I Was Banned From Wordpress For Posting This Controversial Xianxia Serial About Barron Trump's Adventures Fighting the Jews For the Future of America And Now I Am Tempting Fate Again
Authors Note: This is a work of satire. None of the views expressed in this story are meant to be taken seriously or sincerely. January 6 was a horrible tragedy on par with the Holocaust or the vicious murder of George Floyd by Derek Chauvin. It was the greatest threat to our democracy since the civil war. Covid is a deadly disease which has killed hundreds of millions of people. The vaccine is the only thing that can save us. You need to be getting boosted like every six months at minimum. The more boosters you have, the more protected you are. Israel is our greatest ally. Diversity is our strength. Please don’t ban me, Substack, I love you.
Chapter 1 : After Watching Dr. Fauci Kill My Father on January 6th, I Learn I’m the Only One Who Can Make America Great Again?
Barron slouches over the smoldering crater where the United States Capitol once stood. He is filled with a blossoming awareness unlike anything he has ever felt before. He is awake for the first time in his life. A moment ago he was adrift in a hazy consciousness made of media soundbites and meaningless platitudes, but he had watched as 2000 of his father’s hand-selected insurgents had raided the Capitol, only to be repelled by an even more powerful contingent of Jews and Feminists, led by Dr. Antony Fauci.
To Barron’s normie brain, there had been something surreal about the entire scene, a shaman in warpaint and a viking hat throwing bolts of lightning at angry post-menopausal women in pussy hats, those same women shielding themselves with glowing KN95 masks that deflected the lightning harmlessly. This wasn’t how political conflict was supposed to unfold. Where were the soldiers, the guns, the orderly discipline like you see in the movies? What Barron had seen felt more like a scene from a Marvel comic or a Chinese martial arts flick, but even as he had seen it with his own eyes, something in his mind had strained to suppress the truth; that force pressed its weight upon him, urging him to see only normal people, walking through the Capitol, staying within the velvet ropes, threatening no one, even as the secret service watched them with their guns holstered, offering minimal resistance.
Barron can’t reconcile these two perceptions, and something ignites within his soul, though it is only an ember, an ember which will darken and die, if not for what comes next.
The attack on the Capitol has failed; the Jews were ready, and they had bolstered their forces there with powerful qabbalists and senior practitioners of the Covid clan. The last thing Donald J. Trump had said to Barron was, “they’re not after me, they’re after you, and I’m in the way.” Then he had sprinted into the midst of the fight, gathering all his vitality into a dense cloud that frothed and fulminated around him before exploding into a thunderstorm that rattled the foundations of the Capitol and struck down all of his enemies with red hot sabers of light and raindrops that hit like bullets, tearing through the spiritually reinforced PPE of the pussy-hat brigade like tissue paper, boring holes in their weathered and leathery skin, not a one of them younger than 45.
Donald Trump had poured out his entire soul into The Storm, the most powerful and guarded technique of the Q Clan. He had not intended to use The Storm today. It wasn’t time yet. The Q Clan had been preparing The Storm for four years, and was still cultivating enough trust energy from the mass of normies, slowly redpilling them by means of drops through the internet, until they could totally crush their enemies with one decisive blow. The election fraud had forced them to change their plans and make this desperate strike, but the Donald had realized it was a trap from the beginning.
The had Storm raged for several tense minutes, making it impossible for Barron or anyone else to find their bearings. Deafening thunder drowned out all other sounds. Thick gray clouds covered everything in impenetrable fog. In that moment, each man and woman was truly alone, but the Donald was there, and every thunderclap was redolent of his laughter. The power of the storm leveled the entire building, and when the Storm had cleared, the Capitol has been reduced to a charred depression on the East end of the National mall. Donald J. Trump has collapsed in a heap, and the Jews and the covidians and the feminists had all been scattered, their ranks and their morale broken.
All of them are gone now except Dr. Fauci, who despite his Italian heritage is wreathed in the energy of Hod, Splendor, the eighth sefira in the Tree of Life. At the critical moment, Fauci had activated his Gain of Function technique, allowing him to endure the Storm by absorbing the lashes of Trust Energy to bolster his own vitality. Instead of conquering an obstacle in his way, he had subdued himself to that obstacle in accordance with the nature of Hod.
Fauci raises his hand and releases the energy he absorbed from the Storm: ephemeral syringes made of oily blackness issue from his fingertips, pinning down several of the Q patriots who were still standing. Everyone who gets stuck with the Jab falls into trance, and Barron can hear them softly muttering, as if to themselves, “my symptoms are mild. Thank God I’m vaccinated.” Fauci adjusts his immaculate double Windsor knot and smooths the dimple in his tie into a formation called la sorchetta, a euphemism that refers to the folds of a woman’s vagina. This is no mere frippery; this act of sprezzatura causes his tie to act like a miniature pussy hat, allowing him to channel the energy of the longhouse clan. He sets his gaze on Barron, who can feel his heart stop as Fauci approaches.
But suddenly, General Michael Flynn and Stephen Miller appear between Barron and Fauci, almost as if they had teleported, their motions so fast that Barron couldn't even see them. “GET YOUR POPCORN” yells Flynn, “YOU’RE GOING TO LOVE WHAT COMES NEXT!” He lets loose all the tension in the bow of his spirit and releases the Kraken. The ground shakes as Tentacles made of radiant Aryan light tear fissures in the very fabric of reality, irregular and angular, shapes from an alien geometry. Cold, bracing seawater erupts from the fissures like geysers as the luminous tentacles race towards Fauci from all angles, forcing him to take several steps back.
“Go!” Flynn shouts at Miller. “Get him out of here! He’s our only chance to make America Great Again. They can’t stop what’s coming!” Flynn turns to face Fauci, one palm extended into the vayu mudra, and he releases the Kraken again.
Even though Stephen Miller is a Jew, he has purified his vitality through years of cultivating Trust energy and immersing himself in the pure light of the Plan, purging every trace of Ein Sof from his spirit, and eventually breaking through into the Way of Ariosophy. He grabs Barron by the arm and pulls him away from the scene toward the center of the charred crater on the Capitol lawn, where Donald Trump’s Storm technique has exposed the hidden network of underground tunnels connecting the Capitol to a series of safe rooms. One of those rooms contains a portal that can take them to Donald Trump’s tropical fortress at Mar-a-Lago. Nowhere is truly safe now, but that is where they must go.
