Spooktober supplemental xII

A feud between Jon Phillips and a mysterious stranger.

Tribute to Spooktober Revival XXX

“Torture them, imprison them, deport them! They’re attacking the very core of what we tolerate, and who we are. Tell them I’m a cowboy. I have a real-life, goddamned cock, and I’m full of rage. Rage on behalf of my American citizens. I’m a sex cowboy, and a patriot, and just so we’re clear: my intention is to tie a rope into a loose slipknot and then toss it around the neck of any lawbreaking traitor, pulling tight as my steed tramples the scum from the bag. Transparently, I would bind her hands and feet to one another. If I were to speak from the heart, I’d add that I would flay her, and then wash, tan, and stretch the little one’s skin and then probably sell it. Maybe the president of The United States of America would sign it first, significantly increasing its value at auction. Maybe it’d just have to wear it myself if that were the case, but, I recognize that the kid, the raging illegals, the bull, may still be alive without her skin. Ok, so what? No mercy for the bovine ugliness of domestic crime. I’ll tell you what: I love hunters. All of the hunters I know will tell you these EXACT SAME three things. In order:

One: I love my country.

Two: I love God.

Three: Never waste a kill (and never let the mortally wounded die without a knife in their neck).

I would be REMISS to leave out the details of my patriotic and masculine convictions in any address I give. Today is special; I have a self-righteous responsibility to speak the truth when given this sacred, radiant podium as my pulpit. Under the dark abyss of all radical-left intellect, I tell you, and the president would agree, that in the event that the skinless illegal is still alive, my position keeps me beyond justified in violently mounting its bleeding mass. Less skin, but the same amount of holes—until I stick my knife—which is a well polished, mid 20th century antique—into the neck, as I was taught to do in the 5th grade. The rot before me is no match for my carrion nature. I ravage a bounty of inhuman flesh. The power of American nucleogravitational portals shall gurgle and spew the wrought-iron flails and pointed helms of every manner of imp and ghoul, and all will obey my command, and the flesh flows in excess to my maw as it has forever and as will never cease. And because I took hunter’s safety, which, frankly, should be mandatory for all boys, I allow nothing to go to waste. So, as a gesture to living things, I offer the leftover sinew and bones of this… bull

to my… houseguests.

This is the leadership I stand on, just as the culmination of every liver torn from the defiled corpses of my prey pile onto my chest, literally, every evening between 8:44pm and 12:09am in an America First reversal of crushing. Giles Corey was a loser, anti-american, an illegal immigrant, and most importantly, a witch sympathizer. He was friends with the likes of Harriet Tubman, Malcom X, and, most obviously, Satan. Truly a terrorist, and despicable. By unbound sorcery, manipulation, or command, may berserkers shred the common populus with bloodthirst, but without remorse. God bless the fifty six beautiful stars and stripes.

∧,,,∧

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/ づ♡ ᓚᘏᗢ U 8==<3 - - -