SuperRapist[]
Cover censorship by Fandom page[]
They may have their reasons, but the title and stories have already entered Europe, China, and Russia.
Author’s Prologue Marcos Orowitz[]
Donald Trump is not just a man: he is a symptom. A persistent background noise, a caricature that escaped the page and decided to rule the real world. This book does not try to explain him or redeem him; it merely observes him, dissects him, and laughs when there is nothing else left to do. Because in the face of vulgarity, humor is often the last form of lucidity.
In these stories, Trump appears as what he always was: an enigmatic figure by excess, a character inflated to the point of ridicule, a prop superhero convinced of his own legend. A king without a crown who confused power with spectacle, truth with shouting, greatness with ego. He did not arrive alone: he was chosen, sustained, and celebrated by the very same power clubs that have always pulled the strings from the shadows, and he knows it.
But to sustain the character and erase mistakes from the past, he had to pay the price of obedience. To yield, to humiliate himself, to kneel before the system; before that club of old powerful men that manufactured him. To sell whatever scraps of dignity remained in exchange for borrowed applause. We must not forget it: this character was a close friend of Jeffrey Epstein and shared the very same vices that power always tries to sweep under the rug.
And then the question hangs there, uncomfortable, almost like an act of censorship:
why don’t the American people unite?
Why don’t they awaken in a revolution of consciousness, a collective jolt that takes to the streets not to destroy, but to point, expose, and symbolically bring down corrupt idols?
An ethical, massive rebellion, where the powerful are brought to the public square of historical judgment; where corrupt politicians and predators protected by the system — figures like Donald Trump — are stripped of their costume, their applause, and their impunity. Not with ropes, but with memory, truth, and shame.
This is not a book about politics, but about contemporary absurdity. About how one man could become a meme, a threat, and a joke at the same time. About a world that watched him, fascinated, as he set the stage on fire. If these pages make you uncomfortable, provoke you, or make you laugh with guilt, then they will have fulfilled their function: to remind us that even false superheroes leave an indelible mark on the collective conscience; And by some fucking coincidence, human beings are prone to kneeling before these characters manufactured by mass social communication networks, which unfortunately are the nourishment of this era.
Best regards to everyone. Enjoy this book and support my friend Martina, a great person with enormous talent.
────────────────────────────────────────
Author: Martina Olivera
Courtesy: EDTV
Spanish/English translation: PolianM
History: 2 Hunting Venezuela's gorilla
Pages:229
────────────────────────────────────────-
Story: 2 — Hunting Venezuela's gorilla[]
I’m not going to lie to you, dear reader. I’m not even going to pretend I can explain what an ordinary Latin woman feels when she hears and sees Donald Trump on television. I’m not going to translate it into numbers or geopolitical analyses, because what you feel doesn’t fit into a chart: it’s disgust, rage, and an uncomfortable acidity that never lets up.
While he speaks, the same images always appear: children in cages, ready to be deported like defective packages back to their countries of origin; racism strolling calmly through the streets of America; political persecution for anyone who dares to resist. All of it wrapped in a heroic narrative, in a lie poorly disguised as a war on drug trafficking, whose real goal was to cage the Venezuelan gorilla and once again drain the oil wells of someone else’s country.
Ha ha ha.
“America has done this before, remember? It wasn’t just the Twin Towers or the fight against Bin Laden or Saddam Hussein—each with its own context, each with consequences that are still bleeding—but the same old movie: direct or indirect interventions in countries that had something worth taking. Iran in 1953 for oil, Vietnam to stop the communist ghost (so they said), Panama to settle scores, Chile to smash governments into place with a hammer, Iraq with excuses no one ever found later… and always, always the same script: moral justifications, bombings, regime change, and then business and control.”
And we saw it again on January 3, 2026, in Caracas, when more than 150 U.S. aircraft launched a nighttime military operation, bombed strategic installations, and special forces stormed the capital to capture the gorilla and his mate, taking them like some kind of endangered animals to New York to face charges dating back years, while Washington announced it would “govern” Venezuela until a “safe transition” could take place.
Of course, the official narrative talks about fighting “narco-terrorism” and restoring order, but there is always a background that smells like oil, geopolitics, and resource control. Always the same story: freedom exported at gunpoint, sovereignty trampled at convenience. History is nothing more than a catalog of invasions disguised as “humanitarian missions” and “international security,” while cities fall and people pay the price.
And the world didn’t freeze. Quite the opposite: it celebrated. They blessed the capture of the gorilla and his mate, and there was no shortage of complicit smiles from Benjamin Netanyahu, who shamelessly congratulated Trump on his oil expedition. Gaza vanished from the screens as if by magic. Children went back to being background noise.
