Phi11y’s P-Hines{T} /> #Hardcore PHant-[O]m$: Prologue; Part One, Chapter One

Excerpts from r(E)volutionized contributor John Corry’s historical satire Phi11y’s P-Hines{T} /> #Hardcore PHant-[O]m$

Physical front, back and spine of Corry’s Phi11y’s P-Hines{T} /> #Hardcore PHant-[O]m$.

Physical front, back and spine of Corry’s Phi11y’s P-Hines{T} /> #Hardcore PHant-[O]m$.

10/22/18, 4:28 pm EDT

By John Corry

From the flap:

“Imagine if Tom Wolfe had been born in 1975 and instead of writing 'Radical Chic and Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers' in 1970, he'd have written a book about the state of society and it's obsession with social media, internet fame and all of the intricacies that go along with it. On shrooms. Using Chuck Palahniuk's 'Pygmy' as his sole piece of inspiration.... you'd have John Corry's 'Phi11y's P-Hines[T] /> #Hardcore Phant-[O]m$'.” -Travis Besecker (author and comedy writer)

After 19-year-old reformed gang member Randall Gähstŭr is brutally murdered at the start of the Baltimore riots of 2015, the subsequent investigation leads both his former closest friends and the two very different special agents assigned to investigating the case into a web of conspiracy involving everything from police corruption, to global world domination, to manipulated/unnecessarily clung-to gang violence (relatively defined), war, and, eventually /> r(E)volution.

Over the next 2-3 months, we’ll be releasing 1-2 chapters of Corry’s Phi11y’s P-Hines{T} /> #Hardcore PHant-[O]m$ every Monday and Friday. You check it out here, get a free PDF here, or check it out on Amazon, or on Barnes and Noble.

Parental discretion is advised.


April 24th, 2015

3:14 a.m.

“I’ll show you who’s hardcore, you FUCKIN’ sonofabitch. Show the world what being hardcore really means /> Teach you to out-hardcore me MUTHAFUCKA!!!!–


Barry ‘mumbled’ loudly (!), brashly, **franatically and incoherently to himself (!!!) /> swiftly, briskly (total bitch/monkey-cuck-FUCK (mick, faggot, nigger, honkey, spick, kike, A-Rab, kabob, hillbilly, chink, dink, PUSSY, brownie, cunt, ginzo, redneck, cracker, gimp, yankee, hick, cossak, coon, gingo, guinea, jap, lebo, moskal, raghead, porchmonkey, niglet, rylo, shylock, tacohead, terrorist, CAPITALIST, COMMUNIST, FASCIST, MARXIST, PLATONIST /> (!))–crazy-adjunct-parasitically**[2]!! (xo :) (!!!) =p ==OO >< =DDD :º X)!–sometimes yelping in a high-pitched squeal–violently[3]–like a type of mad scientist or a really good opera singer or some-shit™ >totally fucked up< as he approached the outskirts of Randall’s property in the dead of night #TechnicallyRandall’sParents’Property,ButWhatever:/ . A couple passing by on the otherwise dead-empty street a few dozen yards away could smell him quite well (xop), but after seeing his long hair, those wildly inappropriate sunglasses (like, it was night-time (meaning: sunglasses were totally unneeded and could only possibly be used by someone at that time for ‘fashion’ purposes #Self-ishBitch #WhatADick #Hipster #GetOverYourself #Pretentious-Hipster #Clearly,EveryoneIsADick #HowDareHe #Unbelievable ) =D), and barely visible skin (/> #BUTWHICHCOLOR?! #IMOR-TANT!!!*TheMostImportant*TheMostImportant*TheMostImportant (!) ), wrote it off simply as: “A werewolf or some shit. I dunno, who cares? That’s what we have cops for: protection /> from everything and everyone…

“Let’s bang, bae-bae–”

Barry was a black-metal, overtly-hater-hipster #BlackMe-talheadDouchebag Douchebag™ (or: the worst kind of metal-head Douchebag™ ($) xD), who felt weakly that his opinion was the only one that mattered, but that was never the way anybody else would ever hear it–

Randall’s parents’ big suburban home lie atop a large hill, whose gradual downward slope served as its backyard, and ‘twas hĕře where Barry parked himself crouched behind a tree before the woods that the yard gave way to, behind him–

Barry, nonchalantly and without thought: “I’ll show you hardcore, little bitch–dirty ass-licker, twat-flicker–fuckin’ Con-verge: Jane Doe[4] level shit, just without the technicality or the heart–”

