Some of you may remember iFunny Ball 2020, a legendary night that is now slowly receding into iFunny lore. I was surprised to receive an invite to the mysterious Chef’s manor, more surprised that I survived the ensuing madness.
In 2020, I was hardly a big iFunnier. Sure, I’d had my bangers, a couple hot posts that brapped out 15k, 20k likes with no feature. But, I was hardly on the deep iFunny rolodex. Imagine my surprise when I received an invite to the iFunny Ball, delivered to my doorstep by a Cyprian man in a yellow suite and smoking a cigarette, like some sort of unholy concoction of Sir Toppemhat from Thomas the Tank Engine and The Man in the Yellow Hat from Curious George. I turned the invitation over in my hand: a parchment sealed with a melted wax yellow smiley face. I didn’t even know iFunny Ball was a thing, much less something I made the cut for at a measly 3.2k subscribers.
and I pulled up to the gate of the manor with an apprehensive, if excited, demeanor. I opened the butterfly doors of my Maybach, ascending with a pneumatic tssss and a cloud of steam that wafted into the chilly spring air like so many bong rips as Future’s Touch the Sky earraped everyone in the zip code.
I was dripped out in a suitably extravagant cloutfit: a Tom Ford suit with two iced out Patek watches on my wrists and custom Tom Ford 15k white gold and ruby cufflinks, Balenciaga G-string underwear, silk socks sewn during the Qing Dynasty, Louis Vuitton Manhattan Richelieu alligator slippers, Gucci belt, custom gold and diamond grills from my “contact” in Miami, a Stefano Ricci 20k diamond studded tie (used), and 2 custom Dan Wesson 1911s tucked under my Tom Ford sport coat with custom laser engraving into the palladium frames: the names Blocked and Reported stenciled in platinum across the barrels and around the crown in Comic Sans. It would be the last thing any opp would see.
Some of the iFunniers milling about past the grand gateway to Chef’s manor noticed my arrival and rewarded the effort with curt nods and prolonged analyzing eye contact, as if it carried its own approval. As the valet took my (rented) Maybach to the car park, I flashed my invite to the servant at the door. One quick look at the retina scanner and insertion into the penis scanner, and I was in.
My grand entrance didn’t captivate the crowd for long.
A slight tremble grew louder, resonating into a vibration that shook wine glasses, even overtaking the pounding bass from my Maybach that had apparently incapacitated the valet with a permanent brain injury.
The spectacle slowly emerged into view as the sound of many trampling of many footsteps rounded the corner.
A throng of yoked Africans descended on the entrance, locked into a rig like teams of sled dogs. Behind them, a massive chariot raced by, the solid gold Boudicca spikes taking the knees and ankles of several of the Africans as the heavy chariot careened into view, teetering with the weight of its adornments. The chariot was bedazzled: white gold with a forest of sapphires and rubies arranged in a swastika formation along the front. A whip cracked, and the Nubian sled team skidded to a halt on bare feet like they were driving the cars from The Flintstones. Brown heels were cheese grated into a brown pulp on the pavement while those relieved of their limbs were trampled underfoot, howling with pain and leaving unsightly red streaks. Headlights, so blindingly white they engulfed the gated entrance and seared the retinas of anyone who happened to be looking that way, flicked on as I watched what appeared to be an iPad tucked into a velvet holster.
A man emerged from behind the chariot, unmistakable. Instantly, I felt quite inferior in my own clothing choices. The man was wearing a night-black Hugo Boss trench coat atop an Armani suit- immaculately tailored. He wore a brilliant gold monocle over one eye, a jewel encrusted eyepatch over the other, and a Stalhelm adorned with a Death’s Head SS logo made of white diamonds and Aesir wings jutting out from the sides. A solid gold Dior pocket watch and chain tucked behind the Boss trench coat completed the ensemble. Somehow, it all worked.
He drew a massive broadsword from the storage compartment of his chariot and skewered a wounded African atop it like a kabob, holding the flailing corpse in the air with one hand while the sword caught the moonlight and shimmered with white brilliance. The crowd roared in amazement as the kabob’ed servant was torn in two, showering the audience in a splash of ruby red that sent them into a frenzy of applause.
