With Off That Gas, Alkēbulan delivers a hypercharged portrait of postcolonial disorientation, where the absurd is not surrealism—it’s realism, merely amplified. The figure—a monstrous yet hauntingly familiar youth with bugged-out eyes and a straw lodged into a vintage gas pump—sucks directly from the artery of an industrial beast, a grotesque metaphor for consumption, survival, and contamination. His oversized cranium, stretched like a cartoon prophecy, suggests that knowledge and paranoia now live side by side. The street scene—Gulf taxis, Afro-urban decay, residual billboards—collides with his demonlike features to reveal a social commentary so raw it almost stings: What are the youth drinking in a world that left no water? This is not caricature. This is Black mythos glitching under pressure, broadcast from the center of a crumbling grid.