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

11/12/18, 4:33 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.

Part Two

(Part One of the ‘Real’ Story)

2-II-25%!ish-2/4

“There's nothing wrong with being a cop. There's nothing wrong with being a white person. It's about where your heart is...We've got to get everyone beyond the xenophobic isolationism.” –Bobby Seale

“Only the strong go crazy. The weak just go along.” –Assata Shakur

“You don't have to teach people how to be human. You have to teach them how to stop being inhuman.” –Eldridge Cleaver

“When you chase what you want, you run past what you need.” –Talib Kweli,

I

April 24th, 2015

5:48 p.m.

Special Agent Henrik Maahtin Palmer (Martin) stared out the passenger window of Gestarrè’s police vehicle **contem-platingly[1], stroking his bare chin with his right hand, while his right elbow rested gracefully on the bar on the door. It was raining outside, and Gestarrè had officially missed his weekly swim at the Sheraton–or any other dates he may have had with Mindy the Librarian–his tee time, and indeed everything else he may have been looking forward to that day (:( ). He didn’t talk about it, and until Palmer asked him something straight up, Special Agent Robertô Gestarrè said nothing throughout the entire drive back to the city /> just sat there looking all angry and bitter at the world, and taking large, deep breaths pretty much every time he got the chance (like an immature child just after he didn’t get exactly what he wanted #Fuckin’Kids,Man #ThisIsN-otAMetaphor :/). He was a hard guy to read, very naturally tough-guy-macho, hold-in-sensitivity-at-all-costs kind of Douch-ebag™ /> barely ever said a real word to anyone, barely ever looked anyone in the eye o.O.

Luckily for Gestarrè, Palmer didn’t want to talk anyway. Through the rain outside and the mist built up on the window, he could see the people of pha-Philly-Philly-Pha-Phila-delphia (–cucks XP) on their own terms in their own city: poor desolate souls whom he knew were all suspected of being criminals before human beings /> or, at the very least, potential threats to our well-being, and to our children’s ($). For the record, specifically, he included cops in this generalization–anyone out there–anyone who had that thinking possibility of ‘going rogue on God’, and just deciding–out of the blue (intellectually-speaking, at least)–that killing someone is at-all somehow okay /> even when totally justified.

:o[2]

Once they got off the highway (I-95) at Girard (because to go any further would have been suicide given the traffic around that time #IfTheyDidKillThemselvesThough,OnlyThey-WouldHaveBeenToBlame,‘Traffic’CouldHaveHadNothingToDoWithItXDDD ) all the streets began to blend together. There was no telling one sleazy strip-club from a McDonalds from a ‘country club’ or a high-class restaurant like Pizza Hut, or so their ads and ‘sales’ might imply–

Palmer was always affected when traveling through this part of the city, so close to Kensington and Fishtown (Ken-sington: #Not-So-Good , Fishtown: #HipsterParadise ), where there was a drug dealer or a phased-out heroin addict on every corner but, this time, perhaps it had something to do with the rain, or perhaps it was because he was starting to lose the enthusiasm that he’d gotten so ardently for his new job within the short time since he’d gotten it, Palmer thought he was seeing things a little clearer…

He caught the eye of what he could only assume was a prostitute (and not exactly the most expensive looking one ($)) walking out of a Seven Eleven™ (Legal).

‘She’ lit a cigarette.

X(

“Do you think we’re helping these people, Gestarrè?”

“Nah,” Gestarrè said. “These people don’t need help, and even if they did, they wouldn’t accept it from us anyway.”

Palmer sighed reluctantly, innocently, yet still because he felt like he had to. ‘He may have had a point there...’

“I dunno,” he mumbled to himself.

Gestarrè sighed. “I’m going to give the Sergeant everything we have on the Gähstŭr case,” he said. “Should be the last we hear about it–”

“But you’re going to give him all the Barry Swindle stuff as well, right?”

“I don’t see how that’s necessary. Especially considering that we would probably have to pursue that lead a little more if Fucs weren’t to–”

“But Barry clearly had a motive–”

“Palmer,” and Gestarrè looked out the window as he pulled the car to a stop at a red light. “You know the Swindles,” he said calmly. “Can we just lay low about this one today?”