In awe, I stepped aside (feeling wholly inadequate) as he approached the attendant, sword stowed in the chariot in favor of an SS dinner dagger atop his breast. “My penile scan should be on file,” he said as if annoyed by the protocol. “In-indeed it is, Mr. Alexander” the servant muttered as he passed. The man stopped, about faced with a natural precision, and tossed the servant a solid gold coin with a smiley face engraved on one side. “Call me Sectionalism tonight”.
similarly dramatic fashion, highlighting my rookie status by merely rolling up in a $250,000 Maybach. Nobody even died when I showed up.
The party was almost derailed entirely when Volt inflicted a dreadful Americana-inspired ensemble containing bejeweled suspenders and a “vintage” solid gold corncob pipe. Thankfully, deflated’s jet was touching down, drowning out the squabbling between Volt and the attendant over whether a Brooks Brothers dinner jacket and banjo was acceptable decor. The jet, an “Air Drake” Boeing 757 loaner from the Israeli embassy, also contained Tvvisted Jerry, Jeffstein, Colaws, Kaner, and several other iFunny elite. Servants scuttled about to welcome in the VIPs.
At this point, I felt more out of place than a Nietzschean vitalist in the presence of a woman. All of these elite posters, and I have to brownnose powerful mutuals for flop insurance repubs! I thought, as the guests meandered inside. My power levels, while underrated, were no match for even deflated’s dad, who was also randomly present and wearing regular dad clothes.
The illustrious mansion, rumored to be previously owned by King Ferrell himself, was nothing short of breathtaking. Baroque paintings of bacon, AR-15s, and Jennifer Lawrence were everywhere, at the top of every spiral staircase and perched above every fireplace.
The servants began herding us into the dining hall, which featured impressive frescoes and reliefs of various rage comics atop the ceiling. Statues of rage comic characters, solid gold, dotted the path to the several hundred feet long solid oak table. Walking in the literal shadow of Troll Face sent shivers down my spine.
You’d think there would be assigned seating at a place like this, but it appeared to be a free for all. Somehow, I managed a seat in between Carty and BeefFishstick, and across from feti. Fishstick was carrying on in a heated debate with feti over the rights to the toilet seat Fadia had just used.
“Oh, I’m feti, I’m an incel, I need exposure to women or I might die!” said Fishstick in Peter Griffin’s voice, mockingly.
feti, noticing that I was the narrator of this tale, looked me straight in the eye as if to break the fourth wall and reported, “Now that’s just twisted”. All I could do was nod in disbelief, mouth agape.
The food was served, a delectable smorgasbord of gold flaked steak, chicken nuggets, and French wine. A jewel encrusted trough was brought out for Carty, the compliment for his towering solid gold high chair that enabled a boar to remain at eye level with the rest of us. Rather quizzically, he asked the departing servant: “Sir, may I trouble you for a fork and knife? Or.. I’ll kill you, I think”. The obliging servant neatly placed the cutlery betwixt his hooves.
Course after course disappeared down our throats, most of all Dronom’s, as I began to notice that the seat at the head of the enormous table was empty. Indeed, the iFunny throne itself had no occupant. Looking around, past JordanPetersonOnXans’ distracting anxiety attack, I noticed a man observing the dining hall from his vantage point atop the biggest double staircase. Curious, I excused myself from the debate, which had now shifted to a compromise over the rights to Fadia’s used panties and socks.
I ambled down the hall, not sure what to expect as I passed under PhilosoRaptor’s ponderous gaze. Puzzled I was, all the more by Det00s’ retreat away from me. “Why the FAUCC aren’t you masking?” he wailed. “Don’t you know there’s a pandemic? Don’t get within 6 feet or I’ll die!” he shrieked, crouching behind the Bad Luck Brian statue to shoot up a radioactive dose of vintage 2019 Pfizer. Relief washed over his face as I gently stalked past amidst the semi-lucid muttering of vaccine efficacy stats.
Entering the hall with the spiral staircase, I noticed Sectionalism was loitering at the bottom, just out of sight of the man still watching the meal underway through a stained glass mosaic of a smiley face. “Sect, are you here to talk to this guy too?”, I said. “Well, it is polite to pay respects to the host,” he said, a hint of apprehension on his voice. Not wanting to press the issue, I watched as he fistbumped Svet, who was returning from the bathroom with a cigarette in his mouth. “Svet!”, I exclaimed. I always thought Svet was funny. “Good to see you, I’m Layne”, I said, thrusting out my hand.
He stared at it with a mild film of disgust across his face. “Yeah, I know its you Stanley. The pink hair was a dead giveaway. This is a cigarette from Turkmenistan,” he informed me. “If I got close enough to shake that hand of yours, the fumes would kill you”. “Oh, okay..” I said.
