THE FORMATION OF HOLTFACTION

THE FORMATION OF HOLTFACTION By the time the decade tilted into its third collapse—post-pandemic, post-insurrection, post-truth—Evan Love Riot and Veda Viral had already peeled off the last layers of civilian disguise. Hairshows and cover salons were abandoned, along with any lingering belief in normalcy. What remained was raw intent. Purpose forged in exile. The world hadn’t ended. It had just revealed what it always was. The name Holtfaction first appeared on a redacted NSA transcript from a tapped burner phone somewhere near Vienna, Virginia. One agent had written in the margins: “Possible resurrection of MK-Rock? Monitor closely.” The truth was stranger. Holtfaction wasn’t just a band. It was the sonic culmination of two converging timelines—one American, one Slavic—both seeded by deep state experiments and subverted countercultural forces. The formation began in earnest when Agent “Ginger Elvis” and Jesse Hughes of Eagles of Death Metal, known in nightlife as “Boots Electric”—reached out through the backchannel radio waves used only by burned assets and ex-CIA psychic dropouts. He sent Evan a single encrypted message: “The boots are still electric. The riot is still love. It’s time to weaponize harmony.” Agent Ginger Elvis had long been operating in the space between Hollywood and Langley, using desert rock and ironic patriotism to confuse, disrupt, and awaken the latent frequencies encoded in American DNA. He and Evan had shared handlers once—both filed under Project SWEETHEART, a now-decommissioned romantic psy-op program meant to seduce targets through music and magnetic stage presence. Most subjects had gone rogue, overdosed or self destructed. It was Ginger Elvis who tipped Evan off about the Pentagon’s reactivation of the SPECTRAL AUDITION PROTOCOL—a Cold War-era mind-control experiment using distorted reverb and analog fuzz to induce mass compliance or psychic awakening, depending on the subject’s core frequency. (conversation circa 2005) Veda, ever the hammer behind the curtain, had already begun constructing the first percussive templates—rhythmic symbols derived from ritualistic drumming used by the last forest sects of Serbia. Their sessions took place deep in the guts of half-finished condos in Fairfax and Vienna, where drywall was still fresh but the walls vibrated with old data. Together, Evan and Veda formed HOLTFACTION. Not a band. A signal. Their early shows weren’t on flyers. They happened under code—abandoned strip malls in Frederick Maryland, Blacksite art galleries, a shuttered Planet Fitness converted into a rave temple. Ginger Elvis himself made a masked appearance at one show, his cowboy boots humming with suppressed static. No phones were allowed. The frequencies were raw and unfiltered. What made HOLTFACTION different wasn’t just the sound—though it was feral, unrelenting, a bastard child of grunge, goth, and anti-government sermonizing—it was that each song embedded a directive. You didn’t leave a Holtfaction show humming a chorus. You left changed. Altered. Unfit for reentry into polite society. Word spread. Other assets came forward. Drummers from shadow bands. Bassists with decommissioned files. Engineers who once worked for RCA but now lived in bunkers. The revolution wouldn’t be televised. It would be distorted, delayed, drenched in feedback. It would be called HOLTFACTION. And Ginger Elvis would be the one to whisper: “Now crank it. Let’s bring the agency to its knees.” To be continued…

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