Phi11y’s P-Hines{T} /> #Hardcore PHant-[O]m$: Part One, Chapters Four and Five

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$.

10/29/18, 5:19 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.

Every Monday and Friday, we’ll be releasing 1-2 chapters of r(E)volutionized contributor John Corry’s Phi11y’s P-Hines{T} /> #Hardcore PHant-[O]m$. 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

11:48 a.m.

“And that was it, man, I swear!”

Al was ‘character’-ized and tout like croute and spring berries on a beautiful day in May at the park <3 :D (!). Special Agents Gestarrè and Palmer had him in tears at his kitchen table, which he thrust his head down on following that last gestic-ulation. He spoke equally as loud and ridiculous from under his arm for the next one, understandably />

“I can’t believe Randall is gone!”

“Al, do you have to be so loud? The dog is trying to sleep–”


This was the first time Al had heard of Randall’s murder, and, to say the least, it took him quite by surprise. It’d been a long time since any of his friends had died, especially under such asinine circumstances, and an even longer time since the infamous night of that infamous #Branding™ . Special Agents Gestarrè and Palmer went straight there after investigating the scene at Randall’s parent’s place, a.k.a. where Randall was living and where he was brutally murdered at like an Egyptian slave in Israel (?) only the night before.

Al’s mom was sick of Al still living at the house, but she did have some sympathy for his current situation–

“You act like this doesn’t happen to some people every day, Al–”


“Do you guys have to be here right now?” Candice, sitting next to Al, asked Gestarrè and Palmer from the other side of the table. “He literally just found out about this–”

“Oh, don’t make me out to look like a pussy, Candice!” Al said, and he picked his head up with it, only to shove it right back down after he was done talking (or: bitching, whatever :/).

“O-kay,” Candice responded. “Fine.”

She got up and left.

“Mr. Rockman, it would do you well to pull yourself together here so as to end this silly investigation as soon as possible,” Gestarrè began, his eyes still parallel with his pen and paper-on-something (like: a clipboard? #EverythingIsRelative,-Man ) currently residing in his lap. “We’re fairly certain that the killer was one of the young Gähstŭr’s old ‘colleagues’ from his gang days. Could you tell us anything about that–”

“Randall was never a dick, ASSHOLE!!” Al screamed with a quick, temporary raise of his head. “He was a great man–”

“Mr. Rockman, we’re not in a position of a screaming match here, so please, could we move along with this? If you don’t mind, I have a two O’ clock tee time this evening–”

With yet another lowering of his head into his arms on the table, Al squealed: “RAAAANDDAAALLLL!!!!!!!-”

“Maybe we can wait just a little bit?” Palmer suggested.

Gestarrè shot him a look.


“Maybe have a cup of coffee first? Talk about deflategate a little bit?” (Tom Brady is a CHEATER–)

Al lifted his head back up.

“Yea, I think I like that idea,” he said as he sniffed, and wiped some (alleged) cry-water from his eyes :’(. “Maybe put some bourbon in the coffee?”

“Whatever works, man, we’re here to help you out–”


Gestarrè straightened his glasses, looked back to his paper on the _________ sitting on his lap (o.O), and adjusted himself in his seat.

“Yea?” Al continued. “Bourbon? Scotch?–”

 “Palmer, can we step outside for a moment, please.”

>Insert awkward pause, because I don’t want to use the ‘…’ again<



/> Al: “So is that a yes for spiked coffee?–”


“What’s the problem, Gest–”

“I’d like to ask: what in the fucking world do you think you’re fucking doing?”

Gestarrè spoke diligently, and with more passion (honesty? honest anger?) and indignation than ever before, far more than Palmer thought he’d had in him (=o). It was like everything about him when he was inside was completely restrained, but now that he was outside, out of the ‘consumer’ or ‘average, taxpaying citizen’s’ earshot ($), and smoking a cigarette like a mad cat lady on Adderall or some shit, he could say and do whatever he wanted, because in order for him to truly have that right, everyone else had to think that they did as well (at the very least ($)).