“But those stories? Herb, Al, House? We’d be doing them a disservice, not to mention Officer Gähstŭr–”

Former Officer Gähstŭr, and need I remind you of his place in this conversation–”

“But–”

“Palmer! I’m not getting into this. If something happens to another kid from that group, an investigation will be opened by someone else. Not our problem anymore,” and he took a puff off his cigarette. “I didn’t put forty years into this job only to be surmised by some punk who thinks that because he grew up with the Internet, he has something more to say than I did when I was his age–”

“Sir, that’s not–”

“But it is,” and Gestarrè paused as he looked back at Palmer, who looked away and out his window with nothing to say as Gestarrè went on: “What you’re saying.”

There was an awkward silence. Palmer wasn’t so much angry as he was simply frustrated. ‘How can you deal with a man who refuses to understand youth as if he’d never had it himself?’ he thought. ‘There are lots of reasons I’m a dick, and youth and the Internet are only two of them /> not even two of the bigger ones!–’

“Not only that,” Gestarrè went on. “But the less gangbangers we have on the street, the better, if you ask me. This is one we really don’t want to get involved with, Palmer. Trust me, I’ve seen it before…”

Palmer moved on, got caught up thinking about the kids from the day: Al, Barry, Herb, Hershel, House and Randall. ‘House was so sure of everything,’ he continued ‘talking’ to himself (thinking? #Thinking ). ‘All five of them had such a different take, reaction to, and role in the whole ‘#Branding™ ’ episode that they ultimately only unleashed upon themselves like a ferocious third and final world war three-thousand years into the future.’ He thought about what kinds of people they all might turn out to be. He figured that despite their faults and obviously negative prospects (he knew all five of them to be equally idiotic (alcoholic, pothead or sober (who the fuck Brands™ his gamer tag on himself just because some friends wanted a laugh???))), that they still must have had something to offer…

‘Or if there’s any hope for our kind...’

=’’ddd[3]

‘I mean who knows, right?’ Palmer didn’t know any of them personally; maybe one of them was the next JK Rowling, or Tupac Shakur or Bill O’Reilly #IsTalentSubjective? ? Maybe one of them was the next Hitler or Trump #IgnoranceIsA-Virtue… . He knew that nothing could ever be done for any of them unless it would end up getting them to do something for themselves, but he still wondered: what turns a person from that (a well off kid, doing exactly what kids do: just looking for a laugh, just looking for her/his place in the world) to that >

He looked at the drug dealer on the street calmly reaching for the gun in his waistband as the Special Agents passed by.

Palmer couldn’t think of anything–

>< 

“By the way I need to make a quick stop.”

Palmer turned his head, looked at him like, ‘Quick-Stop? /> Clerks?’ #JayAndSilentBobFor-Fucking-Ever #Metaphors.

=DDD

“Alright, where at?” with confidence!

Gestarrè sighed. “It’s a small place downtown off Oregon, shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. You can wait in the car,” with his head drifting slowly between the windshield and the window, he didn’t look at Palmer at all. While not Kensington, nor very close to it either, downtown off Oregon wasn’t the best area, to put it mildly ><.

Palmer studied his elder for a moment to also stay on the lookout for any indication of vehemence or anxiety, but, to his then-realized expectation and delectation, he got none.

“Yea alright,” he said, and he looked back out his window, right index finger back to his bare chin, eyes squinted in anticipated excitement.

‘This should be interesting...’

oooooo.OO

:O BD =P !!!!! ;ppPPP.’.’.’’’’….’..’.’’’’. (<spit!)

II

April 24th, 2015

6:13 p.m.

It was just-about-almost sun-totally-down. A few minutes more and there would be no natural light in the sky other than that provided by the stars and the artificial light which blinded them #SoSad .

The building was rundown and dirty. There were used syringes and bullet casings all around the ground outside the front door. Getting up the stairs was a pain in the ass, but mainly because they were so steep and intensely enclosed. Palmer found it odd that Gestarrè was in no rush, given all those passive aggressive remarks relating to his time-delusion dilemma throughout the day previous to then, but he concluded that Gestarrè was probably just tired, momentarily forgetting that Gestarrè was practically a fucking robot for Christ’s sake–

Palmer insisted he come inside /> refused to sit still when the car was shut off–

They reached a door on the highest floor at the end of a hallway, and knocked on it. Gestarrè stood in front. A man wearing a beret answered, slit the door open with the chained lock stopping it from opening very far. He looked at Gestarrè suspiciously, who stood there impatiently, waiting for the man to open the door completely until, after a few seconds, Gestarrè was officially annoyed, and even spoke with a tiny sense of hostility…

“Well, are you letting us in, or what?”

