I spent all day yesterday writing the piece on Russia’s failure doing CAS and interdiction in Ukraine. I’m too wiped to do anything but repost an old piece of mine, so here you go. I’ll edit it tomorrow.

The crowds jeered “heretic, heretic,” at Daniel Concannon as he was escorted through the streets lined with statues of bikes, balance boards, kettlebells, and other really ghey fitness equipment. Lumps of rotten fruit dripping off his body where he had been pelted. He forced himself to keep his back straight, and looked at the ground just a few feet in front of him. The people knew he was just, but the opportunity to take pleasure in his misfortune had been given to them. An opportunity to torture a wounded animal. He resolved himself to not let them see the satisfaction of his pain.

Even still, as something with a pit hit him hard in the face his resolve temporarily failed. He doubled over for just a second, holding back tears as the crowd jeered again at him. “You’re almost there,” he muttered to himself. “You can do this.”

And indeed he was. Not half a minute after gritting his teeth and standing back up, the crowd parted for the guards in front of him for the last time. Concannon looked up, and saw the granite steps of the execution plateau just 10 feet in front of him. At the base brilliant marble statues, raised on cube stone, were placed. They were styled as old Roman statues were, with a general on a rearing peddlebike, pointing out to the distance.

Concannon’s eyes moved up to the top of the steps, and he gave an involuntary gasp as he saw the hangmans gallows, again doubling over, falling to his knees. Bikus Maximus’s judgement was upon him.

“Sir, you need to move,” a voice beside him said, one of the guards. In his stunned stupor he could only look at the man. “Sir,” the voice repeated, “you ne-“
“Give me a moment, please.” Concannon said, taking a few shaky breaths in.
“Sir,” Concannon looked at the guard, noticing now something in the guards eyes. Fear. Fear of the Bike Man. Concannon nodded to him, gathering himself, and began the process, step by step, of walking up the stone steps to the execution plateau ahead, rising at its peak to 100 feet above the ground. Legs numb. Heart weary.

As Concannon and the guards rounded the top of the plateau, his eyes fell upon Bike Fag himself. Gigantic football shoulder pads, with multiple three foot spikes shooting out of them. Black paint underneath his eyes. The procession surrounded by his elite honour guard. Bike Man himself being carried on a raised litter by eight servants, his ten foot long earlobes dangled behind him like the hem of a robe, each being carried by a small child dressed in ornate servants garb.

Bike Man did not use the litter for his comfort, just the opposite. The seat was that of a stationary bike, whirring with use. Bike Man’s legs were a blur, yet despite that he was barely breathing. The only evidence of his exertion a tiny sheen of sweat, making his bald head shine in the hot summer sun. The hard workout so unconcerning to his godlike lung capacity that he was muttering to nobody and everybody, a microphone hooked up to his mouth.

“I mean, OBJECTIVELY endurance athletes have better bodies than bodybuilders.” Blared out over the speakers connected around the square.

The incongruence of his muttering only added to the frightening effect. Daniel Concannon steeled himself, he would not give in, he would not obey.

“…VO2 max and 80% endurance, I mean…”

Daniel stopped listening, his shock causing the world to appear quiet, as if a flashbang had just gone off. He was lead up the steps, his head placed in the noose, but not tightened. Two servants quickly wiped most of the rotting fruit from his face and body, but much stayed in his absolutely Chad haircut.

“And the disc brakes on a bike. Classic corporate scam. Totally unnecessary for…” Bike Fag muttered, legs pumping.

Concannon noticed another of the attendants staring at him with his mouth moving. He was saying something to Concannon, and with great concentration he forced himself to listen.

“Sir, you have the right for a final speech, as all executed by Bikus Maximus have.”

Concannon looked out at the crowds of people, he knew what he had to say, practiced in his mind constantly in his cell. As the megaphone was pressed to his lips he scanned back and forth through the crowds, a hush slowly fell upon them. His eyes were drawn to a hooded figure slowly making his way through the crowd, but now was not the time for questions.

“You all know the truth,” he yelled to the crowd, the only audible response was jeering laughter. But as he looked at the faces he saw many looking back at him quietly, sadness in their eyes.

“Last week a boy was executed for having 18% body fat. A boy. He had gorged himself on sweets over BikeMas. Gods, is THIS JUSTICE!”

And as he screamed, the passion in his voice quieted the jeerers, shaming them with the truth. “He was my son,” an elderly female voice shrieked from the crowd. “My son,” it repeated, to murmurs of agreement.

Concannon continued as he noticed another hooded figure, this one in a wheelchair elbowing his way closer to the stairs. “We have all been too afraid of him, good people. We all know what he did to the true Emperor, Moikus Enochus the first!” And as he said it the crowd erupted, the jeerers back in full force, although he noticed many of the anguished faces turned away, unable to bear the shame of their complicity with the death of Moikus Enochus.

A guard reached to grab the megaphone from Concannon, “we do not breathe life to such lies,” said the guard. but Concannon moved it away, “coward, I will speak the truth to the people.” And the intensity in his eyes caused the guard to pause, his eyes turning downwards as he too was shamed.

