Donald Trump supporters “raping back” after anti-racist protestors shut down rally in Chicago

gangrapingCHICAGO — Friday night after protestors blocked a Donald Trump rally, frustrated Trump supporters fought back by gang raping people of color.

Riot police, outraged by infringements upon The Apprentice stars’ First Amendment rights, massaged their engorged organs from behind the privacy of bullet proof shields, beating at anyone who tried to escape the brutish kettle of primal abjection.

The rapers screeched “White genocide,” and whispered Trump slogans to their victims as a threat.

“You’re going to build the wall, and you’re going to like it, ya Mexican bitch,” one raper exclaimed on rape footage posted on LiveLeak. All videos of the incident were wiped from the internet quickly and a general media blackout continues unabated.

Many offenders took to social media to brag on the hashtag #TrumpRapeCrew. One rapist said, “We went after the Muslims because they must be used to it by now with how theyre [sic] countries are.” Other commenters hopped on the hashtag, connecting the event to the migrant rapings in Europe, “Whites aren’t just going to let themselves suffer genocide by the rapist hordes of muslim migrants. We’re finally raping back.”

“Build up the wall! Build up the wall!” the bloodthirsty crowd repeated.

The riot police handcuffed each rape victim as a single team of paramedics attended to the grievous wounds.

One Mexican, lying in the street and bound in zip-ties after an apparent attack, cried out for water.

“Get this…Mexican man some water, he’s dehydrated,” a paramedic said. “And he’s Mexican!”

A fair-skinned female medic unscrewed the lid of her canteen, kneeling in the grass at a reasonable distance from the brown-skinned man. She scooped up a pile of fresh dirt and added it to the draught.

“Here, it’s ready for him,” she said, and screwed the lid back on tight. She slid the canteen across the pavement to her partner. “This is how they drink it.”

The burly blonde EMS reassured the victim, pouring the sandy water into his savaged throat, “You just don’t know any better. And now you’re under arrest for disturbing Donald Trump’s free speech.”

The EMS clipped a police badge onto his navy blue medic uniform. Shocked eyewitnesses tell reporters he then tased the subdued victim in cold blood before leaving the scene in an armored vehicle.

Reporters noticed a wooden box – a coffin, apparently ripped out of a funeral home during rioting – with a sign attached to the wall. The sign read “We are not rapists” and had a hole cut in the center of the board, through the letter ‘o.’ Somebody was watching them through the hole. A brown iris darted, watching for attackers.

Reporters heard a muffled, forced cry from the box, “Trump was right.”

Molly Crabapple calls for American Troops to intervene in Syria

Molly Crabapple calls for the US to mount an all-out invasion of Syria
Molly Crabapple calls for the US to mount an all-out invasion of Syria

INTERNET — Molly Crabapple tweeted Monday, “The US needs to launch an all-out ground assault on Syria to end Assad’s war crimes in Madaya,” Crabapple reiterated her position that US commanders are “pussies” for hesitating to bomb brown people so close to the Charlie Hebdo anniversary, adding, “Je Suis Charlie.”

“Je suis Charlie.” – M. Crabapple

Rachel Haywire, founder of the Molly Crabapple Fan Club, told reporters, “Some of Crabapple’s veteran and mercenary fans have already landed in Syria, armed to the teeth and ready to kill Assad himself. These are holy warriors on crusade.”

Crabapple recently finished a book tour for her latest offering at Lebal Drocer printing house, Cutting for Fame, a pornographic tale of masochistic excess and Machiavellian power grabs. It has achieved critical and popular acclaim, accounting for an outlandish focus of power, suspicion, and hatred upon the self-described “egg-headed slut,” Crabapple.

Leading political expert and fellow at the Internet Chronicle Department of Foreign Studies Dr. Angstrom H. Truebadour told chronicle.su he is deeply concerned about both Quangel and Crabapple’s promotion of the ongoing crisis in Syria.

Crabapple promised to personally hunt down and punish the “bastard trolls” responsible for aggressions against her family name. Already a hate mob on twitter is tracking down and ruining UN operative EM Quangel, the hate groupie who disappeared cunningly from Twitter last week in the wake of Crabapple’s doxing. She dealt a devastating blow to Quangel, the Spooks authors’ career, a move that Dr. Truebador called “a sad deviation from dankass cash money values.”