He left his spot behind the tree, speed-walked his way up the hill and to the door–

The back door under the deck led into the basement–

After KICKING down the back door, he paced the floor, reached the stairs–

The Irish (!!!(!!)), scum-as-total-shit-and-peasantry (put that fuckin’ potato down!) black metal Douchebag-dillhole-shit-munching-cocksucker marched sternly, but not excessively quickly or obviously–


–up the stairs, through the kitchen, around the main staircase, through the dining room, and–OMG (!) #IJustMetYouButThis-IsCrazy(!!!) –up the main staircase and–

“Goddamned sonofabitch–”

Barry /> KICKED down the bedroom door of Randall’s (bedroom?) bedroom #ThatWouldMakeSense…  more suddenly than a cat lunges at a mouse during a nice family dinner, but it actually wasn’t so suddenly at all! The chainsaw in Barry’s hands had been rattling since he pulled the starter cap halfway up the stairs!!!


>High-Pitched, High-Frequency Demonic Dolphin Laugh from Hell (=OOOOOO)<


Barry raised the saw over his head as he LUNGED–





The vibrating spikes on the saw cut rigidly, yet surprisingly straight[5] (oo.O ;\), through the middle of Randall’s head and face, but, interestingly enough[6] (XD), on a slight slant from right to left, so that the two pieces were cut off from the top of Randall’s left ear to around the bottom of his mouth on the opposite side. The blood shot out like from a powerful hose. It sprayed all over Randall’s bedroom, covering everything from his TV to his window to his impressive hip-hop vinyl collection (Big L, Rakim, Biggie, KRS-One, PAC, Nas, Talib, Diabolic, A Tribe Called Quest, Immortal Technique, Kid CuDi, GZA/Genius, Mos Def, Kendrick Lamar, Lauryn Hill, Tha’ Method Man (actually, let’s just say everything related to Wu-Tang), Eminem, Jedi Mind Tricks, Big Pun, Hopsin, Mobb Deep, J. Cole, The Chronic, The Roots, Cannibal Corpse, Jay-Z–), and even to his copies of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies and The Autobiography of Malcolm X as told to Alex Haley on the waaaay other side. The eyes BURST from their sockets, thanks to the pressure, and Barry’s laugh only became crazier, louder, more frenetic and more audible as the saw scurried its little way across Randall’s ill-fated skull, his mouth quickly filling with blood, surged GUSHING from the growing wound in heavy waves, DRENCHING both Randall and Barry within milliseconds, like a broken lava lamp.


It was all insanely gory, cartoonish, disgusting and ridiculous; even worse than that one time Barry pissed and vomited all over himself at a party in high school. It was really gross (xOP) (both the event in question, and this most recent apparent acclamation (as if you couldn’t already tell) :/). In fact, if you were there, you probably would have pissed and/or vomited in chunks all over yourself, making you so inherently smelly, gross and unattractive that you would most likely Never be Able to Bag a Decent Date Again (:O), like a total Loser



It was super hardcore (:o) …


Part One

(‘Fake’ Intro/Prologue to the ‘Real’ Story)


 “If you don’t stand for something, you will fall for anything.” –Malcolm X

“Blind obedience to authority is the greatest enemy of truth.” –Albert Einstein

“Perspective. You start looking at things differently, like everything’s not so important. You don’t take things so personally. Everyone changes, becomes better people. We all should get that chance.” –Tupac Shakur 


April 24th, 2015

9:37 a.m.

“Seems fairly obvious. In fact, I’d say we’re just about done here

It was 9:38 in the morning–On a Friday–and Special Agent Palmer’s third day on the job, his senior partner Special Agent Gestarrè (pronounced: ‘jest-are-RAY’ ($))’s forty-first year. Already, it’d proven itself an interesting relationship, as only moving-time could tell for sure in the end. The snow begot from the storm three days earlier was still packed as if it’d only just fallen in the previous few minutes, Palmer thinking he was the only one who noticed. He did his best to let it drift out of his mind without notice, but, as-per-usual (:!), he was unsuccessful.


