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

Excerpts from r(E)volutionized contributor John Corry’s 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$.

11/30/18, 2:18 pm EST

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 27th, 2015

4:19 p.m.

The place was very nice. Almost too nice as about to play out in that cliché type of way like in a terribly poorly written mystery novel  (;D) or old pulp fiction–

All over the walls, in frames, and as neatly-placed as possible, were pictures and posters of almost every civil rights figure from the previous fifty years: Eldridge Cleaver, Huey Newton, Cornel West, Martin Luther King Jr., John Lewis, Malcolm X /> to name a few. Many were pictures taken with the man Ràbbani Jaáfar (‘j-a-faar’ ($)) himself :O!, but, then again, some of them were just the normal type ones we’ve all seen a million times in textbooks or police records and what-not :(. Jaáfar was big, tall, always straight-postured-with-a-straight-back-and-mind with a very long, graying beard (though: not so graying in some of the older photos :/), with huge cornrows running through his long, below waist-length hair–although this was also quite a bit more pronounced in his younger days. He was always wearing sunglasses, which was strange because at night, sunglasses would theoretically make sight quite a bit more difficult (could it? Not if you’re cool enough #CoolPeopleWear-SunglassesALLTheTime ).

Jaáfar walked around like a long lost prodigy returned to the promised land, his eyes closed, his heart worn heavy; slowly, yet with a comfortable vibe, before stopping to take a closer look at a picture of himself with Mumia Abu-Jamal. He thought he looked very fly with the convicted ‘criminal’–taken back before either of them were imprisoned–back in the seventies. Jaáfar was glad to finally be out, after such a long time; not so glad to be reminded that Mumia still wasn’t, and probably never would be #ThisIsNoDemocracy #ThisIsNoCriminalJustice [1].

“I always liked this picture.”

Jaáfar smiled, walked closer to the wall it was hanging on.

“This was back just a few months before he was arrested.”

His friend Hazeerăh had walked over to him, stood around his shoulder. “Thirty-three years for doing nothing more than speaking the truth.”

“Ràbbani, we have to leave,” Hazeerăh said, but Jaáfar wouldn’t hear her, he wouldn’t move. “Jaáfar?”

The rest of the group were all ready to leave, with the five at the table putting their jackets on, crushing out their cigarettes, and two more waiting patiently near the door, waiting for everyone else. Their meeting went well, and they discussed a great many important things, but, most importantly by far (XD #Joke(ish) ), Jaáfar came out of it actually thinking that things might be okay for once. Even knowing full well the implications that it meant for him and his fellow liberators, maybe war really wasn’t the only way /> maybe people actually did have a chance, even if their bank accounts said otherwise…


His very old friend Zààd called to him from the kitchen. Zààd was a very good, very old friend; Jaáfar had known him since he was just ten years old. Everyone was waiting patiently to be led the way out. There was only one whom they would follow.

“Yes, I’m coming Zààd.”


April 27th, 2015

4:15 p.m.

They were meeting with a large group of officers, special agents, and even three high-ranking FBI detectives, for an apartment raid at Pine and 48th streets, on the other side of the Schuylkill (river). B-List drug kingpins, Palmer assumed thanks to the location–very normal shit™–but what wasn’t so normal about it, and Palmer only realized this as he exited the stairwell just behind Gestarrè, and was in immediate approach of their crew, was the fact that their Sergeant, the Sergeant of the whole 14th and 1/6th Precinct in its entirety, the MAN himself!!!: Sergeant Preston L. Fucs–in-the-flesh–was in attendance #Omg... .


“You know you guys are over fifteen minutes late,” Fucs said lightly as Gestarrè walked up to him, and slapped his hand as a greeting gesture.

“The kid had to make a pit stop to hold off some rapist,” Gestarrè told him.

“You catch him?”

“He’s downtown now.”

“Good. That’s good work, Palmer, maybe all these Douchebags around here were wrong about you after all.”

A few cops in the background laughed. These guys did a lot of shit-talking and ball-busting, Palmer wasn’t sure if Fucs actually cared that he’d caught the rapist, and that he’d severely risked his life to do so, or that he was just stoked to bring that little Douchebag™ (the rapist™) to line-up, and to get a laugh out of a few of his buddies.

“He only knew because the rapist was black,” one of the cops said.

The rapist was actually white and old, but–

“And he only cared because the victim was white–”

“And hot as shit–”

“Ten. Total ten–”

“As if Palmer would have had any chance with a ten anyway!–”

Fucs, interrupting: “Alright guys, let’s move in–”

“You know we’re right, boss!”

The officers mobilized, and the SWAT team got their weapons ready as they began to trek down the hallway. After turning some corners and walking down to the end of yet another hall, they reached their destination.

The SWAT team formalized around the door: one member on each side, there to follow the three in who would be following the first dude who’d kick the door down, making this whole entrance thing possible.


So yea, this happened and the team quickly filled the inside of the small-dimmed apartment…

There were three people directly in front of the door, who were all immediately shot and killed. The bullets littered the walls, curtains and floors in milliseconds. They were five more people in the kitchen by the table: all shot by the SWAT team’s myriad of assault rifles and orders /> straight from the top. They all went down, the peeps in the apartment, cold on the floor with their eyes in the backs of their heads–where they belonged–where the life of a degenerate, of a troublemaker, of a murderer would always end as surely as that short definition of her life was correct and unalterably infallible. Everyone inside was wearing all black, and most of them had sunglasses on–even though it was surely to get very dark out very soon–which obviously only exacerbated the shitty cop’s shitty attitudes, knowing full well that only they were cool enough to wear sunglasses after dark…


Against the wall, and to the left of the door, right next to a bookcase, knelt a man down to his newly deceased friend’s lifeless body, gradually standing up, with his hands gently raised. He was one of only two survivors.

 The cops tackled him /> and beat the living shit outta the guy. I’m talkin’ hardcore gangsta-style shit. No hesitation, no bullshit /> like in ‘Goodfellas’ at the bar, in that one scene, on that one dude who pissed off Joe Pesci for no goddamned reason #Scorsese #FuckingDENIROBABY!!!=DDD .

This beating lasted for a good several (longer than several) minutes, though they were surely far from finished after the physical abuse stopped …

[1] For more information on Mumia Abu-Jamal (which I would highly recommend), please visit , or read any of the numerous books written by him or about his situation (Live From Death Row, We Want Freedom, All Things Censored etc.)

[2] So cool…