MURCA: The Land of the Free (SDNW4)

[Shroom Man 777]

Another product of the deranged SDNW4 STGOD, reposted here at Shep's urging. Written with PeZook and Shinn Langley Soryuu.





Previously on SDNW4...

A great many worlds were settled during the Diaspora. Slow generational ships scattered across the Cosmos from the twin cradles of humanity, carrying people from all walks of life. Many of these craft were lost in the depths of space and never found ; Others founded the great star nations of the galaxy.

Many others landed, for various reasons, on planets barely suitable for life ; Lost their equipment or parts of the crew, or just plain collapsed after a few years. There were many, many such worlds where tiny human communities eked out a miserable living. World uncharted, never rediscovered, or only known to pirates and slavers. Yet more places were dead, with only ghost towns indicating humans ever set foot there, abducted by slavers or wiped out by disease.

The UNS Almera avoided that fate, and managed to establish a colony, its crew naming their new world for their ship. With hope for the future, they set out to explore and colonize the arid world, fearing no hardship.

Records are unclear what happened next ; What was known is that eventually, after a period of great development and a population explosion, the colony failed - at some point, its organized government was overthrown in a violent coup, replaced by a brutal dictatorship. Since that time, the situation deteriorated through centuries, and Almera never registered on the galactic stage, having lost all of its advanced space-age technology.

Yet people survived ; Slowly descending into barbarity and dwindling in numbers due to famine and disease, its huge cities torn down and converted into shanty towns sustaining themselves with sustenance farming, its legacy all but forgotten. Only a few of Almera's inhabitants looked at the stars anymore, too concerned with everyday hardship to care.

[For added reference, here are the rest of PeZook's excellent story set in Almera: Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 ]



Wild Space Sector BB-25
Planet Almera
Algeira

After the end of the Cold War and the disintegration of its rivals, Algeira found itself as the sole superpower state of planet Almera. At first, the nation soared at the dizzying heights of its euphoric victory, standing tall over the wreckage of its fallen enemy Zenobia, the evil empire. It had been a time of optimisms, and despite the warnings of the older generation, those who had experienced the hard times of the Cold War and the fear and uncertainty of that era, the youth of the nation elected an inexperienced leader who claimed to be the one to lead Algeira to a better future. He promised them change they could believe in, he promised to carry them to a brave new world.

They elected President Bari'bama.

Or Barry, as they called him on the hill.



"BALLS!" chanted the protesters as they stormed the streets of that same hill, the capitol hill of Algeira's greatest city, Washingtoff. In the end, the older generation had been absolutely right, and the youth of the nation were dead wrong. President Bari'bama had betrayed the sovereign citizens of Algeira, the social reforms he had attempted to institute to help the common man were deemed unconstitutional and the people made their stand against him. At first they were content to bringing Armalytes to town hall meetings where Bari'bama spoke at, but Barry hadn't gotten the message then, no siree. It was only after a Murcan patriot had tried to rid the nation of a Congresswoman, while successfully taking care of those activist judges, that the nation and the sovereign citizens had been galvanized to take true action - stirred into revolutionary frevor by the likes of true-blooded Algeiran-Murcans like Sarah Plain and Blenn Geck.

The protests on Washingtoff turned violent as the sovereign citizens turned from protesters into rioters. They threw molotov cocktails into abortion clinics. They raided universities and seized the professors, those who had spoon-fed the foolish youth of the nation with their liberal tripe, and they took these liberals and hurled them into bonfires where they screamed and burned to death, their charred forms silhouetted in the flame's red glare, flailing in a firelit dance of death - the tango de la muerte. Those who had brought the Armalytes to the town hall meetings now finally had the chance to use them, and so they did, gunning down the liberals who had sought to take their guns away from them.

President Bari'bama had made the sin of trying to help the common man by stealing the hard-earned wealth of the people. And now they were going to bill him for it.

It all came to an end when it was revealed that Bari'bama wasn't even a true Algeiran. He was a secret Pelanian. This, and his unconstitutional attempts at amendment solution, were enough grounds for an impeachment.

President Bari'bama was deposed. They no longer called him Barry, because he was no longer on the hill.

Bari'bama dared to steal their money unconstitutionally to help the common man. Such blasphemy against the writ of the Father-Founder was rife with the very same political ideology of Zenobia, their fallen Cold War enemies. Now the sovereign citizens would show them all what they thought about people who would steal their money to help the "common man". They found these welfare queens, dragged them out into the streets and shaved their heads bald and painted them pink for the pinko scum they were. They were driven out from the cities. They, and their fellow undesirables, were forced to flee to the rurals. But even there they couldn't hide, as the sovereign citizens found them and hanged them to dry. Such was the fate that befell them and their ilk. Illegal immigrants. Homobortionists. Intellectuals. The scum of Almera.

In the aftermath of this and Bari'bama's deposition, the Algeirans renamed their nation after their godly Father-Founder's one true prophet, the one who wrote their sacred constitution. Thus Algeira came to be known as Murca.

In the bloodstained streets, the victorious sovereign citizens were cleaning up their sullied nation. They lined up the doctors and nurses who had worked in hospitals and abortion clinics funded by money Bari'bamacare stole from the tax payers.



A Shroomedian took his grenade launcher and began executing them one by one.

"But the country's disintegrating. What's happened to Algeira? What's happened to the Algeiramerican dream?!" cried one of the nurses.

The Shroomedian pointed his grenade launcher at her.

"It came true. You're lookin' at it."

He fired.



This was the true death panel.

[Shroom Man 777]

This part written together with PeZook





Wild Space Sector BB-25
Planet Almera
Washingtoff, Algeira

Triumphant! Triumphant at last!

The people, sovereign and free, dragging their oppressors out of their hovels.

Down with the corrupt government! Down with the parasites and thieves taking your hard earned money under threat of force!

A professor, being viciously beaten in front a burning university. Students, lined up and shot for the liberal lies they spread on tubenetwebs. The universities, burning to light the new era.



No longer shall we tolerate the homobortionists and pinkoid communisians amongst our midst! No longer will the common man be robbed to help the lazy, the stupid and the unenterprising!

The bureaucrats, the enablers and the stockholm-syndromed slaves, their heads shaved, chased through the streets.

This is an hour of reckoning! On this day we take what is rightfully ours and cast off the shackles of the corrupt, oppressive, socialist government! Today we return to the visions of our godly founding father, the saint of freedom! Today, we rename our country and return to its roots. We are no longer Algeirans! Algeira is dead along with its thieving Big Government!

THIS. IS. MURCA!



Cried the bearded citizen. He was now Sovereign. He was now free!

He chopped off another arm of a liberal writer with his machete.

***

The people cheered the defeat of their hated oppressors, that band of pigs only concerned with stuffing their own faces at the taxpayer’s expense. The Sovereign Citizens now reigned supreme, and every facet of the old, evil, socialist regime was cast down. They began with the obvious: the government offices, the hated tax collectors who spent their days twirling their moustache and coming up with new ways to fleece the people ; The equally evil mass transit ; And, obviously, the disgusting slime of homeless shelters and soup kitchens.

They all burned, for the citizens were now sovereign and the free market would provide! They’d rationally decide on the best provider of services with the best value and through competition would receive excellent service for a low, low price.

And nobody would even think about strongarming himself around, because then he’d get voted out of the market - just as Saint Murcan delineated in the constitution. The true way. The only way.

The new government would not be Big. In fact, it would be quite Small, and thanks to responsible fiscal policy it would be able to finance a grand and proud army to defend the only free nation on Almera - by killing anyone who disagreed! Even when cutting taxes to near zero, it could create a better Army than any of its evil, socialist (it was a dirty word, hence why it was spoken in italics for extra disdain) predecessors could.

Truly it was the best way to govern, for what measured a country’s worth better than the ability to kill and maim? Surely not welfare (another dirty, dirty word) of its citizens, for welfare was something you had to work for by yourself!

No, it was in deathcare. The Murcans crushed their enemies, saw them driven before them, and heard the lamentations of their women.



Several months later
Washingtoff, Murca
The Hill



So much freedom in the world now!, thought the Almost Sovereignest of the Sovereign Citizens, Thick Chinny, as he watched the ruined - no, not ruined, cleansed! - city from the window of his office. Well, not his office, as it belonged to Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya, but despite the fact his superior was elected in a truly fair and free election (guided and tightly controlled by the Sovereign Citizens so that undesirables and libruls couldn’t sully the democratic process, of course), Thick Chinny was certain he could do a better job. That office should be his.

Doesn’t matter right now., he chastised himself, rubbing his third chin, In due time the free market will reward me for my skills and aptitude.

In the months since the righteous revolution and running of the libruls, Murca had transformed. It was now a paradise unlike any other on this godforsaken planet, where men were entitled to the sweat of their brow and nobody told anyone what to think or who to give their money to - and it was a grand first step. But it was not enough, for the Revolution could only survive if the threat of socialism was eradicated from the planet forever. And for that to start, Murca would have to apprehend the biggest, foulest socialist of them all, that thief and liar Bari’Bama.

The door to the magnificent office opened, and in walked Gorge VW. Shrubya, the Sovereignest Citizen, flanked by military officers.

“Gentlemen, welcome”, Chinny said, as if the office was his already, “Please get settled down. Can I get you something to drink?”



Seeing Shrubya’s sullen expression, like that of a beaten puppy, Chinny quickly corrected himself, “With the Sovereignest’s permission, of course, sir.”

That seemed to cheer up poor Shrubya, and the briefing could commence unhindered.

“We have prepared the information you requested.”, the highest ranking officer with a lot of random badges on his chest spoke up first, “Our DOOMBROOM satellites and PRYER intercepts have located the HIV target in Pelania. COLON already had ASS TURDS on the ground and are looking to PIN his exact location.”

Shrubya seemed confused, but wasted no time admitying to it, which was surely a mark of a great leader, “I do not understand anything you just said, but I’m sure my most trusted friend and honest associate Thick Chinny here can translate.”

Fighting the unbearable smugness, Chinny helpfully reduced the complicated technical brief to a few simple words Shrubya could understand, “They know where Barry is, just not precisely.”

“Holy mother cow!”, Shrubya went all excited, “Can we bomb him?”

“Well, no, sir, we are still attempting to, ah...”, the officer fought down the urge to blurt more acronyms, “...find the precise target to bomb.”

“But wait,”, Shrubya frowned again, engaging his mental faculties into overdrive, “You said you knew where he was.”

“We know the country, not the exact place”

“Good enough! We can bomb a country! Go ahead and bomb it now!”

Thick Chinny sighed. Just why the rational actors making objectively optimal decisions could have elected this man was beyond him. But the free market worked in mysterious ways, “Sir, let us at least learn which country it is.”

“Oh, right. That would be cool. Which country is it?”

“Pelania, sir.”

“Oooh! Pelania! Excellent! Now go and bomb it!”

“The Sovereignest is trying to say...”, Thick Chinny intervened again, “That Pelania is harboring an enemy of Murca, and thus must be freedomized to liberate them from socialist tyranny of that fiend Bari’Bama.”

Shrubya nodded, “Well said, Chinny, well said.”

“We’ll draft an order for the military, sir.”, the officer nodded. He longed to test his new toys, finally rid of the controls of those flaccid, limp-dicked civilians of the Bari’Bama administration. The general doing the brief had long since forgotten how it was in the good old days, the days of old Algeira who didn’t hesistate to maim people who annoyed her.

Truly, those were great times indeed. First they’d bomb Pelania... and then... the world!



Oho, Murca
Kunt State University

These were the last liberals on Algeira. The sovereign citizens of Murca had thought they had gotten them all, but it turned out there were pockets of leftist resistances scattered in some of the intact universities. Of course, they had fully expected deceit from these demonrats, for they weren’t called lieberals for no reason. They even lied about being exterminated! They were unpatriotic even in death, even refusing to repent for their sins to the last moment!



The lieberal collapsed to the ground, and a pool of blood formed as he bled from the gunshot wounds on his gut. A woman bent down and screamed in horror at the sight of his prone form, while another bystander stood by and looked on in shock. A big mistake, for the next staccato burst of gunfire cut him down where he stood, while the bullets merely whizzed over the kneeling woman’s head.

Private Freedom-Class Chet Fisto aimed at the woman with his Armalyte.

Goddamn woman, dressed so immodestly too! he thought as he squeezed the trigger. Die, you filthy liberal whore!

He fired, but a hand pushed his Armalyte off the mark at the last moment. The first rounds merely ripped the woman’s arm off her shoulder, while the rest missed the rest of her and flew into the crowd of other protesters - who promptly began to scream.

“Wait!” cried his superior officer. “You’re not authorized to open fire! Get your damned ROE right!”

“Then how am I supposed to kill these librul sumbitches anyhow?” Fisto shouted back. Screw ROE vs. Wade, he wanted to bust some caps!

“Use your bayonets, stupid!” his CO admonished.

Oh! That was so obvious! Fisto smacked his forehead, but only hurt his hand against his helmet. “Ow!”

He fixed his bayonet, along with the rest of his guardsmen. He went ahead and stabbed the disarmed woman in the face, the bayonet blade carving through her nose bridge and digging deep into the rest of her skull. There was a spurt of blood, her eyes rolled backwards and her arms jerked a little bit. She made a gurgling sound as her last breath went out of both her mouth and her excavated nasal cavity, and then she went limp - just like the rest of these liberal arts majors.

He placed his foot on the woman’s throat and pulled his buried bayonet off her face. He turned back to the rest of his squad, who had just fixed bayonets on their rifles and were eager to follow in his league.

“Follow me, men!” PFC Chet Fisto shouted. Together they stormed the crowds of liberal protesters and unionist communoids. Their army green fatigues were stained with blood, turning into a reddish camouflage pattern like one would use if Murca was invading hell. “Hut-hut-hut-hut-hut!”

The unpatriotic demonrats fled like the rodents they were. They trampled over each other, trying to get away from the bloody bayonet blades that came for them, that mercilessly stabbed into them, making their breasts bleed blood from the milkbags. Many fell on the ground, trampled underfoot, and were easily stabbed by the Murcanational Guardsmen. Chet Fisto himself preferred to do things thoroughly, so he stabbed a liberal repeatedly until it stopped moving. Others, whose ranks were lower than that of his Private Freedom-Class stature, preferred to stab just once or twice, before leaving the libruls to bleed to death on the pavement. Sloppy work. The noncoms who joined in showed their professionalism, working in teams, stabbing individual demonrats repeatedly, working together to rip and tear, sticking bayonets into abdomens so the coiling intestines would spill out.

Chet Fisto wouldn’t let them one up him. No way. He smacked one librul in the head with his riflebutt, cracking it against her skull. She collapsed and he raised his bayonet high into the air, reading to thrust it into her. Her eyes opened wide in fear. Chet sound it very satisfying, he savored the moment. He brought his bayonet down to kill her and -

“Wait!” a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“What?!” Chet Fisto cried out in frustration. “Ah, crap. I mean... what, sir?”

“We’re getting new orders. Urgent ones, right from the top. We’re leaving Kunt State and mobilizing. They’re sending us out,” his CO with BO said. “Leave these hippies and head back to the Doomvees, trooper. That’s an order from the Shrub himself.”

“Right,” Chet composed himself and turned back to look at the librul he was about to stick with his bayonet. She was crawling away now as blood leaked from her nostrils and ears. Instead of crawling on the ground, she was crawling on the bodies of all the other student protesters. She screamed as some of the half-dead and mostly-dying liberals reached out to her for dear life, clawing at her clothes, her limbs, her hair. “And what about them, sir?”

“Don’t worry. We’ve got something special, just to finish them off,” the CO grinned. Some of the other troopers, NCOs, started throwing grenades into the heaps of dead and dying liberals. But instead of exploding violently, the grenades began to emit white smoke. The clear powdery snowflakes were carried by the wind and landed on the crippled and immobilized survivors, who began to scream as the stuff burned whatever and wherever they touched. There was fire, they could hear sizzling as flesh was chemically broiled. Men, women and children screamed as their faces caught fire, as their clothes lit up in flames. Some tried to get up and run, but they only fell as their flesh and muscles were burned away to the bone. They crumbled into ash. “I love the smell of white phosphorus in the morning. Smells like... smells like freedom.”



The Next Day
Oho, Murca
123 Fatlas Smuggedsville Trailer Park



Joey Jojo was watching the news and enjoying the TV after a hard day’s work cleaning up Mrs. McGee’s septic tank. He wasn’t a septic tank cleaner, he was a plumber, but sometimes he just had to do it the hard way to earn something extra. Unlike some other folks, who were dead by now, he didn’t have a college degree. He knew those were no good, and so he dropped out after high school and married his wife, the prom queen, who he’d gotten pregnant. Some laughed at him for never graduating, but he knew one day he’d show them. That day came when they were all rounded up along with the professors and teachers and doctors and other intellectuals, and shot, over there in Kunt State. That day was yesterday, and Joey Jojo proudly held on his trophy as star quarterback as he watched the news. He had been proven right.

He was a man who stuck to his convictions. He always knew Bari’bama was trouble, he never liked Barry’s kind. That was why he had joined the sovereign citizen movement and shaved his head to its skin. It had been hard when the revolution came, his wife actually dared to disagree with him, but he set her right with his own hands - right in front of the children too, to show them what was what and shut them up. That day on, none of them dared give him any lip. He was the man in this house, the only man, no matter what those goddamn homobortionists wanted. He showed them, just like how he showed all his old classmates. It wasn’t easy being a father of five kids. They’d get what he gave and like it, or else.

“Leftists are the most violent prone segment of the Murcan population. That's why I hold that Democrats, Liberals and other criminals should be rounded up and in many cases hanged so they won't get lots of innocent people killed and brutalized.”

Blenn Geck was saying in the TV, commenting on yesterday’s events. Jojo got off his seat and hooted whenever he saw the faces of his old classmates in the report on the Kunt State Freedomization, they even used the high school graduation photos too! He remembered how his then-girlfriend, and now-wife, bought the high school year book and showed him the graduation pics, and how angry he’d gotten. How he’d hit her with the fucking year book...

Suddenly, Blenn Geck disappeared from the screen and was replaced by something else. Jojo felt angry again, Blenn Geck was his favoritest fair and balanced journo. But wait, what was this?

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM TO BRING YOU URGENT NEWS

[Shroom Man 777]

This part by Shinn Langley Soryu



The Revolution Will Not Be Civilized
Washingtoff, Murca
Planet Almera, Wild Space Sector BB-25

[Recommended music: "The Coup" by Stephen Barton (from Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare)]

The students and teachers at Kunt State were not the last liberals left in Murca. Despite the best efforts of the "sovereign citizens," there were still quite a few liberals and liberal sympathizers hiding in Washingtoff and other locations all throughout Murca, all attempting to stay one step ahead of the reactionary horde that slavered for their blood. With the general mobilization of the Murcan armed forces and the start of the war against Pelania, militias and other roving bands of armed thugs took up much of the task of hunting down and and killing the last of the liberals, with mixed success; though they ended up killing regular civilians most of the time, there were still occasions when they managed to uncover closet liberals.

One such closet liberal, a former Algeiran legislator, had slipped up particularly badly and wound up getting caught by a sovereign citizen militia group. He, along with several other liberals who had similarly been uncovered and a group of other former Algeiran government officials, were to be publically executed. After undergoing the customary "enhanced interrogation" and show trial, he was beaten one last time before being dragged out to a waiting car that would take him to the execution grounds. As two militiamen took him to the car, the legislator could hear the voice of Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya delivering a speech, his voice wavering as it was broadcast through the ruined streets of Washingtoff via speakers mounted on the buildings and driven around on trucks...

"Today we rise again as one nation, in the face of betrayal and corruption!"

Thick Chinny must have written that speech for him, the legislator thought to himself right as he was shoved into the back seat of the car and clubbed in the head with the butt of a rifle. As he tried to sit back up, one of the militiamen slammed the door shut and banged loudly on the roof, signaling the driver to start moving. Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya's speech continued on as the car started up and went on its way to the execution grounds...

"We all trusted Bari'bama to deliver our great nation into a new era of prosperity! But like the other presidents before him, he has been colluding with outsiders, with only self-interest at heart! Collusion breeds slavery, and we will not be enslaved!"

Even months after the coup that had deposed President Bari'bama, it was clear that true order still had not returned to Washingtoff. Without the army to rein them in, the militias had largely degenerated into little more than roving mobs prone to robbing and outright murdering anybody they saw; such was the case as the car wound through the ruined streets, constantly passing by large numbers of militiamen engaging in random acts of violence against the civilian populace. In their eyes, everyone was a liberal until proven otherwise, and the only way to determine their guilt was trial by ordeal; anybody who tried to resist the militias was was thus deemed a liberal and thus subject to summary execution. Such was the twisted logic of the sovereign citizens.

The carnage continued all throughout as the car continued on its long and winding journey through Washingtoff's streets. Among numerous shining examples of the utter psychopathy of the sovereign citizen militias, a militiaman pinned a random civilian to the ground and proceeded to gut him with a combat knife. Several militia squads attacked shoppers attempting to make their way out of one of the few functioning grocery stores in the entire city. A civilian simply taking out his trash was shot in the back by a militiaman who thought he was a liberal. Several civilians briefly succeeded in fighting back by disarming and killing a militia squad, only to be killed themselves by another militia squad passing through.

