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

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$.

12/17/18, 6:20 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.


f l a s h b a c k

July 11th, 1992

1:33 p.m.

Chris Johnson, that one rational dude trying to reason with all ‘sides’ during that ‘drug raid’ in North Philly a few chapters ago (in Part Two/2/II/25%ish/2/4/Part One of the ‘Real’ Story (Chapter V (five)))), was always such a happy kid back in the day =). Childhood: what a wonderful time in all of our lives, or at least for some of us. I know I would love to go back some days…


A lot of young kids lived on Chris’s block, but there were not as many as there were older kids, pretty much like every block: Chris or some kid would have her or his crew of nine or ten friends ranging in age eight through thirteen (Chris being in the middle of his (group) at age ten and a half (also-known-as: in the middle of ten and eleven[1] :p)) who would hang out, and play basketball, or sneak into R-rated movies and shit /> but they were always passing by the older kids, ‘the cool kids’, and the people whom every younger kid could only reasonably want to be when they grew up (everyone needs a role model, right?). It was all very cliché childhood shit until you added in the fact that Chris and most of his friends lived in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Philadelphia, and that more than 20% of those older kids would be dead or in jail within the next five-or-so years, and that’s excluding the ones destined for prison for nonviolent drug offenses[2]

Chris and his friends were leaving the public pool. It was very hot out, and the pool was fucking packed, so while they might have gotten to cool off a little bit, their energy was far from spent. Mark was a skinny motherfucker with an interesting haircut similar to Bishop’s in the movie Juice[3]. He was dribbling a basketball before Timmy stole it from him like a dick. Timmy was short and wore glasses, usually with a tank top. Nelson and Peter were there as well, Nelson in a nice plaid shirt, and Peter in an old, beaten up baseball tee.

“Yo, motherfucka, what you doin?!” Mark yelled at him.

“What you think I’m doin’? I’m stealin’ your mo-afuckin’ ball!”

They passed some homeless people by the convention center on Broad in Center City, a crazy homeless crack addict near the entrance to the Electric Factory by Callowhill (or: probably a veteran ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) after grabbing a tour at Edgar Allen Poe’s old house. Normal shit for any city, not just Philadelphia. Chris never got why so many people liked to call Philly so dirty and shit. I mean yea, compared to Boston or anywhere in Canada, but come on, this is the United States: if you don’t make a huge stink about it and complain to the FCC a billion times in a year, it’s just not going to get done ($).

Chris liked Philly. He figured that if New York had streets in it like that (shit-streets), even just a block off from what might have been its most famous part, Times Square, and that D.C. was known as a night and day situation between rich politician blocks and normal, ‘gangsta’ streets, that Philly couldn’t have been that bad. He’d been to New York, and Chicago, and D.C. and Boston for that matter (his home situation was quite complicated­–as if that doesn’t go almost without saying when we’re talking about inner city Afro-American youth[4]), and while one did sometimes like those cities better for certain reasons (cleanliness, layout, people #BostonIsSoNice #ChicagoIsSoBIG ), the nature and the history in Philly were undeniable (remember, the United States was started here. It’s also been around for a long time).

Not only that, but the ‘Philly attitude’, as people described it, was something Chris held in quite high esteem as well, not only because he was proud of who he was, but mainly because it also meant, aside from just the whole asshole sports-fans definition #ConfidenceMotherfucker , that you were a smart-ass motherfucker who didn’t take anyone’s shit (,|,). It can be tough living in the city, but knowing who you are, being proud of that, yet not-arrogant (or pretentious :/), and still knowing that you’re smart enough to live every moment in moving time #GetOverIt , and to have growing judgments, rather than based opinions unchanged since infancy, can certainly help in the dealing with the self-abasement and accidental societal sabotage everyone has dealt with (for the most part ($))–

/> But what’s even more tough is having to deal with asshole cops on the reg being fuck-tards trying to meet quota, judging anyone who so much as even looked like they may have been sympathetic to the hip-hop movement #PublicEnemy #Don-’tBelieveTheHype #FightThePower .

They saw them down the street as they approached Spring Garden (><), nearing Girard, getting close to the edge of Kensington. There were three of them (coppers xop), talking normally amongst themselves, but the third was off to the side, sitting in a chair, staring off into space, even looking like he might be trying to keep a low-down just in case some thug came by and needed some sense talked into him (‘talked’? or beaten…).