But we must not forget that this Zionist politician has his hands stained with innocent blood—thousands of murdered children and women. For ambition and power.
They wanted to turn Gaza into a park, for rich and millionaire tourists. And yes. Old Trump was going to invest in that ironic and inhumane journey, simply because his ass is dirty and he knows the only thing that can save him from spending the rest of his pathetic old-man life in prison is sucking up to those who control this world.
But you already know…
This is a sick world, rotten to the core. And we don’t need the cunning of a celebrated writer to turn these scenes into a horror story. No. I’m brave enough—or reckless enough—to vomit onto the table everything I’ve consumed in a very short time: that rancid food the system serves daily as if it were an essential delicacy for the inhabitants of Earth.
And I’m being generous. Because I could insult them, I could tell them all to go to hell. But I already know what they’d say afterward: that’s feminism, and it’s not okay for a woman to talk like that. To hell with the patriarchy, with politicians, and with this whole machine designed to keep human beings asleep. Am I the only one who woke up before the bombs fell? Do you really need a nuclear war to snap out of it?
Anyway.
Here begins my story. And believe me: this is only the beginning of a long chain of favors that we continue to grant, with suicidal docility, to those who rule our nations with an iron rod.
As always, I was listening to music. Very loud. Not for pleasure, but for survival. So I wouldn’t have to see or hear the shitty Argentine politicians repeating the same old trick: steal, lie, smile, steal again. An obscene loop broadcast nationwide, with panelists giving opinions as if they were witnesses to something historic and not just accomplices with microphones.
Although I must admit that since Javier Milei’s latest mental collapse in power—when he put on a Movistar Arena show and thought he was a music star—everything in this damned country looks calmer. Still, if there’s one thing we must never stop doing, it’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth. And in this case, my friends, I have no excuses: everything is running smoothly.
Music was my trench. A precarious refuge, but an effective one. Until my phone burst in with a vibration that dragged a blunt message onto the screen.
02:07.
A short, clumsy message, written with anxiety:
“They captured the son of a bitch Maburro. At two in the morning. Caracas.”
What a load of shit… I thought!
Not because I was surprised—at this point nothing surprises me—but because the precision of the time felt obscene. Two in the morning isn’t a time: it’s a statement. It’s the hour when houses are raided, bodies are abducted, headlines are written before the world has time to think. The perfect hour for the narrative to arrive pre-chewed, hot, and ready to swallow.
I turned up the volume. Mistake. The music couldn’t compete with the mental noise. Because I could already imagine the scene before seeing it: helicopters like giant insects, commandos with night vision, carefully placed cameras, and that rehearsed gesture of triumph empires practice in front of the mirror. Everything designed to look like justice and not looting.
I turned on the TV. Second mistake.
There they were: a parade of improvised experts, celebrating the capture of the gorilla as if it were an exotic trophy. No one talked about sovereignty, no one talked about international law. They talked about order, about cleanliness, about peace. The most dangerous words when they come from the wrong mouths.
—The world breathes easier now—one of them said, with a firm, confident voice.
The world? Which world? Theirs? The markets’? The one with green charts going up while bodies go down?
I turned it off. It was already too much.
I thought about Caracas at that hour. About people waking up in shock. About mothers with their hearts in their throats. About dogs barking at nothing. And then I thought something else, harsher, more uncomfortable: there are thirty million human beings in that fucking country and it never, ever occurred to them to unite and overthrow that fucking government by force?
There was nothing left, ladies and gentlemen, of Simón Bolívar’s spirit in those lands, believe me. Just a handful of cowards, docile to the point of shame. So obsequious that they ended up kneeling before the empire of evil so that, through a Machiavellian plan, it could abduct—like in a bad alien movie—the monster that oppressed them.
And meanwhile, here, in the deep south of the south, we were still trapped in our own version of the circus: politicians talking about sacrifice from armored cars, promising the future with full mouths, pointing to external enemies so no one looks into internal pockets. The same choreography as always, but with an Argentine accent.
I poured myself a glass of something strong. Not to celebrate. To tolerate.
Because I suddenly understood they weren’t hunting a man. They were hunting a symbol. And symbols, when they fall, don’t bring peace: they bring permission. Permission for the next incursion, the next lie, the next country marked on the map like big game.
“At two in the morning they captured the gorilla.”
At two in the morning they also captured something else: the illusion that there was still some kind of limit.
And me, as always, with music in the background, trying not to hear the world applauding while it sharpens its knives.
Regional smiles didn’t take long to appear. Chile breathing easier, Colombia popping a cautious bottle, Peru doing quick calculations. On the news they talked about “normalization,” “orderly returns,” “the end of a migration crisis.” No one said the right word: selfish relief. Because the news wasn’t Maduro, it was the promise that Venezuelans would start returning to their lair, their original hell, far from foreign borders that were so inconvenient.
