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

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$.

1/21/19, 7:02 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 Barnes and Noble.


April 29th, 2015 

12 a.m. (ish)


Former Special Agent Palmer of the ultra-prestigious *TheMo-stPrestigious*TheAbsoluteMostPrestigious 14th and 1/6th police precinct of Phila-la-delphia–ironically much like Al did, and right around the same time too–emerged from the building he was just in (in Palmer’s case: the police station of the 14th and 1/6th precinct of Philadelphia PA: headquarters): where he’d just concluded his ever-informative interview with the famous and IRREVERENTLY awesome Ràbbani Jaáfar (xp). Palmer didn’t know what to make of it: the interview, the world, or his life (=/), nor what to make of Jaáfar’s crudely aloof manner so potent by the end of their discussion /> dude was clearly fuckin’ crazy /> fuckin’ whackjob that Jaáfar was, totally off his rocker. But now that Palmer was on the street, he couldn’t figure out what, exactly, to do with himself–

He wandered aimlessly, stumbling, his vision somehow blurred. ‘What the hell is going on with me??!!’ he SCREAMED in his head (!). ‘WHAT’S GOING ON IN THE WORLD?!?!?!...’ He called for Saves, but there was no answer. Then he called again and again and again: nothing: every time.

After giving up, and looking at his surroundings with purpose this time, he realized there were no people on any of the streets he’d been on since leaving the precinct, and that, even though he could’ve sworn he’d been in that area many times before (???), nothing looked familiar. After another explosion went off a few short blocks away, he thought something might be wrong, but he quickly let that go because all he really wanted to do by that point was go and see Officer Saves–

Another LOUD explosion went off, this one a little farther, but BIGGER, and still not-too-far-away. Despite his confused and completely lost claim for attributes and sense of personal vindication of ‘intelligent’ spirit, more ‘lost’ then than ever before, (as was necessary for the growth of the species (he knew =OOOO ;D)), Former Special Agent and now Official Professional Residing Acting Douchebag™ (obviously) Palmer (Henrik) decided that it was his duty–not just as a cop, but as a fucking citizen and a decent human being–to attempt to do the right thing–

Investigate, and possibly help out some peeps if he found some needed it.



Al stayed a few feet behind the group.

The people he was with knew he was there, but they didn’t mind. In fact, one of the dudes in the original group was white and there was a girl there too (OMG!, I thought they were too stupid to tie their own shoes, let alone run?!)–

As they got closer to Market Street, they slowed. They were only a few turns away.

“Yo, I think it’s up here,” the one in the group said, and another agreed.

They speed-walked past a corner, ran/skipped/jumped  their way down the block to turn again to reveal Market Street in full view–

The road (Market™℠© xD), as well as presumably every other part of it by now, held thousands upon thousands of densely crowded people of all shapes and sizes. It would start no more than a block away, everywhere else being totally empty before reaching it, and then quickly condense within that very short period of that one block before hitting Market. Once down to the actual street (Market Street), and a little past the initial start of the crowd, Al could see the gathering stretching all the way down on both sides of his person, East and West down the road, splitting the entire big, populous city #TheBiggestAndMo-stPopulousCity*TheBiggestAndMostPopulousCity in half–

The two opposing sides were parallel on Market, and were separated by this small space in the middle between them, maybe forty feet wide–

On the one side, the side opposite the side Al first came in (so: not the side Al came in :/), were the cops and law enforcement officials and sympathizers. They stood in perfect Formation #Beyoncé , you could see the areas where the SWAT teams were because they were dressed in different uniforms than everyone else, with their helmets on, and their shields each held like in a perfect diagram. Everyone standing on that side of the street was dressed in some type of uniform–staties, locals, feds, detectives, security guards–even the people who weren’t cops, and were there simply to stand up for what they knew was right, at the very least wore shiny suits or dress shoes. Those in the perfectly formed lines stood motionless with their helmets on, their arms crossed, every one of them–every oneno smiles (:( )no expressions at all, in fact!–in perfect lines and formation, like they had no opinion of the situation, as if all they ever did was something defined and laid out specifically right in front of them–

