In Road Rage Alkēbulan delivers a riotous visual allegory—equal parts satire, surveillance, and suppressed scream. A lone Black figure—eyes peeled wide as if destiny just blinked first—sits on a bale of hay, clutching a Kalashnikov in the center of a cold urban-rural fever dream. Behind him, Soviet-style towers loom like digital tombstones. The wheat is too golden. The people are too oblivious. And his eyes? Too awake. What we witness is not simply a man armed with a rifle; it is the Afro-spiritual embodiment of hypervigilance in a hostile world—an absurdly composed guardian of the surreal. The paranoia is justified, the rage is internal, the landscape is post-everything. This is where Pan-Africanism meets Eastern Bloc melancholia. Where high-rise anxiety chokes the horizon while our protagonist contemplates: is it him who’s lost his mind, or the entire grid around him? Alkēbulan doesn’t just illustrate alienation—he weaponizes it with elegance and humor.