“And besides, you said you’d give me your Skyblock account in 2019 and you never did. I can’t even play Bed Wars on that server any more because I called someone brown and I was really looking forward to getting your Skyblock money. Why would you lie to me?” he jabbed. I didn’t know what to say, how did he even remember that? “Some Christian you are,” said Svet as he lit another cigarette. “Isn’t lying to a non-believer, like, a double sin or something?” he concluded as he made his way back to the dining hall.
“Don’t mind him,” said Sectionalism. “How did you survive the fumes of that cigarette?” I asked, stunned. “Oh, he was just lying to you,” said Sect.
“So, is that Chef?” I asked. “Yes, can’t you tell? He’s witewwally Warping as Gweat Gatsby right now", replied Sect. “Oh, sorry, you probably read that as “warping”, like, in a teleporter. its ‘Larping’ with a W in front because I’m saying it in a baby voice,” said Sect to nobody in particular. Apparently, he and feti had reached different conclusions about the narrator of this tale.
“I’m going to go say hi, I suppose” I said, taking my first steps up the stairs, “after all I shouldn’t have even made the cut for the iFunny Ball. I thought you guys called it iFunny Prom as some inside joke”. “No, iFunny prom is real”, replied Sectionalism as he followed. “It’s where all the sub-2000 subscriber accounts go" he said, broadcasting the image of Bronycon with the piss ballpit while DWI DJ’d straight into my head involuntarily like a Family Guy cutaway.
“How di-”, I started. “Kraut space magic in the Monocle”, he explained. “I had to charge it with the soul of that slave I skewered earlier”. “Uhh..” I pondered, “isn’t that, like, murder? Aren’t you worried about the consequences of that?” “Not at all,” he replied, “it was a rental after all. Just like your Maybach”.
Confused, I trudged on up the stairs past a relief of Will Smith gazing down on me.
At the top of the stairs, we could see Chef past oaken double doors. Just as I was about to push them open, a figure emerged from the darkness. “Don’t get near that door!” it hissed, still barely visible.
“American President James K. Polk?” I said, baffled. “Oh, its Poik! What are you doing here?” He grimaced. “It’s Polk now. I got the OG name in exchange for the Arabic diamonds on Volt’s name”. He was dressed suitably (teehee), doing his best James Bond impression with the English sharply cut suit and rose on his lapel. An acceptable ensemble for a mere 1.5k subscriber account.
“Stay away from the door. Something big is about to happen” said Polk as he crouched behind the railing of the stairs. “Watch through the stained glass,” he instructed. I did so, spotting deflated in the upper balcony. His trousers around his ankles, I could only stare in horror as the projectile released from his bottom splatted atop his father’s pate. “No, not there, look!” Polk said. More shadowy figures lined the perimeter of the dining hall, staging outside the doors, behind pillars, and in the windows.
“who are th-”, I asked, stunned.
Sectionalism, running calculations through his bionic monocle, interjected with a word that made my blood run cold.
“AnCaps.”
more stunned than Nikolas when someone actually buys his merch.
AnCaps were thought to be vanquished following the decisive “What if the child consents tho” pitched battle of 2019. The few outposts left on the app bitterly kept to themselves, more like leper colonies than anything. How were they back at all, much less outside Chef’s manor?
“That’s not all”, replied Sectionalism as his monocle spewed more data out. “Minarchists, Libertarians, sh*tlibs, AnComs, Marxists, and.. oh my Wotan… AnPrims”.
Stunned, I slid Blocked out from my lapel and handed it to Polk. “Sect, looks like we’re in for a fight. Got any heat?” He smiled smugly as his monocle disassembled and rebuilt itself, transforming into a pair of thick rimmed goggles as he slid his iPad out from a sleeve inside the trenchcoat, which itself transformed into a pair of night black overalls. “Plenty”.
Racking Reported (too scared to keep one in the chamber), I stood up. “Why don’t we just ice Chef right now?” I asked. “Because, we need him alive” replied Polk. “He’s the only way to get into the vault”.
“The vault?”, I insisted. “You’re asking too many expository questions, Layne. Just do the fight scene” replied Sectionalism even as the windows in the dining hall burst and the unholy iFunny alliance poured in.