And on the other side, the city burned and cried tears that could have filled the Red Sea if there weren’t so many people in the Middle East doing practically the exact same fucking thing

Scattered, with no organization, and with many in full, unrestrained passion, were the lively bodies of civilians: angry, pissed, not-thinking-even-minimally. Some were SCREAMING at those across the street, in absolute and disregarded hatred and anger–completely DRENCHED in it (!!!)–with no conscious thought regarding history or possible future scenarios and situations or unintended consequences whatsoever. Buildings, their heavy smoke spread to the heavens like man’s extended arm to God. Molotov cocktails shot through windows, but nothing ever went across that #TheSpaceInBetween. There were people flying from the streetlights, turning cars over and setting them afire, setting bombs off underneath trees, but they all did the smart thing and responsible thing (for now…), and stayed to their own side–

Al mingled in and out of this space, #TheSpaceIn-Between . Rarely did he see an actual debate or conversation ensue as most of the protestors would simply scream their point at a nameless cop’s face in a line and then walk hastily back to the crowd to fade in with the category of insubordination. Of course, the fact that some of the cops weren’t exactly helpful in calming anyone down didn’t give people much of a reason to take a step back and look around either (screaming obscenities isn’t very nice (<haha! ^[1]) >:( (sorry #SorryNotSorry #FUCK-YouBITCH )), but that was a moot point (or: so said the rules of rhetoric (Aristotle)) (,|,). It was all very pointless, if only because this was always the reason that nothing ever got done: reason doesn’t make distinctions between black and white, rich or poor, cop or criminal, and unrestrained passion–just as much as blind obedience–can never take precedence over, or the place of: rational, analyzed argument–

Al walked on cautiously. Many civilians, several of whom he’d recognized from his ‘search’ earlier in the day (when he was constantly mean-mugged as if he were Gadhafi in 2012 Cairo #MaybeNotThatBad#WeCanOnlyHope ), had their guns drawn, oftentimes shown straight up to people, namely: the cops, pointed directly in between their eyes–or at their balls ><–with the dude holding the gun saying he was ‘just about to do it!’ Most of them were handguns, but by ‘most’ I really mean about half. Many were carrying big automatics. There were also a decent amount of double-fisting AK toters floating about, and even a bazooka or a grenade launcher here and there /> and, as we all know only too well, the police had quite their own arsenal of death and judging Satan’s torch of juried mortality and chaos–

Tanks were littered, simple, like the toxic-shit trash of the best Greek Gods *OnlyTheBest(!) , on the side streets stemming off their side of Market–behind where they held their line–out of the immediate view of anyone on the other side of #TheSpac-eInBetween . From Al’s understanding, after seeing the edge of one and walking around to get a better view, there were at least a dozen of them, each with armed personnel on guard just beside or behind. Uniformed men, women and snipers lined the rooftops, and crouched in secret behind small artifices on the streets in preparation for the inevitable battle, the real reason they (all) became cops (clearly). Some had kids, had families, forgetting, with the help of years and years of training and meeting quotas ($), that everyone on the other side could have very well been in that same situation, could have very easily fell into that trap of thinking that money and prestige were anything other than human means created by humans for humans  #TheRealSpaceInBetween(:OOOO) –

Al looked over and, to his innate suspension (!), caught House and Barry just chilling in the front /> just chillin’! They were not directly in the #TheSpaceInBetween , but pretty close–comfortable–and neither looked nervous or nearly out of control of himself. In fact, they both looked perfectly calm (!) /> like they were hanging out chillaxin’ in House’s parents’ backyard just like old times (…). Both held big, military grade weapons, and were grinning like little schoolgirls at their first prom with John Stamos or some shit #I’mTheManism #Stamosism #Stamo-sistForLife #JohnStamos2016 .

Al, in a high falsetto voice: “Uh!”

He speed-walked over–

“What the fuck, DUDE?!” and he PUSHED House. “You fuckin’ hangin’ around with this piece of shit?! />

“And you!!!–”

Al LUNGED at Barry, GRABBED him TIGHT by his lapel, and SHOOK him–

“What the fuck, man, you killed Randall!!!”