“The good king Moikus, you remember,” the jeers, while not gone, faded. “The very statues of bikes that Bikus Maximus has placed here, they used to be of ranch dressing containers. And the good king Moikus Enochus would provide ranch to every household in all of Less Gay America.” The crowd quieted as he spoke. “We all remember what Enochus the Just would say, ‘Even the poorest beggar does not deserve a life without ranch.’ And yet we all sat as the statue of his 400 lbs body came crashing down. All at the whims of his murderer, Bikus Maximus.”

Someone from the crowd yelled. “He was kind to us, generous with his ranch. He provided for the people.” It was the hooded figure, with his hood down. Concannon couldn’t quite make it out, could that be-

“Do I not keep the good people fit?” Bike Man bellowed. With that last comment from the crowd, Bike Man seemed to finally undistract himself, as the jeers of laughter had turned to hushed murmurs of agreement. Bike Man had hopped down from his stationary bike litter with surprising agility.

“Do you weak normies forget so soon how many heart attacks we used to have, before my reforms?” While his words were strong and his voice did not waver, the fear was palpable in Bikus Maximus’s eyes as he looked at the seething crowd.

Concannon cut him off. “He was your friend.” And Bikus Maximus’s face showed something else, guilt. “He was your friend, you knew his ranch soaked heart couldn’t handle that hill climb. You knew his heart would explode.”

“MURDERER,” someone yelled from the crowd. It was the hooded figure from the crowd in the wheelchair. He dropped down his hood, and BIke Fag reclined in horror. “NO, they told me you were dead.”

“They told you wrong.” Said Strikonium, as he wheeled up to the stairs, before realizing that there was no safety ramp. He called out to the crowd. “Help me for fucks sake, I’m not gonna crawl up these steps, there’s like a hundred of them. Jesus Fucking Christ you’d think a guy who rides a bike everyone would install the occasional ramp or something but apparently not.”

Nobody in the crowd moved to help. “LOL, cripple,” was heard, and there was much chuckling.

The other robed figure rushed to the steps, removing his hood. Bike Fag again turned away in horror.

“Svenicus Gruglatia!. No. Please. Don’t listen to him, it’s all lies.”

“I know you murdered Moikus Enochus, but I know you had help. Someone switched his water bottle with ranch dressing on that hill climb. Tell me who it was, and I may spare your life.”

One of Bikus Maximus’s elite guards stepped out, his head covered by the honour guard helm and visor. He removed his helm, revealing a nigger with a yarmulke, to gasping from the crowd.

“It was you.” Sven said, as he raised an angry fist to the niggerkike.

“Yeah it was me,” the response, dripping with smugness.

“Why, D’Marcus. TELL ME WHY?” Svenicus said as he raised his fist, oblivious to Striker who had crawled up a few steps with his hands while whining like a little bitch as his useless legs dragged behind him.

“No latinas in the Ethnostate Sven, you know I can’t live without that ass.” And as he said it he turned to another of Bikus Maximus’s honour guards, who took off their helmet. Long dark brown hair, slightly curly adorned her face. Tanned caramel skin. Light brown eyes. Honestly just a really cute face all around. And indeed, an ass that was by any accounts, top notch. Basically wife material if she had even a halfway decent personality.

The crowd murmured their agreement with how undeniably hot dat ass really was.

“Are we so swayed by hot Latin pussy? Do we forget the delicious ranch Moikus the Wise gaveth to us?” The crowd murmured their agreement, breaking out of their Latina induced stupor. “And his murderer is right there.” Svenicus twisted his body back to the crowd, before throwing his arm over his head, pointing to Bike Fag. “Everyone who isn’t a faggot come with me to kill the false emperor.”

“I’m not gay, are you gay” and other similar things were heard murmuring through the crowd as they began to rush up the steps.

“Uh guys, I still need someone to carry me,” said Strikonium CrippleLegus, as a White Dog, probably of Russian origin, began humping his useless right leg. Nobody came to help, LOL, and he was quickly trampled and crushed as Svenicus nobly and heroically led the charge up the podium.

Bike Fag sat there at the top of the podium, seeing his beautiful empire of functional physical fitness crashing down at the hands of normies who could barely even run 10k in an hour, who would probably be out of breath by the time they reached the top of the hill. “IF I GO DOWN I’m TAKING YOU WITH ME,” he screamed to Concannon, shoving the executioners aside and tightening up the noose.

Concannon looked at the crowd rushing the steps, a single tear rolled down his face, whether from happiness of anguish, even he did not know. His life was over, his work was done. “It’s nice that brake discs are now on consumer bikes and you’re fucking ghey.”

And this was Concannon’s Revenge. The last thing he saw in this world, was Bike Fag’s pained and enraged face twisting and contorting.

“How dare you, how ABSOLUTELY DARE YOU.” squealed Bike Fag, but the angels had covered Concannon’s ears, and closed his eyes. The gallow floor opened up, but Concannon didn’t notice.

Concannon was happy.

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1 Comment

  1. Oh my.

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