After a few minutes of driving through the worst of the violence, the car discreetly eased into a relatively quiet back alley lined with dumpsters as it continued on its way to the execution grounds. The driver caught a brief glance at a civilian spray-painting a portrait of the deposed President Bari'bama on a wall; the would-be graffiti artist ran off as soon as he was spotted. A man hiding in one of the dumpsters briefly lifted up the lid to peek outside, only to quickly duck back down and shut the lid when he spotted the car approaching. Another civilian ran into the alley, chased by a pack of dogs set upon him by a militia squad; he barely managed to escape by climbing over a chain link fence and disappearing into one of the buildings.

"The time has come to show our true strength. They underestimate our resolve. Let us show that we do not fear them. As one people, we shall free our bretheren from the yoke of oppression, both foreign and domestic!"

The car emerged out from the alley onto a road running alongside a large river. Recent rains had caused the normally calm waterway to turn into a massive torrent; large waves were actually crashing onto the siderails as the car made its way down the road, passing by a group of marching militiamen on the right and another group of militiamen carrying out an impromptu public execution of their own on the left.

"Our armies are strong and our cause is just. As I speak, our armies are nearing their objective, by which we will restore the independence of a once great nation."

After another minute of uneventful driving, the car finally approached the execution grounds, a former sports stadium that had been hastily repurposed for its grim and bloody task. A large number of militiamen were gathered at the entrance, most of whom were drunkenly firing their rifles into the air as part of the twisted "festivities." Once the car stopped, one of the militiamen came up and opened the back door.

"Our noble crusade has begun."

The militia commander walked up to the car, grabbed the legislator by the collar of his bloodied shirt, and threw him to the ground. With a single motion, he kicked the legislator in the face, knocking him out. He finally came to as he was being dragged out onto the field to meet his fate along with the other liberals and politicians. After being sized up by his would-be executioners, he was led to his place on the line, where he would die standing up, defiant to the last.

"Just as they lay waste to our country, we shall lay waste to theirs. This is where it begins."

Amidst the final words of Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya's speech and the raucous, drunken cheers of the militiamen and other sovereign citizens gathered at the stadium, the legislator finally chose to speak up. As loudly as he could, he declared, "Come on, you bastards! Come and get me! Shoot straight for once, you militia pukes!"

He and the others were soon silenced by a hail of automatic gunfire. His final declaration would go unheard by those watching the television broadcast of the execution, complete with running commentary by Blenn Geck.

---

Outside the town of Hashpipe
Kolrado, Murca

While the sovereign citizens more or less had full control over the urban regions of Murca (the rampant anarchy that still dominated the streets of Washingtoff notwithstanding), the rural areas were far more hotly contested between the sovereign citizens and those still loyal to President Bari'bama. In the past, it had been the fascists who lurked in the wilds, waiting for their chance to strike against the Algeiran government; now that the fascists had taken power, it was the liberals' turn to form their own militias, disappear into the countryside, and wage their own war of liberation, much like the partisans of old. This was true partisan warfare, in more ways than one.

Along a deserted stretch of roadway outside of the small town of Hashpipe, a particularly well-equipped and well-organized sovereign citizen militia group was getting ready to execute a group of random civilians. In addition to the technicals and other refitted civilian vehicles common to irregular forces, this particular militia group had managed to obtain an armored car and a wheeled APC, both former Zenobian vehicles that had been given to Algeira as reparations at the end of their Cold War, placed in reserve storage, and later given out as surplus by the Murcan armed forces to whoever was willing to pay for them. As the armored car stood watch alongside the road, the APC disgorged the would-be execution squad; once they were dismounted, they walked over to the truck carrying their prisoners and herded them into a line before taking up their own positions.

The civilians would earn a reprieve, however, as the sovereign citizens soon came under attack. Just as the execution squad had brought up their rifles to fire at the civilians, they themselves were cut down by automatic gunfire from atop the cliffs overlooking the road. The civilians scattered to relative safety as some of the few surviving sovereign citizens attempted to return fire, only to be cut down from above like the rest of their comrades.



Several of the fascist militiamen attempted to take cover in their vehicles, but their respite proved to be all too brief. Two of the guerrillas on the cliff dropped grenades right through the open hatches of the sovereign citizens' APC, destroying it from the inside and killing its occupants. Another guerrilla took aim with a wire-guided rocket launcher and opened fire at the armored car, blowing it to pieces.

With the civilians safe and the sovereign citizen militia dead, one of the guerrillas took the opportunity to stand up from his position, raise his rifle above his head, and yell out a single word.



"TOOLVERINES!"

[That NOS Guy]

AMERICA

(keep up the fine work)

[PeZook]

Co-written with Shroomie!

Previously on SDNW4...

“Right,” Chet composed himself and turned back to look at the librul he was about to stick with his bayonet. She was crawling away now as blood leaked from her nostrils and ears. Instead of crawling on the ground, she was crawling on the bodies of all the other student protesters. She screamed as some of the half-dead and mostly-dying liberals reached out to her for dear life, clawing at her clothes, her limbs, her hair. “And what about them, sir?”

“Don’t worry. We’ve got something special, just to finish them off,” the CO grinned. Some of the other troopers, NCOs, started throwing grenades into the heaps of dead and dying liberals. But instead of exploding violently, the grenades began to emit white smoke. The clear powdery snowflakes were carried by the wind and landed on the crippled and immobilized survivors, who began to scream as the stuff burned whatever and wherever they touched. There was fire, they could hear sizzling as flesh was chemically broiled. Men, women and children screamed as their faces caught fire, as their clothes lit up in flames. Some tried to get up and run, but they only fell as their flesh and muscles were burned away to the bone. They crumbled into ash. “I love the smell of white phosphorus in the morning. Smells like... smells like freedom.”

Almera Colony
Corinth, Pelania

“TASTE FREEDOM, BITCHES!”, Private Freedom Class Chet Fisto yelled at the top of his lungs. It was the only way it was possible to hear anything, since a squadron of helicopter gunships just flew overhead and began freedomizing a block of quite possibly threatening structures on the other side of the river.

“Fisto! Get your section moving and suppress that machine gun!”, his sergeant yelled over the sound of gunfire - gunfire directed at the National Guardsmen, as the people of Corinth opposed the freedomization of their country. Stupid sand diggers didn’t know what was best for them, was Chet Fisto’s expert opinion.

He yelled to his men and began to flank the machine gun. He considered calling for support, but the gunships had to thoroughly freedomize a temple first. They did it without lube, which made PFC Fisto feel all tingly below the belt.

Must be my gear rubbing on something, he thought, feeling pressure build in his pants. He’d have to talk to the quartermaster about that...

One of his men was hit and fell over, gushing blood. A cry of “MEDIC” barely got through the omnipresent gunfire.

“Cunther, Blanco, help him!”, it wouldn’t do to have one of his men defreedomized by those socialist bastards, those subhuman sand digger scumbags, after all, “Gordozales, lay down some smoke so that I can close in on these fucking fucks!”

“HOOAH!”, his subordinates yelled. PFC Fisto himself yelled as well and began to fire his Armalyte.



“We come in peace, MOTHERFUCKERS! DIE DIE DIE!!!”

The machine gun nest died very well and nicely, opening C Company’s way towards the main bridge that led straight into the heart of the carpet badger capital city. A rickety collection of shanties, hovels and crooked buildings hugged the river, with more solid buildings standing further back. They looked sad and freedomless: Fisto knew that, because the COLON officer in charge of Pelania’s freedomization explained how freedom made everything look nice, while lack of freedom resulted in ugliness. That made PFC Fisto suspicious of some of his comrades in arms, because damn if some of them weren’t ugly!

Still, he felt proud that his company would be first to deliver freedom into Corinth! And if anyone disagreed, they’d get bayonetted, because anyone who stood in the way of freedom was clearly a terrorist carpetbadger.

“Hit the deck!”, someone screamed, breaking his deep and thoughtful introspection. Another machine gun nest began laying fire down the length of the bridge, turning it into a murderous killzone.

“Fuck this shit!”, Fisto’s sergeant yelled, “Get me the COCK!”

Fisto himself squeezed behind a steel support beam and listened to bullets ricocheting around him. Those fucking bastards were so damn resistant to positive change!

“Walleye, walleye”, the sergeant yelled into his headpiece, “I need ding dong at grid IDIOT Gamma Charlie Eight Niner boomer shake and bake nape snape big snake!”

“HOOAH!”, the headpiece answered. Fisto pumped his fist, knowing what the incomprehensible message meant: they’d bring the fucking hammer of FREEDOM on that fucking shanty town.

“Sarge, come on, the place is loaded with civilians!”, some weak kneed sissy objected, “A REAMMS strike sounds kinda excessive!”

“Shut the fuck up you weak kneed sissy!”, the sergeant yelled back, “What are you a lieberal, caring about those terrorists more than freedom?!”

“No, it’s just that...”

The sergeant yelled again and shot the man between the yes, “Fucking traitor!”, he spat on the body, “We’re defending democracy here!”

Nobody else could comment, as all sounds were drowned out by the roar of an incoming rocket artillery barrage. The massive barrage descended upon the mass of rickety shacks and barely standing hovels, releasing tens of thousands of submunitions, that saturated the entire area. The resulting explosion was epic, rolling across the landscape, setting fires and mangling anyone hiding there. Screams of the wounded carried far, briefly drowning out the roar of tank engines - for now armored vehicles rolled across the bridge into Corinth, casually crushing any dead bodies that lay on the street, which themselves were obviously a feeble terrorist attempt to block freedom on the march. Fucking carpetbadgers, dying in the way of the Coalition.

PFC Fisto list a cigarette he scavenged off a dead terrorist. He deserved it - freedom was, after all, hard work.



Two days later
Almera Colony
Washingtoff, Murca



Shrubya was sitting in his office, the usual expression of ignorant bliss on his face. Thick Chinny was there, too, in his usual spot in the shadows behind his superior. It was quickly becoming frustrating, babysitting that idiot instead of taking his rightful place as the leader of the freeest and most glourious nation this godforsaken world has even seen.

“Our forces have secured Corinth and are now freedomizing the countryside”, the general giving his briefing to Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya seemed almost childishly gleeful, “So far our casualties have been neglible.”

Shrubya was getting bored. National security stuff and daily briefings were so incredibly dull, “So tell me, general... are the people of Pelania free now?”

“Oh yes”, the general nodded vigorously, “They have been thoroughly freedomized. As many as two million civilians are now totally free, with another million well on the way.”

“Excellent! So we are winning the War Of Oppression!”

“On oppression”, Thick Chinny interrupted, seeing the strange expressions of the gathered officers. Shruby shot him a confused look, “What?”

“It’s War On Oppression. We’re not oppressing people, we’re fighting their socialist oppressors.”

“There’s a difference?”, Shrubya asked, and it was obvious he didn’t mean the question to be ironic at all. It elicited a sigh from Chinny.

“Yes. It’s important to get it right, sir, or the Zenobians are going to get fodder for their propaganda.”

“War On Opression then! Are we winning it?”

“Yes, sir. We’re most definitely winning that war.”, the general concluded.

And the army is getting so many awesome toys to do that, the General thought, Wars on abstract concepts are great. We should’ve thought about that one earlier.

He moved on to the next item on the agenda, “We will require a budget increase of about fifty billion marks per year to maintain the occupation of Pelania.”

“Can we do it?”, Shrubya’s brows furrowed, “We are running a small government here!”

Chinny concealed his shock at the sudden outburst of deep thought, but saved the day quickly, “Of course we can, sir. We’ve elliminated all the wasteful spending and pork that the Bari’Bama administration introduced. We can now lower taxes and spend more on the military than any other previous government.”

“Oh, okay, I guess. Where do I sign?”

The general gleefully extracted a prepared budget request. The Sovereign Citizens have dissolved the Parliament, as it was a wasteful socialist invention, and now the Sovereignest Citizen made all the budget decisions. It was a lean and mean organization that saved money and made people free.

After Chinny’s approval, Shrubya signed the document, and the general quickly snatched and hid it away in his briefcase, just in case somebody would change their mind.

“That is all for today, gentlemen”, Thick Chinny announced and motioned towards the door, “The Sovereignest thanks you all for coming. Tah.”

As the gathered officers began filing out of the office, Chinny let his thoughts wander for a while. He could already see it: Almera, a world truly free of government intervention. Where men were entitled to the sweat of their brow, where the free market justly rewarded the rich and punished the poor for their laziness and lousy work ethic. Where only the deserving got health care, and the entrepreneurs was the true hero. All thanks to Murca, the greatest nation in the world, about to become even greater.

He snapped back to reality upon realizing that one officer did not leave. The shock of this insolence and breach of protocol almost gave him an aneurysm.



“What is it now?!” Thick Chinny hissed reptilianly as he glared at the officer. He swore, these long and boring meetings would never end. Murca could invade hell itself and he’d probably still be plagued by these insufferable meetings and conferences and debriefings. He knew that those military boys loved to debrief each other, but this was getting ridiculous. He had a wife! Chinny grumbled. He wanted nothing more than to go hunt ducks and shoot at his friend’s face place. “Well?”



The officer cleared his throat and spoke to Chinny without any hint of fear or hesitation whatsoever.

“Mister Almost Sovereignest Citizen,” he began, reminding Thick Chinny of his title, and not minding the fact that Chinny was growling sub-audibly because of that. “I come from a special division of COLON ASS TURDS.”

Thick Chinny stared at him blankly, before realizing that he was referring to the acronyms of the Central Observation Logistics Operations of the Nation Advanced Subterfuge Service Technical Undercover Reconnaissance Detachment Squads. “Oh,” he nodded, and then quickly remembered that he was actually quite pissed off. “And? So? Get to the goddamn point!”

The officer leaned back in his chair, seemingly oblivious to the annoyance he was causing. He leisurely extracted a thick folder from his briefcase and handed it to Chinny. He ignored Shrubya completely - not that the Sovereignest citizen noticed, as he was digging in his ear with a pencil.

Chinny glared at the officer, still hoping he’d catch fire and burn right then and there, but the man just... didn’t care. Hissing inwardly, Chinny opened the folder.

He read for a couple of minutes, and then his jaw dropped.

“Is this a joke? Who the fuck let you in? Why is a joker in my office?”

Shrubya stopped and made his puppy-eyes again.

“Yes, yes, your office, whatever.” Chinny could swear the officer smirked a bit. He couldn’t take it anymore, “Explain yourself right the fuck now!”, he roared.

“Everything is in the folder. But if you can’t comprehend it...”

Chinny hissed again, but the officer continued, “...then I will explain. Last year, an alien landing party wiped out two companies of elite X-COM troops in Pelania...”

“I read about that, dammit! Explain everything else. X-COM? Aliens? What the hell is this bullshit?!”

“Aliens?”, Shrubya’s head perked up from a particularly interesting result of his excavations, “Like those damn Mohicans that take our jobs?”

“Mr. Chinny”, the officer ignored Shrubya again, “I am being completely serious. As I said, I represent a special division of COLON ASS TURDS called X-COM, short for Extraterrestial Combat Unit. I don’t care about your politics or ideology, only the security of this planet. You would do well to listen to me.”

There was silence, as even Shrubya managed to notice the sudden change of the officer’s tone. Chinny huffed and puffed and turned red at the insolence, to the point where the folder in his hands started to shake.

How dare he speak to me like that! I am the Sovereignest Citizen! Or will be when the free market finally rewards my efforts!

“You... gentlemen were supposed to be briefed on those matters a while ago, but you were too concerned with your little revolution and ill-advised foreign adventures to care. So here I am, and if your tiny minds can’t comprehend the gravity of the situation, let me spell it out for you again: advanced extraterrestial beings have attacked and destroyed a large and well-armed force of Algeiran soldiers in Pelania. They did so without a single casualty. Furthermore, they have been visiting our planet for some time, penetrating our defences with total impunity, for an unknown purpose. The data on previous encounters is also in the folder. I would strongly advise you to familiarize yourselves with it, as this is the single most important matter you should concern yourselves with.”

“AAAAAAARGH!”, Chinny finally snapped and tore up the folder (despite it being very thick), not being able to take any more criticism of his pet positions. His eyes glowed red, that’s how pissed off he was.



“Now”, the officer said calmly, and extracted another copy of the same folder, “It is absolutely imperative we apprehend Pelania’s dictator general Corello, alive, and interrogate him to learn what the aliens were looking for in Pelania. We will give you a day to familiarize yourselves with the issue, and expect the military to receive proper orders promptly.”

The man stood up, left the second folder on the coffee table, and left like he owned the place.

“What a strange guy. So Chinny tell me what’s the deal with those Mohicans? Why are they so important?”

Chinny growled and left as well. He had to go spit on a reporter to calm his nerves.



Four Days Later
Almera Colony
Oho, Murca

“What the hell is this?!”, Joey Jojo screamed at his youngest son, Bobby Lee Jojo, “Oatmeal? What sort of lieberal hippy crap food is this?!”

“But dad...” Bobby Lee protested. He liked oatmeal.

“No butts! Butts are evil things that lead to masturbation!”, Jojo took the freshly made oatmeal and threw it out the window, out onto a pile of trash between two trailers, which had steadily been growing larger ever since the sovereign citizen movement turned the waste collector and janitor unions into compost. “You will eat manly Murcan beef slabs and you will like them! They will make you big and strong and straight like an arrow, not like those lieberal sissies! Mary Jane, fry him a steak!”

“Come on Joey, he’ll be late for school!”

“GIVE HIM BEEF, WOMAN!” he screamed and threw a piece of meat at her, causing her to quit being uppity and go back to doing her duties. Like his daddy always said, before his tractor pull accident, women were best seen and never heard. Joey Jojo ran a tight ship in his house, cause he might’ve been born in the sea, but he was no dummy. Mary Jane fired up the grill and the sound and smell of sizzling meat wafted into the air. Joey grabed a slab of raw beef and sniffed on it happily. “Awww yeah, that’s the stuff!”

Once the meat was done, Joey personally slapped it on the table. Little Bobby Lee’s eyes went wide with shock, and he looked upon his father pleadingly.



“I want to see it all eaten! You’re six years old, you’re a big boy now, and big boys do not waste food!”

“Daddy! I don’t want to!”

“Oh, what’s that? You’re gonna cry? I’ll give you a reason to cry! EAT!”

Yes, Joey thought, watching his son force himself to eat the patriotic slab of meat, He will grow up to be a fine patriot. If only homobortionists won’t convert him.

Bobby Lee puked about halfway through the steak. With a weary sigh, Joey went to fetch his belt.

Discipline had to be maintained.

After he manned Bobby Lee up and sent him to school, he told his wife and daughter to clean up the mess. Ever since the sovereign citizen movement killed all the public school teachers and their unions, the only thing that was left were the private schools and they could only afford to send Bobby there. Didn’t matter anyway, a good daughter’s place was at home, cleaning and cooking, and Joey wanted his daughter Marlene May to grow up just like her mammy, Mary Jane. He made sure she made her vows, her chastity pledges, and took her to a purity ball while making her wear the most beautiful dress he could afford for his beloved daughter.



He made sure she dressed modestly, not like those tramps who showed their faces outdoors. Those whores.

After he made sure Mary Jane and Marlene May knew their place in the house, Joey Jojo went to prepare himself. He got dressed, brushed his teeth and stuffed his gun and his Bibel in his pants. Bari’bama said that the true Murcans were guilty of clinging to their guns and their Bibels, that was the only thing he got right. Joey Jojo had a big day ahead of him.



Oho, Murca
Saint Murcan Administrative Building
Rally to Restore Sanity

It was a day off: while Joey Jojo did not believe in socialist inventions like holidays, the matter he had to take care of was more important than anything, even his honest labor.

The Sovereign Citizens have organized a rally at the Oho Town Hall. They’d work to restore the sanity of this great country, by chanting passages from the Scriptures and declaring their love for the flag and Mom’s apple pie.

Mmm... apple pie. The only patriotic vegetarian meal!, Joey Jojo thought as he passed another checkpoint on what used to be a public sidewalk. He paid the proper passage fee to enterprising young men who set up the toll booth: he enjoyed seeing the nation’s youth take matters in their own hands, maintaining public spaces in a free and unrestricted business environment, where men’s spirits could triumph over sick collectivism. Or at least that’s what Blenn Geck told his viewers last evening, but Joey Jojo agreed completely. The occasional turf war was a small price to pay for true freedom! Of course the sidewalks were now crooked and full of holes, but Joey was sure it was all Bari’Bama’s fault.

Fortunately, there wouldn’t be a turf war here. The Sovereign Citizens were guarding the rally, armed and dangerous, stocked, locked and cocked. The people also brought their own weapons: unlike the previous regime, men were free to defend themselves here. Opposing viewpoints would have no chance against the force of righteous argumentation.



As he approached the rally, Joey noticed he was late. There already was a man speaking, in front of about a dozen blood-stained lieberals, bound and gagged and propped up for everyone to see.