Al shook him loose /> and PUNCHED him HARD in the face. Barry went down holding his bloody nose, landed on one knee–

House, as he gently moving in to barely touch Al’s flexed arm: “Hey, man, we’re just here to enjoy the ride–”

“Don’t touch me,” and House took his hand off, backed away, hands up (don’t shoot!).

Barry took his hand from his face, stood up from his knee, and faced Al from a distance, slyly crossed his arms as he said: “Yea, man,” referring to his old alleged ‘Black Panther’ friend Randall Gähstŭr. “I was pissed. It’s a shame he had to go, he had so much to do with all of this. May not have been the best decision on my part, but… I was pissed about Randall. Shouldnta been so hardcore. Whatever.”

“We’re here now, bro,” House said, with even more ironic-joy than before. “Here to enjoy the moment–”

Al: “People are about to die in large numbers here, how are you in such a good mood???–”

“Maaaaan, get outta here!” and House waved him off. As Barry spoke next, House took out a pre-made joint from his pocket, and started lighting it, hastily twisting it, and breathing in and out with it so that it caught flame in the correct way–

__; __; __;


“We don’t know that for sure,” Barry told Al. “We’re just here, man. This is where we are now. In the words of Ram Dass: Be Here Now[2]–”

“Of course this is where we are, you idiot!–”

House’s interruption: “Maaaan, you need a relax, fam–”

“Dude!” Al remembered that old abandoned apartment building” “Herb, dude!” and he closed his eyes.


“Herb is dead, and it’s all because of you!!!–”

/> House’s interruption: “Hey, man, you want a hit of this?–”

“He fuckin’ went crazy and />

“ /> Yea sure–”

>Al takes joint from House, hits it<

“Wait…” Barry asked with emotion (:o), first time House had ever seen him do that (=OOO). “Herb is dead?”


“He fuckin’ died, dude!–”

Al took another large hit, and, then, while holding it tightly in his lungs, said: “Needed drugs to deal with the hypocrisy or the contradiction of life and death, and the certainty of everyone else’s seemingly inherently unchanging views on them. Inherently unchanging as a modern, apparently necessary pre-requisite for human thought and interaction unless conspiracy has anything to say about it but that’s still a human interaction anyway which–”

Al turned to face House–

“Shit, man, this is good weed!–”

“I know, dawg!!!”

Al offered the joint to Barry, but Barry didn’t move. This new bit of information about Herb hit him HARD right in the balls–straight down to the deepest nut XoP–buried him deep in a hole of sudden and consciously resented-yet-unavoidable dep-ression: a hole destined to never go away or lighten in the slightest bit, as stated as its most basic definition /> so Al just passed the joint back over to House ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Barry was distressed; he was looking at the ground, all-the-sudden day-totally-ruined :’(. Barry always liked Herb, and not just the meaning behind the pun (;D). Mighta been a little dumbass sometimes, but he knew that Herb was a good dude who had potential, even if Barry wasn’t able to admit it to ‘himself’ until that ‘last’ moment there on Market Street next to House and Al, indeed a place he’d dreamed of being for so long, but which now felt so empty and cold, for reasons Barry could no longer allow himself to consider. Barry knew there would be casualties. He knew that some things were going to happen in this thing which just wouldn’t feel right. He didn’t know that, sometimes, if something bad was needed, that maybe that was a sign that you shouldn’t do it, or, even more so perhaps, that to consider a reconsideration #ConsiderAReconsideration of the path towards that success might be mutually beneficial #MutuallyBeneficial –

Nothing more he could do about it now though, so whatever, right?