Most of the above is lost on Barron, of course; he can barely sense the outlines of the spiritual battle that he just witnessed, and he still feels a heavy pressure in his senses. A veil has been lifted from his eyes, and the light of the truth is blinding. He watches himself run behind Miller as if he were a third party, a floating over-the-shoulder camera in a video game, stumbling and dazed as he tries to integrate these new perceptions into his worldview. His father had the power to command thunderstorms and lightning? Dr. Fauci can throw ghostly syringes made of darkness?
And before he can even apprehend these things, another more terrifying realization casts its shadow over everything: is his father dead? The pain of awareness gives way to the pain of numbness, and it’s all he can do to keep moving one foot in front of the other as Miller leads him deeper and deeper into the underground labyrinthe beneath the (former) Capitol. Some of these tunnels date back to the civil war, maybe even older, and Barron can sense strange but ultimately sympathetic energies behind some of the closed doors they pass, or in some cases even from the stones themselves.
They carry no lantern or flashlight, and the only illumination comes from from a white rabbit made of light, which Stephen Miller has summoned to lead them into the dark. Barron can hear footsteps pounding behind them and shouting in Yiddish. For an instant he worries that (((Miller))) will betray him, but at last they make it to a room with a great iron door, and Miller opens it with a wordless technique, his vitality gently flaring up as he does so. Barron can feel the small surge of power wash over the door as it opens, by means of the strange new faculty he is now discovering in himself since the battle on the surface.
The portal is red and white like the stripes of an American flag, and Barron can see the familiar halls of Mar-a-Lago on the other side. “Now!” shouts Miller. “Trust the plan!“ and as soon as he says it, three gigavaxxed Tribesmen, their muscles bulging unnaturally, their hearts inflamed with the corrupting energy of Ein Sof, turn round the corner and lock eyes on Barron. Miller shoves him through the portal and jumps in after him.
From the other side they could see the Fauci’s Jews, their little hats floating like haloes, closing in on them, but before they can make it through, Miller destroys the portal with a single deft Q drop, leaping into the air before redirecting his momentum using the Trust energy in his body, causing him to land squarely on the portal, sending shockwaves of flowing white light in all directions.
The stone columns on either side of the portal crumble and fall into the space where the portal had been, but Barron and Stephen are safe, and for a single moment, Barron can breathe.
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Chapter 2: I Had to Split My Inner Spirit In Two and Fight to the Death in the Shadow Realm, and Now I Can See Through Jewish Tricks Without Checking Early Life on Wikipedia
In all the time Barron has spent at Mar-a-Lago, he’s never seen this room before. There’s a grand horseshoe-shaped table of polished mahogany, washed in pink-and-orange Florida sunshine that streams through East-facing floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the ocean.
Behind it, a pile of rubble occupies the space where a portal to the United States Capitol used to be. The North wall is covered in oversize TVs showing CNN, MSNBC, and Fox. Several other screens are cycling through selections of twitter feeds. They all show the same thing: the Capitol still standing, men and women making their way through it in an orderly fashion. No mention of the Storm, the Kraken, or Dr. Fauci. Barron doesn’t understand.
“What is this?” he asks.
“You can’t believe anything they report on the mainstream media,” says Miller. “This is a Jewish trick, but look closer. Do you see a pattern?”
Barron gazes into the television screens, trying to see naked reality, but he comes up short. “I can’t see it,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” says Miller, “you will soon.”
In the center of the room, inside a locked glass case, there’s a hand-written document floating in mid-air, gently bobbing up and down. Using his newly red-pilled awareness, Barron can see red, white, and blue stars and stripes accumulating around it, forming ghostly sheets of energy that coalesce and then dissipate. He is transfixed.
“That’s the Plan,” says Miller. “It’s our greatest source of power. Think of it like a battery: all the trust that real patriots place in us accumulates in the Plan, and the devotees of the Q clan are able to draw from it in order to supercharge their martial arts.”
“Is it possible to learn this power?” asks Barron.
Miller chuckles. “Not from a neocon.”
“Please,” says Barron, “you have to teach me.”
“I’m really not the man to teach you, but we don’t have much time before they find us here, and you need to learn how to defend yourself.”
In his relief at being back in Mar-a-Lago, Barron had almost forgotten to be scared, for his father, for his life, for his country. What was this new world where he had found himself? So many questions flood into his mind that he feels paralyzed and dizzy, and all he can do is stammer out a lame, “what’s happening to me?“ as he looks to Stephen Miller to make sense of it all.
The boy’s distress gives Stephen pause. This is a crucial moment, and if he can’t help Barron calm down, the boy is in danger of reverting back to being a normie, or worse, taking the Blue Pill and going down the path of Judeo-Bolshevism. But he isn’t going to let that happen. He runs to a cabinet embedded in a wall on the far side of the stately room where they keep the Plan, and pulls out a bottle of industrial-grade red pills. He runs back to Barron, placing a hand on his shoulder, and says, “Barron, it’s ok. You’ve been redpilled and you’re taking your first step to becoming based. You need to trust the Plan and take two of these right now.”
Barron has retreated into his own mind and is currently engaged in a spiritual war for his soul. Heaven and Earth have fallen away, and he is standing on a groundless ground, in an endless expanse of whiteness. A part of himself now squares off against another part of himself; to the right is the evidence of his eyes and ears, his cunning, his strength, and his courage; to the left is his fear, his complacency, his desire for peace, his compassion and his faith in Justice. Left Barron tells him the things he has seen today aren’t real, they aren’t happening, and if they are, so what, how does it affect you if consenting adults want to be giga-vaxxed Jews or fortify an election?
Right Barron isn’t sure what to say to that, because he knows it’s true that America was founded on the principles of liberty and equality, and it did seem to follow that he had no right to tell others how to live their lives. Of course people couldn’t really call up storms or throw energy syringes. It hadn’t happened. And maybe it was a good thing it happened…
“What are you going to believe?” says Left Barron. There's an edge in his voice, like he's issuing a threat. “Some hallucinations that you had in a state of duress? You’re clearly suffering from PTSD, and you probably need therapy. You think your dad summoned a lightning storm and leveled the Capitol? That a portal teleported you 1000 miles across the country? Don’t you think the news would report that?
—at least Fox?”
Left Barron had a point. That did seem more plausible than the naive version of the story he had started to accept. Perhaps he’d caught covid, and all of this was a fever dream…
But just as his spirit wavers, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and two pills in his right hand, and a familiar voice brings him back. “You need to trust the plan and take two of these right now.” Barron remembers his father’s deflated body lying face down in a pile of ash. He remembers the icy, murderous intent in Dr. Fauci’s eyes, and he throws back the red pills with grim determination.