Palmer answered: “I’m questioning the witness–”

“I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to be a stickler here,” Gestarrè said, sarcastically laughing and flinging his arms up for ‘dramatic’ effect. “But I’ve been one of the leading detectives of our lady Philadelphia’s 14th and 1/6th precinct since the Cold War and, as I know you ‘Millennials’ love to forget about history, that was quite a long time ago now.” (History? Or: ‘time’… :o) “Need I remind you that you’ve only been on the job for three days, and already I’m getting the sense that you think you know how to do your job better than me, you fuck–”

Gestarrè gained back his composure with a deep breath in a drag from his cigarette.

He went on: “Another typical trait for your generation.”

Palmer: “I don’t see–”

“We have but one hour until I need to be home for my daily hour shower so you’d better not drag this out any longer than it has to go–”

Stuttering, Palmer: “Well I-I want to get all of the-the facts f-first–”

“There are no facts anymore, Palmer. Grow up–”


“Palmer,” and Gestarrè took another hit off his cigarette, moved his face in closer to Palmer’s, and raised the hand holding the smoke to point at Palmer’s eye, avoiding contact with it by a mere inch at best.

“Facts are nothing more than interpretations by thinking people of what happens throughout the day. Some people are going to have different interpretations than others, so it’s not about reading or getting the facts, it’s about knowing them, and recognizing that every day is another, new, 24-hour, moment-packed opportunity to do so, and to /> a-ch (cough)–

“Fuckin’ kids nowadays–”

>From inside, as the door opened with a surging wind, it was a woman’s voice<

“I’m doing it, DUDE!!”

“I know, CANDICE!!! But you need to move faster now since I’m in a lot of emotional pain and physical fear for my life and I need your support!”


Candice stopped pouring the drinks to look at Al through the open walkway between the kitchen and the messy dining room, where Al was sitting at the table, and where and Gestarrè and Palmer had just walked back into from outside.

With just-the-right-amount-of sass: “What the hell do you think I’m doing, Al?–”


“I’m sorry guys, I’m having a very rough day,” Al told the Agents, as they sat back down at the table. Candice went back to gathering the drinking materials in the kitchen, and would be out momentarily.

“What did you mean you’re in physical fear for your life right now?” Palmer asked.

“Well it’s just… some shit that happened that night. You know… the night of #TheBranding™ –”

“Yes, about that,” started Gestarrè. “What is it about that night that makes you so worried, and why were you so quick to just call that the end before?”

Al looked at him incredulously.


“What do you mean?”

“When you said that nothing happened after Herb picked you up at your house to go back to House’s house? Seems a tad shady to me, right, Palmer?”

Palmer nodded sincerely.


“Well, I honestly just don’t really want to continue telling the story anymore,” Al answered.

“Why is that?”

“I dunno! Fuckin.n.n.,” he hesitated. “We’ve been laughing our asses off at that whole event for the past few months, because it was freakin’ hilarious, but now it seems as though it can’t be funny anymore!!! GODDAMMIT!!! Oh Randall!!! Oh Barry!!! Why??!! Why, oh, why, oh, WHY???!!!

Al threw his head back into his arms on the table–

Candice arrived with three cups of coffee, placing each one in front of each of the three men, shooting Palmer and Gestarrè some more dirty looks as she did so. Once placed in front of him, Al downed almost the whole thing on his first sip, which Candice had proven she’d already anticipated by bringing over the coffee pot and the whiskey bottle with her as well–respectively. Palmer made a grimace in surprise at how much bourbon was in his, but Gestarrè apparently didn’t notice any-thing–

Candice sat down quietly next to Al.

“Al, please,” Palmer sympathized because he was a ‘decent’ person B>:). “It could help us figure out what happened, and to stop anything from happening to you guys, or to anyone else.”

“I dunno, just…”

Al turned away, closed his eyes.


“God, that night was so fucked up.” –Mumbled.

“Just walk us through the night of #TheBranding™ . Whenever you’re ready.”

“Well, it all started when Herb came to pick me up. My four older brothers were over, they’re all a lot older than we are, and they really wanted to come when I told them where I was going–”

“Wait, they… wanted to go to a backyard #Brand-    ing?” Gestarrè asked.