The crowd got louder, more aggressive. The cops uncrossed their arms and reached for their guns, the time had seemed to have finally to-have-come. The tanks armed their shells, the snipers all got in attack position. An explosion went off at City Hall, immediately followed by another one just down the way from where Al, House and Barry were smoking their joint on Market, passing it naturally amongst the three of them–the last three survivors of a long lost time in which #Time was still unrecognized as a relative absolute #RelativeAbsolute –smoking right around, or closer-to than most others in-the-world at-that-time, Independence Hall, where the country had started so innocently and with so much promise only a short yet so-very-long two-hundred and thirty-nine (ish) years before…[3]


Palmer made his way through the streets–

He could hear voices coming from Market, but could see no bodies speaking them through the darkness (were they real???). Everything was blurry. ‘What the fuck is going on?!’ he thought with a SCREEEEAAAAM! He could see the light in the sky from the fires burning below as projected against the clouds. He didn’t know where the explosions were coming from, and after like, ten of them, he didn’t care anymore. He was no longer sure if his meeting with Jaáfar had actually happened or if it was simply a dream, and it was now really fucking with him–like, really fucking with him–though his overall problem might have involved something a little more than just that–

Eventually, the noise became but a dull bedim in his head, and Palmer found his balance thrown off as a result, which didn’t make sense because you wouldn’t think that hearing would have anything to do with your ability to walk (?[4]), but whatever (><). He still thought his mind was on point ;\. He was clinging to that, and he recognized it. ‘Clinging,’ he thought to himself, and then felt the all-too familiar pain that he now associated himself with so deeply with anytime he’d get like this (as this ‘over-thinker’), as if it were an actual, physical, headache :O #NoWay . ‘It’s all-the-time!’ he screamed again in his brain. ‘THIS NEVER GOES AWAY!’

He was obsessed, he was patriotic! And the only thing strong enough to help him feel even just almost human again was remembering all of those people in pain in the world, and that, maybe, somehow, his self-afflicted and clung-to brain disease could help them through–

This is a good thing,’ Palmer thought, his eyes shut as tight as they could go >>>><<<<<, his hands tautly wrapped around his head as he ran blindly through the streets. ‘To want to help people is a good thing /> To WANT to HELP people is a GOOD THING! TO WANT TO HELP PEOPLE IS A GOOD THING, RIGHT?!?!?!?!’

#ToWantIsToNeed #Narcissism(?)(ThisIsARealQuestion #Empathy #TheJesusParadox #LetItBe #WhoTheFuckAreYou?!-#WhoTheFuckAreYou?!#WhoTheFuckAreYou?!(<#StevieJanowski#EastboundAndDown#HBO#Season01#Episode10#KennyPowers#KennyPowersForPrez2022)#WhoTheFuckAreYou??!!#WHOTHEFUCKAREYOU????????????!!!!!!!!!!!! [5]


“Man, who da’ fuck are you??!!”

“I am the Commissioner of Police since Commissioner Douchebag stepped down. I suggest you calm the fuck down,   sir–”

“Man, FUCK Commissioner Douchebag!–”

Another: “He’s locked up more Afro Americans in Philadelphia than any other police commissioner in the city’s history by more than forty percent!”

“That’s not the commissioner’s fault. Maybe you guys should have thought about that before committing the crimes you do–”

“Tha’ FUCK you just say??!!”

“’Oh, tha’-fuck-you-just-say?’” –Mocking.

Former Special Agent, and now Official Acting Number One and 3066935/13659059/995838577660235709712th’s Police Commissioner of the City of Philadelphia, Gestarrè (Roberto) waved the protesters off, and wrote something down on a piece of paper that he somehow had propped up against something like a-name-escaping-me-right-now #NAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOO!!!! so that he could successfully write down whatever it was that he apparently ‘needed’ to write down in such a harmonious situation as one such as that which was going down at that specific time (April 29th, 2015 (around 1 a.m. (ISSSSSSSHHHHH)) /> you’d think that being appointed police commissioner would have done something to make him a little more compassionate but–





A Mista (Mr. (married? (ring finger?))?) Chris Johnson–a ‘Crip’ far more by technicality than by merit–stood at the front of the lines, along with a Mr. Bobby Mack–a ‘Blood’–screaming their defenses in unison at their ‘enemies’. No one in either conflicting crowd (Bloods™ or Crips™) in the immediate vicinity noticed this ‘ironic’ display of harmony between two historically ‘always-at-odds’ groups (Bloods™ vs. Crips™), but it’s possible that some in the back did. None of them gave the smallest shit about who was a ‘Blood’ or who was a ‘Crip’ anymore, not anyone on that side of #TheSpaceInBetween at least. Chris and Bobby were fully rational–still angry, and rightfully so–but they were actually able to somehow successfully convey why, and, as a result, people were listening to them /> so long as they still spoke from-the-heart #TheDifferenceBetweenPassionAndFrom-The-Heart .

