An Open letter to the cowards in suits, the pulpit parasites, and the fucking god complexed label executives.

To the corporate vampires—you turned art into content. You replaced rage with branding. You siphoned meaning from music until it was just background noise in an ad for deodorant. You want passive consumers, not screaming crowds. You want metrics, not mayhem. Fuck your data. Fuck your synergy. You can’t algorithm a soul.

To the politicians—both red and blue, the two cheeks of the same fat ass—you peddle salvation with your right hand while picking pockets with your left. You stand on podiums and pretend your gospel is justice while selling your souls to the highest bidder. Your nationalism is a scam, your morality a script, and your god a weapon. We see through the pantomime.

And to Jesus Christ, the corporate mascot of your guilt machine—get the fuck off that cross, we need the wood for the bonfire. Your image has been hijacked to sell fear, submission, and fucking real estate. Your name’s been slapped on wars, tax breaks, and child cages. If you ever were real, you’d be flipping tables in every megachurch from Dallas to D.C.

This isn’t just rebellion. This is warfare with riffs. This is the sound of youth puking up the lies they were raised on. This is what it means when the underground stops whispering and starts screaming. The phoenix isn’t rising clean—it’s crawling out covered in ash, bile, and broken glass. It’s pissed off, and it’s not here to be loved. It’s here to burn.

Your time’s up. You’ve had your turn selling plastic salvation and barcoded dreams. The stage is ours now. And we’re amplifying every scream you tried to silence.

WHO are we, YOU ASK?

We’re here to lift up the noise that breaks down walls. We’re a zine. A signal. We are the underground, the response, the fight, and the chaos you forgot to fear. We are the people you turned away. The people you ignored. The ones your algorithms couldn’t find.

We don’t need your “approval.” We’re the sound of everyone’s youth that won’t shut up. The music that doesn’t fit in your catalog. The unhung art.

This is Bandit Signal.

See you in the pit.

-Bandit