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A Grad Student Who Knew Too Much

Berkey, at the start of our daylong interview.

On a brisk October morning in Brookline, a graduate student announced that he was an expert at something, to the total  indifference of his friends, peers and vague associates.

The student was reported to Chronicle.SU by a local informant and subsequently identified by spiteful classmates as first year Benjamin Berkey. Berkey, an enthusiast of the dark witch house music scene, tacitly agreed to make a phone statement to me by making dozens of unsolicited calls to the office of The Soviet Chronicle.

“I’ve read many thick tomes so, like Prodicus, I’ve become adept at choosing words. Often I finish sentences for other people in more exact ways than they ever could have expressed themselves. So, I’ve decided to go on a mission for total exactitude in language. Any time anyone strays from the Oxford Dictionary definition of a word, I will correct them in public in an elitist fashion. This will have innumerable social benefits.”

Berkey then invited me to watch him do his work across town to his sparsely furnished Allston apartment. I spent the next eight hours watching him gruel over a footnote, intermittently taking breaks to masturbate and troll the Internet with obscure semantic and grammatical criticisms.

“Work is hard, but I spend every second of every day knowing that I’m making a difference and growing intellectually. I’ve got a bright future and will surely finish my program with a good job. Not many people can say that these days.”

He then agreed to show me his favorite local coffee shop, where he ordered us espressos only to reject them several times due to “the quality of the crema.”

The barista eventually gave up and told us to fuck ourselves. We took a seat in the back of the checker-floored bar, next to a group of bicycle messengers playing bones.

One of the messengers from the group next to us.

As we sat down, one of the dudes among them, a pierced courier wearing a Brooklyn cycling cap, put the finishing touches on a lengthy monologue.

“…and that just begs the question, ‘Is McInnes libertard or not?'”

“Excuse me, sir,” interjected Berkey, “but I believe that you’ve made a mistake. The expression ‘begs the question’ does not in fact designate something that raises questions, but instead refers to an instance of circular reasoning. Be warned.”

The messenger looked over at him and his septum piercing flicked a little spark of a glint in the light. A pug-faced drunken crusty messenger appeared from among the group.

“Why you gotta be a bitch, man? Nobody asked you, faggot. Nobody spoke to you.”

The altercation deeply shocked Berkey, who became horribly insulted. He began to shake and then suddenly walked out of the coffee bar and refused to answer subsequent calls to his cellphone.

I never heard from him again.

RIP, Benjamin Berkey

Update: Several weeks after our encounter, The Boston Globe reported that Berkey had disappeared without a trace. Even more strangely, authorities declined to open an investigation into his disappearance. His family’s attempts to sue the Boston Police Department were bizarrely dismissed in a similar fashion. And in a final twist, my dumbfounded reading of the report to The Chronicle office occasioned a smile in our editor, Kilgore Trout.

“Yeah, the sergeant at Boston PD actually clued me in weeks ago. Benjamin Berkey was administratively arrested as part of a law enforcement operation targeting known gang members and associates.”

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News

Man trades .129034 Bitcoin to become Afghan Warlord

[pullquote]”Who needs friends when you can have Bitcoins?” ~ Danny MacLeod[/pullquote]This is the story of a keen young man by the name of Danny MacLeod who traded his way up in life and is now the most successful warlord in the Helmand Valley of Afghanistan. He started with only an inane argument about the value of gold, and he now owns 100,000 acres of poppy-rich land, a harem of  15 underage girls, a highly trained and loyal militant group, and a small fleet of dependable 4wd Toyota Tacomas equipped with 35mm machine guns.

It all started in December of 2010 when the strapping young Danny MacLeod argued his closest friend out of .129034 Bitcoin. MacLeod recounts, “All I had to do was explain to my friend how all forms of money are in fact worthless unless backed by gold. He gave me this fraction of a Bitcoin on a floppy disk and told me to fuck right off. Who needs friends when you can have Bitcoins?”

Danny MacLeod then traded this floppy disk to his local drug dealer for a single ecstasy pill. The dealer commented, “Oh fuck, I think I remember that. I would’ve given him a whole bag of pills just to shut the fuck up. I fucking hate Danny sometimes. I threw that gay internet money floppy disk away.”