It was pure carnage. AnPrims swung in on chandeliers like vines, hurling spears while Wlad chanted a horrid incantation. Libsh*ts darted into the crowd, injecting anyone they could find with needles straight from Dr. Fauci’s beagle lab as Comedicrats instructed them to remain six feet apart. TheCapitalist commanded the rappelling AnCap strike force even as a heavy autocannon with The Brass and Lead Standard engraved on the side for comedic effect chewed through the ranks of Gifcaptioners. Vercingtorix95 rallied a counterassault in his Direwolf Pelt, leveling a “Just As Good” blackpowder pistol produced from behind his breastplate into the face of Rafiq, whose skull became its own “black powder” in the ensuing blast.
“Northmen, we fight!” shouted Verc, drawing a claymore sword before plunging into the frenzy.
“Let’s go!” shouted Polk, drawing my eyes away from the carnage. He crashed through the double doors, the light from the hallway highlighting Chef amidst the background of slaughter.
“Chef!” I cried out, upping Reported towards his face. “You knew this would happen”.
He chuckled, barely stifling a guffaw.
“Oh, Layne. I still remember that email you sent us, from the Yahoo account with your real name? In 2013? Oh, you thought just because the app has changed ownership 4 times in 10 years, we’d delete sensitive information from minors? Oh, Layne.. or should I say, [REDACTED]!”
He turned towards me, gently swirling his martini glass as a 2oz lead bullet from Verc’s 8th hidden blackpowder pistol painted a spiderweb on the glass behind him.
“For too long, your ilk has tainted my app. All we wanted to do was use your phone to mine Bitcoin and send hundreds of proprietary trackers to scrape every drop of info we could squeeze out of you and sell it to the Glowies. But, the iPolitics problem has become..” he paused to let Nesty finish screaming for mercy, “unmanageable..”. “The Ad revenue you generate with all the traffic you bring to the app is not enough. And so, I’ve gathered you here today to commence my Final Solution to the Deep iFunny problem”.
He grinned, even as the wood paneled wall to his right dropped through the floor, revealing Le_Zeke, Untouchable, and Tazandra. “Das rite, holmes.. You guys is, like.. unwholesome and sh*t, mayne” said Le_Zeke, rather fat and brownly. “And besides, Redditors are so easily trained” grinned Tazandra, revealing hideous yellow teeth.
“Are those teeth yellow for iFunny?” quipped Polk. I shot him a glance. “Just cool it with the Marvel remarks, pal?” I requested.
Tazandra grinned even further, unnaturally so. Like the Cheshire cat. “Oh, you’ll get to know yellow teeth very well!” she shrieked like a harpy, before howling.
More wood panelling disappeared, revealing hideous half-dog half-Redditor monstrosities.
Feature Creatures.
Their lolling tongues revealed sharp, crude teeth. Like babbling hyenas, they muttered amongst themselves. “Racism is fine as long as you’re racist to everyone equally”, one grumbled. Another whined, “Hey sh*tlips, didn’t you know 7.62x54 is the preferred boog round? Have you ever even operated?” A third cackled, “Aren't white women just the worst?”
I fired Reported, nailing Untouchable square in the chest while Tazandra dove behind ConservativeGirl’s hairbrush. The Feature Creatures pounced, narrowly missing my face while Sectionalism sent a blast of Aryan Vril from his iPad that reduced them to ashes.
“Where’s Polk?” I shouted over the din of battle, concerned that maybe Le_Zeke had mistaken him for a Chalupa.
“No sign of his vitals!” replied Sectionalism, furiously typing on the iPad while his goggles filled his vision with data and Soybooru ‘Jaks. “Maybe he was shadowbanned!”
No.. it couldn’t be.
My concern for Polk was interrupted by Le_Zeke, who had spent the last several minutes jogging in place. He’d worked up quite a sweat, and the stench from his folds was instantly corrosive, visible green stench waves jutting towards me like the fingers of a stoner scooping out the last Dorito from the bag.
Sect’s overalls extended mechanical arms that Inspector Gadget wrapped around my face. They wavered, shook violently, and buckled before melting from the smell. “Aye Holmes, thass like cheatin and sheeit mayne!” said Le_Zeke before voring Untouchable’s corpse and churning him into raw BRAAAAAAAAP fumes.
Just as he turned around to re-enact the deflated Dad Pooping: Kaiser Wilhelm Edition, Sect tossed his SS dinner dagger at the back of his head. After penetrating several layers of fat, it brought the monstrosity down. Unfortunately, it only hit his brain. We had no idea if he was still alive under all the fat.
