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

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$.

11/2/18, 8:01 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

1:04 p.m.

“Yeah, haha, Randall was pretty shwasted.”

House chuckled nonchalantly as he sat at the bar in his basement (or: his parent’s basement? o.OOO), but not the one outside: the one inside, and the one much nicer and even more extravagant than the one outside (complete with a marble top (like the one outside :/), some comfortable, several hundred dollar bar chairs (like the one outside x), and a flat screen TV in the corner matching what was playing on the one in the living room (and on the one outside) (the Phillies game (so not exactly the same as outside (like, because the Phillies actually play outside, get it??))) ($). Said TV was currently turned to silent, however, not only so that House could hear his house music he was then playing on the house stereo, but also because he wasn’t all that interested in what was on the TV ever since the Phillies had SUCKED GIANT DONKEY BALLS dipped in slime ever since making it to the finals that one year after they won in 2008 (yea, fuck you Tampa, I hear you)–

House took another sip of his drink. He was standing in between the two special agents with his jar-shaped beer glass (a libbey) resting in his hand on the table, and taking large sips of it frequently. Palmer and Gestarrè both had drinks as well: Palmer a beer and Gestarrè: a purposefully very light daiquiri.


“He was definitely not far from being belligerent, I’ll tell you that much.”

Palmer asked: “Why was Barry so offended by Randall’s exuberant love for ‘Archer’?”

“Maaan,” House responded with a sudden and over-amplified frustrated undertone. “Barry is a fuckin’ prick/teste-flicker cocksucker motherfucker, excuse me.”

House, here, left for a quick moment to go look at his phone across the room inside of the giant TV ‘cabinet’ (which also housed House’s computerized entertainment devices (cable-box, Xbox, PlayStation etc. ($$$)), as attached to the surround sound speakers, and a number of other ‘creativity-enhancing’ amenities). He reached it, and started scrolling through it just as Britney Spears’s ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ was coming to an end #RealHouseMusic .

“So what I’m gathering here is that Barry Swindle didn’t have much of a reason for any type of retaliation or violent objectification against Mr. Gähstŭr?” said Gestarrè to Palmer while House was out of hearing distance.

“Well, we can’t rule anything out just yet, Gest–”

“God, Palmer! You’re such a bitch–”

“Oh!” from across the room.

TLC’s “No Scrubs” came onto the stereo, and House was stoked, started lifting his arms up in that slow type of dance that people do after they’ve just turned on a song they’re really excited for, all obliviously entranced and shit, and staring right at, without blinking or moving his eyes in any way for about thirty seconds, Palmer and Gestarrè, one of whom didn’t notice, and the other didn’t have the peace of mind at the moment to care (ever).


“I love this song,” House said still dancing, his eyes closed in bliss (XX), just after he’d relatively calmed down a moment before.

“Mr. Millstein, can we uh… can we move along here, please?” asked Palmer.

House abruptly stopped dancing /> stared with the most hateful eyes in all of H.P. Lovecraft at Palmer until he finally looked up from whatever he had his piece of paper leaning on.


“I told you not to call me that (Millstein (last names))–”


“We hung out for a while just chillin, drinkin’ beers, hitting the bong,” House went on after he’d sat back down. “And by bong I mean the pipe of raspberry-flavored smoking tobacco laced with legally obtained fentanyl of course.”

Gestarrè lowered his glasses, but put them back up momentarily just after House had corrected himself.


“It was real nice, man, chill,” House continued. “Good time. We had more than enough beer to get Randall drunk enough to do what he said he was going to, but he just kept drinkin’ that cheap-ass ‘Wild Blue Vodka®’ shit- you ever have that shit? It’s fuckin’ nasty, no wonder Randall got so fucked up. You know everyone I’ve ever seen get fucked up on that shit has either gotten into a fight or passed out just before they were about to? It’s fucking weird man, fuckin’ crazy, it’s like the company’s got a deal with the UFC or something–”

“Or the health industry.” –Palmer.

“Yea, you’re right. Anyway, we were just hanging out really, shooting the shit, drinkin’ some beers. Randall was fu-hucked up, but we were all just hanging out really, nothin’ crazy. I had some beers, but I wasn’t that drunk. Hershel had some really good methamphetamine that /> I’m sorry, did I just say meth? I meant thirty two-hundred milligram pills of prescribed Adderall, so five for each of us, gets you way more fucked up than meth, although I wouldn’t know anything about meth anyway, because I’ve never done it, because it’s illegal and anyway it’s not like I’d ever do that anyway because I’m like, not a degenerate and… 


August 31st, 2014

10:49 p.m.