Peter had a big mouth–

“Yo what up officers?” he said as they passed. “How’s your day goin?”

“It’s good, kid, yourself?”

“Alright, mah man, alright.”

“You kids aren’t doin’ anything that you’re not supposed to be doin’, right?”

“Of course not,” Mark replied. “No need for a cavity search or anything like that, though we all know how much you’d enjoy doing it.”

And that was (surprisingly?) all it was. The cops laughed at Mark’s joke, continued talking amongst themselves. Chris was surprised that the cops weren’t ruder or worse (they were usually so much worse...). Chris was a smart kid; he knew all about the Rodney King riots in L.A. a few months earlier and, quite independently from many of his friends, he thought quite a bit about what had started them as well…

After that terrible altercation with those horrible people (the cops), if you could actually call them ‘people’, they turned onto Spring Garden, which they remained on until they made a left up at 8th street, went past Green, past Wallace, past Fairmount. They figured they were about halfway home at this point, as most of the boys lived near Temple (University).

As they moved up past Fairmount, past some more hobos, drug addicts, and obviously corrupt police officers, there were empty beer bottles and cigarette butts littering the street. They were all used to it. Peter, being the comedienne (sorry to be sexist :/ (Peter was a dude (Peter: ‘boy’s’ name?… Sexist–)) ;) of the group, would usually say something about it like: ‘You’d think these fuckin’ bums would think to make some money dis’ trash n’ shit,’ or: ‘Where tha honeys at?!’

This time it was: “Man, why the fuck they gotta make this shit so dirty?”

“I dunno,” Nelson responded. Nelson was tall, fat (beefy) and tough, but was way too nice a guy to be considered the bully of the school. In fact, all of the bullies were afraid of him, so if he were a dick, he’d pretty much be able to do whatever the hell he wanted.

“Maybe their drugs are makin’ em’ forget about Citizen Responsibly,” he continued.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Timmy asked.

“Well, people help each other. We wouldn’t have this sidewalk or that pool or food so readily available n’ shit if it weren’t for other people, and there’s no escaping that here, in any society. So we all have a Responsibility to each other to play our part.”

“And that’s called ‘Citizen Responsibility’?” Chris asked with a laugh.

“Yea. It is.”

“You just make that up?”

“Tha’ss right?

“You’re a real go getter, Nelson–”

“You got big plans there, buddy?” Mark asked.

“I plan on being president, bitch. Like my daddy will   be–”

“Good luck with that,” Peter interjected. “Ain’t no black kid ever gon’ be president in this country.”

They turned another corner, onto 11th street.

“Mang, there’s gonna be a black president someday,” Mark continued on.

“Nah, man, never,” Peter explained. “My daddy says the white man too insecure wit hisself to ever let the black man threaten his power. Or a woman for that matter.”

“Not all white people are that way.” –Chris.

“The rich and powerful ones are.”

Timmy: “So are the rich, powerful and black–”

“Nah, it’s more complicated than that,” Chris rebutted. “In no group of people do all the Individuals have exactly the same opinions or personalities. Just because an Individual is rich and powerful doesn’t necessarily mean that that person is an ignorant, greedy piece of shit like most of the rest them may be–”

“Yo look at this, guys.”

The kids were passing by a stoop with six dudes sitting on it, all older (mid-twenties), smoking something that half of the boys had never smelled before, when they were called out by a random voice (or: the voice just so cited in this narrative xX). All six were drinking forties still wrapped in paper bags, with a few empty ones thrown around the area, and the rest of them (aside from the talker (named Eric) who was already on his feet) stood up. They had their handguns and knives straddled plainly on their belts, easily seen, yet easily covered if a cop were to pass by.

“Got some kids hangin’ out, chillin’, not smoking tha’ chronic?”

“Fucked up–”

Eric handed the blunt to Mark and Mark looked at it like the dude was totally bonkers. Mark, as of late, had been especially affected by the drug movies his parents were showing him #ReeferMadness [5] /> though they didn’t affect him nearly as much as watching his older brother die of a horribly graphic crack overdose right in front of his eyes; blood, pus and all…

Before hitting it, Mark was about to say something when the older dude shook his head, gently grabbed Mark’s arm, the one with the blunt in it, and raised it calmly, slowly to Mark’s lips. Dude smiled like a dick x), as Mark inhaled deeply–

Before coughing his fucking lungs out like a bbbbbbitch–

The elders laughed a peanut gallery–

“What? You guys never smoked weed before?!–”


Mark passed the blunt to Peter.