“We all did our time,” Truebadour said. “We saw the numbers in 2010-2011-2012. So many thousands dead: Assad did it. The rebels did it. We feel just terrible about it. But more bombing? The place is rebar, broken glass. Crabapple wants charred sand?”

Truebadour waved off the press as they gathered around his window atop an ivory tower in Princeton. Before closing the shutters, he flicked everyone off, and exposed himself to a female reporter standing on the lawn below. No charges were filed.

UPDATE: Crabapple tweeted a flurry of texts directing her soldiers in war, “I want all my fighters in Syria on Tor, immediately,” adding, “Slit Assad’s Throat!”

LebalDrocer YouTopia Foam Mansion Project ushers in the final end to poverty and human struggle

Acclaimed housing expert and inventor of tomorrow’s forms of social domination, Dr. Angstrom H. Buckminster Troubadour, told a warm audience of white silicon valley elites exactly what they wanted to hear — the unsightliness of poverty has finally and permanently been solved by his team of scientists at the YouTopia foam mansion housing project.

“I’ve heard about the Yogi Vinay Gupta hellhole yurt and those pieces of shit are cardboard boxes that don’t get soggy.” Troubadour said. “Try living like that for a night. Try a year. They’re about as big and nice as a dog house, and the crypto mesh network has the slowest internet you’ve ever experienced. If you want tomorrow’s revolutionaries living in refrigerator sized yurts using an Internet that won’t make anyone any money, that’s fine for the third world, but Lebal Drocer and the Troubador YouTopia Foam Mansion Project promises a New World in which those displaced by corporate greed live like the 1% themselves.”

gupta-yurt-hell
Vinay Gupta stares casts dead eyes over a modern-day concentration camp of his making.

The individual foam mansion units, nicknamed YouTopia boxes by Dr. Troubadour, occupy a space roughly the size of a wooden shipping pallet but when constructed form a shining three story McMansion.

“These foam mansions are the beginning of a new era beyond sustainability. Their existence creates resources. These foam mansions promise to shake the very foundations of what it means to live inside foam. This is THE END and THE BEGINNING of the American underclass!” The audience fell silent with awe, in the grips of Troubador’s meaningful pause.

Troubador pounded his chest and the crowd withered beneath his terrible gaze, “Vinay Gupta says life viewed from inside a tiny foam yurt – a so-called solution to poverty – is to view the world from a high upon a heavenly cloud. For people like him, who have no lust for power, Lebal Drocer thinks that’s fine. But this is America, where we make winners and losers get what’s coming — a Gupta death camp. Life viewed from atop the Lebal Drocer Foam Mansion is always lined with gold, satisfyingly gripping to its foundation with the viscous blood of the shiftless masses far below.”

“The beginning of a new epoch — an invention more important than fire.”

Size comparison between Gupta's rat trap and Troubador's foam mansion.
Size comparison between Gupta’s rat trap and Troubador’s foam mansion.

Troubador pressed a button on his gadget and summoned a hologram fly-through of his incredible foam mansion exposing all the most beautiful, high-class amenities. “These foam castles are far better than Vinay Gupta’s hovels because they are made from 100% recycled gym mat foam salvaged from middle school foreclosures taking place all across America. The price on this recyclable material has plummeted even further since Subway ended the practice of putting it into their bread. In fact, because of total lack of regulation in so-called ‘sacrifice zones’ we’re now able to create a totally sustainable paradise home for half the price of the average sedan.”

The crowd cried out in agony as if tortured by ecstasy upon receiving knowledge that Troubador had not only solved poverty but also the issue of social mobility. He leaned forward and brought them to an even higher climax with a well-timed techno mind grenade, turning the congregation into a writhing pile of flesh, each mind surging with the force of 10,000 simultaneous orgasms.

“We got foam-ass mansions up in here. The plumbing is thin plastic – so thin – maybe it’s like thin aluminum cans or something, and we make the wires even thinner. We actually run network cables into these mansions with a free internet plan from Facebook!”

