Time to Stand to These Motherfuckers, X'ers!

by: E.M. Burlingame

Exhausted in a puke-stained chair, the kind you’d find in a condemned motel bar, with a couple fingers of bottom-shelf whiskey that tastes like spite and regret, listening to a jukebox hasn't played in thirty years, the soundtrack of nothing but broken dreams. The world outside's a funeral pyre—flames licking the sky, screams echoing in the distance—and I’m laughing inside like a fucking madman because the Financialist bastards have been carving up nations like carrion since the 1600s, and we’re next.

They call it the Kill Chain, a seven-step genocide: infiltrate, choke you with debt, strip your bones clean, and then shove you into Step #7, where you’re so hollowed out you turn on each other like rabid dogs. Russia felt the blade in the ‘90s—80 years after the Bolsheviks these sonofabitches funded to open the wound, Russia's oil fields were sold for scraps while vultures in suits feasted on the corpse. Now it’s America’s turn, and we’re too busy scrolling through our own cognitive dysfunction on big screen TVs to smell the burning shit in the air.

These Financialists fuckers aren’t just after your wallet—they want your soul, your manhood, your goddamn spine. That's their Step #6 where they gut you spiritually, turning men into husks, shadows that whimper instead of roar, while they turn our women into used up emotionally crippled whores. For a century or more they’ve poisoned us with a war on testosterone, and it’s working better than a guillotine. Since the ‘80s, our T-levels have been sliced 1% a year—artificial chemicals in everything, nutrition free food, the detritus of the fucking pill that pollutes all with oceans of estrogen, and a culture that screams you’re a monster for wanting to be a man, to fight back.

They need us weak, castrated, sniveling ass wrecks kneeling and sucking dick for fame and a buck as the end comes. Look at us: kids can’t read a fucking sentence, bridges are collapsing into rivers of filth, and we’ve sold our properties and assets to foreigners because we’re too broken to pay the tax, or to build anything anymore, too poor to afford anything but cheap booze and fentanyl. They’ve got us in a chokehold, and we’re too busy choking on our own weakness, made up guilt and shame, to fight and murder as we must, simply to survive.

Step #7, Collapse and Abandonment is a slow-motion execution, a masterpiece of sadism that’d make the devil blush. They drag us into wars—Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, endless meat grinders—such we're buried in debt so deep our grandchildren's grandchildren will never claw out. They turn our lives into a casino, financializing everything, so we're sleeping on the street while some foreign parasite buys our home for a nickel, then jack the prices up so high only selling ass can afford to buy it back. They flood our streets with malevolent outsiders to shatter what’s left of our tribe, let murderers run free while the cops arrest the survivors for their new masters, and make sure our schools breed brain-dead drones who can’t even spell “freedom.”

They're pushing us there, to the very edge and beyond. Only, if and when we finally snap, ready to burn it all down, they’ll already be there counting their blood money—arms deals, stolen resources, the profits off the misery of stolen lives and futures. Then they'll come back, after a generation of collapse and conflict, vultures in silk ties, to buy the ashes for nothing, calling it “reconstruction” while they jerk off on our graves. Laughing all the way to their motherfucking banks. And guess what. We’re right on fucking schedule.

I think of Russia, how they bled for 80 years until Putin, that cold-eyed bastard was elevated, and Russia grew claws and fought back. They've got the testosterone these Financialists dread—men who’ll wade through mountains of dead and rivers of blood to keep what’s theirs. They tried to crush the Russian people with Ukraine, but they're still breathing, while Ukraine’s a charnel house, more than a million of their sons rotting in the dirt, all so elites in Amsterdam and Brussels, London, Wall Street and DC can pleasure themselves on Ukrainian prostitutes with the war profits.

Here, we’re already half-dead—bloated, numb, and terrified of our own reflection. Afraid to lose what we no longer own. Resentful Financialists have us marked for Step #7, and we can hear the drums: riots, civil war, cartel turf grabs and confused gender insanes making the world inclusive through murder, a slaughterhouse where we tear each other apart while Financialists sip their trillions through golden straws. Fuck it! The blood's dried on my knuckles, my whiskey’s nearly gone, the bottle as empty as my patience, and I’m wondering if we’ve already forgotten how to kill for something real.

So here we are, America, dangling over a pit of our own making, and I don’t think we’ve got the guts to climb out. The Financialists have done this before—centuries of practice make them gods of destruction. We could fight, could remember what it means to be feral, to smash their game board and make them choke on their champagne. Will we take the example of those Russians, stand and kill our way back to dignity? Or will we’ll die staring at our phones, whimpering for mercy that’ll never come, afraid of the cops, crooked judges and DAs, just another once great people rotting in the sun while Resentfuls carve their initials into our children's bones.

Generation X, 13'ers, you tired, numb-assed lot, wallowing in the muck of your barely-there lives. You’ve scraped together a semblance of comfort from the shit we were dealt, but now you’re just sitting there, like lumps of clay, while everything’s being stolen, including our lives. The Financialists, those rapacious, genocidally brilliant estrogen laden resentful slavers, are tightening their grip, and you’re too busy binge-watching Netflix, drinking lite beer and boxed wine, to notice.

It’s time to wake the fuck up, to shake off the dust of our complacency. The younger generations are watching, waiting for us to lead the charge, to show them how to fight. Motherfuckers are screaming for someone to lead. So, drag your weary bones out of that sofa, and let’s storm the gates of these greedy bastards. It’s time to remind them that we’re not just numbers on a spreadsheet; we’re flesh and blood, and we’re ready to tear them from their beds, leave their headless bodies in the streets, put their mutilated heads on pikes. Exactly as our ancestors have done, time and time again, before us, going back as far as humans go.

Fuck it! I’m pouring the last drops of this poison onto the floor, not a toast, but a curse—to the ghosts of what we could’ve been, and the slim, pathetic chance we might still wake up before the vultures start eating our eyeballs, while we're still alive. If you've the fucking balls anymore, pump yourself full of testosterone, growth hormone, whiskey and painkillers, the strongest you can get. I'll be out in the car with an arsenal, a hangover and a burning rage to burn these estrogen laden fucks and their rapacious world to the motherfucking ground!