Gestarrè was, as if unexpected (so unexpected! (what a dick, that guy!)) /> indifferent. Former Police Commissioner Douchebag hadn’t just stepped down, he’d killed himself earlier that day for reasons, including some written in a suicide note found and burnt at the scene, never to be known (:o). Rumors spread that a former ‘cop’-turned-traitor, reformed from a lost age, after suffering a slew of terrible losses, may have had something to do with it, but who could know fa’ sho /> WHO COULD KNOW FA’ SHO?!?!?!?!…

“We are not here to start a war,” Chris Johnson said to some random cop sympathizer compulsive-dick-squeezer in #TheSpaceBetween also trying to reason. “We are simply saying that for years–”

“You are not trying to start a war?!” the sympathizer yelled.

“Not all of us!” –Bobby Mack.

“Look around! Where’d you get these guns?!”

“Where’d you get yours?!”

“These are police officers, your government gives them the authority and the respect to carry these weapons–”

“That’s what scares us!”

“It’s the way of the world right now, grow up!”

Others got involved, and they argued, and their voices got louder and louder and louder (of course). There were some senators there, including Senator Walsh, who’d arrived after the real thick had begun, and who offered some expert advice *TheMostExpert , trying to calm down both sides–

“There is no sense in confusing what someone does in a  moment as a literal representation of what anyone would do in any moment, given certain qualifications or specific arisen situations,” Walsh said to everyone, but nobody listened (<women, pft =!). “Violence in the physical Form–or, perhaps even more so, in the mind–is never the FUCKING way–”

>Oh no!<

>#Politicians,Don’tEVERSayThe‘FUCK’Word,Rightfully,That’sCareerSuicide! <


Looking like the drunken fool he so obviously was, Palmer staggered out from a side street on the side of the protesters, quickly made his way to #TheSpaceInBetween –

Newly Appointed Police Commissioner Gestarrè looked up from his writing materials slowly. He saw his former partner make his way into the middle of the street, passing right in between Chris Johnson and Bobby Mack almost close enough to touch them–

Chris and Bobby paused. Gestarrè paused as well, though only for a moment. Then he thought, more like it was just a funny fact: ‘Guy’s fuckin’ wasted!’ and went back to writing in…

Palmer was laughing, quietly mumbling to himself–


Things began to quiet in the area–

“HAHAHAAAAA!!!” Palmer continued! Some more peeps in the crowd took notice.

“What the fuck is he laughing at?” Bobby Mack said to Chris Johnson. “I thought he was the cool one?”

Palmer stumbled again, but stopped himself from falling this time.

“He is,” Chris responded to Mack with a newfound smile covering his damp cheeks.


“All of the coolest people are completely out of their minds–”

“You motherfuckers,” Palmer began. “WHAT ARE YOU ALL DOING HERE?!–”

“It would do you best to step down Former Special Agent Palmer. We wouldn’t need anything tragic to happen tonight–”

Tragic?” Palmer ‘interrupted’. “I’m completely insane! My only hope at an abstract happiness lies solely in a relationship with one girl I’ve known deeply for just two days–whom I already think I’m fucking in-love with (pussy)–and my death would be tragic? I’m not capable of real relationships, I’m too caught up! People are all just potential points in an argument to me! And nothing more *NothingAtAll , or so it may seem to the untrained eye! I don’t even know! I think I’m doing good, because I am! You get drunk every night, I read and overthink too much, and someone else gets high! I’ve been insane my entire life! With dreams of being a #TrueDetective , of protecting Twin Peaks and drinking *TheBestCoffee #TheBESTCoffee *OnlyTheBestCoffee #TheBESTCoffee , of finding my One True Love, of protecting the people and searching for that one woman at every moment of every day, and ignoring the rest of them like sheep! They were never plausible, those dreamz of mine. We all know what happens to dreamz in real life: they don’t ever come true, not on their own, not alone; not when you’re alone…

“But these people…”

He turned away, faced the quickly quieting crowd of protesters.