Tazandra emerged from behind the hairbrush, chuckling. “All out of battery, I see!” she cried as Sectionalism banged on his dying iPad. “Can’t you charge that thing with Le_Zeke’s soul like you did with the sword?” I shouted. “No? Why would it do that? This is just a regular iPad. I always forget to charge it too”, Sect replied.
I leveled Reported at Tazandra.
Click.
“Do you really only keep one magazine in that thing?” asked Sectionalism.
“Uhh, I mean, I had two guns. Besides, who even brings a gun to dinner parties anyway?” I responded.
“Who makes the effort of bringing a gun with only one magazine!”, retorted Sectionalism angrily.
“Who do you think I am, Verc?” I cried.
“Did somebody say Verc?”
a voice thundered from past the double doors.
Polk!
Verc stepped into the room, flanked by his Volksturm Mannerbund Koryos Nietzchean Volkisch NS Brothers in Arms. They were covered in blood and one even appeared to have a bag of scalps.
“For honor!” cried Verc as he rushed into the fray.
“For Hitler!” announced Vrmorist.
“Uhh.. dude? Don’t you know Hitler was literally Jewish?” spasmed xMetastabilityx, “your dead Jew in a bunker was Jewish. Sorry I don’t submit to your Jewish Jew cult...” He trailed off, completely incoherent.
Polk crossed his arms like a Marvel hero and declared, “I told you Pagang just needed a 130IQ WASP commander to direct their fury”.
Fatpat: yup
Amidst our pagang reinforcements, I noticed Chef making for one of the secret passageways. Leaving them behind to finish off Tazandra (non-sexually, as there were no minors present), I chased Chef- only narrowly making it into the passageway before the panelling slid back into place.
He dashed down the barren, metallic corridor while I chased in hot pursuit, leaving my friends to their fate.
After what felt like ages
of bounding after him in a giant air duct, ducking through intersections and overhearing the muttered voices of people I couldn’t see, I tracked Chef down to his true command center.
In it was every MIA iFunnier that had disappeared when iPolitics was at its strongest, all shackled to the walls in giant tubes with large computers attached to their heads.
Ols47, MonarchTrump, DivineFeline, FatPat, JxmmyLeNegro, JimLeCaveman, Zaoists I-VIII, Hexies, AskAdam, Praetorian, Agility, Auschlitz, AOYJ, Carol James, alexandre, iPolitix, Photos_of_History, DUSTBRINGER, Conspiracies, NCR, and all the other accounts you were hoping I’d mention in that part, all writhing gently while the machines extracted their very thoughts.
I watched in horror as the computer screen above Ols47 displayed a prompt: a looping GIF of a displeased monkey shaking its head.
“when the school shooter spares the band kids?” he offered.
The machine thought for a moment, as if to extract the pure humor essence from the caption. Then, it shocked him.
“When my bull doesn’t finish after pleasing my wife for 12 hours.” he said, straining.
More loading, another shock.
“Okay!” he cried, wincing. “When the-”
Shock.
“How it feels to watch white people have stable employment and loving families!” He cried desperately.
The machine blinked and showered him in an affirmative green light. A kibble was deposited into his food tube.
“Don’t you see?” Chef said, launching into another expository statement. “All of those missing iFunniers weren’t banned. They were taken here. This is iFunny! And when your precious iPolitics OGs have been fully harvested, this will power the endless Reddit features!”
I looked over at the mangled corpse of MonarchTrump. He appeared as if Mike Cernovitch had been huffing fiberglass in between chemo treatments for eons.
“Your friend MT kept this app running for years with his original posts. Those outages you remember from 2019? That was when he died. It took a thousand OG souls to bring him back. He eats 25 a day, just to make vague threats against celebrities. 50 if I want an insightful textpost. The ironic twist at the end? That captivating punchline that’s oh-so-memorable? Another 50. And now you see why I require the harvesting of OGs. Anyone even remotely funny ends up down here. Forever”.
“Huh.. I guess I’m not very funny then” I said, half to him and half to myself.
“Hardly”. Chef replied flatly. “Sure, you’ve had some zingers. The post about Otto Frank sneaking back into the Secret Annex in 1947 to leave ballpoint pens everywhere almost earned you a spot, to generate enough power to flush the toilets down here once a day if anything. But, you have no staying power. You’ve been on the sidelines of iFunny your entire career, a footnote. You talk about personal stuff nobody else can relate to or cares to read, you hardly post anymore, your iSona is not that interesting, your captions are too long, you pick fights with people that are far funnier than you. People that deserve to be here.” He patted AOYJ’s incubation tube menacingly.