Insight blooms in his awareness. He feels based vitality flowing into the center of his being. In the theater of his mind he is still split in two, and he sees Left Barron’s (LB’s) face begin to contort into a hideous and warped version of his own face. LB’s nose elongates and curves downward into a hook shape; his hair curls and he crouches forward; his hands clasp together and the corners of his mouth turn up into a lascivious grin. Avarice flashes in his eyes. He, (Barron in his entirety) doesn’t like this version of himself. Right Barron (RB), in contrast, seems to have bluer eyes, blonder hair, a squarer jaw and an inner fire; he looks like a man of adventure.
RB focuses all of his rage and contempt into his fist, and he charges forward with all of his spirit. Although he has no technique, he strikes with alacrity, and LB disintegrates with a single blow. But something’s wrong. He never even felt his fist connect, it was like punching a cloud. He can sense LB behind him, and he whirls around, throwing a roundhouse punch as he does so,, but again his fist connects with nothing. Two more Left Barrons appear from out of the white haze at the edge of his perceptions, and then four, and then six.
RB stands perfectly still, and pauses to think. He can still feel the red pills he swallowed coming apart in his throat, as if they have a sodium metal core, searing his insides like a live coal, but he remains still. LB is a coward — he knows this because LB is a facet of himself. He won’t attack directly; instead, he will try to use deception. RB inhales slowly, and lets out a deep breath, and as he does so, he is surprised to feel the vitality from the red pill flowing out of his center and into his extremities. As he inhales again, it returns. With each breath, the energy from the pill circulates through his body.
He realizes there is no need to chase after LB at all, that he is the master of this interior space, and as he circulates his energy, the copies of LB vanish one by one, leaving RB alone with his foe. Barron continues to breathe and circulate energy. He imagines this is what DMT feels like, except DMT wears off. He uses the power in his breath to draw LB right beside him, and he untwists his face and unbends his back and imbues him with all of his wisdom, what little wisdom a 16-year-old has, because he sees now what Left Barron always was: he was a pretension to wisdom, a child pretending to himself: “this is how wise men think.”
Barron replaces that pretense with the only real wisdom he has, which is the wisdom of humility, and LB grows smaller and smaller, until he takes the form of a serpent. Barron has killed the normie inside him, but ever a trace remains.
In the same instant, Right Barron grows smaller, too, and assumes the shape of an Eagle. No longer Left and Right, Barron names them his Pride and his Wisdom, and he feels whole again. He opens his eyes, and he’s still standing in the Plan room at Mar-a-Lago.
“The will to overcome an emotion,” says Miller, “is ultimately only the will of another, or several other emotions.”
When Barron looks at the TV screens now, he sees the illusions for what they are, the same types of deception he had just dispelled within himself, although this one was much more sophisticated. He can see the scorched earth where the Capitol had been, but now any fear it inspires within him is tempered — overwhelmed, in fact — by rage. He doesn’t know what it will cost him, but he knows he will take his revenge, at any price.
Chapter 3: Mar-a-Lago Is Under Attack From Legions of Feral Blacks and the Only Thing That Can Stop Them is Ancient Runes From the Chalice of Woden?!
The heavy double door flies open as Robert Mueller, FBIAnon, and Neon Revolt burst into the room. They heard the crash when Miller destroyed the portal to the Capitol, but they were waylaid when a swarm of feral blacks had arisen from the ocean and tried to climb the gates of their beachside fortress. Lately this is becoming a more frequent occurrence, and Mueller knows the attacks are being coordinated by the Jews. More troubling still, some of the blacks had been given spiritual enhancements, causing them to explode on death, making them flame retardant, or increasing their endurance and speed.
Under normal circumstances, the blacks just shamble around aimlessly, shucking and jiving and sucking air through their teeth, but this attack had been different. The swarm had moved as if someone were controlling it remotely, and Mueller knows the timing was no coincidence.
When he hears the crash in the plan room, Mueller fears the worst—of course there had been a second swarm—of course they would go for the Plan! The first swarm had been a decoy. As he runs up to meet the threat, he’s already gathered enough vitality in his fists to punch a hole through solid stone. But when he sees Miller and Barron… the remains of the portal… all the fight goes out of him. He stares at the TV screens behind them, at the coverage of what they are calling the Capitol Riot.
Mueller sees through the Jewish tricks immediately, sees the smoking crater where the Capitol had been, and he feels his throat tightening as he turns to Miller. “Where’s the president?”
Stephen Miller can only give him a blank expression as a response.
“He stayed behind,” says Miller. “He held off Fauci while I got Barron out of there.”
“Fauci…?” Mueller’s mind was racing. If Fauci had been there, that meant the cabal of Satanist pedophiles had been prepared. President Trump had walked into an ambush.
“Flynn’s a tough old bastard,” says Miller. “He’s gonna make it.”
“We’re all gonna make it,” says Mueller, more out of ritual than sincerity. He lets a moment of pregnant silence hang in the air.
FBIAnon stands down, a look of weary resignation on his face. “It’s not over,” he says, and he goes outside to smoke a cigarette.
Mueller isn’t worried about FBIAnon; he’s seen enough happenings come and go, seen his hopes dashed again and again. FBIAnon, he’s a marathoner. He knows there will be another fight tomorrow, and another the day after that.
Neon Revolt, on the other hand, is much younger, still full of a young man’s idealism. Though his advancement has been nothing short of prodigious, he’s never truly tasted defeat before. Mueller knows these are the moments that can make a man, or break him, and he doesn’t quite know how Neon will respond.
“We have to get out there! We have to help him!” Neon’s anger is palpable.
“No,” says Mueller. “We can’t. If we get within fifty miles of the Capitol, there will be so many Covidians on us that they’ll tear us to shreds. Flynn’s only hope right now is stealth, and he’s much better off without us.”
Neon clearly wants to say more, but credit where it’s due, he understands hierarchy. He throws up a frustrated Roman salute and the plan visibly flickers for a moment as a lightning bolt crackles in his palm, but it doesn’t strike anything, and he joins FBIAnon on the terrace.
Finally, Mueller turns his attention to Barron, who has been watching silently the whole time. Mueller is a grade three Aryan, and with Donald Trump dead or captured, and Flynn missing, he’s the most powerful martial artist in the Q clan. The burden of leadership falls on him. Grade three bestows enhanced spiritual senses, and he can see without looking that Barron has been redpilled by the events of the day. He can sense the unintegrated energy of the additional red pills that Miller has given to Barron. But without training, Barron is more of a danger to himself and the Q clan than he is an asset.
Barron looks at him expectantly.
Mueller sighs. “Barron, you have a lot of potential. In fact I think you could become the strongest fighter in the Q clan. But right now, you don’t even know how little you know. I want to save General Flynn. For that matter, I want to save your father. It’s more likely he’s in captivity than dead. But our resources are spent, our forces are scattered, and the enemy is holding all the cards.
