Kandude, stunned by his sudden banishment to the remote wilderness, stumbled cold and hungry along a deserted road. He searched desperately for any sign of a Ritz-Carlton, opulent provincial estate, or even a country club, to no avail. Exhausted, he finally slept under a tree on a piece of ground notably less comfortable than his former European horsehair stuffed bed imported from Sweden.
The next morning, he resumed his lonely trek. After an hour or so, he heard a loud rumbling in the distance. Looking backward, he saw a huge pickup truck roaring up the road toward him. The rusty tan behemoth rode high on massive earthmover tires. Rows of lights, many broken, were mounted on the bumper, the grill and the top of the cab. Mounted in the bed of the truck were three American flags, a flag with a coiled snake, and two flags of a hypertrophic figure in flying poses wearing a strange feathery orange headdress. This heroic figure had laser beams emanating from his eyes. As the monster vehicle thundered closer, Kandude could see that there were occupied gun racks in every window.
The truck slowed down and rolled up to Kandude. Three large, bearded men dressed in camo peered out at him.
“Well, looky here, boys, we got us a real stylish Fudgie,” said the red-faced man in the passenger seat. “Whatchyu doing out here, son?”
“I have been thrown out of Mr. Pozner-Maddog’s magnificent estate in Barrington Hills,” said Kandude, “and am now lost here in the wilderness.”
“Well, you might make a good recruit, son,” said the burley red-faced man. “Had anything to eat today?”
“Why, no sir,” said Kandude. “And other than an American Express Black Card that I don’t even know how to use, I have no money to pay for anything.”
The red-faced man, who said his name was Clem, arched an eyebrow. “Well, now. Hop in kid – we were just on our way to pick something up at the Patriot Station down the road.”
Using a rebar ladder welded to the side of the pickup, Kandude climbed up and into the back seat of the truck, carefully shifted a variety of shotgun shells, Grizzly tobacco tins, Colt .45 Malt liquor cans, and other appointments out of the way, and settled in. The truck roared down the road, finally arriving at a Patriot gas station, where his new friends bought a dozen Egg & Sausage McFreedomStackers, a bag full of Demolition Donuts, and 44 oz. Magnum Cola Guzzlers for each man. Kandude couldn’t help noticing that his new friends all wore large handguns, which he assumed was a necessary accoutrement in such a remote wilderness. This made him feel safer than he had since his eviction from Cha-Ching Manor.
Famished, Kandude gorged on this gas station banquet and warmly thanked his new benefactors. The truck drove far into the hills on a dirt road, stopping at what appeared to be an old mining camp. Seven or eight other monster trucks were randomly parked around an ancient two-story building. Smoke was wafting from the chimneys. The four men climbed down out of the truck and entered the building, the first floor of which was a large work room with several folding tables and chairs, a couple of refrigerators, large numbers of olive-green crates, and many military-style guns totally unlike the Italian shotguns used for sporting clays at Cha-Ching Manor. The walls were covered with American flags, confederate battle flags, and numerous other flags and banners featuring skulls, coiled snakes, swastikas, and frogs. At the center of the back wall, an 8-foot-tall poster of the heroic figure with the feathery orange headdress he had seen on the truck flags posed in a Colonial era general’s uniform. The figure’s steely gaze, though subliminally suggestive of penal photography, bespoke untold fortitude, intelligence, wisdom, concern for the common man, and manifest destiny.
A burly, slightly jowly middle-aged man wearing a red baseball cap with MAWA printed on it sat at a desk in front of the steely gazing figure, tapping away on a laptop. Clem saluted the jowly man and said, “I think we found a strong candidate, Colonel.”
He stepped forward and said a few quiet words to the Colonel, who nodded and gave Kandude an appraising look. “Take a seat here, son,” said the Colonel, gesturing at a folding chair in front of his desk. Kandude respectfully did so.
After asking Kandude’s name, the Colonel said “You may call me Colonel Stikchap. You look like a worthy young man – are you 100% Caucasian?”
Kandude, perplexed, responded “I’m not entirely certain, Colonel, although I have no reason to think otherwise. I was informally adopted as an infant and have never been very clear on my origins.”
The Colonel leaned back in his chair and squinted. “Do you know who we are, young fella?” he asked. Kandude admitted that he did not, but thanked the Colonel sincerely for the kind treatment he had received from his associates.
“We… are the BoyzenBerries!” said the Colonel in a ringing tone; a tone of expectation that the utterance of this title would inspire recognition, or even awe, in any who heard it.