Trina lived the last days of her life in fear of Danny MacLeod

The enterprising young MacLeod then took his single ecstasy pill downtown and traded it to a desperate crack-whore, Trina, famous for entirely toothless blowjobs. However, MacLeod was intelligent enough not to squander this valuable blowjob. Instead, MacLeod hung it over her head and treated Trina as if she owed him her life. Knowing his way around the business, MacLeod contacted Trina’s pimp to start some shit. “I told that sonofabitch his whore had taken my pill and never gave me a blowjob. I told him I’d kill him if he didn’t set this straight, and I told him he should know Danny MacLeod doesn’t fuck around.” The pimp apologized profusely and traded MacLeod ownership of the deadbeat hooker in return for peace. MacLeod had worked his way up to ownership of a toothless crack-whore named Trina.

Trina provided MacLeod with as much as fifty bucks a day, providing he remembered to threaten her life. In the course of a month, MacLeod made nearly a grand from Trina. Sadly, MacLeod overworked Trina, and she died from her tragic crack addiction. This was MacLeod’s first setback in his rise to glory. Always a cunning businessman, MacLeod sold the body to a necrophilia ring and doubled up his money. MacLeod now had two grand, and he invested it all in bitcoins. By April, the price of bitcoins quadrupled, and MacLeod figured it was a good time to liquify his holdings.

Using his blotter acid creatively, MacLeod created a cult of personality.

MacLeod spent every last bitcoin on 100 sheets of LSD blotter. Using contacts he’d made in the child trafficking world, Danny traded 96 and a half sheets of acid for 15 sexy young female slaves. With the remaining acid, MacLeod convinced a few friends of his who worked for Blackwater to take him to Afghanistan and begin a Fourth Reich in the Helmand Valley and trigger Helter Skelter. By carefully dosing out the final sheets, MacLeod kept his team of assassins and killers just deluded enough to serve him, and only fucked up enough to hone their hateful bloodlust with a hyper-sensitive edge.

Danny has grown comfortable in his new digs and enjoys owning the majority of the world’s opium-producing Real Estate. The local farmers fear him, as do competing warlords. And to think, anyone can rise to such glorious heights just by starting with an inane argument about the value of gold. Danny MacLeod’s ingenuity should serve as an example to us all, representing perfectly the benefits of free market capitalism and the ideals that underpin America’s success.

Danny MacLeod and his team of Blackwater acidheads pose for the cameras.

 

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Hate

Chronicle.SU writer paranoid, unhinged, and insane

Here’s a few things I’ve learned from making up jokes about the internet. Nick MacCombs, my good friend, is the spy amongst our midst. Once, he asked me to do a hit piece on his site. I did it, at his request! Those bastards pirates got TotallyFalse.info, but they forgot the famed quote by the great leader Topiary, “you cannot arrest an idea.”

All the while, Andrew Breitbart’s retweeting my dick off because he loves the hate. Shit, he even mentioned me. Ian Murphy is a bitch and so is th3j35t3r. At least th3j35t3r doesn’t feed trolls. Adrian Chen makes up his stories just like I do, and I’m a paranoid schizophrenic for thinking this is all funny. Barrett Brown runs the internet.

I’m so paranoid I quit my job! You know that’s all it took for me to to withdraw from society – a little bit of internet paranoia. Of course, I love to spend all day on the internet because I’ve crossed the line into another reality and there’s no coming back. I am a cyborg. A paranoid cyborg. I’m so paranoid from the internet and I use it non-stop.

You see, the paranoid schtick is something I don’t really apply to the internet. I’m just holding a mirror to the internet at large, you are the ones who are paranoid. I’m not paranoid! You’re paranoid!

No, I’ve never thought the internet’s been out to get me. The internet is my friend, and would never conspire against me. Sometimes I get on AnonOps IRC just to look at all the paranoia. The joke is always “u a fed?” “LOL YES.” But this is the joke of a paranoid. These people are paranoid. D0x are flying! Ryan Cleary’s snitchin’.

Paranoid, paranoid?

Yeh you paranoid?

This conspiracy goes to the highest level of Lebal Drocer.