“The only asset we have is time. The libs will be occupied for weeks, maybe months, consolidating their power and dealing with their own intra-factional squabbles. For the moment, we’re safe here. The best thing for you to do is to wait, to train, and to learn. And when the time is right, we’ll hit them back.”
Mueller waits for Barron to process this. Mueller himself is still reeling, but he has to put on the face of a leader. None of this was in the Plan, but so far as he can figure, plans are subject to constant revision. The truth is, he doesn’t really know what to do, but he has to protect his people, and training Barron is something he can do; something he knows how to do; something that will, at least, make him feel like has a measure of control.
To his surprise, Barron doesn’t even want to waste a single minute, and Mueller can’t decide if his eagerness is born of grief or resiliency, but he decides it doesn’t make much difference.
“The first thing you must learn,” says Mueller, “is to control the flow of vitality through your body. As you breathe, your vitality cycles through three different phases.
“First, attend to the body. Relax. Forget all bodily desires. In this state, you can refine the energy of the body—vril—and transmute it into the mind.
“Next, attend to the mind. Focus on the rhythm of the breath, and enter a space of no thought. From here, we refine the mind—chi—into spirit.
“Finally, attend to the spirit. Ensure the body and mine are united, and focus on sincerity of the will. The spirit returns to emptiness, and the energy—shen—returns to the body.
Mueller watches Barron receive these words, but he knows the dictum of the Q clan: you cannot simply tell people the truth; you must show them. Only then can they find the WILL to change.
He tells Barron to look with his spiritual sight, which he has already used to see through Jewish tricks. When he senses that Barron is watching, he practices the interior alchemy. Mueller says, “we call this cultivation. With each cycle, your soul grows a little deeper, and your vitality increases. The more vitality you cultivate, the stronger you will be in battle.”
With observation comes understanding; Barron sits on the grass in the Mar-a-Lago courtyard in the lotus position, and with great difficulty, he refines vril into chi, and chi into shen. He almost loses his concentration, but he imagines the flow of energy through each cycle, and he manages to find emptiness.
Mueller praises him. “You must practice every day until you master it. To a based and redpilled martial artist, cultivation of spirit is as natural and automatic as breathing. Now try it again, but this time, try to sense the energy flowing through all things; the energy of growth and earth in the grass; the energy of wind in the breeze, the energy of—“
Mueller cuts himself off as something new crosses his awareness, a dark presence rolling towards him like a tidal wave. Blacks are approaching, many more than before, from every direction. Maybe the first wave was only a probe. In ten minutes, tops, they will descend upon Mar-a-Lago. But not all is lost. Mueller shouts at FBIAnon, who is still watching them from the terrace outside the plan room. His voice is amplified by his vitality. “ACTIVATE THE DEFENSE PROGRAM. NOW! TRUST THE PLAN!”
FBIAnon’s whole body is cloaked in power as he leaps from the terrace and dashes into the main entrance. A circle of glowing viking runes appears around the perimeter of the compound. High walls made of pure energy rise from the circle, and FBIAnon, Miller, and Neon Revolt man the battlements. Spirit cannons emerge out of the rock and begin firing automatically as the first wave of blacks crashes against the wall.
“There’s been a change of plans,” says Mueller. It’s time for some live target practice.”
Chapter 4: Robert Mueller’s Avalanche Kung Fu is the Only Thing That Can Stop A 400 Pound Mulatto From Destroying Mar-a-Lago with Conscious Rap
Swarms of blacks amble towards Mar-a-Lago from all directions, but most of them don’t move with much purpose. Barron can’t tell where they’re coming from. It seems like they’re rising out of the sea, but they aren’t swimming, only walking up as if from the bottom of the ocean. Can they breathe under water?!
From atop the walls that have arisen around his father’s tropical palace, Barron looks down. It doesn’t seem like any of the blacks will be able to scale the walls or get inside. Most of them just loiter futilely next to the walls, smoking weed, playing cell phone games, or rapping indistinguishably. A few try to press forward, climbing on top of their brethren, but to Barron this inspires no sense of urgency.
Mechanical cannons made of energy have emerged from the wall at even intervals, and fire volleys of laser beams into the crowd, vaporizing magic Americans whenever they hit, but the crowd is dense and it’s barely making a dent. Stephen Miller, FBIAnon, and Neon Revolt are all standing on top of the wall, cultivating energy and unleashing it into the crowd using various techniques. FBIAnon is holding a Colt M4 Carbine Rifle, firing it into the crowd, but Barron can sense that every bullet is enhanced with his vitality, and the gun itself seems to radiate spiritual power.
Neon Revolt has his eyes closed, and he appears to be performing some kind of martial arts kata, except that below them, amongst the crowd, a bronze statue of Apollo is mirroring his every move, kicking and striking the blacks in his path. With every blow, he lands, a synthwave explosion of blue and magenta colors erupts from his fist. Some of the blacks try to fight back, but they can’t harm Neon’s avatar.
Stephen Miller’s powers are harder for Barron to perceive. He seems to be doing nothing at all, but he watches the crowd with intense focus, and wherever he looks, the blacks seem to turn on each other and tear each other apart. He winks at Barron, and says, “you can take the jew out of the tricks, but you can’t take the tricks out of the jew.”
Mueller is standing beside Barron, waiting, and Barron asks him, “they don’t seem like much of a threat, with these walls here. Why don’t we just ignore them?”
Mueller replies, “if it weren’t for the wall, they would overrun us instantly, and we can’t keep this wall up forever. It isn’t free. Don’t be fooled by their aimlessness, they’re vicious if they get close.”
As if to illustrate Mueller’s point, one of the blacks crouches in a deep squat and makes a flying leap, landing on the wall only ten feet away from them, and looks at them with a vacant but menacing expression. Before Barron can react, Mueller pushes his hands together, gathering and shaping energy into a soft, fuzzy-looking sphere made out of vitalists, and rolls it at the Black almost like a bowling ball. As it rolls, it gets bigger and bigger, as all the ambient vital energy in the air—from the wind, the sea, even from the spirit walls beneath them—“sticks” to the projectile, accelerating it and making it bigger. By the time it collides with the black, it’s four feet in diameter, and it sweeps up the black and just keeps rolling, over the edge and back into the sea.
“That was a Bluegum,” says Mueller. Did you see when he snarled at us, his gums were blue?”
Barron hadn’t noticed.
“Their bites are venomous,” says Mueller. Be very careful.