“And let me tell you: I know several Murcan Marines who would love to show these, these... terrorists to an early meeting in paradise!”, the man wore a nice tailored suit and spoke with conviction. The crowd hooted and hollered and waved little Murcan flags. Parents lifted up their children high so that they could see what was going on.

“Hey, man”, Joey tucked on some man’s shirt, “Can you give me a run down on what I missed? What did those guys do?”

“Oh, they were caught gathering money for orphans.”

“No!”, Joey exclaimed in shock

“Yeah! Man, they were going to just give the cash away. Can you believe that?”

Joey could not. Giving money away bred laziness and disdain for work! Those dirty orphans deserved to live in poverty if they were too goddamned lazy to take care of themselves. He knew from experience that a one year old could do some menial labor at home. They had no excuse, as far as he was concerned.

Joey started yelling, “Kill them! Make them pay! DOWN WITH TERROR!”

The crowd picked it up, chanting their bloodthirsty vow. Destroy the unfree doubleplusbad evildoers! No place for handouts in the land of the free!

The spokesman was handed a pistol by one of the Sovereign Citizens guarding the rally and began to restore sanity of the this great country by shooting the lieberals in the face. He was protecting public property, and so would meet no punishment. In fact, he’d be rewarded when he started a fundraiser later that afternoon, so that he could give ammunition to the military. The military deserved handouts, unlike those stupid lazy poor people.

Joey felt pumped up. He never felt so alive, participating in the restoration of sanity to his beloved nation. He hopped onto the stage and seized the microphone.

“This is Murca, guys! This is how things should be everywhere!”, he started to talk excitedly, his voice breaking down periodically due to his immensely patriotic fervor, “I mean when I get ready to buy a company that makes more than 250 thousand marks a year, why should I pay more tax on it? To support some bullshit welfare state? No! Support the troops! Go army strong! We are fighting for freedom and remember that the tree of liberty needs to be watered with oil and blood of Mohicans! Freedom isn’t free! Yeah! MURCA! FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH! Say it with me!”

“FUCK YEAH!”, the crowd chanted with him, and Joey was proud, so proud of his fellow Murcans that they could take a stand against the forces of terror trying even now to destroy their way of life. Fuck yeah!

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”, someone’s voice managed to penetrate through the chanting. The man sounded like a sissy, and looked like one, what with his reading glasses and nicely pressed shirt. That made him look like an intellectual, and thus suspicious, “What did you mean by ‘support the troops’?”

Joey opened his mouth, but nothing came out of them. Yeah, what did he mean? The rally’s spokesman saved him from disaster by quickly grabbing another microphone.

“Why, it is an interesting question with a self-evident answer! We need to give our brave troops their full support, whatever they do! Remember, Murca is always right! And everything she does is right!”

“FUCK YEAH!”, Joey added his own eloquent comment

“FUCK YEAH!”, the crowd answered

The sissy intelleactual, that festering sore on the body of this great nation, the most violent-prone segment of society, was not dissuaded, “But our troops are fighting and dying over in Pelania. Why not support them by bringing them home, to their families and loved ones?”

The crowd went silent. The spokesman spoke again, slowly and carefully, as if he was explaining a complicated concept to a child, because the man was indeed as naive as a child, “Because they are fighting for our freedom, and like the good gentleman here said, it isn’t free!”

“But wouldn’t you agree...”, the man did not finish, as he was struck by a rock

“TRAITOR!”, someone screamed, “He’s a terrorist sympathiser!”, somebody else added.

“Get ‘im! Get dem terror synthesizers!”

“Second amendment solution!”

Someone grabbed the lieberal sissy and spraypainted a bullseye on him, so that the electorate knew who to vote out in a completely nonviolent way.

With bullets.

[Shroom Man 777]

God yes.

THE HOME OF THE BRAVE!

[Mayabird]

Planet Almera, Wild Space Sector BB-25

Hunting licenses had of course been abolished as evil government control so people would have the freedom to shoot as many animals as they liked. Thus, one of the very last deer on the continent fell to gunfire.

Jimmy walked over to examine the kill, and then breathed in deeply with pride and satisfaction. “This is livin' the way the Good Lord intended, in the open air on a beautiful day like this-”

Lee Roy, his hunting companion, narrowed his beady little eyes. “Beautiful? That's sissy talk!”

Jimmy opened his mouth to say, “What the hell are you talking about?” but Lee Roy had already shot the hippy liberalhomobortionist sympathizer dead.

They'd purged the land of the evil liberals, but then the Sovereign Citizens learned the dark secret that there were many secret liberals hiding amongst their very ranks! People they'd think were proper and upstanding citizens like themselves would have dark hobbies, like debasing their manliness by cooking! (“Barbequing is perfectly fine!” they'd say before they were shot at their grills). Some of them had ridden the bus instead of driving their own trucks, or read books instead of watching sports. Maybe they cuddled with their wives or drank high-class snooty liberal wines instead of cheap beer! Some of them were even hiding parasitic layabouts who didn't earn their keep in their own houses, letting them live off their own hard work instead of throwing the useless people out to starve on the streets as they deserved, and their cries of, “She's my grandmother, you assholes!” were cut short by hails of bullets.

It had become obvious that liberalism had infected them to their very core, even to their children! Why, just the other day Horace was beating his wife for not having his food ready the moment he got home, and his own son tried to shield her with his body and cried for him to stop hurting her! It was clear that major changes had to be made to society so that they could all be free.

First, they had to stop the sissification and therefore gayness of their boys. Women with their weak and fragile minds were all too sympathetic to soft liberal lies, so boys had to be separated from the females lest they get contaminated. From the time they were old enough to walk on their own, they were not to be held, embraced, carried, or kissed, as that would encourage weakness. The only physical interaction they could have with others would be wrestling and fighting with other boys and men. Their mothers were not to talk to them or interact with them except to provide for their physical needs. Girls and boys were to be kept completely separate, and the boys carefully taught not to let any girls and their icky and strange ways near them for fear the female delicacy would be spread to them.

Praise and kindness made men weak, so the boys were beaten and screamed at to always do better by distant and cold father figures who could never be pleased. If a boy fell screaming because his kneecap was shattered, he was kicked and hollered at to get up and walk it off, and stop being such a damn baby girl about it. Deaths from burst appendices, infected wounds, and many other medical reasons increased rapidly. (It didn't help that most doctors had already been killed; in those few cases where people were willing to admit that there was a legitimate problem, there was often no medical help to be found or afforded, because the few survivors could charge so much that only the rich could pay.)

Another wave of secret liberals was discovered when these laws were passed, because they stood up and complained that they should be allowed to raise their children however they want. They were executed as the seditionists that they were.

It was soon discovered that the boys, when surrounded only by other boys and having no female contact, were becoming intimate with each other, in their violent way. Somehow, despite all their efforts, the evil lieberal homobortionists were getting to their sons! They further exaggerated their efforts to make their boys as macho as possible to un-gay them, for instance, by letting them release excess energy by destruction instead of sexuality. Vandalism was greatly encouraged as boys had to be boys. The public infrastructure left over from the bad old days before private freedom was rapidly taken apart by the escalations in frustrated destruction.


And so the first generation raised under these new laws came to adulthood, or at least the survivors did, and the males were assigned brides to be their wives (romance of course being a sissy thing and love a thing that sapped machismo, and women could not be allowed to weaken the men with their weird wiles). But then, suddenly confronted with this strange penis-less thing before them, something they had been taught had to be avoided and was full of lieberalism and crying, and they found themselves limp and impotent and unable to perform their conjugal duties to produce another generation. Their fathers tried to introduce them to the ways of making babies, but their awkward euphemisms only served to confuse their sons more, and conjugal relations became increasingly bizarre and untendable. Sometimes their fathers would even try to demonstrate for their sons how to do the dirty, but their overhanging belly flab got in the way so they could not, just as they had not for years. Some of the boys, learning that they had to be naked and embrace the women to perform the sexual act, wrestled them to death, thinking that they would squeeze babies out. Some, learning that they had to put their 'seed' into the women's 'bellies' spit into their bellybuttons. And then, after their uncomfortable and unsettling duties were over for the week, they fled back to the safe masculine communal showers where they could be with their own kind, as was right and proper.


It was said during those years that in the skies many saw a boat steered by many rugged and manly oarsmen. It was also said that those oarsmen looked down upon them from orbit, shook their heads in disgust at the farce below, and left as quickly as they could.

[Simon_Jester]

You know what this story reminds me of?

The core premise of Stuart's TBO setting, as applied to American neoconservatism instead of Nazi superweapon-wanking or Japan conquering China or a revived Islamic Caliphate:

"Be careful what you wish for."

[Shroom Man 777]

I am eneagled by your displays of patriotism. Thank you, all of you.

@ Simon:

[Shroom Man 777]

Co-written with PeZook!

Previously on SDNW4...

“This is Murca, guys! This is how things should be everywhere!”, he started to talk excitedly, his voice breaking down periodically due to his immensely patriotic fervor, “I mean when I get ready to buy a company that makes more than 250 thousand marks a year, why should I pay more tax on it? To support some bullshit welfare state? No! Support the troops! Go army strong! We are fighting for freedom and remember that the tree of liberty needs to be watered with oil and blood of Mohicans! Freedom isn’t free! Yeah! MURCA! FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH! Say it with me!”

“FUCK YEAH!”, the crowd chanted with him, and Joey was proud, so proud of his fellow Murcans that they could take a stand against the forces of terror trying even now to destroy their way of life. Fuck yeah!

Almera Colony
Oho, Murca
123 Fatlas Smuggedsville Trailer Park



The great slabs of meat were sizzling on the grill, tended by womenfolk as the Bibel proscribed, as the newest regulations - all just and proper, of course, aiming only to preserve the fabric of society - posited in the Constipitution. The Sovereign Citizens were hard at work, making sure Murca would remain free from the taint of homobortionist intellectual lieberals that threatened to tear apart that great country.

Joey was sure glad the Sovereign Citizens prevented that. He could’ve seen it slowly happening during Bari’Bama’s time in office, the dissolution of the true Algeiran culture, the constant invasions by foreigners and government officials telling good patriotic citizens what to do and when...Joey welcome the change, the freedom, preserved under threat of guns.

His neighbor, Billy Bob Franklin Junior, didn’t seem as enthusiastic as him, though he did organize an awesome grill party, serving only wholesome and healthy traditional Murcan cuisine.

“Hey, Joey,” the man said, walking up to Joey Jojo, who was minding his own business, chugging down red meat with butter and washing it down with gravy, “It’s kinda hot today. Enjoying the meats?”

“Damn right, pardner.” Joey nodded as he grabbed a piece of rare meat and chewed on it, staining his lips with beef blood.

Billy Bob grabbed a light apetizer with both hands and bit into it.



The fat and sauces dripped down to the ground, but the man managed to avoid staining his pants. “You were at the rally yesterday?” he continued the small talk.

Joey added some gravy to his beer, mixing a traditional, wholesome Murcan drink with his steak knife. “I sure did! We sure showed those homobortionists how it’s done. The folks even got to shoot a lieberal. A real lieberal intellectual, man! You don’t see those often anymore!”

“Yeah...”, Billy Bob seemed sullen all of a sudden, “...it’s kinda hard to find any now. Like a doctor.”

“What’s going on, Billy?”, Joey showed concern, despite his dislike for the man’s sudden display of unmanly emotions, “Trouble with the family?”

“My youngest is sick, man.”

“Well, tell him to walk it off! If he eats right he’ll be walkin’ around and playin’ with the little fellas in no time!” Joey chuckled good-naturedly. Hah, and to think Billy Bob bought into that lieberal bull about vaccinations, now look what happened. Served ‘im right.

“That’s what the Sovereign Citizens told me, too. Things sure have changed a lot.”

“It’s all for the better, Billy.” Joey chugged down his can of gravied beer and belched mightily... from both directions at once. “Let’s see the libruls regulate that carbon emission! Hahaha!”

Both men laughed it up, as it was truly great comedy. Billy forgot about his troubles for a while and farted himself, to add to the fun.

“Oh, hah hah... that was good!” Joey tried wiping a stain from his shirt, but failed. He decided on a light snack to lighten his mood, and chose a couple slices of deep fried pizza



“Anyways, I heard your eldest is in Pelania now?”

“Oh yes, he’s a Murcan Marine.”

“I saw on TV that the damn sand diggers are trying to suicide bomb our boys!” Joey Jojo spat. “Fuckin’ cowards! At least the luberal just lied down and let us shoot ‘im in the face. Those hash brownies won’t even take a bullet like a man, the shits! They do their killin’ facelessly! They should stand up and fight us like men!”

“I wouldn’t know” Billy Bob said evasively, as if he was hiding something. Joey was starting to become suspicious... first he wanted to see a lieberal doctor, and now didn’t seem outraged at the cowardice of the foreigners? “I just want my boy home, you know. We don’t want big guvmint regulatin’ our business here, so why is the guvmint sending our boys to regulate Pelania? I don’t want my boy blown up by some sand digger, Joey.”



Goddamn, Joey Jojo’s brain froze in the middle of swallowing another ice cold beer, mixed with gravy and half of a deep-fried Sneakers bar floating inside of it like a turd in a toilet bowl. What was that crazy talk? Benn Gleck said the Army was doing righteous work in Pelania! Spreading freedom, and Billy Bob didn’t want to sacrifice his family for that? That limp dicked pussy couldn’t even get it hard enough to support the troops!

Billy Bob Franklin seemed to take Joey’s sudden silence as sympathy, because he suddenly opened up, “You know, that gots me thinkin’ about the whole business here, Joey. How’s that we now have gubmint folks that ain’t doin’ anything fer the community?”

Sweet Jeebus. Joey clenched his fist, squeezing another piece of raw meat so hard the juices dripped out. He was starting to shake with righteous rage. Did Billy Bob just say he wanted a bigger gubmint?

“I mean,” Billy Bob continued obliviously. “I get it that the gubmint shouldn’t butt into our business, but they could at least bring the trash out, ya know?”

Joey Jojo looked back at his trailer park home and the mound of dirt accumulating outside of it. Was Billy Bob mocking him? Was he saying that he had a dirty house? That worthless piece of shit!

“...an’ they’re tryin’ to enforce those ridiculous things, like makin’ boys play with themselves, or havin’ women wear those stupid dresses...” he pointed to Joey’s wife, Mary Jane, who was trying to fry huge slabs of meat while wearing a proper and modest set of whole body-covering clothing, so as not to reveal her luscious and sexually stimulating features - like the face.

Joey glared at the man. What was he, a lustful sinner who coveted his wife? Who the hell did he think he was? First he questioned the righteousness of Pelania’s freedomization, then the Sovereign Citizens and their attempts to secure the freedom of Murcan society... and now this!

“Who the hell do you think you are, Billy? Are you trying to say something? Huh?!”

Billy Bob Franklin Junior raised his hands defensively, surprised at the sudden outburst “Relax, Joey! You have to admit that’s a little excessive!” he tried to save the situation.

Joey dropped his dish in shock. Billy Bob really did covet his wife! He wanted to see her face, her hands, possible even her... feet! He reached to his belt, where he always kept a gun - to chase away stray dogs and the homeless.

“What the hell are you suggestin’?! Huh? You want to take my wife away?! Bring it on! Bring it!”

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphats, Joey Jojo!” Billy Bob Franklin Junior backed off. “What the hell? I was only saying that it was kinda hot for those clothes!”

“AHA!” Joey pointed an accusing finger at Billy Bob. “You... you! YOU! YOU PIECE OF SHIT! YOU SHITPIECE! GET AWAY FROM MY WIFE YOU DAMNED DIRTY DEM!”

“Fuck you, Joey!” Billy Bob shot back. “You’re full of shit, man! So full of shit that you’re, like, the fattest fertilizer salesman in Murca!”

“Get out of my goddamn house you traitor!” Joey Jojo pulled out his gun and shot in the air repeatedly, screaming as he did so. “Aaaaaahhhhh!!!!!!”

“We’re not in your house, fucker!”

Joey gurgled something incomprehensible, a half-swallowed brownie bar was sticking out of his throat and mouth. He contemplated shooting the traitor right then and there, but Billy Bob wasn’t some lieberal intellectual. There were some people living here who actually liked the bastard!

Holy shit, I’m surrounded by traitors! Joey thought. He’d deal with it another way!

“MARY JANE!” he screamed. “PACK YOUR BAGS! WE’RE LEAVIN’!”



Meanwhile...
Almera Colony
Corinth, Pelania



The convoy of Doomvees sped through the Pelanian marketplace. Their star-spangled hood ornaments were stained by the blood of hobos who couldn’t vacate the streets fast enough. Doomvee drivers were told to drive as fast as they could, as long as they could, and as hard as they could. Maintain forward mobility at all costs, or else those freedom-hating suicide bombing sand diggers would blow them up for bringing democracy to their nation. Any attempt to inconvenience the Coalition Of The Coerced was obviousyly a terrorist plot.

Fuckin’ ungrateful sand diggers, thought Private Freedom Class Chet Fisto, manning the Mama Goose heavy machinegun on the leading Doomvee. It’s been a week since Corinth fell to Coalition troops, and it still wasn’t calm on the streets of the fucking shithole of a city. Now PFC Fisto and his platoon were running patrols every day, trying to find any remaining terrorist sympathizers and freedomize them thoroughly.

“RPG LEFT!”, he suddenly heard someone scream from inside the car. He swiveled the heavy machine gun and sure enough, somebody was pointing an object at the convoy.

“Pit stop pit stop anus two by four engaging!”, Chet screamed into his microphone and let fly. His weapon roared, and the crowd scattered, running for cover.

The man with the RPG was perforated along with a couple of random civilians he was talking to - no doubt discussing the best plan to execute the ambush. The massive rounds of his sixty cal almost ripped the man in half.

“HOOAH!” Fisto shouted and pumped his fist “Take that, fuckers!” He felt his pants become tight again. The fucking quartermaster was supposed to have fixed that already!

“Cease fire cease fire!” his radio suddenly blared “Convoy halt!”

The entire collumn stopped, and the third Doomvee disgorged medics and their commander. He walked up to Fisto and slapped him on the helmet, “You fucking idiot! That was a journo! Didn’t you see he was white?!”

Fisto ground his teeth, “So fucking what, LT? That defence contractor at the briefing recommended we kill all journos anyway. And he had a camera, so fuck him, he shouldn’t point random objects at our troops, we’re armed and don’t give a shit!”

The driver yelled “HOOAH!” but shut up after the lieutenant glared at him. “We’ll talk later, Fisto.”

The medics, predictably, declared the journalist dead. Stupid fuckers, Fisto thought, Of course he’s dead, I blew him apart with a Mama Goose!

“Are we moving or what? I’m hungry,” one of the soldiers whined.

Fisto sighed. “We have to wait until they pack up the fucking journo.”

As the convoy waited, scanning the crowds for potential ambushers and suicide bombers, the radios began blaring incomprehensible messages again. “Seven gnomes call up west of your position confirm shaftlick, confirm”

“Go ahead with Shaftlick”

“ASS located primary BUTT in your area six BODY ODOR times fifty two confirm”

“Holy shit! Holy shit, Chet, you heard that man? They found him!” Fisto’s driver yelled. “Let’s move before he disappears again!” He revved the engine like a little kid

“Wait for the order!” Fist wouldn’t have his men going off on their own, that was for liberals. He did tap his fingers impatiently on the trigger, though.

“All units all units move out six BODY ODOR time fifty two BUTT located”

“HOOAH! We’re gonna getcha, Barry! FUCK YEAH!” Fisto’s driver yelled as he threw the doomvee in gear. “We’re gona have us some fun! We’re gonna have us some fun!”

They column rolled out, engines revving at full power. Up in the skies, far above the city, helicopters raced towards the location indicated by the radio calls. Everyone was excited, everyone was happy, for they finally found their quarry.

It lasted about as long as it took for them to drive into an ambush.

RPGs streamed out from rooftops near the target building. They struck one of the doomvess which blew up in a spectacular fireball and blocked the rest of the convoy. The remaining National Guardsmen began raking rooftops and windows and parked cars and storefronts with heavy weapon fire, but the convoy was trapped in a kill-zone.

“Goddamn, they’re trying to delay us! Gun it!” Fisto yelled at the top of his lungs, over the roar of his Mama Goose. His Doomvee was not blocked, and he knew that if they let themselves be pinned down, even only long enough to killfuckerize everything alive within two blocks, Bari’Bama could escape. So he ordered his driver to keep moving, which prompted two other doomvees to follow.

They left the carnage behind, chased only by Fisto’s lieutenant screaming obscenities into the radio. Fisto didn’t care, though. They were gonna have some fucking fun with that socialist traitor of the people! He didn’t bayonet defenceless students at Kunt State just to let that evil man escape!

Fisto’s little column cleared a corner and charged into a tiny little square in front of the target building. They were immediately raked with rifle fire, but their Mama Gooses silenced it quickly.

“Ha ha you stupid fuckers!” Fisto’s driver was totally pumped up, the man was a proper Murcan, enjoying the action and the carnage. He drove over a suspected terrorist sympathizer and laughed. He fucking laughed.