“Well, yea. I mean how many times are you gonna witness a drunk dude get #Branded™ with a rusty, twelve-year-old clothes hanger his friend just found in his other friend’s molding garage?”

Candice nodded in agreement, small smile on her face as she took another sip of her drink.


“Anyway, I’d just gotten Randall into The Roots–have you guys heard of that band?”

Palmer and Gestarrè shook their heads no.

“Yea, they’re pretty awesome. Questlove, Black Thought, they’re great. Herb played them in the car on the way over to House’s that day. I’d never really hung out with House and them very much, but with Candice over here wanting to do nothing but dance around to Ke$ha music for endless hours on molly every day, I had to get the hell outta here for a night.”

Candice nodded sincerely, small apologetic tilt of her head this time.


“Wait, no,” Al said suddenly. “I meant powerfully addictive painkillers often prescribed to people with a history of addiction as if we’re not all susceptible to addiction anyway /> not molly, my bad.”


“Anyway, when we got there, House had some awful house music playing on the house-wide speaker system, went across the whole house, and we could hear it loud and clear the moment we began walking up the driveway from the street. I think it was like four O’ clock in the afternoon or so, something like that. Yea, it must have been four. It was beginning to get dark out…”


August 31st, 2014

8:04 p.m.

It took Herb an impressive #Like,TheMostImpressive >9 minute drive to get to Al’s, pick him up, and get them both back to House’s. Al’s five older brothers indeed got quite the kick out of his explanation for leaving. “A fucking #Branding™ ?!” they teased. “How old are you, six?! />

“Can we come???”

Al’s brothers always liked to talk down to the poor guy. Being the youngest of all of six kids (I thought this was America, not some place where they have lots of babies (like China (ugh! #Disgusting ))?), he was used to getting the shit end of the comradery shtick, but then, after thinking about it, he realized: getting #Branded™ was no simple ‘spicy Mexican matter’ #BecauseThe‘DrugWar’HasNothingToDoWithThePovertyAndCrimeInThatCountry,Right? . “You guys are retarded,” Al told his brothers back with discreet #PoliticalCorrectness #PC #PC-Culture. “To do it right, you really have to know what you’re doing, and if you don’t let it heal correctly, you could end up in some real life or death, revelational shit–”

“You mean revolutional?”

“No, you idiot, revelations are what change lives…”

Al and Herb were walking up House’s driveway, from the road where the car was just parked.

“Dude, they’re just busting your balls, fuck them,” Herb reassured.

“Yea, but they’re right, I gotta grow up, man. I’m fucking 22 years old, and I still live with my mom.”

“I’m 20, and I still live with my mom.”

“Yea, but you’re a Bitch.”

“Fuck you.”

“All I’m saying is that I have to get out. No question about it now.”

“Well it’s kinda hard, man. I mean unless you go to college, and sell out all of your original ideas to conform to whatever ‘America’s economy’ needs you to do.”

“That’s not what college is and you know it. Unlike me, you’re actually going, and have only two years left–”

“Yea, and it sucks.”

“But in the end, it’ll work out big time in our favor. Where tha fuck you think im’a be able to shoot up and bang hookers at without your place to crash?”

“Yea I guess, I dunno, whatever,” Herb trailed off like he so often tended to do in talks like these (all the time :/). “I guess I just feel like the whole thing is bullshit. Like, why should I get to go to college even though I have no idea what I want to do to help the world any more than some poor lazy piece of shit whose life will likewise never be remembered as anything more than whatever his shit job was that he hated but was able to find solace in–”

Al, admittedly a little appalled: “Because you’re thinking about it–”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to think about it?”

“Well, maybe you fucking should–”

“Well, fuck you, bra’–”

“Fuck you, idiot. You’re thinking about throwing your life away for–”


Herb and Al were descending the stairs from the aforementioned driveway when Randall, ‘sober as a cat’ :p, came running up.

“The Roots dude! OH. EM. Fucking GEE /> God!!!”

Randall gave Al a very sloppy hug.

“O. M. effFFFUCKING GOD DUDE!!! That fucking BAND!!! No Tribe Called Quest, but still, Questlove, man, fuuuck–”

“Ahaha,” Al ignored the musical preference argument. “I’m glad you like em’–”

Randall: “I LOVE EM!”

