In Neocon Dreams, the latest and perhaps most unsettling entry in The War Machine series, faceless agents of war stand eerily aligned, bearing witness to a cataclysmic spectacle. Cloaked in shadow and anonymity, these neocons, rendered with deliberate minimalism, seem less human than embodiments of a machine. They watch in perfect symmetry as two enormous explosions bloom on the horizon-fiery, towering symbols of violence mechanized. The scene vibrates with latent terror, but it is the silence that cuts the deepest. These men, bathed in the sickly green glow of their screens, are not merely passive observers but cold arbiters of destruction. The digital illumination, a toxic hue, reflects their obsessive calculation, distorting their forms as flesh blurs with technology-distorting the boundary between intent and cruelty.

This painting is less a narrative than a philosophical meditation on the commodification of death itself. Neocon Dreams turns war into spectacle, reducing its human cost to a clinical display of power and efficiency. The scene is a chilling indictment of modern warfare’s drift into detached voyeurism-where the violence is distant, viewed through screens, and appraised in terms of its cost-effectiveness rather than its human toll. War, here, is stripped of its historical brutality and recast as a calculated exchange in the language of dominance and control. In this haunting portrayal, we see a disembodied power structure at work-profit-driven, relentless, and inhuman-where the neocon dream of endless war is framed not in terms of ideology but of a cold, economic logic, leaving us to question what is left of humanity when violence becomes so deeply integrated into the machinery of progress.