When Kandude evinced neither recognition nor awe, the Colonel asked: “I ask if you do not deeply love the past, present, and future President of the United States?”
“Well Colonel,” answered Kandude, “he seems to be a likeable enough fellow and loves dogs, but my professor, who is among the wisest of men, told me that he is a Marxist and a relentless taxer of the plutocracy who are the engines of all production, wealth and virtue.”
“No, not that deranged pretender,” barked the Colonel. “I mean the supreme and duly elected (at this moment the Colonel and all the men jumped to their feet, rotated, and raised their right hands in a fight-fight-fight gesture toward the steely gazing poster) The One True President antor von Pyubengrabbler!”
Kandude looked bewildered.
“I see that we need to educate you, Gucci snowflake,” said the Colonel. At his gesture three of the large camomen grabbed Kandude, threw him to the floor and began kicking him with their Quack Marvin combat boots and upscale brand name running shoes. Then they stripped off his European fashion clothing and strapped him naked into an old dentist chair that had been under a tarp in the corner of the room.
The Colonel took possession of the AMEX Black Card and handed it to a bifocaled older lieutenant named Morris. Morris took two men and a battered moving van down to Milwaukee where he used Kandude’s credit card to purchase vast quantities of guns, ammunition, bump stocks, grenades, MRE’s, generators, condoms, batteries, apocalypse food kits, prepaid gasoline cards, body armor, first aid kits, knives, animal traps, and more guns. While he was at it, he bought lifetime subscriptions to several dozen white supremacy, Christian nationalist, and guns and combat online periodicals, as well as the wholesome and popular shooting range website “Tradwives with Guns.” Unfortunately, the Black Card was cancelled after 24 hours of aggressive shopping.
In the meantime, the Colonel pulled up a bar stool in front of the shocked and brutalized Kandude. “Son, this country was created by White Christian men and their pure and devout women who knew their duties in the bedroom, the kitchen and the nursery. It is now being overwhelmed and corrupted by mongrel races, Marxists, Jews, Islamists, intellectuals, homosexuals, Californians, and other deviants. Satanic, child-molesting cannibals have taken over vast reaches of government and industry as well as many PTAs, especially in coastal regions. These antichrists are all allied in a cabal that stole the election of our One True President TvP.” At this sacred mention, the Colonel did the air-punching thing.
“They have infiltrated other elective offices with extraterrestrial lizard people. They have installed curricula in the schools that teach our innocent little White Christian children that they should treat colored people and ethnic minorities as Real Americans with voting rights, that homosexuals and surgically altered gender mutants should be allowed to use any bathroom they want and coach T-Ball, and that White Christians should be on a collective guilt trip for historical footnotes like slavery, racism, and the so-called Holocaust. And they stole the election.”
“But” asked Kandude, “didn’t President Blandanna actually win the election? I know little of politics, other than its practice should be devoted solely to promoting pure capitalism. But I thought that the election had been challenged in scores of courtrooms, dozens of election offices, many of which are run by staunch Elephanticans, and untold investigations by amateur analysts who enjoyed unlimited access to alternative facts. I don’t know anything about voting and statistics, but did read that that none of them were able to find that the election was fraudulent.”
The Colonel leaped from the barstool in a rage, overturned several tables, and emptied several high-capacity magazines from a black military grade automatic weapon into the floor and ceiling of the old building. “You have been steeped in the malignant lies of the Sorosphere like a sardine in Libtard brine!” he screamed at Kandude.
Catching his breath, he approached Kandude with an outstretched index finger. “We are going to deprogram you, son. I sense by your right-thinking commentary on capitalism and your apparent genetic makeup, which we will confirm through the Caucasian specialty genetic testing service 33 and Thee, that at your core you are capable of becoming a Real American.”
“Here is what you must know, young Dude. We are Sovereign Citizens. Only we, Real Americans, can interpret and fulfill the True Purpose of America and the Constitution. The corrupt federal government, DEPEGUV, has no authority over us. They have us under constant surveillance, with wiretaps, satellites, bird and insect drones, laser microphones, and – he paused and looked around – the Global Illuminati Flux Reticulum. We have taken many precautions, including aluminum foil body undersuits.”