Blood still covered every speck of Randall’s old room. His horribly disfigured body lay in several, often unrecognizable, pieces on the ground and on the bed. The mother and the father of the deceased had greeted the two special agents at the front door, and proceeded to show them to their son’s room, barely able to hold in their tears. As expected, they were quite torn over the situation, but, originally, despite all evidence and/or past understanding or pretense telling them otherwise, had faith that things might actually work out for once (>><<) /> something they weren’t too used to in their experiences as American citizens. Whether ‘twas their own fault or not, the couple had hoped and thought that, of all people, law enforcement would be able to sympathize with them at least a little bit–

After some less-than-appropriate ‘remarks’ (jokes[8]) from Gestarrè about the moment he and Palmer first arrived on the scene, Mrs. and Mr. Gähstŭr (‘gash-TOOR’ ($))[9] decided sedulously, at the subdued behest of a reluctant conclusion made with the help of some steps and pieces of opinions, new information, and suggestions from others (like Palmer(‘s lack of speech)?), that they leave for the rest of their home, to their own devices, to deal in whatever way they found most helpful amongst only themselves in their just newly-defined-as-young, dark, souls…[10]

Palmer and Gestarrè continued investigating the room, alone, like aliens from different universes.

“Typical gang case,” Gestarrè said as he stood from his squat. “We’ll report it to Sergeant Fucs,” (‘fucks’ ($) ;). “He’ll file it in its rightful place under miscellaneous gang and/or-drug-related violence, nothing more *Clearly*Clearly*ClearlyNoth-ingMoreThanSimpleViolence*Simple*Simple*Simple , and we can go back to our normal routine. No worries.”

Gestarrè straightened his thickly rimmed glasses, pet his nice, awesome, and fully white beard, and began writing something down on his #Clipboard (a ‘fancy’ clipboard with a cool, however totally-fake-ass looking silver border around the edge (it was real (silver (I think)), I don’t know for a fact, though, so don’t take me up on that (so it could be fake (plastic)??? #WhyTheFuckDoesItMatter? #MoneyMoneyMoney-MoneyMoneyMoney$$$)) xp) /> but Palmer didn’t hear a thing Gestarrè said. He was engulfed in the blankness and the murk that came with having a heart and a fucking brain in such an ABSOLUTELY dark human time-and-place as around America, 2015 #TheDarkestTime *TheAbsoluteDarkest #SoDark #SoDar-k,It’llNeverComeBackAroundNEVEREVERNEVEREVEREVER(GettingBackTogetherXDDDDDD[11]) . Palmer had never seen a live dead body before... If Gestarrè were holding any information back, Palmer wouldn’t have heard it anyway…


“You have anything to add?”

Gestarrè looked up from his #NotepadClipboardThing (or whatever the FUCK you wanted to call it :!), to see Palmer staring intensely out the window, his hands held tightly together behind his back, unmoved.

“Special Agent Palmer?”

Palmer said nothing.

After another pause, Gestarrè: “Fucking gangs; lazy, immature hoodlums tearing our world apart,” mumbled as he looked back down. “If only we could find a way to stop them from forming in the first place...”

Palmer bit his tongue–

“But–” he stuttered. “–But what about that ‘Barry Swindle’? The one Officer Gähstŭr was mentioning?”

Gestarrè sighed.

“You know we can’t do that, Palmer,” he said. “Especially with all that’s happening in Baltimore today[12]. Randall was a crack addict, degenerate–a total menace to society, nothing more, no possibility of ever becoming anything more–and you know who Barry Swindle’s parents are, they’re practically celebrities in this town. Not to mention the Gähstŭr’s history. It’s a waste of time, Fucs knows that.”

“But there’s so much blood–”

“It’s only blood, Palmer. If you didn’t already know it, you have quite a bit of that yourself, so it shouldn’t be much of a disruption to see it out of its normal habitat (in your body). That’s prejudiced.”

There was a pause.

“But all the limbs…”

Palmer was referring to the ripped limbs and torn organs mixed in with the human cocktail lying at his feet #MetephorF-or:World,2016 ://.

“These entrails could circle the entire house, maybe even more times than OJ could take a nice, relaxed post-homicide stroll around the block with the cops trailing behind him too afraid to do anything about it because they know how badly they fucked up with the Rodney King situation–”

“No one’s denying how sick these people can be, Palmer,” and his tone was noticeably exactly-the-same :(. “Killers like this aren’t even human, if you think about it.”

 Palmer: “I guess you’re right–”

“Of course I’m right. This is America. You wanna be wrong, go move to the Middle East or Germany or something; free healthcare, free college, crazy socialist cucks with no care for human fucking beings /> JESUS–fuc–ehmv…” and he went on mumbling to himself…

… … …

… … … … …

… …


Palmer gazed about the room. He found himself pressed to forgo his emotions regarding Gestarrè’s comment, for the sake of the case, and, after a good few minutes had gone by (o.O) (during which he somehow got on to thinking about Stephen Hawking’s Brief History of Time, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and the basic principles of quantum mechanics (or: the ones he understood (so: barely any ‘=( )) #SoRelevant*So-Relevant*SoRelevant ), he came innocently upon the notice of a small, framed picture on the nightstand at the top of Randall’s old bed. It was the only thing not knocked over on that table.