The man opened the door, and the Special Agents walked inside.

There were three guys drinking forties in the kitchen, three dudes sitting around a big coffee table in the living room, smoking a bong with In Living Color playing on the TV, and a girl passed out next to one of them. A dude had just walked out of the bathroom still pulling his pants up, but he didn’t give a fuck at all about seeing their new guests, as the sight of Gestarrè and Palmer only seemed to slow him down in his process of lifting his drawers. The guy hitting the bong looked nervously up and at Gestarrè, as he and Palmer walked past en route to the kitchen. The dude had literally just lit the cap, and was now breathing in the smoke. He was obviously afraid to let it out if he could help it. Gestarrè stared him down like a pastor who just found out his kid was gay, but couldn’t process the situation yet: he’d have to let it sink in before he could justifiably freak the fuck out over it

“You’re two hours late, copper-man[4],” a dude said as Palmer and Gestarrè reached the kitchen. All three guys had red bandanas on–

Gestarrè opened the fridge, got out a beer without even asking, and said: “Well, that’s what happens when you have a real job–”

“I’ve had to wait here that whole time, man. I have a life, you know–”

’Oh I have a life, you know?’” –Gestarrè, with an overtly mocking tone. “I have a wife, some brat kids, and an ability to arrest your ass, and those of all your low-life friends here if this doesn’t go smoothly, which I would be glad to help materialize if you don’t hurry the fuck up–”

“You got the shit?”

Gestarrè sighed into space, and smiled before turning to face the dude pretentiously.

x)[5]

“How many times are we going to over this?” he replied.

“The last three times we did this, we ended up getting only half what we paid for, that ain’t good business–”

Gestarrè, quickly: “There’s never good business any-more /> Hey! Hey!”

Palmer was taking a closer look at the bong on the table. It was a very nice bong. The people on that side of the room were also very conversational–

“What are you doing, Palmer?”

“I’m… examining.”

The group in the living room laughed. Palmer thought that he might be getting a contact high. “They’re smoking weed, Gestar–”

“Go wait in the car–”

“I’m not waiting in the car, man!–”

“It shouldn’t be too long before you both are out there anyway, because if you ain’t got the shit, and in-the-correct-amount,” said Bobby Mack (i.e.: the dude in the kitchen). “We ain’t got the money, so there ain’t no reason for yous to be   here–”

“Unless y’all want a hit–”

>BANG!<

Gestarrè hit the refrigerator so hard that a large dent was immediately put in its front door, and the lights in it went dark.

Other Dude in the Kitchen, standing next to Mack: “Man, that’s mah mama’s fridge–”

>PUNCH!<

Gestarrè punched said talker, ‘Other Dude’, in the face, sending him straight to the ground, and then kicked the other ‘non-talker-in-the-kitchen’ in the balls, and he went down cold, so that Gestarrè could quickly swing up into Bobby Mack’s grill, with a gun pointed up and under Mack’s chin, without much time to react on the part of the latter (Mack).

“How many times are we gonna do this?” Gestarrè said holding the gun, one small place of pressure away from pulling the trigger just by accident.

“Until you make a fair deal, copper–”

>>!!!SHIT!!!<<

A guy on the couch pulled out a gun, and stood up, but before he could shoot it, Gestarrè pulled another one (a gun), previously hidden in his waistband, and shot both him and another guy just sitting on the couch /> both in the head. Gestarrè was so quick! Their blood splattered all over the place, including all over the bong and the passed-out girl. Her clothes were completely ruined :( ($). She remained passed out cold, but she did do a little switch of ass in her bloat so as to get a little more comfortable in her position–

As the other guys not currently directly threatened by Gestarrè in the kitchen reached to the counter-top for their respective weapons (even the formerly punched guy on the floor still holding his babymakers (testicles)), Gestarrè put his skilled police training to work /> and shot all of them first in the head, and then three more times just for show, no hesitation.

Palmer was appalled–

Gestarrè looked back to Bobby Mack: the only person left conscious other than the special agents.