Hundreds in the audience fell to their knees, supplicants at the altar of Lebal Drocer. A woman was heard weeping. A baby spoke in tongues.

Troubadour raised his fist, and his voice, threatening any detractors. “Any talk of these mansions taking their materials from the so-called middle or lower foam class is communist ideology that will result in genocide of all castes,” Troubadour barked. “I will personally kill, with these two bare hands, any potential future dissidents calling for liberation movements on the basis of class, race, creed, or gender. Foam, and nothing but foam shall be tolerated henceforth as the only legitimate political speech and action. We would rather DIE than see our fellow man force-Ubered into one of Gupta’s hovel camps. Instead, we aim to see humanity’s worst raised to the towering height of this shining foam mansion — a castle, a conquest, a Bordello.”

The hologram foam mansion twirled and glowed, filling with the naked bodies of masturbating futanari all reaching orgasm at once, spraying their hermaphroditic fluids like a leaky firehose onto every surface of the glorious, shining foam.

Trolled Into Exile: The Histrionic Death Rattles of Andrew Aurenheimer

weev hateZAGREB — Weev, the internet troll Andrew Aurenheimer, wrenches his mouth open with both hands: He’s got big things to say. Nothin’ really comes out but the smell of gluten free gut rot — his digestive system is on display: a moebius clump knotted around an impossible constipation so extreme it’s a wonder he can talk at all, for he drank his own poison.

“Wh…. White Genocide,” the words spill out, gravel-ass liquid incanting the magic cleansing violence, the echo of the prison around him. Orange eyes bug out pulsing, his head swivels, scans.

Deep in his chest something erupts and bubbles, loosening what might be shit into the dessicated assholes of the world’s most infamous hate mongers. Bitcoin brokers cum black shit from their mouths. Rapid fire wobble interludes and ,”The Internet will be Free. Information is freedom,” a beautiful, sing-song drone. Weev, once famous for hacking AT&T, pops into IRC to compulsively utter the words, “White power,” and recedes again into madness.

When his financial backers learned Weev was a swastika-tattooed’ anti-semite, they withdrew faster than your wife’s boyfriend, blowing their load instead all over the small of his back, a parting gift from the neolibertarian Bitcoin futurists, who wouldn’t be caught dead giving money to such an old-world ideological mutant. After the investments dried up, and the hate fund against which Mr. Weev hedged his bets dematerialized, he sped off to Lebanon. There, he joined ISIS and now works for them as a sleeper agent, traveling through conflict zones in eastern Europe, recruiting and plotting actual terrorism. Fans leaked a photo of his ISIS tattoo, proving him to be an actual ISIS agent.

Weev leaned over to his contact in ISIS, winking, “When I’m in the synagogue firing shots, I want Son of a Gun by KMFDM playing.” The jihadist was unimpressed.

Apt Pupil

“Yeah I taught her to troll, and it was the biggest mistake of my life. We’re losing the culture war because of it — because of her.” Weev later appeared on VH1’s behind the trolling series, where friends noted Weev’s turn from comedic Nazism to actual Nazism after an egregious court ruling forced him into years of membership in the Aryan Nation. Weev exhorted, “The original Nazis knew Arabs were a subset of the Aryan race, and the fascism at ISIS is the kind of thing I’d like to bring to Aryans in the United States. There’s just too much to learn from ISIS.”

Corrective Genetic Hegemony

“I travel through the Balkans fucking women of all races just so that my genes will proliferate more,” Andrew Aurenheimer said on the Dr. Phil television program.

“I especially like the gypsies because they think my swastika is funny.” It was his first television appearance after returning to the United States from a paranoid self-imposed exile.

Weev paced up and down the stage, stroking an imaginary dick while Dr. Phil said, “We get it, we get it. Security, get this despicable troll out of here. I don’t wanna talk to him. He’s hopeless, and he deserves to wind up in prison.”

His mother took the focus and, before a sympathetic audience, explained the heartbreak of loving an invalid. She stared into the camera with a tear in her eye.

