A Piece Written in Anger

• 19 Jan, 2026
• Paisley P. Peinforte
• Hits count 49

Very good, fascist thug. You've done it. You've killed someone, murdered them in cold blood. Does this make you a man, prove that you're strong?

No. It proves that you can pull the trigger of a gun. That you can let physics do the work for you, killing with a bullet propelled by hate.

Or perhaps I'm not giving you enough credit - maybe this time you actually got your hands dirty, crushing someone's neck with your knee and laughing along with your squadmates, the four of you making peace signs to the camera whilst your solitary victim's life fades away on camera for the world to see. The people are sickened by the all too-familiar-sight for the thousandth time, but as usual, no one in power does anything meaningful to stop you.

Empowered by a sycophantic media, an opposition party that wants to oppose (but not too hard lest they lose their own creature comforts and donor monies), and well-meaning "just asking questions" types who want a "balanced take" and "more evidence" before they can call what you did murder, you and your buddies get away scot-free.

So you carry on. Proudly marching down the streets with your squad like cocks of the walk, pointing your guns at protesting women and children, barking heads spitting throaty gloats, marvelling as the sea of humanity has no choice but to part in front of you. 

Look at the way they avoid your guns! They respect you! They respect your authority! Your violence is the strongest.

And soon, it's another woman dead. Another brown person gone. One less black man, one less trans woman. Bodies upon bodies upon bodies.

Your world has become more pure. More perfect. More sacrifices towards your blessed, destined utopia.

Congratulations.

It's a decade later now, and you and your lot have done it. All the "different people" are dead. Your women - artificially busty bleach-bottled blondes with shining blue eyes and pursed collagen lips - are seen, not heard, and are kept at home when not paraded on public display, their only job as gestation chambers for your superior seed - legs spread on demand.

It's NFL on Saturdays, Mandatory Jesus on Sundays, and the world as your oyster Monday through Fridays. Bloody meat and raw milk are back on the menu, boys.

A perfect time for all. Girls, Guns and Jizz. They come all for violence, indeed.

The world is snow-white pure. It's all clarity now. There's no more "woke". No more "rights." No need to worry about past injustices or historical wrongs. No more nagging, desperate voices constantly challenging you, asking you to be better, to be more accepting, to see a wider world. To understand someone else's pain. All that annoying bullshit is gone now.

You shut them up good, the whiny freaks.

So now it's you and your brothers in arms, in White Bread Suburbia, Kings of the Castle at Long Last. Masters of the Universe, answerable to none.

Except for Elon, Zuckerberg, Thiel, and Bezos, off on their remote pleasure islands near New Zealand where they spend their time breeding supersized sheep surrounded by concubines and 24/7 armed guards, dreaming of a rocket-powered rapture into Space. 

It's been hard paying the monthly fief on the farm because the crops keep dying - it's just been so hot the past few years, so unbearably hot. You can't make up for it in volume because there are no migrants to come help - America has been blacklisted for travel ever since you gleefully killed the last Mexican field-hand and posted the coup de grace on X, the state media platform. (DOJ liked, retweeted and refused to investigate, of course - it was his fault he ran right into your knife.)

It's hard to get equipment to automate things now. Getting the gear means paying out a huge tribute to Sir Bezos, who wants more money on top  each month to keep it going. He, who famously makes a Billion an Hour, doesn't care that it takes you a whole weeks' work to make the monthly subscription payment. He doesn't even know who you are. His computer does though, and it knows that if you don't pay, you won't be robo-tilling the fields anymore.

And God help you if you don't pay the monthly subscription fee for the two bedroom house you "own" that goes up every month indexed to inflation while your income loses buying power by the minute. There's hundreds in line waiting for it. 

You can't lose it though, because you have eleven children to house and your wife is dead (because the lord hates contraception and that last failed pregnancy was a killer, literally.)

Your kids are too sick to help or AWOL - Bret has measles, Michael had to be put down after the polio, Michelle was married off as a child-bride and Derek I and Derek II both died from Black lung disease. The others - the traitors - fucked off as soon as they could to find a more inspiring "parent" who could give them the lifestyle they'd always seen on the wall-sized TV.

You could always take a job somewhere... but the AIs run all the fast food joints, and the schools that teach you how to program the AIs... are all subscription-based AIs. Unless you've already got a Daddy Warbucks to pay your way, you're fucked. (And guess what, you don't.)

You worry. ID theft gangs and house pirates have been sighted in the area. They're organised, smart, and always watching. Farms are their favourite prey, because no one really pays attention to "dead land" in the fracking zones and it would be so easy for them to walk in, cut your throats, squat in your property, ordering drone meal deliveries off Amazon, running up your credit debt and zeroing out your bank balance before moving on.

So much to worry about. But all those people you gleefully killed in the Purges of the 2020s? The ones you took it upon yourself to remove from the world? The Brown people? the Black People? The Queers? Ironically, their problems are over in this Beautiful New World Order.

But yours... yours are just beginning, you manly man, you. You fucking stud.

And they'll be yours for the rest of your nasty, brutish and short life.

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