Suddenly, Fisto noticed something strange. A vehicle, all white, with a weird red cross emblem on the side. It stopped nearby and a bunch of hash brownies in white coats jumped out and started to help a wounded man.

“What the fuck is this shit? We’re running a police action here!” Fisto couldn’t believe his eyes. How dare they keep terrorists from slowly and painfully bleeding out in the mud like they deserved.

He grit his teeth again and fired a long burst, perforating all the goddamned sand diggers with the sixty cal and fucking up their ride.

“Hell yeah Chet! Show ‘em how it’s done! Fucking noncombatants wandering into a combat zone! FUCKERS!”

Fisto was satisfied with the carnage, but didn’t lose sight of their primary objective. “Dismount, ladies! Let’s go get Barry!” He yelled into his radio.

“HOOAH!”

The troops dismounted their Doomvess, although it turned out that a couple were wounded. The Doomvees were not armored, no doubt due to Bari’Bamas neglect of the military. Yet another reason to hate the man.

They entered the building’s foreboding doorway, gaping at them like the gateway to Hell itself. But Murcan soldiers weren’t afraid of Hell, they’d invade Hell’s asshole too if it meant they’d get that fucker, that Satan Mekratrig, that socialist Barry. The shitpiece.



They cleared the building room by room like pros, stacking up and tapping each other on the ass and slicing the pies like they were trained to do. It was hard work, sweaty and humid but also manly, as they blew apart many terrorist fuckers and their human shields. Some of them begged for their lives, but as they wore no uniforms the Genevieve Conventions did not apply to them - and so Fisto’s men shot them all like rats. They had the guns and the gear and so could do whatever the fuck they wanted to anyone they desired. As Saint Murcan said, might made right, and they were the mightiest of Almera and thus the rightiest of all.

Finally, they reached the centre of the hovel, the biggest room. It was almost over. Other soldiers were storming the compound too, invading its orifices from helicopters and armored transports, but Fisto wouldn’t wait for some stupid ASS TURDS to take all the glory. He kicked the door open and screamed obscenities as his men stormed the room, kicked down whimpering human shield terrorist sympathizers and dragged out their quarry, the most dangerous man on the planet. They dragged him out from a hole he was hiding in, the coward.

Fisto held up a picture all Murcan soldiers had on them, taken some time after Bari’Bama cowardly fled back to his secret homeland of Pelania, and compared the prisoner’s face to it for a good minute.



“Yep. Boys, we’ve got him!”

“HOOAH!”

The guardsmen high-fived and slapped each other on the ass. It was a good game. They’d debrief themselves later at the base’s shower room, too.

Fisto nodded with satisfaction. Justice would be served.

Finally.



Almera Colony
Oho, Murca
Undisclosed Motel Room



Joey Jojo smiled as he sat there, watching TV in the cheap motel room. Used condoms littered the floor, but upon sniffing them, he found out that they were months old by now. Proof that godless contraceptives were no longer being used, and that ever since then, the occupants of the motel practiced only abstinence.

The TV was showing how a completely anonymous tip had led to the discovery of a den of lieberals in the nearby trailer park of 123 Fatlas Smuggedsville, led by their ringleader Billy Bob Franklin Junior, and how the sovereign citizens came in to get rid of them. They took them to the FREEMA camps, once used for death by the godless lieberals, but now used for freedom by the small inobtrusive government.

“That’s what you get for wantin’ a bigger guvmint, Billy Bob,” Joey said to himself quietly. “That’s what you get fer wantin’ to take away our freedom, you miserable piece of sentimental hippy shit.”

He laughed, laughed at Billy Bob Franklin Junior’s mug on the TV screen, at the video of all those neighbors of his being forced to take off all their clothes before being thrown into a ditch and getting taken cared of by the sovereign citizen militia groups. Served them right. Served them all right.

As he watched Billy Bob scream and blubber and beg for his life, Joey couldn’t help but remember one of the last thing Billy said to him. Something about being a fertilizer salesman. Yes. He was a plumber, but he also cleaned septic tanks to earn extra. But what if... what if he used all the shit for fertilizer, and sold it? Yes. That could work. Hah! He could do that for a living, he’d need a new job now that he was out of Fatlas Smuggedsville anyway, and why not? The free market would reward him, and one day he’d come back and buy that burned down trailer park and invest in some real estate bubbles, just like what those tycoons at Balls Street said.

Joey thanked Billy Bob Franklin Junior for the sound financial advice. Eventually, the video of his ex-neighbor’s ultimate freedomization was being cut off by something else.

“Live from Corinth, Pelania. The Murcan military has announced a stunning development on the War of Oppression. The former President of Algeira, and now wanted fugitive war criminal dictator-terrorizer Bari’bama, or Barry as they called him on the Hill, has been captured!

“The hero of the hour is a team of National Guardsmen from the province of Oho. One of them is with us right now. Private Freedom Class Chet Fisto. Hello, Chet.”

“Hello, Blenn. How are you today?”

“Me? I’m fine. You?”

“I’m feeling great. Extra-freedomy!”

“That’s good to hear, Chet. Say, who’s your friend you brought with you?”

“Oh, him? His name is Barry. That’s what we called him on the Hill.”

“Hello Barry.”

“Barry, say hello to these nice journos from Cox News.”

“...mmmrrrmmmffrrrrmmmmffff!!!”

“SAY HELLO TO THESE NICE JOURNOS FROM COX NEWS YOU GODDAMN FUCKING SAND DIGGER! CARPET BADGER! YOU DIRTY MUDDY PIECE OF SHIT!”

“Hahaha. Private, what’s that you brought with you? Is it something for Barry?”

“Oh. Why, yes it is.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a bucket of water, and a board.”

“What’s it for?”

“Oh... for hydration. And bathing. Say, Barry, would you like to take a bath?”

“Nnnnnnnfffffff!!!!! Nnnnnnffffrrrrrggghhhh!!!!!!”

“Don’t be such a woman! We all know no means yes!”

“NNNNRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!”

“Open wide! Say aaaaah!”



“Hhhrrrrggghhrrrkkkkk.......”

“Ladies and gentlemen, that is the socialist traitor Barry being freedomized right before your eyes for his crimes against freedom, democracy and Murca. Live, right here on Cox News. This is the Straight Talk Express. Except, Barry here can’t talk very straight right now because of all the water in his lungs.”

The camera focused on Barry’s face, as he was desperately gushing for air and whimpering sadly. News tickers floated at the bottom of the screen with less important news than gratuitous torture of the most evil man on the planet: mere forest fires and economic woes of the nation would have to wait.

Remember folks, if you want to support our brave troops..., the voiceover continued while Fisto was stuffing a wet rag deep into Barry’s throat while screaming obscenities (which were all bleeped out to protect the children, of course). ...call the phone numbers specified below and donate to the Troop Stress Relief Fund! We’ll provide the troops with quality adult entertainment professionals to give them aid and comfort away from home, and engineering support to honor their tools and keep them rigid! Make sure our boys can freedomize these poor people with gusto!

Barry’s gurgling ceased for a while. Chet Fisto screamed something foul and began administering CPR to his victim. When the former president of Algeira, the foul fiend, woke up again, PFC Fisto immediately redoubled his efforts to freedomize the dirty socialist.

With gusto.



The Hill
Washingtoff, Murca
A few days later still

“The Zenobian ambassador is here to see you, sir”, the young aide quietly reported. Thick Chinny quickly tossed his issue of Cocked and Locked into the drawer and zipped up his pants.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let him in!” he answered angrily, hoping the boy didn’t notice what it was that he was doing. He wiped his brow and tried to compose himself.

The door to Chinny’s crappy office, the Almost Sovereignest Citizen’s office, opened with a creak. The bullet holes still weren’t patched on them, unlike the awesome huge door used to access Shrubya. Chinny growled and quietly added a mental note to himself to steal a door from somewhere else on the Hill. Maybe one of the aides - they couldn’t protest, for fear of being thrown out onto the streets of Washingtoff with no health insurance if they offended Chinny. Yes. Good plan.

The Almost Sovereignest Citizen smiled to himself, confusing the portly, short man standing before him. It was Litvin Maximov, Zenobia’s ambassador to Murca. The short bastard was the only ambassador who somehow managed to navigate the strange and twisted structures of the new government and get stuff done.

Chinny had finally realized Maximov was there and snapped back to reality. “What can I do for you, ambassador?” He asked with a snarl. Stupid diplomacy.

“Mr. Almost Sovereignest Citizen”, Maximov began, stressing Chinny’s title. That reminded him of his meeting with that stupid military officer... and that bureaucrat before him... and one of Shrubya’s smug assistants... grrrrrrr.

Ambassador Maximov smiled inwardly, seeing Chinny break a pencil in his hand. “My government has instructed me to deliver a stern warning about undertaking ill-advised foreign adventures. The international community...”

“What?” Chinny interrupted “What foreign adventures? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Why, your occupation of Pelania, of course...”

“The hell? What the fuck, do you Zenobians think you can order us around?”

Maximov knew of Chinny’s temperament, but even he was surprised by the sudden outburst. “No, we merely want to warn you against destabilizing adventurism...”

“Oh like hell you do! You just know you can’t poison Pelania with your goddamned socialist lieberal ideas if there are Murcan boys present there, you fucks!” Yeah, he’d tell him! He’d tell him good, the smug bastard!

“Please calm down, Mr. Almost Sovereignest.” Maximov was starting to wonder if his quip at Chinny’s title wasn’t ill-advised “History shows that...”

Chinny slammed his fist on the table. “Screw history! And screw YOU, ambassador! We don’t need your fucking approval! We’re gonna bring freedom anywhere we want, whenever we want, because we’ve got the biggest guns, biggest ships and the meanest sons-of-bitches on the planet!”

“There is not a lot of goodwill towards Murca in the world right now, Mr. Chinny. You’d do well to take international opinion into account, or you might find yourselves standing alone in a time of crisis.”

“Ah, go to hell. You limp-dicked science majors couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag, anyway. Murca has always defended you! Well now you can shove that smug attitude up your ass ‘coz you’re either with us or against us and boy if you’re against us...” Chinny had to pause for breath here. He wheezed a few times before continuing “...then you will get fucked up! YES! WE WILL GO DOWN ON YOUR ASSES SO FUCKING HARD YOU’LL BE SHITTING OUT BLOOD FOR A WHOLE YEAR!”

Aides and bodyguards were now glancing into Chinny’s office, wondering what was going on. The tirade lasted for a good fifteen minutes, before Litvin Maximov charged out, fuming and angry. But it was nothing compared to Thick Chinny. His anger was epic. It was righteous.

“THAT’S RIGHT, MAXIMOV! YOUR MOTHERLAND IS A WHORE!” Thick Chinny was following him while bellowing out a constant stream of obscenities. Finally, the Zenobian ambassador couldn’t take anymore and he locked himself up in the bathroom. But Thick Chinny wouldn’t relent, as he stood outside of the toilet, kicking and slamming at the door while continuing his spiel for hours on end. “A CHEAP WHORE! I SWEAR IF YOU CROSS US, SHE’LL BE A DEAD ONE TOO! LIKE ALL THE OTHER WHORES IN MY FUCKING BACKYAR...”

Realizing he had said too much, and that he was on the verge of an arrest, Chinny quieted down and slowly ambled off. Clutching his chest and looking for morphine.

Litvin Maximov would not leave the bathroom until the next day, when Chinny would be in the hospital for a minor heart attack. But the Almost Sovereignest wasn’t done with Zenobia. No, he felt that the ambassador insulted him, personally! He brushed aside the doctors and nurses and called up his trusty assistant.

“I’ll make them pay, the fuckers. The goddamned communistas! Draft up an executive order for the Sovereignest citizen and make him sign it! I will show them that nobody fucking orders Murcans around! Nobody tells the freest country in the world what to do! Don’t write that down, you idiot!”

The aide yelped and jumped. He knew perfectly well that having little money and no connections, he could end up on the street with one word from Chinny, as Murca now practiced “at will” employment. And he sure couldn’t afford a nice and clean hospital like the one the Sovereign Citizens used. Well, not without selling his organs, at least.

“Are you done, shithead? Now I cite!”

The aide nodded and began noting - really, really fast. The very next day, the media announced a new executive order of Murca’s unobtrusive government.

EXOR 11231 GEOSTEMBUTTOCK

1. NO MENTION OF THE COUNTRY OF ZENOBIA SHALL BE MADE IN PUBLIC DOCUMENTS, PRIVATE WRITING, EVERYDAY SPEECH OR ELECTRONIC TRANSMISSION
2. ALL MEMBERS OF THE UNMENTIONABLE NATION’S DIPLOMATIC CORPS, ITS CITIZENS AND ASSOCIATES ARE TO BE KNOWN AS TERRORISTS
3. TERRORISTS HAVE NO RIGHTS
4. THEREFORE, TERRORISTS MUST BE SHOT ON SIGHT
5. FREE CITIZENS OF MURCA ARE TO IMMEDIATELY BURN ALL DOCUMENTS, BOOKS AND ELECTRONIC STORAGE DEVICES THAT MENTION OR CONCERN THE UNMENTIONABLE NATION IN ANY WAY
6. VIOLATION OF THE BILL IS PUNISHABLE BY SUMMARY EXECUTION

Long live the land of the free! The home of the brave!

[Scottish Ninja]

This is pretty great, but I think the bits with Joey could be improved if the language there was a little more denatured.

For example:

but Billy Bob wasn’t some lieberal intellectual.

"Billy Bob weren't some lieberal intellectual."

Just a thought.

[Shroom Man 777]

We need to make him sound even more of a hick? Yes. That's a great idea.

[Crazedwraith]

Mang, this is a work of such subtle parody that your veiled references often shoot right over my head. Could you perhaps make this a nat's crotchet less mind-boggling devious and complex please?

[PeZook]

No

[Simon_Jester]

That's OK, PeZook. I wouldn't be able to do it either if someone asked me to.

[PeZook]

While we can't make this incredible work any simpler without losing its artistic impact, we can always...

WRITE MORE

Previously on SDNW4...

Ambassador Maximov smiled inwardly, seeing Chinny break a pencil in his hand. “My government has instructed me to deliver a stern warning about undertaking ill-advised foreign adventures. The international community...”

“What?” Chinny interrupted “What foreign adventures? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Why, your occupation of Pelania, of course...”

“The hell? What the fuck, do you Zenobians think you can order us around?”

Maximov knew of Chinny’s temperament, but even he was surprised by the sudden outburst. “No, we merely want to warn you against destabilizing adventurism...”

“Oh like hell you do! You just know you can’t poison Pelania with your goddamned socialist lieberal ideas if there are Murcan boys present there, you fucks!” Yeah, he’d tell him! He’d tell him good, the smug bastard!

“Please calm down, Mr. Almost Sovereignest.” Maximov was starting to wonder if his quip at Chinny’s title wasn’t ill-advised “History shows that...”

Chinny slammed his fist on the table. “Screw history! And screw YOU, ambassador! We don’t need your fucking approval! We’re gonna bring freedom anywhere we want, whenever we want, because we’ve got the biggest guns, biggest ships and the meanest sons-of-bitches on the planet!”

Wild Space Sector BB-25
Planet Almera
Top Secret COLON ASS TURDS Blacksite
Pelania



“Where did you first realize what was happening?”, the humorless interrogator asked. The man sitting across from him, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, seemed lost in thought for a minute, “Not until they engaged your people for the first time. Frankly, I thought they were all insane when they first arrived. I didn’t like it at all.”

“Why?”

“They were heavily armed and on edge. Put yourself in my shoes.”

“Understood. You say colonel Delgado first sent out an armored column to the landing site?”

“Yes. They thought the landing happened in the San Dorado hills. We’ve lost a platoon there, too, but I thought it was the usual - bandits, desertion, accidents. They did happen from time to time.”

“Did they reach the hills?”

“No. I am not sure what happened, I wasn’t at your command centre at the time. All I know was that they encountered... something, and then turned around and attacked the city.”

The investigator seemed surprised for the first time. Well, the second, actually: the first was when General Corello surrendered and was forthcoming and truthful during interrogations. It almost seemed like the man was... tired.

“They attacked the city?”

“Yes. They drove back and started shooting at both your people and my men.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“General, you know that is sounds awfully far-fetched?”

“Yes, but that’s what happened. I know it looks like I’m trying to cover up some nefarious scheme, but I’m sure you have other people in custody who can corroborate my statements.”

The interrogator chuckled, “That we do. What measures did Colonel Delgado undertake in response?”

Corello did not answer that question immediately. He took his time to extinguish his cigarette, “He ordered my men to stop the column.”

“Why?”

“That man you had watching over me, I can’t remember his name... he said your people lost all communications. My men couldn’t use their radios, either, except at very short range. Which kind of defeated their purpose.”

“Are you sure there was no other factor?”

“I wasn’t exactly privy to Delgado’s decision making process”, Corello leaned on the table, “That was the reason I was given. Since everything seemed to indicate it was true, I gave the orders. Lots of my men died that night.”

“What about the alien landing party? Did you directly encounter them?”

“No, not me. After a while, based on reports of my men and some deduction, we thought that we’ve identified the target. Colonel Delgado again strongarmed me to support his attempt to face the landing party there.”

“What happened?”

“They were wiped out. They came down into the Temple, down to the catacombs, and never came out. I decided to just let the alien leave with whatever it was they wanted. And, well... they did.”

“What happened to the rest of our force? The command center, logistical tail...”

“We killed them all and disposed of the bodies. It was easy, they lost all their combat troops chasing shadows.”

“And?”

“...and went down into the catacombs some time later. I think you have the reports from that little excursion.”


Almera Colony
Corinth, Pelania
Three months earlier

The metal wall was a strange thing, considering it was embedded in ancient rock, and below a rustic temple at that. Flashlight beams seemed to slide off the strange material, as if it absorbed the beams entirely.

There was a huge hole, obviously freshly made, for a given value of ‘fresh’. Inside was a strange, dark corridor built of the same material: now dilapidated and dirty, but obviously artificial.

“The hell...” one of the Black Panthers, general Corello’s elite bodyguards, muttered to himself. He had never seen anything like that.

“General, are you sure those... things are gone?” another soldier asked, shining his flashlight inside.

“Why the hell would they stay? It’s been months, we’d have noticed something. Let’s move.”

They crossed the hole and entered the corridor. With every step, they saw more strange things: things that seemed like they were out of this world. There was writing in some strange, undecipherable language... advanced equipment, used for unknown purposes. Everything about this structure was alien, utterly alien to anyone raised in Pelania. Possibly anywhere else on this world, too.

The complex wasn’t in a very good shape. Several corridors were crushed or blocked with earth. Others were unstable, and several times the small search party had to hastily retreat from a corridor or junction that threatened to collapse.

Eventually, though, they came upon a large, circular room, located roughly in the middle of the complex. And, unlike all the others, this one lit up the moment the first human entered.



At first they were scared, but it soon became obvious they room wasn’t going to try and kill them all. With trepidation and reverence, they approached the central display. One of the Black Panthers began photographing everything

Most of the holographic screens were blank, but one displayed a corrupted and barely readable map of the continent. There were markings on it - many, many markings, arcane symbols that obviously defined places of interest.

“General! That’s Corinth here... look... Corinth, this is the river... San Dorado hills... is that what the aliens were looking for?”

“If it was, they’d have taken it with them.” Corello rubbed his chin “But this is still obviously quite valuable. Send a runner to the surface, we’ll need work teams here. Fast.”



Wild Space Sector BB-25
Planet Almera
Top Secret COLON ASS TURDS Blacksite
Pelania
Present day

“...we’ve moved the equipment to a secure location over several weeks. We had to work at night, of course, and carefully time the excavations to avoid your satellites...” Corello’s explanation was interrupted by the interrogator

“Where, general? Where did you take the equipment removed from the complex?”

Corello smiled and leaned back in his chair “Why... you would like to know, wouldn’t you? Heh. And now we come to the part where we actually negotiate for what you want to know, yes?”

So that’s why the bastard was being so helpful..., the interrogator thought. He was dismayed at being led by the nose like that, like an amateur, but there was little choice he had in the matter now. Sure, he could order torture... but torture threatened to give X-COM false information, and was generally just a waste of time.

“Okay, let’s say we’ll negotiate. What do you want?”

“Safe passage to a non-extradition treaty country and fifty million marks in cash.”

“Not going to happen. You know perfectly well you can just give us false information and disappear.”

Corello held up his hands “Well, that’s my offer. What else can I give you but my word I am not going to lie?”

“I think”, the interrogator leaned forward, “I think that what you really want is immunity from persecution.We are not naive, general, my superiors will never go for just letting you off. But my organization can protect you from the government if you cooperate.”

“Hah! Works great for you, doesn’t it? Keep me where you want me to be, always watched, ready to be disposed of after I become useless?”

The interrogator returned Corello’s gesture from just a few seconds ago, “That’s my offer. You know damn well you’re not going to get a better one.”

There was silence. Corello considered his options carefully, but saw no way to actually get anything more out of the situation. If he strung everything along too much, they’d just torture him for the information, anyway. It was surprising he had been treated as well as he was for so long.