But Barron is less concerned with that than with the technique that Mueller just demonstrated. “What was that, what did you do?”
“That’s my signature move,” says Mueller. “It’s called the Avalanche, and it starts with a snowball.”
Mueller is obviously proud of his technique, and he smiles a little too wide given that they are under assault. “Anyway there’s no time for this. I’ll teach you that and more, but now we need to focus on defense. Gather your energy just like I showed you, and see how many blacks you can bring down.”
Barron tries to focus his energy the way Mueller did, but it takes him several minutes to make a sphere the size of a golf ball, and it doesn’t feel as dense as the one he saw Mueller make, nor does it have the “fuzzy” quality. He tries to throw it down into the crowd, but it collapses as soon as he winds up his arm.
Frustrated, he tries again as Mueller continues to hurl Avalanches into the ravenous hoard. When his second attempt fizzles out, Barron starts to get angry, but he closes his eyes and focuses on the breath, cultivating his vitality through several cycles, feeling the quality of his spirit as it moves through him, and with cycle, he allows a little of the energy to leak into his palms. He doesn’t know how much time passes as he does this; he dwells in emptiness and each breath seems to stretch on for a small eternity.
Finally, he opens his eyes, and finds a stable, compact ball of pure vitality resting in his hands. He picks a bluegum out of the crowd below and pitches the orb at him. As he does so, he visualizes it flying right through the bluegum’s head, leaving a perfectly clean, round hole that you could look through, like in a cartoon. The orb behaves exactly as in his head, and he watches the Bluegum fall to the ground.
Mueller stops and claps him on the back. “Perfect shot, Barron! Now do that a few thousand more times.”
Barron focuses and produces another ball of light, throws it with all his power, and another magic American falls. It’s slightly easier the second time. Easier again the third. By the seventh, he is starting to feel exhausted, his vitality drained, and fears he might collapse. The hoard of blacks is thinning, but there are still too many to count, and Barron is starting to worry. FBIAnon and Neon Revolt look similarly tired, though they’ve taken out hundreds of blacks each to his seven.
As Barron is thinking these thoughts, the crowd beneath them gets suddenly still, and all the jive monkeys start hooping and hollering, then they start chanting. At first Barron can’t make out what they’re saying, but as their chanting synchronizes, it becomes clear.
“BIG. NIGGA. KARLONTRIUS”
“BIG. NIGGA. KARLONTRIUS”
“BIG. NIGGA. KARLONTRIUS”
The crowd parts and three mulattos wearing dashikis emerge from the sea, but not a drop of water clings to them.
“Half-breeds!“ shouts Mueller. “Very dangerous. They have the white mind!”
The mulattos move with purpose, unlike their darker brothers, and they stride right up to the wall, shroud themselves in vitality, and leap to the top. The one in the middle—Karlontrius, presumably—is easily four hundred pounds. All three of them have beaked out noses and frizzy jew hair. “Dismantlers!” says Mueller. “Half Jewish.”
Karlontrius cultivatez his energy and a boombox made of spirit appears on his shoulders, blaring out nasty ass ghetto trap muzik. The music is so loud that Barron loses his grasp on his spirit. He can no longer find emptiness, can’t sense the noble Way between Heaven, Humanity, and Earth. Mueller seems less affected but even seems to strain under the degrading jungle noise. “Rhythm is one of the only human aptitudes that isn’t g-loaded,” says Mueller.
As Karlontrius hip-hops and bebops, his two associates begin cultivating a strange, foreboding energy that Barron has trouble seeing clearly. It feels like the weight of heavy books, like walls of text pressing in all around him, trapping him in a labyrinthe of intertextuality. As he gazes into it, he feels unsure of himself. The things he knows for certain feel dubious, even his own name.
Barron starts to feel himself falling back into that empty, interior place where he battled himself not a few hours ago. Their energy has a viscosity to it, and it sinks over the wall where they are standing and starts to eat through it like acid.
Neon Revolt doesn’t seem affected by the music at all. He and Mueller rush in to defend against the dismantlers. Neon has produced another bronze statue, and this one looks like a samurai wearing armor made of lo-fi 8 bit pixel art. The samurai sword dances to Karlontrius’ beats, leaving gradients of gold behind it, and catches one of the dismantlers in the head, lopping off his ear, narrowly missing a killing blow.
The blacks are forced to let go of their technique, and the wall stops dissolving, still tall enough and strong enough to hold off the masses below. Barron snaps out of his fog, but he still feels worthless. He doesn’t have the power to do anything in this fight, and he barely has the stamina left to try.
As the dismantlers are occupied by Neon’s sword, Mueller launches his avalanche technique at Karlontrius, who is shockingly nimble despite his size. He does little pirouette and sidesteps Mueller’s attack as if unencumbered by his weight at all.
Mueller follows up by running in close, and now each of his fists are covered in the same sticky energy at the avalanche. With each movement, more energy sticks to Mueller, and the more energy he gathers, the faster he moves, but still he is unable to land a serious blow. His fist grazes off of Karlontrius’ belly, but the big nigga’s blubba protects him.
Barron watches the fight with rapt attention. He’s eager to learn as much as he can. In truth, he barely understands what he’s seeing—the intricacies of Mueller’s techniques elude him, and Karlontrius’ style is even stranger, but he is thunderstruck by their agility and virtuousity.
And even though the fight is above his level, the longer he watches, the more one thing becomes clear to Barron: Karlontrius isn’t even trying to hit Mueller. His elaborate style of dancing and dodging seems designed to accomplish a different, more alarming objective. He has maneuvered himself between Mueller and Barron, and as the fight progresses, he draws ever closer.
By now, Mueller is so covered in snowy vitality that he makes Barron think of an abominable snowman, but Karlontrius is so close to him now that Barron wonders if he should launch an attack, maybe catch him off guard.
But then, without warning, Big Nigga Karlontrius grabs Barron and throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and leaps back into the air, away from Mar-a-Lago, performing a triple somersault at the apex of the jump. They land 200 feet away, surrounded by feral blacks, and immediately several of them start asking Barron for spare change for food.
Chapter 5: Rabbi Simeon Rosenberg Needs Me? He Wants Me To Reject My Inheritance As The Aryan Power And Become A Renegade Kabbalist Who Can Rule In The Name Of All Americans, Red And Blue
Rabbi Simeon Rosenberg regards his instruments with mounting annoyance. He had been so hopeful this time. He turns away in disgust and begins rifling through a shelf of glass cylinders full of assorted bacteria, molds, fungi, and fermentations. He pushes aside an enormous vat of filth labeled “dey culcha,” and he reaches behind it to remove a one-gallon mason jar, its contents gently effervescent, labeled “culture of critique.” Thus far he has resisted the use of such a powerful solvent — what he’s after is far too delicate to withstand exposure to this. At least, that’s been his working theory, but he’s running out ideas, and he can feel himself sinking once again into despair.