“Once we have drawn the Libtard poison from your mind and heart,” he continued, “you will be prepared to join us in battle. You’ll become part of a special strike force to capture and execute all Donkeycrats who claim to be elected officials. Beginning here in Michigan, but rapidly moving on to other states, we will take over the state houses, the election offices, the sheriff’s desks, the tax authorities, the animal control agencies, and the library boards throughout the country. We will kidnap and neutralize Donkeycrat governors, senators and congressmen. While we strongly prefer violent solutions, the BoyzenBerries will accept a peaceful pathway if all of our enemies unconditionally surrender. It could be bloodless if the Left allows it to be.”
“In the meantime, we will reinstall our rightful President for Life,” said the Colonel, air-punching. “President TvP has restored our right to call people we don’t like denigrating names, defy mask protocols, ban books, and return women to their rightful roles as virgins, mistresses, domestic servants, voluptuous barmaids, and fertility goddesses. He empowers us to suppress minority voting, post the ten commandments in every school, public building, and McDonalds, and threaten violence against all who oppose him. He cares deeply about us in a very personal way, and it is only because of him that we will be able to prevent White Replacement and preserve our way of life.”
“Your training of mind, body and spirit begins now. You will become a physical and philosophical warrior and will study the sacred texts: the Gospel of The Prophet Crush Limberger and the guidance of learned disciples such as Zander Jonass, Joey Rageon, Tusker Crockleson, and the falsely imprisoned martyr Stan Bunion.”
With that, the large camo guys put Kandude in a white Tyvek jumpsuit, took him out into the woods, and made him run an obstacle course featuring the PC Barb Wire Barrier, Blood and Soil Mud Crawl, and the 12-foot Hillary Clintwall. He was taught to savagely stab watermelons and hay bales and shoot at beer bottles, garbage cans, and Nanette Petosti silhouette targets from various distances and stances. However, as a mere candidate BabyBerry, he was only given one bullet at a time while a squad leader stood behind him every moment with a locked and loaded AR-15.
Upon discovering that he was remarkably good at defending himself, the combat instructors went to a three-on-one format and used heavy sticks to hone the Dude’s fighting skills. On weekends, additional BoyzenBerries and the ladies auxiliary, the red-MAWA-bonnet-wearing BekkiBerries, came out for field exercises and helped Kandude improve his performance by whipping him through the obstacle course. He was taught to drive an 18-wheeler because the Colonel needed a driver without prison tattoos, expired driver’s licenses, or DUIs, a skill he learned with remarkable speed and proficiency.
After three weeks of this intensive training, Kandude had neither grasped the sense and sensibility of the BoyzenBerry manifesto, nor, despite his athleticism, dramatically improved his times and repetitions on the exercise and obstacle courses, largely due to accumulated injuries. Despairing of enlightenment, belonging, and the joyful freedom that comes from absolute belief without the constraints of facts or reason, he finally told one of the SargentBerries that he might as well go ahead and shoot him. Colonel Stikchap was consulted and agreed that Kandude had proven to be a pathetic BabyBerry and possibly a cyptoliberal. Also, there was clearly no chance of reinstating his AMEX Black Card.
With some small regret at losing a competent big rig driver, the Colonel gave the order for Kandude to be marched down to the berm and used for Real American machine gun practice, but at that very moment a fleet of sheriff’s vehicles raced into the compound and men in body armor jumped out to subdue and arrest the BoyzenBerries.
In the whole history of the UP, there was never anything so gallant, so spruce, so brilliant and so well disposed as the two forces, each dedicated to saving America in their own way. The glorious sounds of gunfire, a veritable rhapsody of liberty, along with much screaming, stabbing and hitting, resounded throughout the valley. Kandude, unconverted even by this dazzling display of patriotic fervor, jumped on a 4-wheeler and escaped down the valley to a nearby village. He felt badly about stealing a vehicle, but thought this might be an example of the law of necessity. He wished Professor B was present to offer an analysis of situation ethics.
As Kandude was looking very poorly and had no American flag patches or feathery orange headdress hero symbols on his tattered Tyvek suit, no one in the village would talk to him or respond to his entreaties for assistance.
Finally, an old guy in a battered VW van wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and Birkenstocks picked him up, bought him food at an organic co-op and dropped him off at a bus station, giving him enough bus fare to leave the Peninsula. Kandude thanked him warmly and asked, “are you a Real American and a disciple of President TvP?”
“No” said the old man. “I’m just a regular American and burned-out, old transcendentalist hippie. Came up here as part of the back to the land movement decades ago, but I don’t know if I can survive here much longer. The militia types are suspicious that I am not a proper Christian and exhibit no affection for guns.”
They shook hands. With the money the hippie had given him, Kandude bought a ticket Omaha and boarded the bus.