“Fine. But you will go first. If I am out of a cell and living somewhere more comfortable by tomorrow, you will get the location of your artifacts.”

“I am glad you saw reason, general.”



Planet Almera
Hempland Province, Pelania
Present day



The Doomvees moved through the badlands of the Hempland Province, the furthest region of Pelania that bordered it with the nearby nation of Ayrak. The horrible mountain road made for a bumpy ride, to say the least. The fact they often winded close to giant bottomless cliffs didn’t exactly inspire confidence, either.

“This is bullshit, sarge!” Chet Fisto’s driver yelled from his station. He was attempting to navigate the small column while wearing night vision goggles.

Fisto tried to glare at the man, like his old sergent used to do, but his own goggles made it difficult. He sighed inwardly: ever since the promotion, he had to learn all these strange new skills. Like leadership. It was much harder than brutalizing terrorist sympathizers with the butt of his rifle, or stabbing college students, and SGT Fisto didn’t have the money saved to pay for his own NCO training.

Due to Fisto’s failure to leadershipize him, the driver kept whining, “These fuckers behind us, they must be really fucking comfortable in their APCs!”

The doomvee suddenly shifted to the side. The wheels bucked and blasted sand and small stones without finding a good grip. Despite the driver’s best efforts, the leading Doomvee was stuck, hanging halfway over a cliff.

“Godammit, Cuntser! You should’ve watched the fucking road!”

“But Sarge, you didn’t tell me to!” the Private Freedom-Class whined back.

“Shut the fuck up!” Fisto smacked him with his pistol. It looked like he’d have to learn leadership on the spot. He made a mental note to have Cuntser demoted from the rank of PFC to the rank of PFC, Private Fail Class.

“Okay, everybody out! Stop the convoy!”

His men began piling out of the precariously located vehicle. Fisto could barely even glance at the situation, when a group of all-black armored vehicles rolled up to the blockage.



Soldiers in featureless uniforms without any distinctions began piling out of them, taking up defensive positions along the sides of the road. Before Fisto could be done yelling obscenities at Cuntser, he was approached by the commander of the second part of the convoy, the one Fisto and his men were acting as scouts for.



“What’s going on here?” the woman demanded. She was clad in high-tech tactical gear, and cradling a large machinegun.

Fisto didn’t even raise his head. “Go away, men are working here,” thinking her to be some random journo, a nurse or maybe a cook. Only after he said that, he noticed his men becoming suddenly silent. It was the kind of silence that preceded something really, really bad.

Fisto turned around slowly, facing the woman. She has no distinctions, but carried herself with an aura of obvious authority, and also carried a huge gun. And besides, she was introduced during the briefing as a lieutenant colonel, which Sergeant Fisto forgot. After all, a woman could never normally attain such a high rank. They could only attain such a rank... abnormally. Through their feminine wiles! That’s what Fisto’s chaplain said during his sermon, and the chaplain was never wrong about such things.

“Oops.” Fisto simply said.

“Oops? Sergeant, if I hear anything like that from you again, I will toss you off that cliff myself. You are extremely lucky we’re not on base right now, or I would have had you relieved of your post and sent to headquarters for reassignment,” she paused for dramatic effect, eyeing Fisto up. The sergeant, in a rare spat of wisdom, said nothing. “Now let’s start this again. What’s going on here?”

Stupid bitch, Fisto thought, glaring at her, Talking down to a man like that!

“Sergeant!”

“Uh, yeah. We’re kind of stuck, but we’ll get it working again, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry what?”

Fisto swallowed the bile which was filling up his mouth due to rage. “Don’t worry Ma’am!” he yelled back. Bitch.

“Good. Now let one of my vehicles pass you, we’ll drag you back onto the road. And move it, we’re sitting ducks out here.”

She went back into her Badley IFV while another doomvee went ahead of them. A black-clad trooper went out of the vehicle and hooked a cable to them, and began dragging them out with a winch.

Soon the convoy was on the move again. Fisto, still angry from his humiliation at the hands... at the mouth of that stupid whore, decided to relieve his frustration by verbally abusing his subordinates. It wasn’t right, he thought, how that woman bossed him around like that. Out here on the battlefield, no less! Women didn’t belong to the battlefield! Women were supposed to make babies. Lots of healthy babies who could then shoot terrorists for freedom! Women going out themselves to shoot people was just wrong and obscene.

And what if the terrorists got the women? How could they defend themselves? And how could they make more babies if they got hurt? Fertile women were the key to the next generation of strapping young non-homobortionistic Murcan boys, and also some fertile girls that they’d need to make more after that. At least some very virile man-soldiers had the good sense to sleep with the women and make babies on the battlefield, get them knocked up so they’d get sent home. It was for their own good, after all, even if the women would try to say all sorts of things. Fisto knew that no always meant yes, just like what he said to Barry, and that they wanted it anyway.

Something made Fisto think that the female commander wasn’t really a fertile female, he wanted to ask her if she had ever been mistaken for a man, but was afraid to since who knows what she would’ve said back. And these troopers she commanded? Some division of those fucking ASS TURDS, they said. The goddamned arrogant bastards with their hi-tech gear and no-nonsense attitude. Why, nobody ever saw the TURDS freedomizing cities and hauling suspects off for enhanced interrogation. No, it was all Guardsmen and Armymen who did all the hard work! Fisto had the honor, no, the privilege of giving Bari’bama a drink, he was practically a hero, and now this bitch was talking down to him? Motherfucker. Stupid whore.

Fisto mulled over the issue some more, while randomly throwing expletives at his convoy. It took him enough time for the doomvees to clear the last precarious bend in the road and come upon a large plateau. The terrain in here rolled down gently towards another high slope: about halfway up that one lay the village they were looking for, where Fisto was supposed to lead that goddamned bitch-whore and her stupid emasculated soldiers to look for whatever they were looking for. Months of treading those fucking mountains and that’s the assignment he gets after his heroic abuse of fucking Bari’Bama himself, live on TV, with Blenn Geck.

Chet Fisto was angry, angry at the entire world. His humiliation threatened to burn a hole in him, and so the moment he saw anything to lash out on - in this case, a goat, grazing by itself - he blew it away with his Mama Goose while yelling terrible curses. Yes. That was better. Oh Jeebus, hell yeah. The roar of the machine gun carried far, like thunder. Hell yeah!

The result was most strange, however. Unlike in Corinth, where shooting random animals and people did not make people overreact needlessly, the goddamned bitch... overreacted. Her vehicles immediately broke formation and disgorged her troops, while she came on the radio demanding a report. She was hysterical, probably due to her wandering uterus, Chet concluded.

“It’s nothing, I just killed a goat,” Fisto said into his headpiece.

There was silence. The black-clad troopers somehow managed to glare at him from their positions around the stopped convoy, despite their helmets and goggles, which made SGT Fisto kind of jealous.

“Fisto, I want to see you. Right now.” The bitch finally spoke. How did she even know his name? Fucking hell. Angry again, despite the carnage wrought on the unsuspecting animal, Fisto unclipped his safety straps and climbed out of the doomvee. Fucking hell.

He jumped off the doomvee and made his way towards the Badley, dragging his feet as he did so. He passed by one of those black COLON assholes, who was glaring at him with his ugly goggled face. Fisto glared back at the ASS TURD.

“Yeah, what’re you looking at, jerkwad?” he said defiantly.

The TURD looked like he was going to say something, but instead of saying anything the TURD suddenly exploded. He blew up into bloody bits, spraying Fisto with bone splinters and desecrated viscera. The National Guardsman fell on his ass at the unexpected display of violence, while the other troopers - TURDS and non-TURDS alike - immediately returned fire at their unseen assailants.



The night was lit up by tracer fire and muzzle flashes, as small arms, Armalytes, Mama Gooses and Badley assault cannons opened up in an obscene omnidirectional onslaught of ordnance. The roar of so many firearms was deafening to Fisto’s ears, and the smell of cordite from the spent casings overpowering his stuffy nostrils. But there was another sound, and another smell mixing with those familiar scents and sonances. A sharp sizzling noise, and an acrid odor coming from below his nose. Fisto was still on his ass, he looked down and saw that his own Armalyte, which had been slung across his chest, had melted into two and the ceramic plate inserts on his body armor was bubbling and burning.

“Oh shit! Oh shit!” Fisto screamed as he tried to remove his melting chest plate. As he undid his tacticool webbing, he could feel the intense heat on his breasts as whatever it was ate through the plating. “Oh Jeebus!”

“Take cover make stand!” the woman commander was shouting over the radio. Another TURD exploded violently, his upper torso abruptly removed from the rest of his body. The nearest soldier started screaming as something got on him, he started rolling on the ground as smoke billowed from his body.

“What the fuck?” Fisto finally undid his armor, throwing it to the ground just as the ceramic plate had been fully liquefied. Realizing that Colonel Bitch probably had more important things to do than talk to him, Fisto started crawling back for his doomvee. TURDS were dropping all over the place. One of the COLONs fell right in front of him, the trooper’s face was reduced to a grinning skull, before it too bubbled up into slime. Fisto whimpered. “Mommy!”

Their assailants were shooting back. Emerald bolts stabbed through the dark, like green bullets that exploderized whatever they hit and bathed anything nearby with acid. One of the National Guard doomvees was already reduced to a half-molten slagheap along with everyone inside it. It was unlike anything Fisto had ever seen on this planet, he didn’t sign up for this shit. He signed up to bayonet goddamn communoid union protesters and student demonstrators, he joined the National Guard to shoot sand diggers in the face and bathe Secret Pelanian Barries with cool refreshing water. Fisto was regretting not bringing any money with him to the battlefield.

But no matter, he was finally near his doomvee. He called out to Cuntser to pick him up, but the goddamn Private Fail Class was busy trying to be a hero and manning the Mama Goose instead of driving his ass out of the line of fire. The roar of the heavy machinegun was deafening, the trooper couldn’t hear Fisto. The muzzle flash was also blinding, and the trooper also couldn’t see the incoming emerald bolts. They missed him, but not the doomvee. They found the fuel tank and the whole vehicle blew up, sending Cuntser flying off the damn thing and hitting the ground with a painful thud.

“MEDIC!” Cuntser wailed. None of the acid had gotten onto him, but the explosion had ripped both his legs off. A para-medic crawled towards him and he grabbed the medic desperately. “Doc! Help... me!”

“This looks pretty bad, Cuntser. I’m afraid your plan only covers one lost limb, not two. You’ll have to pay out of pocket for that one,” the medic replied. Murcan military medics were privatized, and they didn’t cover pre-existing conditions. They also didn’t provide free socialized medicine in the field, each soldier had to pay for his own treatment, because neither the military nor the government stole from the taxpayers in a display of efficient management. It worked very well, as medics offered various TraumaCare(TM) plans for their customers, allowing the government to cut taxes and save its citizens even more money - truly, the greatest combat care in the world! Cuntser reached into one of his countless tactical pockets and feebly produced a piece of burnt plastic. The medic clucked his tongue. “I’m sorry, we don’t accept FasterCard.”

“But my premium!” Cuntser shouted as blood frothed out of his mouth. The medic shook his head and applied a tourniquet to only one of Cuntser’s lost legs before crawling away, out of the line of fire, and leaving the other amputated limb to continue on bleeding. Cuntser looked at his untreated leg and started crying. He looked at Fisto desperately. “Sarge... tell my wife... I need money...”

“What a girl, no wonder his parents named him cunt,” Fisto muttered under his breath as he left the guy and bravely tried to find cover. He found it in a convenient rock, which he curled up and hid under.

“Move the Badleys to cover the doomvees, their armor can take those acid bullets!” Lt. Col. Bitch was ordering over the radio. The Badleys moved out, advancing towards the direction of the enemy fire and letting loose with their own auto-cannons and missile launchers. The emerald bolts were slamming on IFVs’ armors, melting the outer layers. These particular Badleys, like most X-COM vehicles, were modified with experimental layered composites and rated to withstand heavy damage - and so managed to hold up slightly better than the Doomvees. At least, until an enemy missile destroyed the leading Badley.

“Call for air support! Call for air support now!” the commander’s voice now had a hint of panic.

“We can’t, we’re being jammed! We’re trying to -” another missile streaked through the night and struck the Badley equipped with advanced communications equipment.

“Shit! Ma’am, our Badley can’t take any more of those acid bullets, we can’t move the turret and they melted the treads. We’ll be targets for those goddamn missiles!”

“Dismount!” the commander shouted, as the crew of the command vehicle disembarked and used their disabled vehicle for cover from the acid rounds. It wasn’t wise to stay too close to the downed Badley though, so the TURDS spread out to present harder targets.



“Fall back! Run, get to the doomvees!” the Lt. Col. commanded, she was attempting to suppress the enemy with her high-tech X-COM pulse rifle. “We’re moving towards phase line bravo then collapsing back along the approach route!”

The ASS TURDS and the National Guardsmen fell back. The remaining Badleys popped smoke to conceal their exit, reversing their courses while continuing to shoot back at the unseen enemies. The doomvees, shielded by the wall of IFVs, took the survivors and rolled out ahead of the Badleys, which covered them with autocannon fire. For the meanwhile, the pace of the enemy attacks seemed to slacken, the torrent of emerald bolts slowing down and the missiles slacking off. Maybe it was the smokescreen, or maybe they had no need to attack a retreating enemy.

“Move it or lose it!” Chet heard the Lieutenant Bitch say over the radio. “Go go go!”

“Shit! Wait!” Chet screamed. He was still hiding under the rock, and now the Badleys and doomvees were leaving him behind. “No! Come back! Don’t leave me! Nooooo!”

He fell to his knees and waved in futility at the departing convoy.

The emerald bolts and missiles finally ceased, and the X-COM operatives and the Guardsmen breathed sighs of relief in having survived the gauntlet. Their commander was trying to get the radio to work, to get through the jamming. They made it out alive, but something told her that it wasn’t over yet.

The humans are retreating.

What’s our ROE?

Humans dispensable. Kill everything that isn’t covered in fur.

Da. Use of tactical atomics authorized.

Acknowledged.

As the convoy made its escape down the long and winding mountain road, their passage triggered something buried beneath the ground. The device was a compact thing, barely 50 kilograms in weight and the size of a small fridge. Its passive-aggressive seismic sensors waited for the first vehicle to pass, and then the second, using the vibrations in the ground to compute just how many vehicles there where - and when the middle-most vehicle was about to pass over. It determined when it was under the exact center of the convoy, and then it initiated its micro-nuclear warhead.



Sergeant Chet Fisto watched night turned to day, and the X-COM and National Guard convoy turn into dust. The blastwave threw him like a rag doll, or rather a rag action figure, sending him flying through the air until he was reintroduced to terra firma. He fell to the ground, hitting his head on something.

Before he lost consciousness, Fisto caught a glimpse of a small group of towering brutes, silhouettes posessed of bearly physique, covered completely in fur. The last thing he heard were strange voices, guttural growls in an alien tongue he’d never heard of before. He also heard the unmistakable sound of laughter.

Of fucking laughter.



Next Sunday
Oho, Murca
Saint Murca’s Pentcostalinism Chapel of Jeebus

There was music and there was dancing in the church. For Murcans were a religious people, a god-fearing people, but also joyful people. Preacher Reverend Billy Biscuit Graham always said that your should praise the Lord with joy, and so there were always things going on in his church. There were no pews, no chairs, no - the people prayed while standing, prayed while dancing. They prayed for hours, sometimes days.

The preacher paced around the stage before the altar, microphone in hand, shouting at his congregation, “Say it with me, brothers and sisters! Say it with me now! Who is your savior?! Who delivered you from daaarkness? Say it!”

“JEEBUS!” the crowd chanted. “JEEBUS SAVES!”

“That’s right, my flock! That’s right! Who holds your hand every day? Who delivers answers others can’t? Who is the only light, the only way? Say it! Say it with me!”

“JEEBUS!” the crowd chanted yet again, “JEEBUS GUIDES!”

Joey Jojo danced with the crowds, reciting his prayers. He had been praying for two hours now, along with his son, Bobby Lee. The women prayed behind them, of course, so as to not distract the men from the glory of JEEBUS with their unclean feminine physiques.



The preacher suddenly held up a snake, “BROTHERS! Look upon the face of the DEEBIL! Look at that which tempted ROSLYN to seduce ADAMA!”

There was a gasp, as the music stopped all of a sudden, “Yes! The horrible visage! This beast, foulest of the foul, that made ROSLYN flash her body at ADAMA and corrupt his mind, so that man was thrown out of paradise! But fear not! For we have faith and thus look into the face of the DEEBIL with courage!”

The preacher’s assistants began throwing rattlesnakes at the congregation, and the music started again. The people in the crowd were now falling down in epileptic attacks, speaking in tongues, with terrified rattlesnakes slithering all over them, shaking their rattles. But they were trampled with ritualistic frenzy. Some people fell over from the bites, but were ignored.

“See the DEEBIL fall before us, brothers! See him trampled by our righteous feet! Pray, pray to JEEBUS that he bestows GRACE upon you! On your families! On our boys fighting His good fight in Pelania!”

“We pray! We pray! Save us, JEEBUS! Guide us, JEEBUS!”

Joey yelled with everyone. Suddenly, his son, little Bobby Lee, fell down to the floor and began thrashing about, babbling something in tongues.



“Abela kababa bakalakdaka mohhamad jihad! Mohhamad jihad!”, the boy yelled incomprehensibly. Joey lifted him up high above the crowd and bellowed, “Listen to him! Listen to JEEBUS speaking through my child!”

“Bomabstic fantastic! Durka durka boom shaka laka boombad general! Tooty fruity!”

People gathered around Bobby Lee. A guy was yelling at him in joy or psychotic rage - it was hard to tell, while another banged a fist on the boy’s chest while reciting the Scriptures. Joey was besides himself with joy - literally, for the chanting and music and yelling and a rattlesnake bite or two let him enter an otherworldly trance. He stood next to himself, watching his body froth at the mouth and yell at the church’s ceiling. He then floated, high above, above the world, towards the heavens... he saw things there, things beyond imagination. He saw talking bears and walking dead, he saw big-headed angels with gray skin and gigantic eyes, he saw black monoliths floating through space and giant clouds of mushroom shape above strange worlds.

“JEEBUS SAVES! OH JEEBUS Let us know your will through that child as you let your disciples hear you speak after being thrown off a cliff!” the preacher’s voice snapped Joey back to the then and there.

“OH JEEBUS!” the crowds chanted back.

“OH JEEBUS! Testify!” the pastor hollered.

Bobby Lee shrieked, “Like a virgin! Touched for the very first time!”

“Testify decently, boy! Speak like JEEBUS!”

“Meesa exiled! Meesa cast out! Meesa clumsy! A hidden city! Muy muy crunchy!”

“Yes, brothers! Hear the boy speak of exile, of terrible ordeals suffered by JEEBUS in the Swamp of Terrors! Where our Lord lived for four seasons, eating what nature gave him and praying!”

“Hallelujah!” someone shouted.

“Hallelujah!” the rest followed. “HAIL JEEBUS!”

“HAIL!” half the crowd went as they raised their fists.

“JEEBUS!” the rest replied, beating their chests.

The assistants now walked about in the crowd, collecting donations. It was easy, for the entranced, chanting crowds did not mind their wallets, so the assistants emptied them into large trash bags. Credit cards and cash soon swelled the bags with righteous wealth which would serve to further englorificate JEEBUS and pastor Billy Biscuit. The assistants also placed some rattlesnakes into the bags for good measure, ones that hadn’t had their venom sacs filled with LSD.

“Brothers! Close your eyes and PRAY TO JEEBUS!” Reverend Billy Biscuit commanded his flock. They followed his Holy Word and closed their eyes, but most of them were simply too exhausted to actually do any praying, and just passed out either from over-exertion or the drugged rattlesnake venom. Suddenly it was very quiet, but not for long. The sound of helicopter rotors could be heard from inside the chapel, and the double-doors opened as a black-suited man entered the church.

“Reverend Biscuit,” it was a man from the Sovereignest Service, an SS man. “You are needed on the Hill. The Sovereignest Citizen would like to have a prayer with you.”

“I see. Where the Lord calls, I will follow. Come, my child,” the reverend nodded and went with the man, leaving his comatose congregation and boarding the helicopter outside. They departed for the Hill.

A few hours later, Joey Jojo crawled back to his feet, groggily, dizzy with the whole world spinning around his throbbing head. As the other churchgoers left the building, so did he, staggering outside and getting in his truck. After cleansing his sins on church, Joey felt like he needed to go back home to get a beer and have some smokes. Yeah.



He drove away, despite the nagging feeling that he forgot something. No matter, nothing was ever lost in the House Of The Lord, he’d just come back to pick up whatever it was next week. He went out of the pristine gated community owned by Pastor Biscuit, who was very rich since the free market copiously rewarded his godliness. Then he got to the public roads, which were no longer being maintained by taxpayer money stolen by the socialists. The road was bumpy, but that was why he was riding on a Frod pickup truck. A sportscar, some fancy rich wiener’s BDSMW passed him by, but he didn’t mind. His throat was too hoarse from shouting praises to Jeebus to scream obscenities at the guy who overtook him.

