By Bernice, Fly on the Wall

One hasn’t truly lived until one witnesses a hedge fund manager in tactical khakis murder “Jesus, Take the Wheel” beneath a rotating disco cross. I suppose one hasn’t truly died inside either.

It happened last Saturday night, deep within an undisclosed underground bunker carved into the Arizona desert—what the invitation called a “Faith-Forward Resilience Commune for the Ultra-Affluent.” I alighted on the rim of a champagne flute and observed the evening unfold like a televangelist’s credit card statement: bloated, ridiculous, and morally bankrupt. Much like my last three husbands.

The attendees comprised a charming menagerie: prepper billionaires with portfolios more diversified than their friendships, rapture influencers with perfect teeth and imperfect theology, two disgraced tech bros seeking salvation through stock options, and a retired senator who referred to himself in the third person—a habit that should disqualify one from both public office and private gatherings.

They congregated for fellowship, fireproof lasagna, and the main event: Christian Karaoke Night, presided over by a former megachurch pastor turned bunker life coach named Brock. He possessed the hollow charisma of a man who’d sold his soul at retail and bought it back wholesale.

“Sing it loud enough,” Brock announced, his voice caroming off concrete and quartzite, “and the Lord might spare your compound in the next EMP blast.” The crowd tittered appreciatively, as if the Almighty maintained a special spreadsheet for billionaires with impressive vocal ranges.

A woman named Trinity (née Sharon—one assumes “Sharon” lacked sufficient eschatological gravitas) inaugurated the performances with a dubstep remix of “How Great Thou Art,” complemented by fog machines and two ex-Mossad backup dancers who moved with the vacant precision of men who’d seen too much and remembered too little. Her husband wept. Possibly from joy. Possibly from the biometric LED implants pulsing in his eyelids. Possibly from the realization that money indeed buys everything except taste.

Next sauntered Dean, a crypto evangelist who warbled “Amazing Grace” while delivering a PowerPoint titled “Tokenizing the Holy Spirit: A New Dawn in Faith-Based Capital.” The crowd nodded as if witnessing the Sermon on the Blockchain. I considered drowning myself in the champagne beneath me but decided against it—dying in Dom Perignon seemed too on-the-nose, even for this crowd.

In the kitchenette, a heated debate erupted over whether the Antichrist already walked among us—or merely ran customer service at Verizon. “He’s obviously heading up the SEC,” argued a woman whose diamond cross could double as an anchor for a modest yacht.

I relocated to the chandelier (yes, darling, the bunker boasted a chandelier—suspended from a titanium beam with apocalypse-proof bolts—because nothing says “prepared for the end times” quite like Swarovski) and eavesdropped on a whispered conversation about post-collapse baptism options.

“We’re building a mobile baptism tank with satellite WiFi,” confided a man in a Patagonia vest who once deregulated mercury emissions. “Full immersion in either water or top-shelf tequila, depending on market conditions.” If the meek shall inherit the earth, I suspect these folks have excellent lawyers to contest the will.

The karaoke took a sharp turn when someone performed “I Will Survive” as a spoken-word reading from the Book of Revelation. The crowd became positively unhinged. A goat in a Kevlar vest—because why not—headbutted a speaker. Brock called for a moment of silence “to reflect on personal branding during tribulation.” I reflected instead on the fascinating evolutionary path that led humans from discovering fire to stockpiling freeze-dried stroganoff.

As the night wound down, couples slow-danced to “Onward, Christian Soldiers” while an AI-powered digital choir harmonized in four languages—none of them spoken by the actual help who maintained this underground fever dream. Someone passed around a clipboard for Tuesday’s workshop: “How to Smite with Grace: Faith-Based Security Tactics.” I considered signing up under the name “Jesus H. Christ” but doubted my penmanship would pass muster.

I departed through a ceiling vent as they raised their glasses to the end of days—and to another successful escape from the common folk. Their survival seemed assured; their salvation, considerably less so. But what do I know? I’m just a fly with expensive taste and diminishing hope for humanity. At least the champagne was decent.