“Man, this is good shit, man,” Peter said, holding the giant hit that he just took in his lungs like a boss. He then offered the blunt to Chris.

“Nah, man, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“What, you too good for us?” said one of the older guys, this one named Casey. “Take the blunt.”

“Nah,” Chris responded with an attitude, though not without a restrained sense of self-deprecation that he knew would make him more sympathetic to the guys with guns and attitude problems even before meeting /> standing right in front of him. “I just don’t like it.”

Peter gave the blunt back to Casey, but he waved it off, said: “Nah man, pass it around.”

“You know, you kids are cool,” Eric said, sparking up a joint as he sat back down.

Casey: “Not that cool–”

“Let’s get em’ some forties,” one of them, Sean, said, as a joke. “See how cool they really are,” and Casey and another broke out into laughter–


“You know, that’s not a bad idea, actually,” Eric said. “Let’s go,” and he got up from his seat on the stoop, jumped down to street level, turned around, and looked back to see no one else moving.

“Well, come on, they ain’t gon’ buy em’ they-selves!”

So Chris and his friends walked to the beer store with Eric and all them, and drank their forties after they were bought. It didn’t take long before they (the young’un’s) were really drunk (malt liquor :/), and, after smoking another joint, realized in utter panic that it was past 6 O’clock–

They told their parents they’d be back by 5:30.


Shit!” Timmy yelped. “I told my mom I’d be home over 48 minutes ago!–”

“Man, lighten up,” Peter said, and he lit a cigarette that Kyle had just given him (Kyle: another dude in the older group (by the way, the other two to round out this group of the six ‘old hags’ were named John and Dave)).

Peter continued: “You’re young, enjoy your youth.”

The older kids laughed, and Peter’s ego felt damn good. His parents were dicks, his mom a crack-addict, and his dad had killed several people in a gang related murder spree a few weeks before Peter was born so: yea, first point augmented. Chris and Nelson never particularly liked Peter, for reasons having much more to do with his personality than his personal history #Related? [7] .

Chris leaned closer to Nelson who was sitting right next to him. They were at an old, abandoned playground near Fairmount almost completely overrun with weeds and other ‘ugly’ plants.

“Yo, I think it’s time we roll out. You agree?” Chris asked.

“Yea,” Nelson responded. “I got a bad feeling about these guys.”

“Alright, I think Im’a say something–”

He turned to the group, stood up–

“Yo, guys–”

“Alright, alright, alriiiiiiiiight!”

John was on his phone, sitting atop the leaning part of the bench, and rose to his feet as he exclaimed this exclamation #Ex-claimTheExclamation –

“Betsy says come ova! You kids gon’ have fun tonight!”

Peter: “Alright!!!!!”


They walked a few blocks down Fairmount to an area that Chris’s mom had specifically told Chris never to go to without her or Chris’s dad, but, luckily, the area wasn’t very crowded (><). When they got its entrance, John just walked straight inside like he lived there or something, despite the four dudes sitting on the leading staircase holding large rifles who said nothing, nor even looked up, as our heroes nonchalantly walked past them. It was possible they were passed out.

The house was a shit-show, not literally, but pretty close. There were people sprawled out all over, some unconscious, many with needles still stuck in their arms, or with still-smoking pipes right next to their indolent hands. All of the windows were boarded up. It was very dark inside. There was some deep, bass-heavy dubstep music playing on the expensive house-wide house-speaker system. It was very loud (the bass (only the bass (no treble #WhatTheFuckIsWrongWithModernPopMusic? #Tha-tIsAGreatSong,Tho ))), and there were bright strobe lights meandering all around, and through, the otherwise pitch black rooms, many missing doors, rugs or ceiling tiles.


“Yo, I think she likes you, man.”

There was a woman passed out on a barstool in the corner of the room, her top half leaning on a counter, her underwear around her ankles, goods in full view.

Sean took over for Dave, talking to Timmy: “It’s like she’s fuckin’ beggin’ you, dawg!”

Timmy laughed uncomfortably while the other kids stared on in disbelief. It seemed as though Sean and Dave were being serious!

“What the fuck you doin’?! Go on!”