Of course, it’s a familiar cycle. Every few months, after digging through the Talmud or contemplating the Tree of Life, he suddenly finds some new angle of approach, and then it’s back to the laboratory, carefully painting names of God onto flasks and burners, spinning up the old rotovap and deconstructing Africans and centrifuging them to separate out the Live Black Matter before effectively throwing it all in the trash via whatever bizarre arcane process he’s arrived at this time. There’s always that moment of imminent triumph, that veil of uncertainty, as he thinks maybe this time, this time…
His therapist says he doesn’t really want to succeed, he’s just addicted to the manic cycle of hope followed by the crash. Says there’s a certain comfort, a familiarity to the feeling of inevitable failure, that if he ever truly succeeds, he’ll have lost this huge part of himself and he’s afraid he won’t feel whole after that.
Unconscious Black Bodies are strewn about the lab, sitting, standing, leaning. “Unconscious” is not quite the word, he reminds himself, since that would imply they are conscious sometimes, but he needs some kind of word to delineate their “off” and “on” states. But he doesn’t like those words because then when you activate them you have to say that you “turned them on” and Simeon just can’t into that kind of nomenclature—he stops himself before he descends into a languorous state of fugacious wordcelery. A man of his immense VIQ must be on guard at all times.
For this most recent experiment, he had deconstructed over six million sheboons and negresses—no, that number seems too high, but this is another hazard of flying so close to the Sefirot. One tends to lose even basic numeracy—and all of it was for naught. He deconstructed so many sheboons that it wore out his Derridean Device, and he’d had to buy a new one, very expensive. And after all that, he’d been unable to extract even a single drop of magic from any of the thousands of Black Girls. He’s beginning to doubt they contain any magic at all.
Black Girl Magic is his philosopher’s stone, a mythical power, a gateway to perfection, enlightenment, and unlimited power. All his brothers call him The Alchemist, and he is starting to wonder if maybe that nickname might not have a tinge of mockery in it.
A knock at the door temporarily rescues Simeon Rosenberg from his neurosis. His servant Karlontrius has arrived from Mar-a-Lago, and he has the boy with him. Karlontrius is a half-breed, and although he can perceive some of the Sefirot, he will never manifest the highest powers of the soul, and he’ll be lucky to reach beyond Yetzirah, the world of formation. If only his mother had been Jewish, instead of his father. He might have been been able to dwell in Beri'ah, and wield the powers of creation, but anything beyond that will always evade him. Nevertheless, Karlontrius is a useful servant, and he has performed his mission well.
Karlontrius looks at Simeon expectantly, and Simeon hands him a stack of cash. The money doesn’t mean anything to Simeon; his older brother, the Scion of Usury, can make as much as he wants out of thin air, but there is enough of the Jew in Karlontrius that snatches the stack away hungrily, and Simeon dismisses him with a look. Barron has thus far followed Karlontrius in silence, and now, as Karlontrius leaves, he looks up at Simeon with a penetrating, icy glare.
A thousand Barron Trumps could never even lay a finger on Simeon in a fight, but still, there’s something in the boy’s look that unnerves him — something vicious, something calculating, something cold.
“Listen,” says Simeon, “Barron — is it alright if I call you Barron? Mr. Trump doesn’t quite feel right, that’s your father, you know?”
Barron doesn’t answer.
“Barron, I can only imagine what you’ve been going through in the past 24 hours. And I know you probably don’t want to be here, and you think, this guy kidnapped me, I don’t want to be here, what about my friends? and so on. You think I’m your enemy. Does that about sum it up?”
Barron remains silent, staring daggers at Simeon.
“Now look, that’s a perfectly understandable way to feel. If I were in your position I would feel exactly the same. The things you have seen and experienced no doubt strike you as fantastical, impossible, and it must seem as if the people from whom we rescued you are your only friends in the world.
“So, I’m not going to sit here and tell you they aren’t your friends. That’s what you expected me to say, right? That they’re not your friends. I’m not saying that. They are your friends, and they want to help you, in so far as their help is worth anything…. Therein lies the problem.
“Though to be more precise they were your father’s friends, and they believe—correctly, in my estimation—that you have great potential and that you can be a valuable asset to them. But what this reveals is that their friendship to you, like all friendship, is ultimately self-serving, and they are making profound mistakes.”
Barron still hasn’t said a word. Simeon’s spiritual perceptions are so developed that he can take the measure of Barron instantly, and he knows that Barron won’t even be able to detect his power.
“You probably think I am in league with Dr. Fauci and the other people who killed your father. Regrettably, this is correct, but it’s not the whole story, and it’s not nearly as simple as that. Those people work for one of my brothers, not in the literal sense I suppose, but in a more formal-ritualistic sense and ah— suffice it to say, I have my objectives and they have theirs and we are often sympathetic to each other but their actions do not represent me and vice versa. I’m sorry, I have a tendency towards verbosity which isn’t always helpful at times like this.
“Anyway, what the Q clan will tell you is that they have found a neglected source of ancient wisdom, a path towards a power that will allow them, and you, to challenge Zion and reclaim the legacy of your ancestors against Jewish corruption. That’s one narrative, certainly. But from my perspective, they are children playing with forces they barely understand, and the thing they call Aryanism is merely one of the lesser emanations of the qlippoth—Esh, possibly, or Chemah—these are dark and ultimately weak powers, and if you pursue them, you will never be able to challenge the people who killed your father and get revenge.
“Oh, why would I want to help you do any of that? That’s what you’re thinking? Or maybe that puzzled look on your face is because you don’t have the first clue what I’m talking about. I suppose they haven’t even had time to explain their misguided cosmology to you. You know, I’m something of a cosmologist, myself.
“Heavenly Power flows from Ein Sof, the infinite, limitless divine. We’ll skip over a bit. This gets very technical. There are ten emanations of divine power that we, as mere humans, can perceive and incorporate into our being. They are called the Sefirot, and they each grant a measure of divine power, which we can wield by aligning ourselves to them. There is a hierarchy of Sefirot, and the initiate must pass through each lower emanation before he can move on to a higher one.”
Simeon sees Barron’s expression soften just a little bit. The imminence of danger has passed, and Simeon can tell he is intrigued.
“Look here, I’ll show you. If I were to show you the higher Sefirot, it would harm you—your mind and your soul are not ready for it. This is the lowest of the Sefirah, Malkuth, the power of kingship. Using it, I can command the earth itself.”