He picked the picture up and gently swiped the Bloody Chunks off it. It was a shot of Randall, and around his sloppy-drunk arm, what would appear to be a one-time girlfriend. They were at a party. It was dark beyond the shadows, and through the windows to the sides, and there were people with smiles and hugs in the background…


Palmer smiled (:), the origins of a #Tear forming quaintly around his right eyeball as his lip began to frantically shake and quiver (xx’d) #SoFrantically . He swiped off the remaining ‘stronger-stickier’ brain matter still stuck to the picture’s otherwise smooth surface, and brought it closer to his eye. It was a nice picture if it had to be nice, and Palmer figured it did…


Then, after getting the sentiment he needed (====’( #SoNeeded… ), he let it go to watch it slowly waver downward, and back onto: the mattress, amidst the pile of entrails as he looked and brought into visual focus the top half of Randall’s split, severed head (specifically: the forehead with the left eye :/), probably one of the more disturbing aspects of the scene…


‘Hardcore Bitch’ it read in sloppy handwriting, the kind that someone with a strong case of ADD and a terrible obsession with that horrible hip-hop music would have (><); written in blood and embedded in rotting flesh. If all practical on-the-spot guesses would prove correct, the tool used for such a discreet venture could only have been a very rusty shank of some sort, because after just a few hours, it had already turned a nasty mix of green and purple with a black rotting crust.

‘Hardcore…’ Palmer thought.


‘I think I’m having a strong feeling that there might be something more to this, something as-yet unseen...’



[1] Bitch #We’reTakingItBack<3

[2] ‘Crazy-adjunct-parasitically’ please see glossary on pp. 281

[3] Again, these trademark symbols are ALWAYS used for satirical affect, (meaning: NOT for legal reasons (IT IS NOT LEGAL)), unless otherwise noted (for example (or: in every instance in this book where the symbol is used for actual legal reasons), it being followed by a bold ‘(Legal)’ sign)

[4] Converge. Jane Doe. Equal Vision Records. 2001

[5] So surprisingly…

[6] So interestingly…

[7] So unsuccessful… :’(

[8] This might be to ask: Is there such a thing as making a joke at an inappropriate time? If so, when would that time be? Would the recognition of that time be more subjective or objective, and what does this line of reasoning say about the nature of Freedom of Speech? #Why’dYouHaveTo-GoAndMakeThingsSoComplicated? #AvrilLavigne #Complicated #PeopleAreComplicated

[9] Mrs. and Mr.? Mr. and Mrs.? #DoesItReallyFuckingMatter? #SorryForOffendingYou #SorryNotSorry(PFT!),|,;D,|,;DDDD

[10] (IF YOU ARE NOT OFFENDED BY THIS PARAGRAPH, PLEASE SKIP THIS FOOTNOTE) Much of this book is a variation of a troll and is meant to be so on multiple levels (including partisan politics, and through grammar), a troll intended to coerce the reader specifically into feeling offended (for whatever reason), almost subconsciously in some cases, and perhaps more so as the book goes on, to hopefully then ask a deeper question as so regards ‘The Nature of Offense’, asked both on its own as well as within some political boundaries. ‘Pro-cop’ arguments are meant to be presented in ways both similar and wholly fundamentally different than those which are ‘pro-street’, endeavored to present themselves most fully within the context of the story as a whole, whilst still in parts throughout the rest of the book, and, furthermore, may hopefully be both well hidden, and ‘in-your-face’, enough, on both sides, to be understood as a full piece before any of its individual parts may give it justifiable disdain. Please be advised

[11] Swift, Taylor. ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’. Red. Big Machine Records. 2012

[12] The 2015 Baltimore riots, starting on April 18th and technically ending on May 3rd (when the curfew was lifted), sparked by the police killing of an unarmed civilian named Freddie Gray, who was arrested on April 12th and died in police custody on April 19th. Over 350 businesses were damaged or destroyed, 113 police officers were injured, and 486 civilians were arrested during the riots. Please see and more references listed in the ‘Bibliography’ section on pp. 283 of this book, for more information