“These people work together as a community, who don’t want a singular leader /> like an actual group of people fighting for the good of all of them, and not just the bank account of one (#CommunityVsCommodity ) or the manipulated dollar bills of another! They get high, and they drink, and they fuck, but they don’t let that stop them from doing what they need to do to help their fellow man–”

“My son was killed by a drug dealer,” some nameless cop from the lines said seriously. Apparently, even uniformly ‘nameless’ cops weren’t always so ‘nameless’ /> nor were their sons–

“Ten bucks short for a deal.”

There was a moment.

“Fucked up!” Bobby Mack called out. “Ain’t nobody should die for just ten bucks–”

“True dat!”

The people in the crowd began to talk peacefully amongst themselves, soon dissolving, however, into more arguing between the two sides of the street once again. He should have left it alone, he should have been able to recognize where he was going with it right then and there /> but he didn’t /> so Palmer got his mojo back and pointed his small finger *TheSmallest (xD) straight at Gestarrè–


That shut the crowd up quick. Gestarrè was, ironically-strangely, unexpected-in-miasma /> un-phased, didn’t even look up or acknowledge anything, in any way. Finally, Palmer was looking, acting, and talking like the madman he’d truly become: his eyes were droopy and bulging, and they had large, dark circles under them. He was standing with most of his weight on one leg, shaking and breathing heavily, biting his lip, one eye squinted, with the other opened widely o.OOO, pointing with a shaking arm directly at Gestarrè parallel to him in the middle of the street–

“You’ve killed so many of them,” Palmer continued with a whimper. “You’ve destroyed so many lives–”

“And what would you know about a life destroyed?”

Gestarrè THREW his (!!!) CLIPBOARD (!!!) onto the ground[6] as he continued (<OMG)–

“You think that because you think more about it, you know something more about Death than the rest of us?” and he spit on the ground. “Poppycock–”

“And you do because you deal judgment as if it were blank piece of paper with nothing to lean on?–”

“FUCK you. I’ve dealt with Death Palmer, you FUCKing Douchebag™,” and Gestarrè flicked his cigarette, slowly walked inward. “My wife. My son–”

>Gestarrè’s family died in a tragic bus accident he suggested they board<

>It was very sad<


“I’ve been alone for thirty years, not telling a soul what happened to them, you don’t think I know how bitter and cynical I’ve become? Our species is doomed regardless of what happens here tonight, or what happened to my family, what’s so wrong with doing my best to enjoy what’s left? What’s so wrong with trying to help those who think and feel like I do?–”

Some other person: “Because you’re racist, ego-centric Douchebags™!–”

 “And you’re not?!”

Gestarrè left Palmer, walked over to the dude who spoke (some random senator from New Mexico who was eating a ‘calzone’ (;), and was dressed in disguise like a ‘gangsta’ (#Fly*SoFly*SoGangsta#SoGangsta )–

Gestarrè continued: “How many times has a white person been mugged on the street simply for looking ‘less threatening’ than his black counterpart? How many people have died from black-on-black crime this year alone? How many more times (#LedZeppelin ), in the past several decades, has it been ‘the black community’ to bring up ‘the black problem’ in America, as opposed to any other race?–”

“And how much money has the establishment made as a result?” Random (#Calzone(Salzon’(D?)?) ) Person went on. “Or in the first place, completely ignoring such tribulations facing the poor community on a daily basis as the result of a system based on nothing more than money ($), and a necessary ignorance of the past, an ignorance of the major implications of potentially minor details in law and government, and, in fact, adding to, or causing, said problems, with no regard for the fact that they affect real human beings in real time–”

Chris Johnson: “Guys, I think we should calm down here–”


“I’m just a burnt out cop trying to afford his Adderall and #Brandy™ day by day to still be able to feed his fifty cats and four dogs–”



Palmer was furious. He and Gestarrè may not have been exactly the perfect match, but nobody deserved to die like that, in front of so many people, so violently, so bloody #TheDeath-PenaltyIsMedieval . Plus, Palmer was actually starting to think Gestarrè might not have been so bad–

“WHO SHOT THE HONKEY???!!!” Bobby Mack shouted. He and Chris Johnson weren’t very pleased either–

The cops pointed their guns, their bodies set in attack and defense positions, rifles aimed right across the street at the mob of now extremely hastily increasingly angry ‘gangsters’ but, miraculously, still nobody had yet crossed over #TheSpaceInBe-tween –

Palmer knelt down and observed Gestarrè’s person, found an old-ass picture of him and his wife actually looking like humans in his lapel. Gestarrè looked genuinely happy in it /> no clipboard in sight.