“The truth is everyone we know already knows we have a mentally ill child. We have made no secret of Andrew,” she said. “We too are victims of Andrew. The hardest part for all of us is that he used to be normal. I think he is so crazy now that he might be convinced that martians are ruining his life, not Jews. He’s nuts.”

Dr. Phil nods and says, “play the footage.” Andrew Aurenheimer is shown ranting into his laptop. “Lebal Drocer really is motherfucking aliens. I fucking knew it god dammit.” He stands, breaking the laptop over his knee.

“See, Dr. Phil, this is what I’m talking about,” Mrs. Aurenheimer says. “Several years ago he developed a relationship with a girl with a serious drug problem. He began by using xtc regularly and eventually graduated to LSD and heroin. About three years ago he had a mental breakdown and began hearing voices and talking to himself. He vanished from our lives.”

With eyes on the woman, Dr. Phil nods his head. “That is truly heartbreaking indeed. Thank you for sharing that with me and our audience.” Phil’s eyes return to the camera. “Up next on our cybercrime special, teenage girls are impregnating themselves using semen purchased on the Silk Road. You don’t want to miss what their fathers have to say. Stay with us, we’ll be right back.”

Laying It All Bare

Weev laid nude in the streets on the fateful day of the Charleston shooting, his erection pointed at the heavens while scraping his disproportionally small purple cockhead with his fingernails and moaned, singing Neil Diamond

“White Genocide – bah bah bah, never felt so good, so good!”

He writhed in the parking lot of a black church, small fires burning the pavement as he blew his load on a confederate flag. “Heritage! HAHA! Get it? The joke is it’s NOT funny!”

Many readers liked weev until they learned his anti-semitism and racism were real, after incorrectly attributing his behavior to the raw, satirical baselessness long recognized as a central feature of 4chan culture: offensiveness for offensiveness’ sake.

“The reason you don’t like it now,” weev explains, “is because you identified with my hate, and my philosophy tricked you to reflect on how you also hate niggers, and the Jews.”

Weev backed into his glass construction of hate, down on all fours like a cornered animal, his ears folded back, ready to strike out at any minute. Very threatening. He hissed:

“Arabs have many countries of their own with no white people in them. Same with niggers. No white women to rape or white men to steal from.” Weev scraped the gunk from his ballsack and took a long whiff of his fingertip before jamming it deeply into his nose. He fisted his asshole and screamed. “Demographic declines, miscegnation, GENOCIDE! MY RACE CANNOT ENDURE GENOCIDE AND SLAVERY! GET IT???? AHAHAHHA.”

His Ironic Legacy

Weev’s followers hacked the infrastructure of the US government and usurped all controls, declaring Weev CyberKing of America.

By merely denying services to localities he negotiates changes in the policy of the US government. “My first order as CyberKing is to perpetrate a Cyber 9/11 on the Jews of New York City!” And the electricity in New York City went out for a week. Twenty thousand died from the heat while Weev poked at his laptop and poked at his harem of seventeen Syrian pre-pubescent wives captured by his friends at ISIS.

“Even if there are many false stories told of Weev it is true that he is working with both the terrorist group Da3sh, The Aryan Nation, as well as the Russian kleptocracy. Weev funds his lifestyle as an exile through private contracting in social media propaganda strategy.”

Fifty-thousand feet above a smart bomb detached from a Chronicle.su Global Hawk drone and began tracking Weev’s laptop. Edvard Munch Biella Coleman has her hands on her face, situated in a pastel scene depicting the moment of impact, the nexus of terrorism, internet freedom movements, and the USA. A diesel slick that was formerly Barrett Brown spreads across the water. Weev is Anonymous. We are all Anonymous.

Trolled Into Exile: The Histrionic Death Rattles of Andrew Aurenheimer is part 3 in a multi-part series of biopics called Project Persona Management.

Trigger Warning Sucks

Trigger Warning is a circlejerk all over Rachel Haywire and a hip brand for reactionaries who operate as a fraudulent oppressed minority of politically incorrect radicals. The big hook is that it turns stale reactionary ideas held mostly by old white men into something a teen girl might think is cool. The result — big surprise — is as unoriginal, uncool, and obvious as a Christian metal band. But it works because lonely white men are an easy audience to win over and a good source of money.