Hypocrisy is transversal and democratic.
Maduro, meanwhile, had always been grabbed where it hurts most. Not by Trump or Washington, but by that other old regime, cunning and expert at surviving among ruins: the Cuban one. Exactly like Chávez before him. That was never an ideological alliance; it was pure dependency. A shared misery manual, cross blackmail, favors collected in closed rooms, far from fiery speeches and prop epics.
It all began when those two wretches—the dead one and the gorilla—were caught by Cuban intelligence agents sharing more than revolutionary slogans. They had carnal relations, under the sheets, without metaphors or flags. It wasn’t a revolution: it was an intimate partnership of convenience. And if there’s one thing that defines the Cuban regime, it’s precisely that: blackmail, cover-ups, moral filth. They are, plainly, shit.
And where else could something like that gestate? Of course, in Cuba. On that battered island where power learned decades ago that poverty, well managed, is a more effective tool than any army.
Castro knew it. He always did. That’s why the island survived: selling loyalties, renting out influence, managing scarcity as if it were an exact science. Oil for silence. Support for submission. A manual Venezuela followed to the letter until it ran dry.
And Trump knew it too.
He knew that without Maduro there would be no more shipments, that the tap would close, that the deplorable island—as they would call it under their breath—would have to fend for itself, without that foreign fuel keeping the lie alive. It wasn’t justice. It was strategic suffocation. The kind of move that history books call a “firm decision” and real life translates as collective punishment.
While presidents posed and markets celebrated, I thought the same thing as always: no one captures dictators out of compassion. They capture them when they stop being useful. When the cost outweighs the benefit. When the gorilla stops entertaining and starts getting in the way.
And so, amid discreet applause and carefully worded statements, the continent celebrated not a liberation, but a cleanup. A reordering. An illusion of order that lasts exactly as long as the next target marked on the map.
Because if I learned anything that dawn, it’s that in this world no one falls alone. Some are released. Others are handed over. And almost everyone is used until they’re no longer useful.
The hunt was over.
But the hunter’s hunger was not. So my question is: how long are we going to allow these countries that rule with an iron rod—the most ambitious and heavily armed nations on our planet—to sow evil in the most meticulous and ordinary way?
As you can see, I am not defending the miserable son of a bitch Nicolás Maduro. Quite the opposite. I’m trying to understand why we can’t all unite—every human being on this planet—and, in an act of synchronized rebellion, finally put an end to empires, kings, farces, control, lies, and ambition.
Unite through empathy for life, against injustice, and above all against the empire of evil. The same evil that disguises itself as religious, sits in churches, and worships a cynical deity emptied of human feelings like love.
When will that fucking day come? I ask myself.
When…?
And let me tell you, without any restraint, that this is the world you inherited—but not the world you should leave to your children. At some point we should become aware and decide what the hell we want for our future. Abandon selfishness, leave behind that amorphous normality that condemns you to live chained to a television, to a virtual connectivity that is devouring your cognitive abilities and that, sadly, seems to be the sentence of this race.
In the end, everything amounts to the same thing.
Or doesn’t it?
Are you really happy with that?
Reaching the weekend exhausted, basically destroyed. Not just physically, but morally. Because the system injects that poison into you every day: so you won’t think, so you won’t stop, so your human capacities never come into action or look for a way out.
They know it perfectly. They know that the day we unite and question this false story our ancestors forged and later wrote into books as a sentence for the future… everything ends.
They know it.
And you?
Have you ever stopped to think that unity truly is strength?
Have you ever thought that it’s the very same system that needs us divided, always fighting among ourselves, distracted by stupidities like racism, classism, or gender differences?
Because they know—and that’s why they tremble—that the day we cross that barrier, the order that sustains them collapses. And history has already shown more than once how those moments end. Now, if you are brave enough to… If this brief intro was to your liking, request the book and support my literary career. Thank you.
Stories[]
- The Nobel Peace Prize is mine
- Hunting Venezuela's gorilla
- Epstein doesn't exist (but the plane does)
- ICE: caged children, quiet patriots
- Zionism for degenerates
- The most expensive wall in the world
- Make America Delusional Again
- Coups d'état via WhatsApp
- Deny, shout, repeat: the Trump doctrine
- The war that started with a tweet
- A world without socialism
- The circus, the clown, and the nuclear button
Publication[]
“SuperRapist” is a novel published on January 15, 2026, by Vibras Publishing and is available in a variety of formats to suit all readers' preferences, including e-book and 240-page audio book. The novel has transcended borders, with translations into 25 languages, reflecting its global reach and allowing an international audience to experience this journey through psychological terror, all penned by Argentine author Martina Olivera.