“Yo FUCK you HOUSE!!!”

“This is his house, Randall!!”

“I don’t give a FUCK who’s(e) House!!!!(?)”

“He’s right there–”

“Dude, just calm down–”

“Don’t gimme that shit–”

The sun went down about an hour previous, and everyone had been drinking modestly throughout that time. Everyone, that is–

Save for Randall…


>< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< ><

Herb, whispering to Al: “This is kind of making me jealous that I’m not as fucked up as he is–”


It took Hershel a lot longer than he’d originally anticipated to think that #TheBrand™ was hot enough. App-arently, the thing needed to sit in that fire for at least four hours, otherwise there was no way that #TheBrand™ was going to stick to Randall’s leg to make the necessary permanent arrangements he so desired there. Barry disagreed, insisting they do it sooner rather than later, but House quieted the argument saying that they would definitely do it before anyone left, and that if everyone was still chilling at the moment, and the fact that literally #Branding™ someone only takes a few moments anyway (does it?), what difference did it make?

He may have had a point–

“Aight, whatever,” Barry answered, looking away. “I’m just saying it’s been several hours now, and we’ve smoked a shit-ton of my weed.”

“Yea, I’m pretty sure that me and Hershel were the ones who’ve provided pretty much everything here right now.”           –House (me and Hershel? Hershel and I? #GrammarIssuesMatt-er )

“He’s right.” –Hershel.

He was right (House and Hershel).


“That’s only because you knew I wouldn’t let you shit-heads #Brand™ me if you didn’t,” Randall added, #TotallyRelat-ed .

“Yea, speaking of that,” said Hershel, quickly interrupting Randall. “Who’s doing this? Cause I’m definitely not.”

“I ain’t doin’ it,” House offered his two cents.

“I think Barry should do it.” –Al.

“Fuck you, who do you think is smoking you out right now?”

“Uuuh House and Hershel. We literally just discussed that–”

“I think Herb should do it,” Hershel suggested.

Herb rebutted, shocked and appalled (!): “What– Why?!”

“You’ve been drinking the least–”


“No way,” Randall said with his arms now crossed, and with an ironic air of sensibility. “Herb’s an idiot. No offense–”

“None taken,” Herb assured.

“Why not Barry?” House asked, and Hershel, Herb and Al all chuckled at the thought.

“You mean the guy who pissed and vomited all over himself, and slept all night in the puddle, in his own house at his own party just last week? Ahaha,” wilted Hershel and House and everyone once again chuckled.

“Alright, so Herb’s the one then?” Hershel said as he went to move the #Brand™ more into the fire. “Cause this is pretty much ready to go.”

House: “Fuckin’ finally.”

Hershel took #TheBrand™ out of the fire. “Yes, yes, very nice,” he whispered to himself in a strange, obviously fake African accent. Then, carefully, he put #TheBrand™ back in the fire.

“Dude, I really don’t wanna do that.” –Herb.

“Oh, come on, just do it.” –House.

“I’m with Herb, I don’t think he should do it either,” Randall said with his arms still crossed, looking expressly serious, still shirtless with sweat pouring out of him like in Amazonian swamp heaps at every inch of his body. “No way,” and he took another shot, loudly burping right after. Then he stood up, stretched his arms far above his head, started cracking his back, pinning his spine widely to his sides, etc.

“You’re a total idiot, dawg,” he said mid-breath, big stance. “Biggest idiot I’ve ever met,” and he bent down to touch his toes, spoke tightly: “No offense–”

“Again, none fucking taken /> asshole–”

“Well, we definitely don’t want Al doing it,” Barry said.

“That’s a very good point,” Randall consented, now with both his hands reached far down to his ankles /> which he began to bit-by-bit slowly spread apart as he raised his hands similarly slowly, but circularly around and up to above his head–

“You’re almost as dumb as this fist-fucked shlong juice over here,” and Randall came back up, quickly pointed to Herb, as he continued to proffer like a professional fucking gymnast or some shit, if the gymnast were a gymnast in a gym-ing world-world where everyone were a gymnast and therefore in fantastic shape and working out all the time and having magnificently crazy anal sex and hanging out not always necessarily drinking but being drunk is cool when it comes up and–

[1] What as asshole #TheWorstOffense #Names… #Ugh!