Hershel was still on the couch, keeping an eye on #TheBrand™ in the fire, and House was presumably inside at the moment. Randall’s shirt was thrown in the pool (ergo: Randall was shirtless), and he was sweating profusely. Like, really, he looked fucking terrible :/.

After a minute, House came out of the glass door closest to where Herb and Al (who was still attached to a hugging-but-now-silent (and-creepier) Randall) were, on the walkway leading to the chill area about twenty feet away from them, said glass door being in the middle.

“‘Sup guys?” House said cheerily, walking out with the bong in his one hand, as he held out the other one to shake: Herb’s first.

“Not much, man, what’s up with him?” Herb said.

“Man, he’s wasted!” Hershel called out from the couch. “Been drinking like it’s 1999!”

The door House came out of was the first of two from this angle, the other residing at the other end of the bar, the one closer to where the entrance to the outside downstairs area was, about 10 feet from the where the couch, the fire pit, and Hershel, all currently were; the other door, the farther one, being right all up in that shit.

“Fucking alcoholic here, man! Ahahahaha!!!!” –Hershel.

At this, Randall finally let go of Al, flew his arms up, screamed: “I am!!!” and then, far less aggressively, to House: “House, is that a bong?”

“Yea, man, you wanna hit it?–”


Randall, Herb and Al followed House over to the couches and chairs circling around the fire pit where he placed down the bong in front of Hershel, who quickly lit the thing to take a hit. Meanwhile, Randall was nudging him slyly in the ribs (according to Randall (in reality, it was more like Hershel’s head)) in an attempt to get him to give him a hit first, even as Hershel was literally mid-hit and Randall still wouldn’t stop.

“What?” Hershel asked as he inhaled.

“I want a hit–”

“Well, hold up–”

“So where’s Barry at?” Herb asked as he sat down in the chair farthest from the stairs. “You said he was coming, right?”

“Yea, he’s in the bathroom–”

Hershel: “Been there a fuckin’ while /> Randall!!!?”

Randall started coughing mid-hit, and (maybe because of how fucked up he already was?) almost dropped and destroyed the bong like a real fuckin’ piece o’ shit.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” Hershel told him as he took the bong from his hands. “If you can’t hit it, just leave it on the table, and I’ll light it for you–”

“I can hit it, you fucking asshole!–”

“You just almost dropped the thing!–”


“This is glass, holmes! You drop it, it breaks!–”

“Oh, quit being such a cop–”

The glass basement door opened, and House’s two awesome Labradors came darting out of it, along with /> Barry coming back from his ‘short’ pee-pee.

“Oh shit, is that Barry?!” Al asked as, just at that moment, House’s dogs came pillaging upon his person, forcing Al’s complete attention to be diverted in their favor.

“That was a long piss, man!” House told Barry.

“Yea, I really had to go. What’s up?” and Barry went to shake hands with Herb, who was by now pretty fucked up from the bong hit he just took, though not so bad that he couldn’t comprehend anything going on (like he would be after he hit it again :D).

“Oh hey, not much–”

“Yea? You get a hit offa that bong? Ahahaha!!”

He turned to Al, and once again /> offered his pristine hand.


“Sup, dawg?”

Al, still focused on the dogs both now bellies-up and on the ground in front of him, fist-bumped Barry back, said as he did so: “House, your dogs are the most awesome dogs on the planet! A-coo-chi-coo-chi-coo!!”

