouble, the kind that said she was all in, no matter where this crazy ride took them.

And as they walked away from the gallery, leaving the vultures and the machine behind, he knew one thing for sure: the story wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

 

-- WANTON ] Street Artist Crew [