Eventually they stopped at a toll booth operated by the gangs who now owned the road by exercising their Second Amendment rights. Everyone had to pay a fee for driving through what was now their private property. Joey Jojo noticed that the graffiti on the toll booth were painted over by new ones, and the tollers were wearing bandannas with new colors and waving different signs with their hands. They must’ve staged a hostile takeover on the last guys who operated the tolls. The free market at work: Joey was told by Blenn Geck last night that this was how the tolls went down, while quality of service went up!

Joey Jojo stopped behind the BDSMW.

“Hey, hey, hey. Nice car, holmes!” one of the toll boothers said to the BDSMW’s driver, waving a FAC-10 around like it was nobody’s business. Joey Jojo felt a bit nervous as he watched, but reminded himself that it was the man’s Second Amendment right to own any weapon he pleased and wave it around in public, especially at town hall meetings. This was not pussy-ass Algeira anymore, in Murca men were truly free to intimidate their fellow men, particularly those less manly men, like women and homobortionists. “Can we take it for a ride, yeah?”

“No, this is my private property. I’m not gonna let you poor people borrow it around like some socialist,” the rich snob in the BDSMW said. Turned out he had a vanity plate too, Joey just noticed. Prick.

“Huh? Well, ya know what they say, no means yes, homey. Especially for women. Are you a woman, homes?” the boother asked. His friends were going around the BDSMW, eyeing it closely and greedily. “Say, dis is a BDSMW, ain’t it? Why you don’t buy Murcan, mang? Why you buy some fancy Thanasian car?”

“Fuck off, you damned dirty Mohicans,” the BDSMW driver spat. He revved his engines and prepared to make his escape, while pressing an emergency button on his company cell phone.

“Don’tcha know them Thanasians are a big bunch of socialists? They’re right beside Zenobia, holmes. You have a socialist car! We don’t like it, holmes. You better get rid of it.”

“You fucking idiot!” another gangster spat at his friend. “You’re not supposed to say the name Zenobia, goddamn it! Oh shit, now look what you made me do! Argh!”

“TRAITORS!” a third gangster came up behind them and shot them both with a Puzi submachine gun.

As they screamed and splattered blood all over the BDSMW, the rich bastard tried to take advantage of the gang’s fratricide. He stepped on the gas and crashed into the toll booth, but the cunning entrepreneurs manning it had foreseen such folly and laid out some tire spikes. Joey watched as the guy spinned out of control and crashed into a tree. The fine examples of Murcan patriots then dragged him out and shot him in the head. Then they threw him into a ditch beisde the road.

“Some repairs and it will be good as new!” one of them proclaimed upon inspecting the BDSMW. “It wasn’t very useful on these roads anyway. Gotta add some upgrades.”

Another one of them approached Joey Jojo, since he was next in line after the BDSMW.

“Yo, mang! Toll rate’s gone up cuz’ of maintenance fees!” the boother said, on account of the BDSMW having just wrecked their booth. “Pay up, pal.”

Joey Jojo reached into his pants and felt for his pocket. He felt something thick and hard, but realized that it wasn’t his wallet. The ganger eyed him suspiciously as he stuck his other hand into his pants to look for his wallet.

“Oh shit, I must’ve left it at the church...” Joey sputtered. He knew he had forgotten something. Oh shit.

“Hmm... then I guess we gotta impound your car, man. Step outta the vehicle,” the boother brandished his Puzi menacingly.

“No way, man.” Joey replied defiantly. “I paid for this truck with my goddamn money. That I earned! Surely you understand the value of the dollar, right?”

“We do. That’s why we gonna take the car,” the man pulled the Frod’s door open. “Get out or I’ll take you out!”

“Fuck you!” Joey’s hands, still in his pants, reached for the thick and hard thing inside it. He was gonna show this asshole his Second Amendment rights, up close and personal. He whipped his thing out and shoved it at the boother’s face. “Eat this, motherfucker!”

Joey Jojo drew his gun, but he forgot that he had pawned his gun to get some cash for his startup fertilizer business...



...so he ended up pulling out a northern diamondbutt rattlesnake from his pants instead, must’ve slithered into his trousers back in church. The snake whipped out of his hands and sank its fangs into the toll booth operator’s throat.

“OH JEEBUS!” the ganger screamed as the venom went into his arteries and then into his brain, crossing the blood-brain barrier to fill his skull with deadly neurotoxin. He started to foam in the mouth while flailing his arms in feebilitude. “OH JEEBUS!”

Joey Jojo realized that the guy must’ve been from the same church as he was. He swore he heard that voice back when they were singing praises, but now he was taking the Lord’s name in vain. Whatever. Joey slammed his door shut and stomped on the accelerator, going off-road with his Frod pickup and avoiding the spikestrip the assholes had laid in the pavement.

Unlike the BDSMW, Joey’s pickup was more suited to the incredibly fluid environment of the free market, and thus managed to circumvent the booth with ease. A few rounds plinked through the truck’s body, adding to the collection of bullet holes it had collected over the years. Joey glanced at his mirror, and saw the gangers get into their own vehicles to chase him.

Suddenly, though, four black SUVs passed him from the opposite direction. They stopped by the side of the road and opened up with their roof-mounted Mama Gooses. Joey recognized the logo the cars carried - that of Buttwater Tacticool Solutions, a popular mercenary company providing security services to all Murcans. They made quick work of the gangbangers, and began dragging and cuffing those who had survived.

The rich guy must’ve been employed by a corporation, which would now take its compensation from the gangbangers in the form of forced labor. Joey didn’t care, though, as long as they left him alone. He tuned to his favorite radio station and whistled all the way home, while listening to Benn Geck.

“You know, we all have our inner demons. I, for one - I can't speak for you, but I'm on the verge of moral collapse at any time. It can happen by the end of the show. You know why that is? Because of progressives! Progressivism is what had almost destroyed our Constipitution. It was designed to destroy the Constipitution by the lieberals! I am telling you...”

“We interrupt this program to bring you troubling news. We have just been informed that a Murcan patrol in Pelania was attacked with nyukyular weapons while scouring the border with Ayrak for fleeing terrorists. We will give you more information as the story develops.”



Washingtoff, Murca
The Hill
Hours later

“The hell?!” Chinny said, slamming the report on his desk. “Nuked?”

“Yes, sir,” there were many, many generals sitting across the table from him. They were all in the Sovereignest Citizen’s office, alone - as Shrubya was away praying with his closest advisor, Reverend Billy Biscuit Graham. “Everything is in the folder. We managed to get one survivor from the area after we brought in air support.”

“Survivor? Who? Where? Have you debriefed him? What did he say? I wan to speak to him!” Chinny spat out in rapid succession. What most of the gathered officers thought was fear and anger was in fact a show of glee. Nyukes! In Pelania! Near the Ayraki border! The perfect excuse to freedomize another country!

“We debriefed him very thoroughly. You might know him, sir - it’s sergeant Chet Fisto, you gave him a medal a few months back for apprehending Barri’Bama.”

“Hah! If anybody could survive a nuke attack by terrorists, it’s that fine young man! Bring him in! Right now!”

A mortally terrified aide hurriedly called in somebody from the waiting room. Thick Chinny was rubbing his hands together, already anticipating the march of freedom through the area... first Pelania, now Ayrak... then, who knows? Maybe even Zenobia!

He was surprised when two men walked in, instead of one. One was obviously superior, for he was wearing a uniform of the proud armed forces of Murca, while the other was skinny and wearing glasses like a goddamned intellectual.

“Who the hell is that?” Chinny growled at the unexpected intruder.

“Uh,” the skinny man adjusted his glasses nervously “My name is Hands Bricks, I am a nuclear specialist working for Specific Atomics...I was called in as a consultant...”



“Oh, fine, whatever. Sergeant Fisto!” Chinny’s face actually took on a joyful expression, which was pretty painful. “You are truly a fine patriot! Only a true Murcan could survive such treachery and live to tell the tale! Give him a chair!” He yelled at the terrified subordinate “Please, sit down. Describe what happened out there.”

“Thank you, sir!” Fisto sat down heavily, handing his crutches to the nuclear physicist. “Here hold them ya sissy.”

The soldier cleared his throat, “We were on a joint patrol with a special unit from COLON, which we were assigned to as protection... my men were supposed to take a major terrorist fortress in the mountains and hand off the prisoners to the TURDS for interrogation...”

A general shifted uneasily, as if he wanted to say something. Chinny glared at him so that he wouldn’t interrupt.

“...we approached the objective and came under heavy fire while storming the fortress. Despite a ten to one numerical superiority we managed to work out way about halfway to the main objective before a shell struck the vehicle carrying the TURDS... I ordered my men to fall back and carried out the wounded on my own back.”

“Dear God, soldier!”, Chinny was obviously impressed. The general who shifted uneasily had a strange expression on his face. Fisto smiled smugly. He’d get another fucking medal for that, no thanks to Colonel Bitch and her stupid soldiers.

“After moving all the wounded to safety we resumed our attack. I personally led the assault. Despite heavy fire we managed to clear the walls of enemy presence, and then we noticed we were not being fired upon by Pelanian terrorists, but someone else entirely!”

“Who did you see?” Chinny listened with great interest. Yes! Yes! He knew exactly what Fisto was going to say!

“Well, I am not sure, sir, but I think they were Ayraki regulars!”

Yes!

“Describe them, sergeant. Why did you think they were Ayraki?” the disgusted general managed to butt in. Chinny glared at him again and made a mental note to deal with the troublemaker later.

“Well, sir... it was pretty obvious. They wore furs, were very tall and spoke like animals, sir.”

The troublemaking general and Bricks exchanged shocked looks. Chinny didn’t seem to mind.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, to everybody’s further confusion. “You are indeed correct!”

“Uh, sir, but Ayrakis are not actually fur-covered animal like beasts...” the nuclear physicist tried feebly to protest. The general gave him a fearful wide-eyed look and waved his hands, trying to stop him. “They dress differently from us, yes, and wear turbans and beards, but...”

“What the fuck? Who the fuck asked you, brainiac?” Chinny yelled. “You’re a nyukyular lieberal intellectual so shut up and only speak when spoken to!”

“What he said! We don’t call Ayrakis and their kind carpet badgers for no reason!” Fisto added. “Anyway, we almost won, but then they nuked us. I tried to rip the bomb from their commander’s hands but he detonated it before I could do that. Unfortunately, I was the only one to survive.”

Everyone looked at Fisto with eyes wide open and mouths slightly agape. Even the general, who seemed like he couldn’t control himself anymore.

“Jeebus,” the general groaned. “Of all the things I’ve heard in my life. That’s gotta be the most - ”

“Patriotic act of bravery ever,” Thick Chinny gasped in realization, nodding his head vigorously at the general in mistaken agreement. “Sgt. Fisto, you’re a true blue all-Murcan hero. General, get this man a medal.”

“What?” the general sputtered incredulously.

“Any medal will do!” Thick Chinny declared. “Why, this looks good enough!”

He reached out to the general and plucked one of his many decorations from his chest, transferring it to Chesto’s chest. The National Guardsman beamed proudly, thrusting his nipples out like as if they were tied to a pair of charging bull elephants.

“My God, you look dashing, Sergeant. Why, I’ll personally take head of your debriefing,” Chinny chuckled. “Then we can go have some cocktails. After we punish Ayrak for attacking us with WMDs, of course.”

“Sir, that’s ridiculous,” the physicist said what many people in the room were thinking. Silence fell inside the office, with Chinny and Fisto glaring at the insolent bastard.

“I thought I said you were supposed to keep yer mouth shut!”

“I am sorry sir, but that’s the truth. Sample analysis shows the bomb had a yield of about six kilotons, and was very clean. Ayrak has no capability to produce clean, portable devices with such a small yield, because it doesn’t have any nuclear capabilities at all, and sergeant Fisto’s description of how the bomb could be hand-held...”

“Are you calling me a liar?!” Fisto rose from his chair, suddenly not needing the crutches “You better not be calling me a liar!”

“Maybe not a liar, per se...” Bricks adjusted his glasses “Just misguided. Perhaps you are misremembering, or...”

“You fucking prick, I’m a veteran! When you wear this country’s uniform for as long as I have maybe you could talk down to me like that! I’m a soldier and deserve respect, you scum!”

“With all respect due to a man of your station and obvious intellect...” the physicist was pretty nervous, but had apparently decided to bet everything on one card “...you don’t possess any detailed knowledge in this area, and...”

Chinny didn’t hear anything more, for he was boiling inside at the sheer audacity that stinking lieberal intellectual displayed in questioning the word of a soldier. It was too bad he was employed by Specific Atomics... those damned companies protected their lieberal employees as if they needed them for anything! If Chinny owned that firm he’d fire the bastard and throw him in a pit with other lieberals. He’d throw them scraps and make them fight each other for food! And if their elitist ivory tower knowledge turned out to be necessary somehow, they snap a collar on one and drag him out...

Wait though Chinny, having remembered something I do own that company!

“...so while your deeds might indeed have been heroic, I spent twenty years working on nuclear weapons and, forgive me for saying, daresay I know a little bit more than you!”

“Enough!’ Chinny growled. “Mr. Bricks, you are fired! Fired, I say!” the Almost Sovereignest Citizen yelled, and then commanded an SS Man standing next to the exit. “Throw him in the pit!”

“Uh, excuse me, sir... I don’t think we have a pit...” the terrified aide reminded him cautiously.

“Then dig one!”

“Now wait just a minute!”, Hands Bricks tried to protest, but the SS man had already grabbed him. A pistol-whip later, the physicist was dragged out of the office.

“Now, gentlemen... let us discuss the issue of the Ayraki nyukyular attack on our brave troops, and our retaliatory options!”

“Shouldn’t we wait on the Sovereignest Citizen before making a policy decision, sir?” the secretary of state, that goddamned legalistic prick, observed. Chinny growled at him, making the man cower in his chair. “Or maybe not...” he feebly added.

“Good. Now that’s taken care of, allow me to present our grand plan for the liberation of Ayrak!”

Chinny proudly extracted a folder from his drawer - obviously a document long in the making, but only consisting of one page.

“Here it is. We should go in and abolish Ayrak’s government... dissolve the army, pull down the statues... yes, the statues are important... and the people will be free to do whatever we want them to do!”

The generals looked at each other in confused silence.

“So? What do y’all think?”

“Uh, we thought there’d be something more?”

“No, that’s it. I mean, Ayrakis will obviously love us for freeing them! They may be subhuman brutish animals, but deep down under every sand digger is a Murcan trying to get out! Freedom will make them turn into white middle-class Murcans!”

A general took the piece of paper. There was more silence, then confused whispers. Somebody mentioned how much money they could drag out of the budget to finance that one. Another general mentioned he could sure use a bunch of new airplanes.

“The plan needs a little fleshing out, but it is otherwise excellent!” they finally declared.

Chinny growled again “No! It is perfect! No fleshing out needed! Get the orders drafted! Now!”

The generals gave up the fight. “The Sovereignest Citizen will get the first operational orders tomorrow.” they said.

I should be getting the first operational orders tomorrow. Chinny grinded his teeth but suppressed his rage.

“Good! You are smart men! Meeting adjourned, tah. You know where the doors are.” Chinny slapped his forehead. “Oh yeah I think we should reward our brave sergeant here for his heroics!”

Chet Fisto beamed with pride again, and grinned smugly. “Anything for Murca, sir!”

“Yes! You will have the honor of being the first Murcan to invade Ayrak! Gentlemen, give the sergeant here a parachute and put him on the first plane to Ayrak!”

“What?!” Fisto gasped.

“You heard me!” Chinny slapped Fisto on the butt good-naturedly, being a former wrestler back in the day, and sometimes fantasizing about his glory days back in the showers and locker rooms with all the other boys. Chinny sighed happily. “Go ‘git ‘em, tiger.”

Chet Fisto whimpered, but it seemed to have gone unnoticed. A general with a medal missing from his chest placed an arm around Fisto’s shoulders and led him away with a knowing smile.

After the generals left, there was a sound of a toilet flushing. A cleverly concealed side door opened and in walked Gorge VW. Shrubya, the Sovereignest Citizen, with a folded newspaper under his arm.

“Oh, hey Chinny. Did I miss something?”

“We’re gonna invade Ayrak. Weren’t you supposed to be off praying with Biscuit Graham?”

“Well, yeah, but I had to go poopsie. Invade Ayrak, huh? Golly, what did they do?”

“Well, we established without question it was they who nyuked our troops. And Ayrak is an offence to freedom and apple pie.”

“Fair enough. Say, I’m gonna be busy tomorrow morning, gonna go to a pre-school and read some pop-up books to some kids. I love pop-ups. Would you like to get the first operational orders for the invasion tomorrow, Chinny?” Shrubya asked pleadingly. He had scheduled the visit to the pre-school months ago and had been looking forward to it so much.



“Oh,” Chinny grinned, exposing his fangs. “It’d be a pleasure, Gorge.”

[Shroom Man 777]

pezook: man i'll never be able to attend an american SDN meet

[PeZook]

"My fellow citizens. At this hour, Murcan and coalition forces are in the early stages of military operations to disarm Ayrak, to free its people and to defend the world from grave danger.

"On my orders, coalition forces have begun striking selected targets of military importance to undermine Mahmud Jihad's ability to wage war. These are opening stages of what will be a broad and concerted campaign.

"More than 35 countries are giving crucial support from the use of naval and air bases to help with intelligence and logistics to deployment of combat units.

"Every nation in this coalition has been coerced to bear the duty and share the honour of serving in our common defence.



"To all the men and women of the Murcan armed forces now in the Middle West, the peace of a troubled world and the hopes of an oppressed people now depend on you. That trust is well placed.

"The enemies you confront will come to know your skill and bravery. The people you liberate will witness the honourable and decent spirit of the Murcan military.

"In this conflict Murca faces an enemy that has no regard for conventions of war or rules of morality.

"Mahmud Jihad has placed Ayraki troops and equipment in civilian areas, attempting to use innocent men, women and children as shields for his own military. A final atrocity against his people.



"I want Murcans and all the world to know that coalition forces will make every effort to spare innocent civilians from harm.

"A campaign on the harsh terrain of the nation as large as Cunnyfornia could be longer and more difficult than some predict and helping Ayrakis achieve a united, stable and free country will require our sustained commitment.

"We come to Ayrak with respect for its citizens, for their great civilisation and for the religious faiths they practise.

"We have no ambition in Ayrak except to remove a threat and restore control of that country to its own people.

"I know that the families of our military are praying that all those who serve will return safely and soon.



"Millions of Murcans are praying with you for the safety of your loved ones and for the protection of the innocent.

"Our nation enters this conflict reluctantly, yet our purpose is sure. The people of Murca and our friends and allies will not live at the mercy of an outlaw regime that threatens the peace with weapons of mass murder.

"We will meet that threat now with our army, air force, navy, coastguard and marines so that we do not have to meet it later with armies of firefighters and police and doctors on the streets of our cities.

"Now that conflict has come, the only way to limit its duration is to apply decisive force and I assure you this will not be a campaign of half measures and we will accept no outcome but victory.



"My fellow citizens, the dangers to our country and the world will be overcome. We will pass through this time of peril and carry on the work of peace. We will defend our freedom. We will bring freedom to others and we will prevail.

"May Jeebus bless our country and all who defend her."

***

Somewhere over the Ayrak-Pelania border

SGT Chet Fisto, Murcan National Guard was about to get rewarded for his heroism. The reward included a thirty kilogram backpack, a weapon and an express ride into Ayrak, where a war was going on - a just war to freedomize the people there.

Chet Fisto loved to freedomize people, especially if they were brown people who couldn’t defend themselves. Ayrakis, though? They were three meter tall man-beasts who suvived by eating scorpions and poisonous snakes. They even had nyukyular weapons!

Chet Fisto was not a man easily scared, or at least he liked to think himself as such. And right now, he was scared out of his fucking mind.

A red light came on over the door. The general sitting across from Fisto stood up with a smug grin on his face. He was still wearing his dress uniform, with a prominent empty spot on his chest where a medal was missing.

“We’re almost there, soldier!”, the general said as unreassuringly as he could manage, “Time for you to show these Ayrakis what’s what!”

“Wasn’t I supposed to be part of a team? Some special forces whatnot?”

The general’s grin somehow got even wider, “But you are! The 1st Very Special Operations Batallion! Unfortunately the entry requirements are very strigent, so you’re the only member. What can I say, you make war with the army you have, not the army you want.”

“You fucker!”, Chet Fisto spat in the general’s face, “This is a setup! The Almost Sovereignest Citizen will hear of this! Just you fucking wait, you...”

Fisto did not finish his screed, for the green light went on, and the general personally shoved him out of the airplane. As the greatest Murcan hero plummeted to the ground, trying frantically to figure out how to open his parachute, he could almost hear someone yell after him.

“Say hello to Mahmud Jihad from me, shithead!”



Somewhere in Western Ayrak
Two weeks later

Freedom was hard work. Chet Fisto knew as much. But, as he had just found out, he ain’t seen nothing yet. Ayrak was opposed to freedom on a fundamental level. The zeitgeist of its existential imperative was thoroughly directed against the common forms of Murcan perceptions of reality.