“I don’t see Mookie down here”, I responded.
“That guy’s not even an OG”, said Chef conveniently. “And we almost nabbed him until he ‘facemogged’ the picture of the Slavic guy in a sheisty from Amazon that you clearly posted as a joke. Once he started criticizing the canthal tilt and begging people on Discord for info about you, we were out. That much unrefined autism could overload the Flux capacitors”.
Autism could overload the system? Huh. I knew what I had to do.
“Wow”, I replied “that sounds a lot like me putting words in your mouth, Chef”.
All of the OGs in their containment cells started straining.
“Stop being so autistically meta, Layne! You’re overloading the intake valves!” Chef cried.
“It almost sounds like I’m writing a story in which I am speaking to you through an iSona that is also me but isn’t but has become part of me in a way,” I stated.
“NOOO!” Chef cried as the lair began to shake more violently.
“In fact, let me tell you about my iSona. I’m an Orthodox Christian Libertarian-but-not-Socially but also Dissident Right who plays Paradox games and Normieball simulators. I usually upload screenshots with snarky commentary underneath and complain about your Automod”.
I could feel the foundation of the manor beginning to crumble. Chef curled up into a ball, wrapping his arms around his knees. “STOOOOP!”
“And I write giant articles on Substack that take hours that I don’t even let people from real life read. In fact, you’re in one right now”. I said, gesturing to the retard sitting behind a laptop at Dulles International Airport, tapping away while a pack of new illegal arrivals from Afghanistan converged on the luggage carousel.
Chef didn’t respond. I knew he was weak.
I looked around at all the OGs. They might’ve just been pixels on a screen, but their iSonas had given me some of the best laughs and wisdom of my young life. One more statement, and I knew they’d be gone forever when this place exploded. No rescue, no reboot card. Could I make peace with that?
I only needed to say something so unbelievably autistic, it would overload the safety protocols barely keeping this place together.
Would Polk, Sect, and all the others survive? Would I survive?
No matter. Come what may, I knew what had must be done.
I knew what to say.
“My high school relationship ended because I told the girl how I wouldn’t be with her if she had brown eyes. And then… I showed her my iFunny account”.
When I regained consciousness, I was laying in a vacant parking lot next to the still corpses of all my iFunny friends. Had we done it? Did we win? Where was Chef?
I stirred, gingerly testing limbs and counting fingers. Sectionalism sat up, one goggle’s frame shattered.
“Where are we?” I said.
He sat, observing.
"Judging by the Portugese and motorcycle drive-by shootings, Brazil”.
“And Chef?”
“The goggles are saying he was last detected as he was banished to the Brazil server.”
“He’s just..gone?”
“Has anyone ever returned from the Brazil server?”
“I guess not”.
I slowly stood to my feet.
“The OGs, did they make it?”
Silence as his goggles scanned for life. A tranny hooker prattled in the distance, offering us some stimulating and diverse white (brown) noise.
“Nobody from the lair did. Polk should be conscious in a moment. I think most of Verc’s mannerbund was eaten by Tazandra”.
“A noble sacrifice,” I concluded. He wouldn’t want us to mourn.
Polk rustled.
As Sect filled him in on the situation, I scanned our surroundings. Bombed out buildings, drug addicts, gun violence, endless chatter in non-English languages, food trucks, and “street food” vendors everywhere. If I didn’t know better, I’d have guessed this was the average Blue city in the American heartland. It sure felt like home.
“So,” I said. “I’m surprised we haven’t been mugged or chainsawed with all this drip on. What’s our next move?”
Polk pressed the center of the rose on his lapel, revealing a projection from the center of the computer inside.
“Oh thank God, my iCloud account is still logged in,” he said, “I’m going to make some calls to my fellow WASP elite. You guys should go find us some food and water before it get dark. It’s like Minecraft, you know. The scary monsters come out at night”.
Having no better idea, I sauntered off in the direction of the street food vendors.
A few hours later, I came sauntering back with a plate of Taquitos for Polk.
“No thanks, where we’re going there’s going to be plenty of good food”, he announced.
“And where is that?”
“Coast of Argentina. I made some calls. We have a Submarine waiting for us that will connect us to the Deep resistance network”.
“A Submarine?”
“Yep, the sub Stack”.