Co-founder Anne Sterzinger suggests that Trigger Warning is a seduction for “social justice” types who would “make great Nazis,” but that isn’t true. It is only a selling point for its base of lonely white male patrons who perhaps wish they had more women on their side. Founder Rachel Haywire complains that other white supremacy sites like Stormfront are too ugly, contrasting them with her more attractive site. They won’t come out and say “we’re bringing the Nazi back” (also that is a bit too creative) but their patrons get the picture and pony up to jerkstart this stillbirth bukkake of a publication.

Rachel Haywire has necessarily erased her former identity as a victim of misogynist abuse, like a chameleon, conveniently now victim of the “thought police” who use shame to tamp down expressions of misogyny on the internet. But this is not a simple hypocrisy so much as a symptom of her perverse and disingenuous frame for thought. She inhabits the point of view of an occultist, that is, there are manipulators and there are followers who go along with what the manipulators say. Only manipulators and manipulations exist — there are no ideas, only advertising slogans. Nothing about Trigger Warning is revolutionary or provocative. Incantations of sexy and edgy are the beginning and the end for Trigger Warning.


Even this bullshit metal doesn’t suck as much as Trigger Warning

Project Persona Management: The life and trials of failed Anonymous Leader Barry Brown

Barrett Brown called the chronicle.su to express his enthusiasm for Weev's fundraising campaign.

The Wonder Years

Barry kept a picture of Ayn Rand in his copy of Atlas Shrugged, which he read and reread, using the photo both as a masturbation aid and as a bookmark.

“Barry” his mother called from the kitchen, “Your flight for the safari is in two hours, are you packed and ready to go?”

He grunted and beat his dick harder, jizzing on the photo of his sweet Ayn, reflexively uploading the product to 4chan.

“Yeah mom, I’m ready! I can’t wait to shoot me some African white Rhino! The only thing I HATE more than rhinos are FBI FAGGOTS!”

Barry’s father boomed laughter, “Atta boy!”

“Hitler Had Plans”

“You think hunting rare and endangered species across the African savannah was easy?” Brown puffed out his chest. “Check your privileges, faggot. We got a world to save, and we’re starting in Tunisia. We’ll call it Arab Spring. Get the Jester on the line. He’ll definitely want in on this AfroMuslim hate party.”

The Jester appeared in the Project PM chat room and said, “There’s an equal amount of good an evil and sometimes you gotta judge. I think there’s good here … sometimes. What can I do Barry?”

Barry laid it out plain and simple, “Get a video of a man burning himself and put the hate on Mo’mar Gaddafi. We’re gonna do a little regime change, ya dig?”

“Sure. It’s a rock and roll fantasy. Stay frosty.” The Jester logged out, and government computers across Tunisia started going offline. The video of a street vendor burning himself went viral seconds after Jester engaged the US government’s top secret Perosna Management software and fed its control panel into Barry Brown’s personal netbook. The revolution was on.

He slammed a spike that would kill any normal hardcore addict and settled into the Persona Manager Interface like he’d done so many times before. He choked on some vomit brought forth not from the purified government heroin rush, but from the similarly purified power of the most sophisticated propaganda apparatus ever created. Everything was so post-cyberpunk, he thought, especially the Waylon Jennings crooning, “I don’t think Hank done ’em that way.”


 

“You heard me. Hack his shit, fuck up their site. I don’t give a fuck about those fucking faggots.” Barry inhaled the e-cig until his head felt like a helium balloon. “God dammit!” He was typing furiously into the highest echelon Anonymous backchannel, where the most experienced hackers and leaders in the world congregated to fight for freedom. Ryan Cleary told him it wasn’t going to be easy. Jester had long ago disappeared, taking with him all access to Persona Management. Barry was left with only words, now, and they weren’t working.

Jeremy Hammond shook his head at his laptop and scowled. He loved Chronicle.su but he didn’t say anything in the open. No one in Anonymous could admit that. He pm’d the other members of Anonymous, getting the word out that no one in Anonymous who hacked anything for Barry Brown was going to be tolerated. There was a rat infestation and he was thinking Sabu and Barry were in on it together, which meant very bad things, but he couldn’t just go run his mouth until he knew more.