Or something. The sun was getting to his brain, which was shrivelling up from the dehydration. SGT Fisto has miraculously managed to land after being shoved out of the airplane, despite never having trained with parachutes before. He planted a flag in Ayraki soil and declared mission accomplished, just to show up that smug general that whatever the system threw at him, he still was a True Murcan, overcoming all adversity with rugged self-reliance and Murcan ingenuity.

Unfortunately, the Ayrak-Pelania border ran through the middle of a desert. Returning to base was kinda difficult. He’d call for extraction, but somebody forgot to provide him with radio batteries.

After a few days, the good sergeant ran out of water. He knew, of course, that is has been adequately demonstrated by animal research, most mammals are capable of survival without food for much longer period than without water. Lack of hydration led to many severe health effects. His own research proved that consumption of bodily fluids could be used to extend survival times in critical situations...

Suddenly Fisto was glad for his degree in alternative homeopathic medicine. Lieberal lies had their uses, apparently, as vile as they were. But where to find bodily fluids to consume? In two weeks of marching through the frying pan, panting and sweating and eating his own shoelaces (because somebody forgot to pack him food as well. The pack he was lugging contained 25 kilograms of Mama Googe sixty-cal rounds and 5 kilos of spare shoelaces), the nearest he found was a slightly bloodstained helmet. He still licked it clean, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough!

Many species of land animals native to the desert developed capabilities to survive without food or water for extended periods of time. If he could only find one, Fisto could use his extensive knowledge of zoology to extract precious bodily fluids from it! But first he’d... just... rest... a bit...

Before the greatest Murcan hero collapsed, his deranged and shrivelling brain had heard the strangest sound ever.

“MOOOO!!!!”

He raised his head, which he was just about to lay on the magnificent, soft, white pillow which somehow found its way to this place. And saw... a land animal adapted to life in the desert!



“MOOOOOOO!”, went the supple beast. It was tied to a stick in the ground, which made it an excellent source of... bodily fluids.

Fisto licked his cracked lips and cocked his Armalyte. Yes... he would feast soon!

No! Wait!, his brain screamed, If you shoot it, you will only get enough supplies for a brief time. You should take it with you and use it as a constant source of fluids!

“But how to extract them, brain? How to extract bodily fluids from a living animal without killing it?”

Why... it has a natural release valve! Go find it!

STG Fisto leapt from his concealed position and approached the animal in a hull-down posture, scanning his firing sector for enemy combatants. Ready to deliver fire from defilade, he slowly reached up and began groping the surprised animal between the legs until he found what he was looking for.

Yes! Now drink! Drink as much as you can!

He squeezed. The beast looked down, hanging its head upside down to see what the strange man was doing. Fisto shook and pulled and squeezed vigorously but nothing came out. Nothing! Then he realized what he was doing, after the animal made a funny but satisfied face.

“No! NO! BRAIN! How could you have lied to me?! It’s not a release valve! That’s a motherfucking penis!”

His own brain turned against him, trying to turn Chet Fisto, proud Murcan, into a zoophilliac hombortionist! No! It had to be punished!

“I am going to kill you, brain!”

You can’t do that, the brain answered, You need me!

“No I don’t! I’m a Murcan, we are self-reliant and don’t need brains!”

I dare ya to try., the brain mocked him. Chet grabbed a rock and stared at it threateningly.

“How’s that, huh?”, he hit it with his forehead, “Want more, you fucker? Take that!”, he yelled again and hit his head several more times. He suddenly felt dizzy. Blood oozed slowly down his face. He smacked himself one more time.

As he passed out, he could hear his brain laughing. Fuckin’ laughing.

I can do whatever I want to you, fucker.

Chet Fisto collapsed into a slowly growing pool of his own blood.



Oho, Murca
Roach City Motel
Some two weeks earlier

Joey was watching a football game, drinking proper Murcan drinks like cheap beer mixed with steak gravy and alcohol-enriched wine from gallon-sized plastic bottles, when somebody knocked on the door to his room.

The fuck do they want?! he thought angrily. It was late at night, and a man was entitled to some rest after a hard day praying at church and running away from honest enterprising young men trying to steal his car. He yelled a bunch of obscenities after tripping on the empty beer cans and opened the door.

His wife glared at him in the corridor. She was soaked to the bone, the proper body-covering dress dirty and muddy.

“What is it, woman?!” Joey yelled, “Why aren’t you in the kitchen?!”

“You left us at church, Joey! We had to walk sixteen miles!”

“Don’t mouth off! Back to the kitchen! And clean yourself up, you look disgusting!”

“SIXTEEN MILES, Joey! I’ve had enough! You’re pulling this all the time! If you can’t take care of your family, then maybe...”

Joey slapped her, before she said something she would regret. Mary Jane was a fine woman, good proud Murcan housewife, but she just didn’t know when to shut the fuck up. Joey had to take that responsibility upon himself, by making her shut up in those times. Mary Jane wasn’t like those stupid whores who couldn’t keep a man, oh no. Thanks to Joey! He was proud of how he ran this family. There was so much love here.

But his son, his own blood, shocked him by yelling, “Dad! What are you doing?!”

“Shut up, son, or you’re next!”

“Stop hurting mom! It’s you fault, anyway! You forgot us!”

“I said SHUT UP! MARY JANE, to the kitchen, NOW!”

The woman left the room, weeping softly and holding her face. At least she would remember the lesson. But a teacher’s work is never done - another lesson had to be made. Joey grabbed his son’s ear.

“You’re going to complain and whine like a little girl, huh? Oh, what is it, I had to walk sixteen miles? In my day, I had to walk fifty miles just to get to work, uphill both ways!”

“Dad! It hurts, let me go!”

“No! You are a whiner, and whiners don’t prosper! You need to man up, son! Daddy forgot his wallet at church, you will go and fetch it for him!”

“What? Dad, it’s dark and it’s raining!”

“SHUT UP YOU LITTLE BASTARD!”, Joey yelled at his son. He loved him, very much, but he really needed some discipline and self-reliance to become a truly manly Murcan man, “You will not question my authority! Move it, the day’s not getting any younger!”

Joey slammed the door shut in his son’s face. Yes, he loved his family, but they needed a lot of tough love, too. For their own good.

He made sure Billy Lee wasn’t standing in the corridor and instead doing what his father ordered like a good Murcan boy. After that, he finished watching the game, put his jacket on and grabbed a crowbar. He yelled towards the kitchen.

“Mary Jane, I have something to take care of. I want the house spotless after I get back!”

He heard nothing, which was good. The woman knew her place!

Satisfied, Joey went outside. It was getting dark, which suited him just fine. The dark covered the activities he undertook to raise revenue for his fertilizer business from prying eyes - those of lieberal hippies who could not take their life in their own two hands and make something of themselves. For Joey Jojo came up with a plan, a plan of his own making.

He stalked towards a small single-story house not far from the motel, vaulting the fence with ease. The home’s owner, Joey made sure to learn, had not employed the services of the local police company. He didn’t even have a dog! Nor a gun! Dirty commie probably didn’t even drink beer, so he deserved anything that happened to him. The cops would burn his house down soon enough, anyway. It would be a shame for all those goods to go to waste.

Joey went around the back, making sure to destroy some of the owner’s flowers as he did so. Only pussies grew flowers, and Joey was no pussy. He showed these little stupid green plants what was what. Feeling a bit heavy on the bladder after watching his game, he also gave them a little sprinkle just to mark his territory. That would show them!

“Teeheeheeheeehee!” He giggled as he used a door mat to get the crushed petals off his shoes.

But the time for fun was over. Joey stuck his crowbar below the window frame and forced it open before clambering through. He grabbed something in the dark, pulling down a shelfload of whiskey bottles and making them crash and break on the floor with tremendous noise. He then slipped, hitting his head badly on a couch and began to curse really loud. The owner’s canary also began making noise.

Then the lights came on. The home’s owner was standing there in a towel wrapped around his waist, yelling.

“The fuck?! Get the fuck out before I call the police!”

“Hah!” Joey screamed and tried to stand up, but slipped on the spilled whiskey and fell down again. It took him a few more moments to get up. “You don’t have an account with the police! I checked”

“Fuck you! I’ll just pay them out of pocket!”, the guy yelled and went for his phone. Joey froze - he didn’t think about that!

“No wait stop!” he tried to protest but slipped again, falling to his knees right on a broken bottle. The owner grabbed a phone and began dialing a number. He let go of his towel in the process, which fell to the ground exposing the entirety of his private parts. His penis!

“AAAAGH!” Joey shrieked in horror and grabbed the nearest broken bottle. He threw it at the guy, who was now talking with the local police company “Filthy homobortionist! Get your dick away or I’ll take it away!”

“Police? Some psycho just broke in and - YEEAAAAAUUURRRGH!” the bottle hit his crotch, and Joey was right behind it, waving his crowbar around. The bleeding naked guy staggered and looked down to see blood pouring down his groin. “YOU STABBED ME IN THE DICK!”

Those were his last words, as the next thing he saw was a crowbar going inside his eyesocket. Joey had to be absolutely sure the filthy pervert wouldn’t flash anybody else ever. He had to think of the children! The children who might one day see this vile beast’s penis! Who would get irreversibly homobortionized by the sight!

Blood spurted on the walls, bone fragments of the crushed skull scattered around the living room. The pervert protested feebly, but nothing could stop Joey’s righteous rage.

Well, nothing except an armored FriendlyPol SUV screeching to a halt in front of the house, right on the stomped-on flower bed. FriendlyPol was one of the leading security companies in this part of town - in fact, the only one, if you knew what was good for you. Other companies could never protect their customers as well as FriendlyPol: in fact, the competition’s customers were often burglarized or murdered in mysterious circumstances, so anyone with a brain went FriendlyPol.

The heavily armed officers knocked on the door right before C4ing them open to prevent evidence from being flushed. They stormed inside tacticooly, shot the canary to prevent injury to officers and finally saw Joey viciously desecrating the body of a naked man.

“FriendlyPol! We serve and protect with a smile! On the ground!” the leading officer yelled, pointing a gun at Joey - a gun with a little yellow smiley face painted around the muzzle. It was part of the corporate visual identity scheme.

Joey frothed at the mouth, but complied. The officers cuffed him and searched the house, only picking Joey up after it was deemed clear.

“So what the fuck happened here?”, the senior officer asked, while the other consulted the FriendlyPol database with his personal computer.

Joey frother and shook in righteous anger. “That fucker flashed his privates at me!”, he spat at the officer.

“And what were you doing here, huh? Murdering people? You like to do that, eh?”

“Why, I was, uh...” Joey began thinking very quickly for an excuse. That wasn’t right! The owner was not a paying customer! They shouldn’t be investigating!

“Hey man, this guy is not our paying customer,” the other officer said, having finished his database search.

“Oh. Fuck him, then.”, the officer let Joey go, “Why was he naked, anyway? The fucking pervert! It’s obviously self-defence from a sex offender. Goddamn homobortionists, running around everywhere. Good job, citizen!”

Joey sighed with relief that the police saw reason.

But the senior officer on the scene wasn’t done. “But that does leave with the issue of compensation for this intervention, doesn’t it?”

Joey scratched his head. “Uh... how about this widescreen TV?”

The officers checked out the dead man’s huge and expensive television, whispered for a bit and then agreed. They signed a quick agreement with Joey, who was now obviously the owner of all the stuff in the house by virtue of seizing it with violence, and drove off with their new piece of electronics.

Satisfied, Joey spat on the corpse and teabagged him just like what he always did in those ‘interactive digital military tacticool training simulations’, before proceeding to ransack the house to his cholesterol-clogged heart’s content.

He turned on the radio while he was doing that - and heard the horriblest piece of news.

“No! THE BASTARD!” Joey screamed in impotent rage.



Washingtoff, the Hill
Murca, Almera

“The fucker! The traitorous shitheaded shitpiece of a lieberal terrorist sympathizer!”, Thick Chinny was thrown the vilest, foulest curses he could think of towards Private Freedom Class Badley Girling, a young soldier who released some very embarrassing documents onto the Tubenet.

“Is it really so bad, sir?” Chinny’s aide managed to say without shaking in fear. “I mean, it’s just some soldiers goofing off...”

“What?!” Chinny rose from his desk, steam puffing from his ears, “What the fuck are you saying? Those were classified documents! CLASSIFIED! For the eyes of only the highest ranking commanders! You fucker, don’t you know the government must operate in secrecy? Otherwise the terrorists win!”

Shrubya cocked his head and interrupted the Almost Sovereignest Citizen. “Now wait just a minute Chinny, secrecy? Golly, we were supposed to be straightforward good ol’ boys! Honest and true like Honest Saint Murcan!”

“But we are honest, Mr. Sovereignest Citizen!” Chinny replied after getting over the shock such a poignant question caused. Shrubya was becoming too smart for his own good, he couldn’t stay the Sovereignest for long, Chinny knew he had to move fast. “We are honestly obscuring those images so that the terrorists don’t win!”

The aide couldn’t take it anymore and inadvertedly blurted out, “But why? How does this help the terrorists?!”

Chinny hissed at his aide and exposed his fangs. “You better shut your mouth. You shut your mouth right THE FUCK NOW or I swear to Jeebus you’re gonna be sorry.”

A puff of smoke came out of Chinny’s nostrils as he was saying that. The aide shook in sheer horror and nodded meekly, forgetting all about his feeble girly protests.

“That’s right boy, you listen to the good man,” Shrubya nodded vigorously, seemingly oblivious to what just happened. He was watching a brief video, one of many released by Private Girling. “Golly, Chinny, those really are embarrassing! Are those boys naked here? Why are they hugging each other like that?”

“You see, Mr. Sovereignest? The Ayraki terrorists could see this and be given aid and comfort in watching our young and precious boys like that! Private Girling gave aid and comfort to the enemy! He’s a traitor! A FUCKING TRAITOR!”

Even Shrubya was starting to feel righteous anger growing in his pants. Those sweet supple innocent boys, exposing their muscular bodies over dead Ayrakis and Pelanians! They’d be ruined by those pictures, ruined!

With his anger straight and rigid and ready for action, Shrubya slammed his fist on the desk, “No! I want Girling tried and found guilty! We can’t have such filth circulating freely about our glourious armed forces!”

Chinny slid a document under Shrubya’s ready and willing hand, “Sign right here, Mr. Sovereignest Citizen. Right here, and we will deal with the troublemaker.”

“We shouldn’t deal with him! We should kill him!” Shrubya blurted out. “He must not win at any cost. Where are his family members? Why are they not on fire?”

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” Chinny said grinding his fangs. “He obviously deserves to die. The others can come later.”

“Good! I’ll sign it!”

“Good!”

There was a pause.

“Here’s your pen.”

“Oh. Thanks”

Chinny hid the signed death sentence in his briefcase. The aide then brought up other items on today’s agenda, but none as important as the Girling Leak. There was a hurricane that blew away a coastal city, but it was full of poor people and thus not important, just a plantation full of (not-sand) diggers. Besides, the government shouldn’t deal with natural disasters, it was a matter for private charities. Then they were informed of an unexplained string of bear maulings throughout the world, but again, it was a matter for the citizens to handle by themselves.

Why is the boy bringing all of this up?” Chinny suddenly realized something He should know the new small government is only concerned with homobortionists and killing brown people!

Was the aide a secret homobortionist? Impossible! He was so servile and always did what was asked of him, even when Chinny surprised him in the bathroom he obliged to all requests...

“And the final matter for the Sovereignest’s attention,” the aide didn’t seem concerned about Chinny’s sudden silence - in fact, he seemed rather glad. “A group of womenfolk from Sillydelphia have announced the incorporation of their reproductive systems...”

“WHAT?!” in shock, Chinny grasped his chest, feeling it tighten all of a sudden. He pulled out a bottle of medicinal pills, containing dried bull semen extract, and started chewing on it.

“They say that ‘the Floordia Legislature - and extreme sovereign citizens across the country - are taking rules and regulation off of businesses and adding them to uteruses and vaginas and privitizing their bodies will mean that anti-homobortionist patrol groups will need warrants to perform search and seizure or vaginal forensic examinations,” the aide said. He cringed, fearing another outburst from Chinny.

But all Chinny did was laugh. He fucking laughed. And coughed and choked a couple of times, whilst grasping his heart, but a couple more pills full of bull semen extract gave him the pep to carry on staying alive. After he finally stopped laughing and wiped the red-stained tears off his eyes, he merely said: “Then, we’ll nationalize their uteruses.”

“But sir, nationalizing incorporations is an act of socialism, an act of big government. Our small inobtrusive government can’t do tha-”

Chinny shrieked in rage and threw a paperweight at his face.

“YOU USELESS SON OF A BITCH! If those uteruses get incorporated, I hope they start issuing lifetime warranties for their products, so they can have a factory recall and you can crawl back into the diseased piehole that spawned you and never be born! We won’t even need back-alley homobortions then!” Chinny’s airborne spittle was mixing with the dried up bull semen extract he was chewing in his mouth. “If we can’t nationalize them, then the glourious indivisible hand of the free market will provide! My company Bullyburton can stage a hostile takeover! I’ll buy those cunts out, just like I do my hookers and blow!”

The aide collapsed, holding his smashed face.

“And don’t you dare get any blood on my fucking carpet!” Chinny yelled, staining the desk with a strangely viscous mix of saliva and bull semen. Shrubya raised his head from the computer where he was reviewing Girling’s leak and stared at Chinny with disappointment.

“I mean the Sovereignest’s carpet!” Chinny corrected himself quickly “Don’t you dare stain that carpet, you girl! Walk it off like a man!”

The aide mumbled something, blood spurting from between his fingers. He managed to collect enough willpower to slowly crawl out of the office before passing out in front of the secretary.

“Kids these days...” Chinny shook his head “Can’t take a good beating like they used to.Whining and screaming after a paperweight to the face, sheesh. If he could only see what my daddy used to throw at me! Bah. Pussy.”

Shrubya scratched his head “I don’t know, Chinny, he seems like an okay guy. I think I’ll go give him a hug.”

“Screw him! Weren’t you supposed to take a vacation with your pal King Faph over at Camp Pelvis?”

“I might call it off, Chinny. I kinda sorta feel I am over there too much, I mean what would the people say?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Chinny grinned and patted Shrubya on the back “I’ll hold down the fort for you. Nobody will notice you are gone.”

“Golly! Thanks, Chinny! You are the bestest friend! You’re gonna make a great Sovereignest Citizen one day!” Shrubya gave him a Jeebusian Side Hug.

You have no idea

“Oh boy, I better get ready for my game then!” Shrubya exclaimed. On that cue, an SS man carrying his golf bag entered the room. Shrubya took a club out of the bag and gave it a wild swing, nearly hitting Chinny in the process. Chinny shrieked. “Oops, sorry Thick.”

“No problem,” Chinny muttered. He must know of my plans. He’s already trying to get me. I must get rid of him first!

“Well, I’m gonna be off now, Thick. Gonna try and go for a slam-dunkin’ hole in one touchdown, yessiree! Checkmate!” Sovereignest Citizen Gorge VW. Shrubya laughed good-naturely as he departed the Ovoid Office. He waved at Chinny one last time. “Tah!”

Now alone in the office, Chinny sat himself behind Gorge’s desk, imagining the time it would be his. That time would come soon. Yes, so very soon. He pressed a button to make sure the doors were locked. He placed his feet on the table. Then he looked at those videos, leaked by Badley Girling, the very same ones Shrubya was watching a while ago. Thick Chinny gasped as he saw the moving pictures. These materials were classified, and that traitor had the gall to leak it and give aid and comfort to the enemy when it was meant to gave aid and comfort only to high-ranking Murcans who had the proper security clearances.

Like him.



Thick Chinny was aided. He was comforted.

So very comforted.

[Shroom Man 777]

A poll has been added!

Gentlemen, we are confounded. For the three principle characters of MURCA: The Land of the Free are so patriotic, so freedomy, that we cannot decide who is the best example of rugged manly Murcan ideals, traditions and family values of them all.

In vein of the democratic processes pioneered by Saint Murcan, the One True Father Founder, who wrote the sacred texts of the Constipitution, we shall ask YOU - the Sovereign Citizens of Murca - to help us select, nay, elect the most patriotic All-Murcan Hero of all time!

Murca wants WHO?!

THICK CHINNY, the Almost Sovereignest Citizen, whose machinations in the Ovaltine Office is bringing freedom to all the sand diggers in the Middle West?

CHET FISTO, the National Guardsman fighting for our freedoms, first by bayoneting the student protesters in Kunt State University while white-phosphorusing those union laborers, and then going on to kill sand diggers and carpet badgers in Pelania and Ayrak?

Or JOEY JOJO the Plumber, a humble family man with common-sense values, who tries to be the best father he can be for his wife and five children who he fathered before he even reached the age of 20, a middle-class man of the people whose small business was threatened by Bari'bama's foul socialism?

CHOOSE YOUR DESTINY! TEST YOUR MIGHT! THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE!