Timmy couldn’t believe it–

Dave felt for his gun–

Peter, nonchalantly: “I’ll do it–”

“Hey, Joooooohhhhhnnnnnn.

“Sup, Betseeeeeyyyy??????”

John stood up as he and Betsy started to do this weird little dance with each other as she came into immediate distance, but Chris stopped paying attention to them (or to anyone for that matter), being as fucked up as he was and all. Actually, Peter had gotten up and left for another area of the room, rendering Chris’s ability to ‘pay attention’ to him impossible, so that last statement there wasn’t all too accurate. None of them would see Peter again for another good hour or so, at least–

Eventually, and this was way past 5:30 now, so even if things didn’t turn out the way they did, Chris and his friends still would have been in some huge trouble by the time they got back home, two dudes walked up to Eric and Sean now sitting on a couch. John, Casey, Kyle and Dave were all presumably somewhere else in the building, as was Mark, Timmy and Peter (as mentioned). Chris and Nelson were sitting side-by-side on a couch across a coffee table from the couch seating Eric and Sean. Chris and Nelson, however fucked up, looked on curiously.


“What the FUCK you say, mothafucka?” they heard Eric say to one of the two dudes.

“Man, it ain’t mah call,” the dude said back, was inter-rupted by his friend–

“You should get the fuck outta here ‘fore something breaks out we ain’t got no control ova!!!–”

Eric and Sean stood up. John and Dave, apparently watching from the other room, came over in a hustle–

“That a threat, bitch?” Sean asked.

“Fuck this motherfucker,” John said when he got there, and he PUSHED through the two dudes, made his way into the back room with Eric, Sean and Dave all following closely behind–

“Man, this getting pretty hardcore,” Nelson said under his breath, but Chris was somehow able to hear him.

“I know, man–”

Some yelling came from behind the door–

Nelson, louder this time: “Maybe we should get outta here–”

Then some shooting–

“Fuck yea. Let’s roll–”

The door FLEW open, and a bunch of Bloods™ came FLOODING out–

“These guys are Crips™, mothafucka’s!!!! Smokin’ our shit!!!”

The dude shot his AK into the ceiling. The building mobilized, or: most of the building. Everyone who was conscious (so: about 50% of the people there, not including Chris Johnson’s group of friends) went to the scene on the fourth floor (where this shooting was happening, and where Nelson and Chris were), usually quite slowly, but that didn’t mean their guns shot like that–

Eric came limping out of the room SOAKED in blood and SHOOTING his handgun into the air above. His other arm was incapacitated, covered with blood, and he was nursing it with the rest of his body like a baby as he ‘ran’. Chris and Nelson, after taking a few moments to take in everything that was going on, got up and started running towards the stairs heading down–

A bullet aimed for Eric missed, hit Nelson in the head–

Chris paused out of instinct, and, in-so-doing, enabled Eric to violently take him hostage. There was so much shooting going on all over the house that it was hard to tell if it was all happening just inside that room, or even just on that floor of the building–

Eric put the gun up to Chris’s temple, shook him, screamed at his attackers: “I’ll do it, I swear!!!!!”

“Fuckin’ do it, punk!” some random person on the other ‘side’ replied. “One less future Crip™ to worry about!!!”

“You shoot me, you shoot the kid, bitch; how’s that on your conscious????!!!!”


There were now over ten dudes all circled around Eric and the young Chris Johnson, pointing guns, AKs, assault rifles, shotguns, handguns, rocket launchers, straight at Eric’s ‘face’. It was simple math said that Eric wouldn’t have been the only one hit–



From the open doorway leading toward the stairs came a myriad of shots all over the room, immediately gunning down Eric, whose back was facing said open doorway, which subsequently protected young Chris Johnson from Death. Everyone scattered after realizing what was happening, and Chris Johnson, within a few seconds, went from being moments away from death to seeing seven people killed instantaneously, with him idling all alone in the middle, two dead bodies lying directly by his feet, one a very close, very old, friend–

That damned conspiring, sulking, ‘beat the shit outta any thug-ass fucker cause he needs what’s comin’ to ‘im!’ cop/police officer/copper ‘of-the-law’, whom Chris and his friends had passed innocently by earlier that day, gobbled him up and covered him from the hail, the shattered glass, the scattered bullets, before running out the door, down the stairs, and outside, crying with him, crying just as hard as Chris–if not harder–all the way down the stairs, and out the building.