“You know that guy you see in the movies?” Gestarrè said all tough guy-macho like. “The one who never plays by the rules?”

Mack didn’t move nor blink: confident stare at a fellow demon.

“Don’t be that guy.”

Being time to leave, Gestarrè lowered his hand, grabbed the paper bag on the counter-top, and led the way quickly out the door. Palmer, watching as Gestarrè simply strolled on by, looked back to Bobby, who stared at him, and smiled, as Mack serenely blew out a big cloud of smoke, from the joint he just lit, to the air right in front of him.

“You’d better be careful out there, officer,” he said to Palmer, confident, like the event they’d just witnessed was nothing to be remembered or cared about in the future in any way, shape or form.

“Time is Illmatic.”[6]

***

>Back in the car, just about to be pulling into the precinct parking lot, and Gestarrè was addressing the monkey in the room (elephant? #PCPrejudiced(Racist)Joke(Sa-meThing?))<

“Look at these motherfuckers, I know for a fact that most of these handicapped parking permits are fake–”

“Dude?!”

Palmer was still in heat about what happened back on Oregon.

“You shot five people back there, two of whom weren’t even a threat!”

“Oh-ho-ho Palmer,” Gestarrè laughed like Santa Claus (red, cheery faced, and all :8).

“The guy on the couch was just sitting there, and the dude on the floor–”

“Palmer, will you grow up?–”

“I can’t believe what just happened!!!–”

“How long have you been on this job?”

“Uuuh, three days, thank you very–”

“THREE DAYS PALMER!!!”

He slammed on the brakes–

“You have the experience I do in this field? You know what it’s like to have to make ends meet? To make quota[7] and protect the lives of those paying taxes for your services? I’ve had to kill a lot of people Palmer, decent people, for the sake of the ‘greater good’ of ‘humanity’.”

He lit a cigarette, and looked down.

:’(

“When you have to use this terrible weapon against another human being, then you can let me know what you think of the morals of the people who find solace in that. People who shoot blindly at each other, at their ‘enemies’, at their ‘superiors’, because they feel ‘trapped’ or ‘lost’, as if no other situation could exist in which one could feel those things without having to act in such a de-evolutionized way. There’s no redemption from murder, no calculation in real death. All we have is our job, and my job is to protect the people, not to worry about the meanings behind the frivolous lives of those who make that more difficult. Whether they’re black, white, cop or Latino, Palmer, they all look the same to the barrel.

“You tell me who’s the racist now…”

[1] ‘Contemplatingly’ see glossary on pp. 281

[2] So justified…

[3]

[4] The term ‘cop’ comes from the metal that was used to make police badges back in the seventeen and eighteen-hundreds: copper #TheMoreYouKnow

[5] So pretentiously…

[6] Nas. ‘Life’s A Bitch’. Illmatic. Sony Music Entertainment/Columbia. 1994

[7] Police Deny Quotas, But They Might Actually Exist. Lawyers. Web. Jul. 2015, http://criminal.lawyers.com/criminal-law-basics/police-deny-quotas-but-they-might-actually-exist.html

-Do Police Officers Have Monthly Quotas? Quara. Web. Jul. 2015, https://www.quora.com/Do-police-officers-have-monthly-ticket-quotas

-Allegri, Carlo. Minority Police Officers Sue NYPD Over Illegal Arrest Quotas. RT. 2 Sep. 2015. Web. Jul. 2015, https://www.rt.com/usa/314051-minority-police-officers-sue-nypd/

-Rose, Joel. Despite Laws and Lawsuits, Quota-Based Policing Still Lingers. NPR. Apr. 4 2015. Web. Jul 2015. http://www.npr.org/2015/04/04/395061810/despite-laws-and-lawsuits-quota-based-policing-lingers

-Erickson, Kurt. Lawmakers Put Cuffs on Missori Ticket Quotas. Political Fix. Jun, 4 2016. Web. Feb. 5 2017. http://www.stltoday.com/news/local/govt-and-politics/lawmakers-put-cuffs-on-missouri-ticket-quotas/article_1719835b-21ef-5c4d-a48e-62d77c8e3adc.html 

-Mathias, Christopher. Police Quotas are Terrible, and the NYPD Still Seems to be Using Them. Huffington Post. 2 Oct. 2014. Web. Jul. 2015, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/10/02/nypd-quotas_n_5916596.html