Palmer began to weep.

/> Like a bitch (?)

After several moments of this ridiculous crying and ‘over-sensitizing’ like a high school girl just dumped after giving up her virginity because ‘Stamos’ told her he loved her #Don’t-BelieveTheHype #Don’tTalkShitOnTheLord , the crowd began to silence. As Palmer’s whimpers sniffled, as his tears left his face and subsequently splashed gracefully against the ground, the thugs’ muscles loosened, the arms holding the guns lost avarice, and, eventually, all that could be heard were the quiet whispers of a grown-yet-not-that-grown 27-year-old’s heart finally breaking in the middle of the street in front of a huge group of angry people, a tiny piece of him dying as a bigger one reborn. I guess you’re just not all that grown up, in this world, until you’ve had your heart broken.


“It’s love,” Palmer whispered so softly that nobody, yet everybody, could hear it.

But they definitely could when–


“It’s love that connects us, love that saves us, love that makes us all so hateful, evil and distraught! What makes us sad, what makes us happy, what makes us alive, what makes us Die, and what makes that all so goddamned beautiful /> what makes us want to know, see, and feel everything about everything in everywhere and about everyone and at every time, and through every eye in the universe and beyond, through to infinity!!!!!!

“And even he had it in him…”

Palmer looked at the photo again and thought of Officer Saves, remembered the photo of Randall Gähstŭr and his GF that he’d found at the scene of that #Gangster crime what felt like a lifetime ago. He remembered Herb in the hospital, Hershel Whopper, Candice, Jerry the Janitor, and Ràbbani Jaáfar, Senator Walsh, House, Malcolm X, Richard Nixon, Al Rockman, Bob Dylan, Former Officer Gähstŭr and his family, 2Pac, some of the worst rappers ever (so: not Pac), MLK Jr., Natalie Portman, Joni Mitchell, Officer Pallywhacker, Sergeant Fucs, Strom Thur-mond, some more of the worst people ever (so: including Strom Thurmond :/), the Bloods, the Crips, Donald Trump, Barry Swindle, Hilary Clinton, Officer Camper even that #RapingF-uck(Seriously)GiganticPieceOfShit Bill Cosby. He remembered his first crush back when he was in the fifth grade, so long ago, and the way she’d look at him when she’d catch him looking at her before he’d turn away, pretending to be picking at his nails…

“We all have it…” he said softly, and he stood back up.

“We all have it!

“We all have the love–

“But it’s only a word–

“So what?! It’s a wonderful word!–

“But a simple word can’t describe it, as evidenced by the Circle of Offense and the existence of ‘Inevitable Capitalistic Douchery’–

So fucking what?–

“It’s misleading! That’s what’s causing the division–

“Fuck the division!–

“Fuck the need for the division–

“Fuck Time!–

“We don’t yet understand the fourth dimension!!!!

Fuck the fourth dimension!!!!–

Fuck this dimension!!!–

Fuck all the ‘dimensions’!!!!–



[1] Because this discovery has been very well observed throughout this book up until this point X/

[2] Dass, Ram. Be Here Now. Lama Foundation. San Cristobal, New Mexico. 1971

[3] So-very-long…

[4] Wedro, Benjamin. ‘The Anatomy of Hearing and Balance’. Medicine Net. Web. 08 Sep 2017.

[5] McKay, Adam. ‘Chapter 5’ Eastbound and Down: The Complete First Season. Written by Shawn Harwell, Jody Hill and Danny McBride. HBO. 2009

[6] !!!

[7] =O