Chris never caught the cops’ name…

It was official: Chris Johnson was no longer a kid. He’d grown up in a matter of mere seconds, and, unlike many kids his age, he completely knew it, and after the initial shock–


He was fucking pissed…[8]


[1] Fuck math…

[2] I am admittedly unsure if this specific fact is true or not. I do know that in 11 states, at least 1 in 20 African American men are in jail, and in Oklahoma, that’s 1 in 15. Black men make up 30% of the general population of the United States, yet 60% of its prison population, and in some states, it’s more like 80%, and, according to the American government (:/), one in three black men born after 2013 can expect to go to jail at some point in his lifetime. We can talk what the reasons for this may be (and I’d say there are quite a number of them, none leaning towards any one political ideology, aside from any one that knows it’s fucking ridiculous to ruin someone’s life just for doing drugs #ALLMenWhoTakeViagraAreDegenratesAndDeserveToBeInJailForIna-dequacy,HowDoYouLikeThat(Cuck)? ), but these are the facts; ignoring politics as best we can for a moment, my conservative friends, may there be any psychological affects, begot from these facts, in any categorized population, affecting why some people act the way they do? Are there psychological differences between ‘categories’? Does psychology have anything to do with the situation in 2016? #Liberals,ForChrist’sSake,StartThinkingAboutPsychology #PsychologyHas-NOTHINGToDoWithANYTHING*NOTHING*NOTHING*ANYTHING*ANYTHING

- For information on where I got these statistics from, please see the bibliography on pp. 283

[3] Juice. Dir. Dickerson, Ernest. Starring Omar Epps and Tupac Shakur. Island World. Paramount Pictures. 1992

[4] In 2008, 72% of African American children were born to unwed mothers. In 2012, 58% of African American children lived in a household absent a father, compared to 31% of Hispanics and 21% of Caucasians (see bibliography on pp. 283). Even aside from these statistics, how do you think it affects Young Black Males (#2Pac #2PacalypseNow ) to grow up in a society where one third of them can expect to go to their jail in their lifetime, many simply for smoking marijuana in a culture where alcoholism seems more abundant than acknowledged happiness? Or even for selling drugs? What does it tell the kid that his older cousin goes to jail for selling heroin, when they sell the same thing legally in hospitals? Yes, there is a reason they use Oxycodone in hospitals (and for giving no treatment to those addicted to it? o.OOO #IfThey’reAddicted,It’sThe-irOWNGODDAMNEDFAULT ), but all a kid knows is that heroin is a substance, no different than alcohol or sex as far as its potential to ruin lives. What does it matter if your life is already ruined anyway? Or if you think it was ruined even before you were born? (I’m trying to look at this as unbiased as possible: of course there are many conversations–and we would be correct in many of our assertions regarding how one goes about getting one’s self out of a shitty situation (and obviously getting into drugs is not one of them)–but that doesn’t negate what the psychological underpinnings are behind the reasons for such a fact (that someone is in a certain situation), nor where those psychological underpinnings originated in the first place (for example: does history have anything to do with psychology? Is there anything psychological about a conservative Fox News host claiming that a culture-derivative art is actually more culture-implicative (or: does art have more to do with representing humans, emotions, and cultures, or with influencing them? Is art more of a product of its environment, or an environment more a product of art? (Among many things, I guess that would depend on whether you believe that the Individual is the Mover of Society, or the other way around XD #Postmodernist )) #DAMN ))

- Once again, for information on where I got these statistics from, please see the bibliography on pp. 283

[5] Aronofsky, Darren. Director. Requiem for a Dream. Starring Ellen Burstyn, Jared Leto, Jennifer Connelly, Marlon Wayans. Based on the book by Hubert Selby Jr. Written by Hubert Selby Jr. and Darren Aronofsky. Artisan Entertainment, Thousand Words, Sibling Productions. 2000

[6] Because, for whatever reason, kids are terrified of pissing off their parents #IsThereAGoodRe-asonForThat?#FuckNo

[7] #IsThatImportant?

[8] Does he have a right to be pissed? Who are you to tell him how to be pissed/how to deal with it, or use it affectively? Do you understand his emotions better than he does? #FactsDon’tCareAboutYourFeelings(AndFeelingsDon’tCareAboutYourFacts)