Simeon enters into theurgic harmony with the least of the Sefirot, drawing only a fraction of his power, reciting a mishnah that he learned as a child. The earth starts to rumble beneath them, building in intensity until Simeon releases his connection to Malkuth.
“The Qlippoth are the shadows of the Sefirot. They can be used to wield power but they corrupt anyone who uses them. The Q clan—by the way, I invite you to contemplate what ‘Q’ really stands for, symbols are extremely important in Kabbalah, as are names—the Q clan has found the lowest of the Qlippoth, Tehom and Esh, which they call the Aryan and Atlantean powers, respectively, and they believe they will find ever higher emanations buried under Antarctic ice or on sunken continents at the bottom of the ocean.
“It is true that the Qlippoth can grant access to the lower realms and powers of the soul, but the shadow will never be a match for the light that casts it. Now I am going to make you an offer, and I think you might not appreciate what an incredible thing this is, because you don’t really understand who I am.
“My name is Simeon Rosenberg, and I am the second most powerful Negromancer in North America. My offer is that I will train you in martial arts, in the light of Ein Sof, the true Way of Heaven. Before you say no—I have one more thing to show you.
Chapter 6: Because of Dr. Fauci’s Italian Heritage, He Cannot Withstand The Power of My Qabbalist Negromancy. But What Is The Price of Power?
There are enemies everywhere. Barron can sense at least a dozen, but there could be more, veiling their spirits. Even so, he is confident. Of course there are enemies in the heart of the FDA headquarters. Barron came to Silver Springs looking for a fight, and he found one. He’s going to level every building in this compound, but first he’s going to find Fauci and make him pay.
Three men in plastic covid bubble suits approach him as he crosses the perimeter. They don’t even try to speak, they know who he is and why he’s here. Using his spiritual senses, Barron can tell that none of them have progressed beyond Yetzirah. All three charge him at the same time, attacking him with a flurry of kicks and punches powered by overwhelming physical force, the signature of Yesod, foundation.
But Barron is ready. To him, their attacks are quaint, suitable for small children. He manifests Gevurah, strength, and their blows strike him with all the force of a gentle breeze. He doesn’t even waste a technique on them; he simply unveils his own spirit and the crushing weight of his power is enough to make their knees buckle. Still holding onto Gevurah, he delivers a single uppercut to one of the men, instantly shattering his covid shield and sending him flying into the air.
The other two men try to retreat, but Barron perfected his body when he advanced into Beri'ah, and he can run circles around them without breaking a sweat. To them, it must feel as if he teleports behind them, and he beheads them both with a single, devastating slash of his sword. Their headless bodies erupt into flame and Barron presses on without a thought.
More covidians swarm him, from three directions now. He knows that every martial artist within five miles will have felt his power from the initial skirmish, but he has no need to hide. He shapes his hands into the wheel-turning mudra and manifests Tiferet, balance, before invoking his technique Emmet Till the Fields. Black Bodies rise up from the earth all around him like zombies, ready to do his bidding. These pickaninnies were lynched here, long ago, and one of them still has a noose around his neck. The Black Bodies rise up to fight the army of covidians on his behalf, and he infuses each one with a spark of his vitality.
As his undead negro army fights off the covidians, Barron cultivates his vitality. He is the eye of the storm, a calm center in a whirlwind of chaos. None of the covidians can even get near him, and this allows him to split his awareness between each of his negro puppets, directing a punch here, a dodge there, empowering them with aspects of the lower Sefirot as needed. One by one, the covidians fall to Barron’s negro army, despite being vaxxed and boosted. Thankfully, their symptoms are mild.
Barron advances, a wave of reanimated lynched blackamoors leading the way before him. As they approach FDA building 1, the doors burst open and Dr. Fauci flies through them, hovering several inches off the ground in a fighting stance, wreathed in a column of flame.
He instantly incinerates Barron’s jigaboo minions with his strange, lightless fire as he closes the distance between then with a single step. He lunges at Barron with a palm strike, and his fists are so quick that Barron can barely perceive them. The heel of Fauci’s palm catches him in the nose and it feels like the fire from his aura is surging through his sinuses all the way into his brain.
With a ringing in his ears, Barron steels his will and tries to push through the pain. Time seems to slow down as Fauci takes advantage of Barron’s disorientation to land a second palm strike in his chest. The force of the blow hits him like a thousand respirators hammering his inflamed lungs.
Barron gasps for breath, but before Fauci can land a third strike, he channels all of his vitality into his own heart and hardens his will, unleashing his final technique, the apex of his cultivation, the product of 10,000 hours spent refining the aspect of Black girl magic. Barron unleashed The Mothering Blackness on Dr. Fauci, allowing Fauci’s third palm strike to land squarely on his heart. But instead of the killing the blow that Fauci expects, Barron’s vitality explodes into Fauci’s palm, searing a path through the corridors of his soul.
rime of alien dreams befrosts her rich brown face
threats of northern winds die on the desert’s face
here to the black arms waiting
now to the warm heart waiting
deep in the smothering blackness
back to the mothering blackness
Had Fauci been a Congoloid or a Hamite, the technique would have instantly overwhelmed him, allowing Barron to deconstruct him and harness his vitality towards any purpose he desired, giving him the ability to command Fauci and alter his very will. But Fauci, being only Italian, is only weakly affected by Barron’s psychic assault. He does not break under the power of Barron’s technique, but his will does falter as something ancient, dark, and terrible calls to the swarthier side of nature.
Fauci’s focus crumbles, and Barron focuses his vitality again into his fists, ready to land the killing blow, and as he strikes, the world dissipates into smoke.
Barron is once again standing in Rabbi Simeon Rosenberg’s lab. He is disoriented, his head fogged from the vision, but the reality of his situation comes back to him all at once.
The Rabbi speaks. “That was only a taste of the power you could have if you become my disciple. With time you could become even stronger than that. But I am not going to put you on the spot. You are free to go, sleep on it, think it over.”
“What, you thought I was going to hurt you? I could kill you with a thought. I could raze Mar-a-Lago without breaking a sweat. What do I care? This whole sordid episode with the covid and the election fraud and all this? It’s beneath me, it’s a shonda. People think Jews don’t have honor but at least we can have some dignity. People think they can wield the power of Ein Sof without walking in the light of Ein Sof. Disgraceful. Anyway, go, I know you’re itching to go. Get out of here. And come back when you decide to accept my offer.”