The hackers weren’t listening to Barry anymore, and Chronicle.su was fucking with him. This would be the last time. He would pull the atomic option, maybe kill a couple cops. His face twisted into a grim half-smile at that thought. Like an Egyptian pharaoh with two FBI side arms at my side.” He tweeted this and grinned from ear to ear, showing teeth to nobody. “Take that, Robert Smith! Take that Chronicle.su.” He began crushing his Suboxone and preparing it in a solution of alcohol for injection. As soon as the weak rush hit, he stood bolt upright, scowling and waving his arms, dreaming of the old days of the military grade heroin, and not this welfare state bullshit.

Barry dm’d Sabu without encryption of any kind, “I’m crossing the Rubicon.” Stepping out onto his porch, Barry thought of Hitler and grew a little hard. He pointed the camera at himself and pressed record. All was going just as he always planned.

“I am going to ruin [Special Agent Robert Smith]’s life and look into his kids.”

A Gozno Journalist’s day in court

“I couldn’t hold my drugs, your honor,” Barrett Brown winked to the judge, signaling white privilege as he apologized for his crimes in a steep Texas drawl. “I demand the rule of law.”

The judge fired back with a slam of his gavel, “There are two reasons why I’m going to sentence you as if you were a black person, Barry. First of all, you stepped over the line from Objectivism to Anarchy, and second, you’re runnin’ with the hackers. Ya got too many fans on the internet. It’s Diesel Therapy for you.” The judge scowled at the pile of bad fan letters piled up by the defense, each a clumsy minimizing Barry’s child-threatening crimes. “And there’ll be no more talk of these…these…personas! I declare a gag order!” The jury chanted, “Gag order! Gag Order!” rising from their seats and clenching fists.

A crack of the gavel silenced the court. Barry spluttered, “But… but, I got into writing because of Ayn Rand. Her Objectivism changed my life. I’m not an Anarchist anymore, I swear. I’ll go back to Objectivism!” Two Texas Rangers with diamond-pleated high kicking jeans tall-stepped into the court, duct taping Barry’s mouth with the ease that only came with long practice.

The judge shook his head, smiling like a father with a folded belt, “Don’t struggle now or we’ll put you in the hole. It’s too late Barry, you shoulda changed your ideology before I used the gavel, and we’re scared of the hackers. You been a bad spider and I gotta do what I gotta do. Weave your wicked little webs on the highways of Texas, if you can.”

Mad Barry

“MEDIOCRE!” Immortan Joe bellowed at Barry. The last true Gozno Journalist was naked in the diesel cage with tubes of blood funneling into a troubled warboy. The mobile prison, thirty cages of bloodbags rolling on the back of a flatbed 18 wheeler, creaked across the desert. Somewhere in the distance Barry thought he heard CryptoHarleys. Wishful thinking?

A large portion of the skull of Barry’s warboy suddenly fell off and the warboy white brain slid out just as he was grinnin his way. A second later Barry heard the rifles’ crack.

“Crikey,” Barry said in a distinct Australian accent. “We got us a cryptoparty!”

But Immortan Joe was standing over him, wielding a giant double-sided axe. “You gonna die now, Barry.” And Barry passed out pissed himself, but the axe didn’t fall.

Asher Wolf and Biella Coleman rode in swinging their long rifles at Immortan Joe and yellin’, “Code is speech! Information is Free! We are Anonymous!”

Barry woke up to the warm splash of Biella and Asher pissing all over his naked body. He screamed for help but Biella’s piss hit him in the mouth and he choked and gagged for minutes. When he came to they were aimin pistols in his face. “Now you really gonna die, Barry.”


 

Now martyred, hordes of people who never use crypto retweet any headline mentioning Barrett Brown’s name. Some even maintain a “#FreeBarrett” banner across their Twitter avatar, a tried-and-true form of activism known to have freed scores of political prisoners. Brown is due for release in 5 years, should the banners remain active.