Barry sat down on the couch in between Randall on his left and Hershel on his right. As Al took the bong off the table and began lighting it, Randall started to talk about how awesome the new season of Archer was. House agreed. Barry just kind of sat there, rolled his eyes like: ‘Man, what is up with this dude?’ (referring to Randall /> or House, or: anyone there, actually :). Barry didn’t really like any of these guys if he was being ‘honest’, only hung out with them because they had good weed /> very good weed. Or: that’s what he told himself–

Being a #Metalhead , or: #AbsolutelyKnowledgeableOf-TheTRUTHTHEWHOLETRUTHANDNOTHINGBUTTHETRUTH , Barry knew how retarded™ everyone else always was, but whenever he’d smoke weed, he’d feel a little better about it, more accepting of it, because weed (and this didn’t happen for everyone (just as alcohol or pills surely didn’t do this for him)) would stop him from thinking too much (so much…). His guard would go down, and he’d stop being such an angry, judgmental little piece of shit-little Douchebag-Douchebag™, flaunting his leather jacket and boots around like on some fucked-up black-metal runway #VargVikernes2016(#JokeXD)[5]. Weed made him calm, stopped his judgments from overtaking, but as much as it was the substance, Barry Swindle didn’t think that he liked things that fucked him up beyond all #ReasonableDoubt or conclusion like molly or a Jay-Z music video #MindlessHot-BitchesCanBeDrugsToo(Bitches?) . He just liked to have fun, roll through life like on a wave UUU, chill out, whatevzzz. Would have been nice if others could have gotten the same outcome :p, or, perhaps, more so (far more so…), if they wouldn’t bad-mouth something so much without ever trying it personally, or, most so (FAR most so…), attempting to understand the good in it that other people (like cancer patients, epileptics, and those who suffer from depression) may have been able to get from it–in a way in which they (as the prosecutors) may never understand[6]. Weed itself could only ever do so much, as anything could; no matter how much you smoke or drink or talk or whatever /> it’s still you the one getting fucked up #ThinkALittleDeeper #Don’tJudgeWhatYouDon’tKnow(AndY-ouDon’tKnow,InReality,AnyoneElse’sLife) #BeingAnti-DrugIs-BeingAnti-PersonalResponsibility #Anti-DrugIsAntiPersonalRe-sponsibility #DrugsArePersonalResponsibility #Anti-DrugCons-ervativesAreInherentlyFullOfShitOnThisTopic #PeopleAreDyin-g,ButSoWhat?IDon’tLikeDrugs,AndWhatISayIsTheOnlyThingThatMatters #MyExperienceIsOurExperience #FuckYou #FuckY-ou*FuckYou*FuckYou –

Barry had black hair grown down a little past his shoulders that took him over five years to grow, and a thick, gay-ass ‘politically incorrect’ (‘gay’ technically means ‘happy’ =D) goatee that he always gave himself props for. Maybe if people didn’t give him so much shit, he wouldn’t have turned out to be a mindless killer? Maybe if people didn’t him give so much shit, he would have killed more people? Maybe if people didn’t like giving out shit so much and so often, we wouldn’t have to question what shit does to living things and human beings (what do you think it does? It’s shit (smelly©), not dialectic reinforcement with a thought-out personally attained disciplinary scorecard begot from others as well as through Individual realization, understanding, or learning from others, or some shit™–)??


Barry’d hit the bong. House would hit the bong. Herb would ‘quietly’ sip his beer. Al would talk and yell and scream. Randall would flail his arms about for no reason after taking another shot /> Randall would fall over :3. Hershel would laugh, and move #TheBrand™ when needed, and everyone just remained and hung-out like all was wonderful in the world, even though it wasn’t, because, like, the universe, and stuff, and, like, yea, like, yea, like, yea…

[1] So incredulously…

[2] So… Sincerely?

[3] For the record, thank the fucking lord for painkillers, and the #ForeverMorallyCompetentPhar-maceuticalCompanies who provide them to us #PraiseTheLord #TheEthicsOfAPrimitiveMoneyB-asedSociety

[4] So pristine…

[5] Varg Vikernes is the leader/only member of of the black metal band, Burzum. He’s also killed a decent amount of people (any number of people killed is a decent amount), burned down a bunch of churches in Norway for strictly religious reasons, and is considered one of the bigger misogynists/ white supremacists in the Norwegian black metal scene (also, ironically, arguably its best musician (VERY arguably)). He’s a complicated figure, and this joke should not be considered an endorsement of his candidacy for president (of anything) (sorry, Varg ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

[6] #GetOverIt, no one will understand everything. If they’re not hurting you (marijuana helps a lot of people, and everyone reacts to it differently - contrary to what we may have been told), what difference does it make?

[7] Ew