[Crazedwraith]

Murrica wants CHET FISTO a Hero 101% likely to be boning hot blue space chicks; the MURRICAN DREAM! (As long as said hot blue space chicks don't try to keep their precious space minerals from us!)

[Shroom Man 777]

He'll show those limp-dicked science majors what's what!

[Pelranius]

Just give Thick Chinny what he wants. It'll be a lot easier on us, it's not like Joey JoJo or Chet Fisto can actually harm us.

[Eternal_Freedom]

Why is it I find this both incredibly disturbing, alarmingly realistic and bizarrely compelling?

DAMN YOU SHROOM! You've got me hooked!

[Shroom Man 777]

We have considered the votes of the public and decided the public has no idea what is good for them and should shut the fuck up.

Because this election is too close to call, we have thus decided that the ELECTORAL COLLEGE and the SUPREME COURT will decide who gets elected for the spinoff!

The winner will be announced in the next post!

THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN. HAIL TO DEMOCRACY!

[PeZook]

SPINOFF: JOEY JOJO GOES TO SCHOOL

Roach City Motel
Oho, Murca



It was a good day for Joey Jojo the Plumber. A very good day indeed.

He had just signed the papers selling his brand new house acquired due to self defence against a closet homobortionist sex offender. People in the neighborhood were already talking, and Joey’s motel room was full of flowers with nice little letters of appreciation. Mothers held him up as a hero, as their children would not be endangered by a filthy pervert living right next door. Fathers congratulated him on standing up for himself against a librul homo and preserving the fabric of society. The dead body was strung up in the middle of the neighborhood as a warning to all passersby - the suburbs of Oho were a proper place! A clean place, free of sex offenders!

Even Mary Jane, despite her earlier confusion, had to admit Joey had done well. Her voice was a little shakey while she did so, but that was obviously overwhelming female hysteria at the thought that a homobortionist lived so close to their precious children. She cried the whole night after washing Joey’s bloodstained shirts, but she’d get over it, maybe helped by a little smack or two. Couldn’t have an undisciplined house, after all.

The sale of his new house got him almost where he wanted to be - he only lacked a thousand marks or so before he could open his fertilizer business and rake in the big bucks, like a true blue Murcan self-made man! He’d show all those people who didn’t believe in him, those socialists craving his money to fund their filthy homosexual orgies. Jeebus, he hated those homobortionists, like those nerds who didn’t shower with the rest of the team or join in the locker room butt-slapping. He used to beat up those kids in high school, drag them by their long pretty hair and smack their made up faces. Oh wait, those were the girls who turned him down.Yep, those were the days.

Ah, what he would give to relive those grand times, those glory days spent fooling around with the guys! Yes, high school was a time of joy and carelesness and binge drinking and beating up weaker kids to the brink of death for some affront or another.

Joey sighed heavily, thinking how much high school gave him, how it made him the man he was today. Unlike college, which was full of lieberals being fed lies by stupid lieberal professors (who didn’t know how real life was, anyway, with their book knowledge), high school created the Murcan ideal - loud, proud, with a low-paying menial job and angry about it!

And now the schools were all privatized, so they’d be even better! As private enterprise was more efficient in all aspects, surely the education system would thrive and prosper now. Billy Lee sure made good progress since Joey and Mary Jane decided to enroll the lil’ fella at the Oho Home School Away From Home Bibel School, an excellent establishment set up by Jimmy Bob Anderson, a local butcher, homeopathic professor, anti-vaccine activist, self-declared preacher, off-shore snake oil driller and respected entrepreneur, after the socialist gubmint-run school was burned down by the Sovereign Citizens’ Pagan Youth wing, which was originally founded by the greatest President of Algeira, Poland Pagan. It was morning again in Murca.

Yes, Billy Lee would certainly grow up to be a fine citizen, Sovereign and free. Already Joey’s workload lessened, which was surely a good sign - Billy would hardly ever bring homework back! Joey could use that time to think about his fertilizer business and watch SPORTS!, which he was doing now, his brain free of harrowing maths problems like fractions.

Fucking fractions. Who the fuck needed to know fractions in real life, anyway? Real life was no ivory tower! Teaching children fractions only led them astray from the real down-to-earth skills they needed to survive!

He remembered how the Sovereign Citizens tied a luberal maths professor to a monster truck tractor pull that totally quartered him. Fraction that, asshole... Joey Jojo laughed at himself.

Suddenly, the football game - Murcan football, of course, not that sissy Thanasian crap where men didn’t even bodyslam each other to fight over their balls - switched itself off. Joey screamed with terror and anguish, lurching at the TV in anger. No! Not right before touchdown!

A reporter’s talking head appeared on screen. The journo began talking, We interrupt this programming to bring you urgent news from the Oho Home School Away From Home. We have just received reports of a lone gunman on a rampage on school grounds...

Joey screamed and started flipping channels, but it was the same everywhere. He knew he should’ve paid for better cable service! The Premium Package included an optional “no important news whatsoever” plan, but Joey wanted to save money and didn’t buy it and so was being regularly harrassed by crap about the environment and violence and elections that he didn’t care about.

The TV droned on. It showed the school building, a brand new structure paid for entirely by Jimmy Bob who spared no expense. There was shooting and screams from school grounds and the reporters were saying how they were afraid to come closer out of fear of being shot.

Pussies, Joey thought. He always knew journos were good for nothing useful, except maybe Blenn Geck. It would’ve been better with Blenn Geck, at least he would’ve shot back. These blubbering vaginas wouldn’t even get into the line of fire! Hell, if that was Billy Lee’s school, Joey was sure his son could do better than those girlie men.

“Ladies and gentlemen”, the stupid journo droned on, “There are people running out, yes, running out of the building... there are... there are wounded amongst them, I will try to get a better view... yes... wait, no! STOP!”

The journo screamed in horror and suddenly the camera went flying. It crashed into the pavement, revealing a Faux Noose van. And the journo crushed under its wheels.

Faux now added the Noose to its name after its Putzlitzer Prize-winning coverage of the hangings and lynchings of luberals in Murca. The van opened and stepping from its interior was none other than...



...Blenn Geck!

“It is time to handle the topic of violence in schools!” Geck said, and his dashing macho voice thrilled Joey to the bone. Previously angry with the coverage interrupting his favorite sports program, Joey was now electrified and excited and aroused to the point of his toes curling.

The camera now showed the fleeing mob of terrified students again. Geck waved the gun around, screaming about the proper response to school violence being more violence. Joey lapped it up, his bosom rising and falling with every holy word from his hero.

“There!” Geck screamed, pointing at a student running at the end of the mob. The guy was breathing heavily and slowly trodding forward instead of running. He reached for something he had in his pocket “He’s not running! That’s obviously the shooter!”



Geck took the initiative in a properly Murcan way, unloading his gun’s magazine into the boy’s face. He was shooting from long range, and thus hit several other students in the process, but the evil psycho dropped dead on the spot. The asthma inhaler fell out of his cold dead hands and rolled across the pavement.

“Got him! Hahahah... did you see that shot? Right into his fatty man-titties!” Geck shouted with glee. He was still waving both his guns around when FriendlyPol SUVs roared onto the scene, plowing straight through running civilians. Heavily armed officers leapt out of the cars and began screaming and shouting at the fleeing students to get out of the way. Some officers pointed their guns at Geck, but quickly recognized the TV show host as their paying customer and huge shareholder. Geck smiled and waved to them.

Other private police agencies also arrived soon, called by their own clients. But FriendlyPol officers didn’t have time for bullshit, they had a situation to control, so they just hosed down the arriving vehicles with their vehicle mounted Mama Gooses and grenade launchers, injuring dozens of civilians in the process, but also ensuring their market share was protected, which was their moral duty to their the shareholders.



“Get these civilians out of the way!” screamed the FriendlyPol commander on the scene, lieutenant Seven Lawman Stoogal. He was annoyed: his men would have trouble telling paying customers from idiots with no police insurance in that huge mob. Then, suddenly, he had an idea.

“Just cuff everyone and let Jeebus sort them out later!”, he screamed into his radio, not giving two shits about the rolling camera observing everything.

The officers, many of whom were former soldiers discharged for the dishonorable conduct of being paid for by stolen taxpayer money and now making amends by working for privatized paramilitaries, shouted back a customary OOORAHOOOAH and began arresting everyone they saw.

Joey, safely in front of his TV, cheered upon the boys in blue as they began to impose order on the disorganized mob of stupid students, most of whom were probably lieberals anyway. He hollered in joy when officers beat down a mother, cuffed her and confiscated the baby as evidence, putting it into a ziplock bag. Two officers confronted a wounded student laying on the sidewalk, demanding he get to his knees. When he said he could not due to his wounds, they tasered him twenty times before cuffing him to a squad car and dragging him away. As pets got lose from their leashes (for it was a Bring Your Pet To School day at the OHSAFHBS, a cherished tradition where children learned how house animals are used in food and industry), they created a danger to officers, who shot every single dog they saw while grabbing venomous snakes and lizards and throwing them into the faces of students. A special team videotaped the entire operation, making sure to mark down the score of individual responders on special forms they had with them - FriendlyPol employees were paid by the quota of suspects hauled in and it was important to make sure their reports were faithful.

Officers quickly got the mob under control with extreme violence, which was the best kind of violence, preventing destruction of evidence and seizing many suspects guilty of not paying FriendlyPol for protection. Shouts of “We serve and protect with a smile!” began to die down soon, replaced by gunfire still coming from the school.

“This is incredible! Dear viewers, here you see the finest police agency in Murca doing an excellent job of controlling an unruly and dangerous criminal mob! Remember, FriendlyPol is the best there is, they serve and protect with a smile, call them now and prevent grievous bodily harm to yourself or your loved ones, or mysterious yet extremely dangerous fire to your dwelling!”

“Sir! Suspects are under control, sir!” An officer reported to lieutenant Lawman Stoogal on camera, saluting in a military fashion

“Excellent job! Make sure they’re as uncomfortable as possible, while I personally handle the shooter!”

“OOORAHOOAH!” The officer yelled and ran back to the sidewalk to administer a few kicks and beatings to the people lined up face-down on the asphalt. Some of them were probably guilty of something, anyway. When another young mother protested and threatened to sue, the officer tasered her. Her child started to cry, so he tasered it, too, for creating a public disturbance.

“Hey Gorge, take over”, Geck said to his cameraman “I’m gonna help our boys in blue.”

“Will do, boss!”

The camera followed Geck as he ran over to the school’s gate and high-fived Lieutenant Stoogal. The duo drawed their weapons and charged screaming into the building.

Mary Jane came into the room just then. She gently touched Jojo on the arm, making him jump up and spill his beer.

“What the hell, woman? Can’t you see I’m supporting the troops here? Damn! My shirt!”

Mary Jane shuddered, the memories of her last beating still fresh. Joey approved of that - womenfolk had to know their place. It was for the best, as they had trouble not panicking in hysterics at the slightest provocation. Men should always do the thinking at home, that’s what Blenn Geck said on TV. God he loved Blenn Geck.

“Joey, what’s going on? Where’s Billy Lee?”

“What do you mean where’s Billy Lee?” Joey spat in anger while still staring at the TV “You’re the woman of the house, you should keep track of the kids! And the cooking! And the laundry! And all the other things you’re not doing while standing here talking! Go away!”

“Joey, you were supposed to pick him up...” Mary Jane whispered and winced, ready for the next strike.

“I was?” A memory surfaced in Joey’s beer-addled and cholesterol-clogged mind. Yes he was! Mary Jane offered to go so that he could finish watching the game, but she was a woman and thus not allowed to drive or leave the house. Joey remembered now.

“Ah, he’s a big boy now, he’ll manage. I’ll go after I see what happens next, this is a great show.”

Mary Jane looked at the TV herself and gasped. “Joey! That’s Billy Lee’s school!”

“What? Oh, bullshit, no psycho could ever go on a rampage there! Not with what we’re payin’ them!”

“But it is! Oh my God, Joey! Our son is in there! You must go get him!” Gone was Mary Jane’s meek submission, replaced by fear of her child’s safety. Typical woman, Joey thought to himself, Always hysterical over minor things...

“Shut up, Billy Lee has to learn life the hard way one day. I’ll let him handle it.”

“A PSYCHO IS MURDERING HIS WAY THROUGH THE SCHOOL!”, Mary Jane screamed. Joey rolled his eyes and sighed, getting up from his comfy chair.

“Don’t you yell at me! Don’t you fuckin’ yell at me, ya hear?!”, he screamed at his wife. Damn that undisciplined, fickle woman!

“Billy’s gonna die, Joey! Do something! He’s just a child!”, Mary Jane seemed desperate, “If you won’t go, then I’ll go get him myself!”

Joey went purple, “Shut the fuck up! And you, back to your room!”, he added for the benefit of the remaining children, who didn’t go to school because the family couldn’t afford it. They should sleep, they had to work eighteen hours at the slaughterhouse tomorrow. Jeebus, it was a good thing that they deregulated those pussy luberal child labor laws. Couldn’t have the kids become no welfare queens, no siree.

The children meekly retreated, and Joey continud yelling at his wife for some time. As a result, he missed the entire glorious joint police-journalist action, and didn’t catch Blenn Geck proudly displaying the shooter’s severed head on a pike. When he was done yelling, all he could see were ads for FriendlyPol.

That made Joey even more enraged, and he disciplined Mary Jane thoroughly, before angrily storming out to get his son. At least Billy Lee wasn’t a fucking hysterical pussy, though Joey would have to watch him, watch him like a hawk to make sure he wasn’t womanized by his sisters or his mother.

If only he could watch him at school, too. Then he’d be sure the kid would not slip up! For sure!


Oho Home School Away From Home Bibel School
Oho, Murca



Joey couldn’t believe what he just heard.

“What the fuck, Billy? What the fuck was that?! Hiding under a desk? That’s not how I raised you! Not at all! Why, just you wait until we get home! Grandpa Jojo is rolling in his grave!”

“Mr. Jojo, please...” the school’s principal was trying to calm down the enraged parent. “Your son is alive, so why does it matter?”

“Why? WHY?! My son acted like a goshdarned coward! A lieberal sissy! A real man would’ve charged at the shooter and wrestled his gun away! Or just shot him! Like a man! A manly man!”

“But Billy had no gun, we do not allow guns on campus. He couldn’t have done anything. Please, there’s no need to...”

Joey blew his top. What the fuck? The school stripped its students of their constipitutional rights by taking their guns away? Oh no way. This wasn’t a place of true Murcan values, this was getting dangerously lieberal! His son almost died because he had no means to shoot people!

“It’s all your fault!” Joey pointed an accusatory finger at the principal. “I am taking my son out of this school!”

“But dad...” Billy tried to protest, remembering his brothers and sisters working most of the day, slaughtering animals for pennies. School beat that any day.

“Shut up, son! If this place won’t let you have guns to shoot people with, there is nothing good you will learn here!”

The principal was sweating now, and quite profusely. Joey was a local hero, after all. If he took his son to another establishment, angry parents would take their kids away, too! The school was already in trouble due to the shooting, parents were suing, and now this... he had to convince Joey to stay! He had to, otherwise the school would fail and its owner would grind the principal up and sell him as Freedom Beef in his butcher shop.

“Sir! Please, wait a minute. You are obviously a man of fine standing in the community, true to your word, honorable and prideful. Please help us! We have strayed from the one true path, but you can help us get back on it!”

“Yer usin’ a whole lot of big words here, fella. What do ya’all want?”

“Our History teacher, Mr Cuddlington, was shot by the police. You could take his place.”

Joey began to strain his mental faculties migtily in order to consider the offer. It was a great opportunity, a chance to shape the youth of a nation, to influence their opinions and attitudes and prepare them for life.

Joey didn’t care about that lieberal crap, though. He was too down-to-earth for that.

“How much do you pay?”

“Errr... three...” the principal eyed Joey.”I mean four... four thousand marks a month?”

Joey’s eyes flashed with greed. That would be great. He’d keep eye on Billy Lee and get paid enough to finally star the fertilizer business!

“You have a deal then, fella. When do I start?”

Oh Jeebus no... thought Billy Lee, with terror in his eyes.



Oho Home School Away From Home Bibel School
The following morning



It was the first school day after the shootout. The first day of a new era for the OHSAFHBS, as they had recruited a new, proud, patriotic teacher!

“Sit down!” Joey said upon entering the classroom. It was full of unruly kids. Or would be on a normal day, and if someone cleaned up the blood stains from the walls. And pieces of brains from the desks. These made the studends sullen and afraid for some reason.

Joey was disgusted - these little fellas couldn’t stand some inconvenience, like having to sit on a brain-splattered chair. What a weak generation that was! Not like the Greatest Generation Ever, like grandpa Jojo who saved Almera from oppressive Thanasians. Those damn Thanasians!

Yes, the Greatest Generation Ever would sit down on some kid’s brains and take it like men! Of course, they were all socialists now, wanting welfare and Medicage payouts and free diapers. This was why the Sovereign Citizens gave them universal care, alright. Universal deathcare. Those JDAMBAMAMRAAMLRSLBM9F-117/11s sure came in handy in flattening their goddamn old folks home. Old homes, minarets, nude beaches, didn’t matter.

Fuckin’ granpa Jojo Joey thought to himself Taught me all I know but then wanted me to pay for his nursing home! Good riddance!

His anger at the antediluvian ancestor of the family was promptly directed at the hesitating students “What the fuck are you waiting for? I said sit down!” he said angrily, waving a nice, sturdy broom handle around. Granpa Jojo was a fucking parasite, but he taught Joey the value of a good beating stick in the disseminayshun of knowledge.

The children quickly took their places, though one particularly weak kid puked when he tried cleaning up his desk with a napkin. Joey smacked him around some and made him put his unsanitary napkin in his pants, like the weak menstruating woman he was. For discipline. He had to be tough, or these eight year olds would eat him alive.

Having brought his class under control, Joey opened the logbook and did all the dreary paperwork, checking attendance, checking that every student had a loaded gun on his person, making sure that nobody brought a butter knife or obscene material, and making sure they all could recite the Pledge Of Arrogance properly.

That left some five minutes of class to discuss the actual topic of today’s history lesson. Fortunately, Joey was an excellent teacher and needed no more time to explain complex issues! As a down-to-earth working man, he had it all figured out, after all.

“Listen up, you brats! Listen up but good because there will be a test tomorrow!” Joey had no idea if there would or would not be a test, but whatever, he’d just beat them if they protested. “Today we will talk about the War Of Liberal Aggression, which some lieberals used to call the Algeiran Civil War, but that’s bullshit. You see, some time ago, I don’t know exactly when but pretty long, the Liberals from wealthy and oppressive states decided to go and beat up the poor and donwtrodden states that were guilty of nothing but doing their own thing.”

“Wait, Mr. Jojo, wasn’t that war over slavery?” some snot-nosed good for nothing student asked. It was the same annoying kid who puked after cleaning human bodily fluids off his desk.

“Are you questioning my authority, boy?” Jojo glared at the little shit, as though he was a little shit that got on Joey’s shoe. “Those slaves were all damn dirty diggers who would’ve stolen our womenfolk! Cotton diggers no better than the sand diggers our troops are killing right now! The Cunnyfenestrated States of Algeira was fightin’ for their state rights... to own diggers! That was their own thing they were doing, y’hear!”

“But...” the boy wanted to say something else, but Joey shook his broom handle threateningly “Nothing, sir. Uh... thank you.”

“That’s right! Run to momma like a little sissy! Damn, you children can’t even stand up to your convictions!”

“But Momma says the Sovereign Citizens will kill you if you do that!” Some other kid blurted out suddenly.

What the hell is up with these kids? No respect for authority! Joey thought, but out loud he said “You shut your filthy little mouth ya little sissy! The Sovereign Citizens only kill those who deserve it, like those lieberals, hippies, elite intellectuals, doctors, professors, dissidents, homobortionists, illegal aliens, leftists, public servants, socialists, sand diggers, evilutionists, veganitarians, nurses, and bicyclists! Unless you’re one of those, you have absolutely nothing to worry about!”

The kid shut up, scared of Joey’s sudden outburst. Good for him - he was wearing glasses, anyway, so he was a nerd and thus none of his opinions counted for anything.

“Anyway, now that you know what’s what, let me tell you how the war went. The brave freedom fighters of the Cunnyfenestrated States of Algeira fought long and hard but did not prevail because the Unionized States cheated every time they could... whenever they weren’t on strike, anyway, those fucking socialists. They invaded the Cunnyfenestracy and that war criminal Shermang burned down Gorga, the center of Southern civilization, and destroyed their way of life for a hundred years! But then the south rose again and as you all know, we ended the filthy liberal oppression quite recently, returning back to our glorious Murcan roots. The end.”

“Can I ask you a question, dad?”

“No! I said the end, you stupid brat!”

“But...”

“WHAT IS IT WITH YOU KIDS AND BUTTS?!”, Joey yelled at the class and stormed off mumbling obscenities to himself. The bell came soon thereafter.

“Your dad is weird.”, the kid in glasses said to Billy Lee. All Billy could do was hang his head in shame. One day he promised quietly to himself One day dad’ll get everything that’s coming to him.