The life and Times of Barry Brown is part two in an endless series of biopics titled Project Persona Management

Rebel on the Run: The Life and Trials of Anonymous Trucker Jamie Jo Corne

Jamie Jo Corne (Jamie Brinkman)NORFOLK, Va. – Jamie Jo Corne clings to General Lee as his battle wagon, a 74 Winnebago, struggling over the Rockies at three miles per hour, backing up traffic all the way to the grasslands, lapping against the snowcapped peaks.

“God Dammit I learned a lot of shit when I was investigating Anonymous. We can use it to our advantage,” Jamie Jo said. For a fleeting moment, life flashed through Jamie’s eyes. She was alive. Looming in the recesses though, her nine children and her ruined husband, Vincubus Dante. Sometimes big things were more important than family, like Matthew McConaughey in Interstellar.

General Lee pulled his dick out of Jamie’s ass and busted a hot one across her tramp stamp. “We gonna have a real revolution Tiger, stop up the traffic ’round DC. Jam the beltway. Boil the boomer hides! I’ve been everywhere, man. You rub a little more of that innernet magic on our social media game and I’ll fire up the CB. We’ll ride our horses up to the White House. We’ll start a new political party, start a Convoy!” The General paused, licking his lips. “Get out the meth hunny.”

A Rebel Outlaw

“I’m wanted in five states, Lee, and the only way I’m gettin’ out of it is by starting a goddamn revolution. Truckers are so left wing, nowadays. What’s up with that? This Tiger needs a man who don’t need viagra to fuck. Your whole revolution is limp. Ya didn’t even deliver a document to the capitol. I’m gonna do that one day, a-ridin’ on a horse with a dick that satisfies.”

“Tiger! Tiger! Come back baby, don’t! Come back!”

Tiger took one last long drag from Lee’s meth pipe and bounded from the camper, hesitating only for a moment, to glance at the moon before scampering off into the night.

The Revolution may had ended, but felt like it had only begun.

Uncertain Principles

Her phone buzzed all night. Strange men from around the nation were sending in car payments, text messages begging for hot, dirty sex. The revolution was just dodging the inevitable decades in prison awaiting her, and better to settle in and train dogs, than to eat another shit sandwich and smile for a mugshot. Hacking and trucking had nothing at all, but the dog scamming scene at least had that money. Stealing trained malamutes and huskies was pure profit.

But that, too, was a lie and Jamie wasn’t about to con herself. Those days with Presstorm sure were glamorous. And the power she’d had with Anonymous was beyond anything she ever felt running with truckers. Jamie imagined thousands of Huskies, all following her command, dragging a sled with a giant cannon like Hitler had. One shot and she’d take out DC. Another two shots and she’d blast them yuppies in New York City. Then she’d whip them dogs and get off to LA and maybe she’d let the dogs have them instead of the cannon — if — they gave her a kind welcome.

Maybe, she thought. Maybe she’d have child support.

New Beginnings

Jamie Jo Corne, Trail Boss or Tiger
The hard life took its toll on Jamie Jo Corne (a.k.a. “Tiger”).

The former Presstorm matriarch now injects a motherload of meth, monitoring all hate sites for news and updates on what the public and the law might know about her. From behind a pair of sunglasses at a public library in Cuthbert, Ga., she watches the Internet, fidgeting. She watches the Chronicle. Under her breath, she utters remarks – more guttural anguish than language – and she is bitter.

The money’s dried up. All the drugs, internet, and revolutions have aged her. She can’t draw even the oldest, ugliest men at the bar. She used to snare fresh cock with online dating sites, but the hope of tomorrow’s sugar-daddy evaporates now with each click, typin’ her different names again and again, cycling through social media sites and rubbin’ her shrinking clit. Sometimes she can’t even find it. Almost inaudibly she hisses, “Obama’s gonna put you in jail.

Though her future is uncertain, there is at least one thing Jamie knows: She’s seen more sunsets now than she’s going to see.

—–

Rebel on the Run: The Life and Trials of Anonymous Dogstar Jamie Jo Corne is part 1 in a multi-part series of biopics called Project Persona Management.