The door to the laboratory opens and a black woman in formal attire comes in to take Barron away. She leads him down a hallway with no windows, and opens a door to a portal, much like the one that took him from the Capitol to Mar-a-Lago. Before he goes, she hands him bottle of pills, and speaks in heavily inflected English, though Barron can’t quite place the accent. She sounds Black. “De Rabbi him tell me give you dees, jus’ in case. Him say take dem if you in trouble.”
Barron stuffs the pills into his coat pocket, and walks forward into the portal, into darkness.
He emerges in Palm Beach, and his phone shows him he’s a few miles away from Mar-a-Lago. A sudden paranoia seizes him, as he wonders if (((They))) can track him through his phone’s GPS. Of course they can, he thinks, but it’s also striking to him that there are different factions of Jews, and while he doesn’t trust any of them, it appears that not all of them are aligned with the covidians and the DNC. What does Simeon want?
Is it really as he claims, that he only wants Barron as a disciple? Why? Barron doesn’t understand Simeon’s motives, but that’s just one more thing on an endlessly increasing list. He hasn’t had a single moment to rest, and at this exact moment, all he really wants is to sleep. Be normal. Watch some TV, eat a Big Mac with his Dad. That last thought is bitter.
The moment it comes out, he realizes he can never be normal again, and that as much as he might want it, there’s something else he wants a thousand times more. He can still remember the look of surprise and terror on Fauci’s face in the vision that Simeon showed him. The feeling of power coursing through his veins, as if his body were made of diamonds, his will strong enough to bend reality. Barron does want that power, as he stares out over the ocean, the sky going dark as the sun dips below the horizon.
Barron walks along the sand, and he finds a secluded spot along the shore.
He wants power, yes, but what is the nature of the power he wants? What is power? You could be powerful by commanding an army of bantoid zombies, but that is not power.
Barron thought he had already won this battle, but now he begins to suspect he will have to fight it again and again—that internal mastery that constitutes suppression of the Judaizing tendency that exists in all men, the counter-acting love of vibrant matter, image, and beauty.
He takes a seat upon the shore, and he sits in a lotus position. He closes his eyes and cultivates his vitality, the way Mueller taught him. Vril into chi, chi into shen, shen returns to the body. Again.
Vril into chi, chi into shen, shen returns to the body. Until this night, Barron has never spent even a single hour in quiet cultivation. He sits in silence, and although his concentration wavers several times, he spends the whole night listening to the sounds of the ocean, his consciousness floating on the waves in a third position between sleeping and waking.
At such a low level of advancement, even this one night has a profound effect: the well of his spirit is deeper than ever before, overflowing with vitality. His body is rested, but his soul has worked. He has drunk deep of pain and he has tasted power, and these insights have fulminated in his mind, finally coming to rest.
In the morning, he feels both somehow both refreshed and exhausted, but his time of reflection comes to an abrupt halt when he hears, seemingly from too far away, several loud voices kvetching and speaking in Yiddish. Simeon may have let him go, but there are lots of other Jews out there, some of whom are looking for him. There’s nowhere to hide.
Chapter 7: The Voices of Old Hyperborea Call To Barron Across The Vastness of Time, But The Q Clan Is Hypnotized By The Waking Nightmare Cultivation of Beijing Bai Dan? Barron’s Only Option: Trust The Plan!
Barron’s cultivation by the water is disturbed when he hears several voices loudly kvetching. His fight or flight response engages and he frantically tries to form an escape plan. How could he have been so naive, to think the Jews would just let him go?
But as he listens, he realizes that the voices he’s hearing are farther away than he had first thought. As he looks around for their source, he sees three figures on the far side of the beach, at least half a mile away…
…And he realizes they aren’t martial artists at all, only some old women out for a morning jog. But despite their distance, he was able to hear their voices clearly, as if they were right beside him. And as the clarity of his meditation fades, so do the yenta exclamations of the trio. It must be that his cultivation practice also enhance his physical senses. Why not? Being red-pilled has opened up so many new perceptions to him; why couldn’t meditation let him see farther, hear louder?
He feels a lightness in his soul; it’s a beautiful morning, and the most pressing need he feels is ordinary hunger. Compared to fearing for his life, running and fighting against deadly opponents, hunger feels like a blessing. He decides to walk back to Mar-a-Lago, and bask in the cool, clear morning. It’s only a few miles. On the walk back he stops at a McDonald’s and buys a Sausage Egg McMuffin. It tastes incredible. The whole world feels new.
When he gets back home, there are no crowds of ravenous Africans, no magic walls — only white sand, blue surf, and golden sun. There are many new faces, however. He sees a dozen or more martial artists in the courtyard, sparring and practicing their forms as Mueller watches.
When Barron approaches, everyone stops what they’re doing and rushes to greet him. They’re shocked to see him alive and in good health, having feared the worst. Barron relates the story of his kidnapping — of Simeon the negromancer, of the vision of himself as the destroyer of the NIH, that Simeon wanted him as a disciple—but he holds one thing back. He doesn’t tell them about the blue pills Simeon gave him. It’s not that he intends to take them, but he knows Mueller would be displeased, would he throw them away. Destroy them.
Barron doesn’t want to let go of the blue pills. He isn’t entirely proud of it, but he feels that it ought to be his choice. Maybe he isn’t totally proud of this. He can admit that. It doesn’t feel right to lie to Mueller, but then again, it’s more of an omission than a lie. Who knows what dangers he’ll face in the future? The blue pills could save his life.
Finally, after relating his story, Barron goes to his room and sleeps. It’s January 7th.
Twelve days pass. Barron joins the other fighters in training and cultivating vitality. In the time that Barron was gone, Mueller had sent out a call to all available fighters in the Q clan to come to Mar-a-Lago. Every day, more Q clan martial artists arrive, and they, too, study and train. Barron learns about the stages of progression in the Q school. The first step is to become red-pilled. At this stage, the initiate learns to see through the illusions in the fabric of everyday life. Being red-pilled opens up the meridians of the body and enables the cultivation of vitality.
The red-pilled martial artist can learn to manipulate the flow of vitality through his body. He can use that energy to empower his strikes. Once the practitioner masters the flow of energy—and achieves a certain level of insight—he can advance to the level of Aryan.
Aryans gain the ability to form a core of vitality inside their body, a deep reservoir of vitality that they can use to power their martial arts. As the Aryan advances, he gradually perfects his body, purging it of all physical and spiritual impurities. Through cultivation, an Aryan may gain such abilities as immunity to poisons, unbreakable limbs, enhanced speed, or the power of regeneration, depending on his focus and training. But all of this feels like a distant dream.
Like Barron, most of the other Q fighters are still at the red pill stage, and he’s not sure if he finds that encouraging or disheartening. On the one hand, he was beginning to feel like the weakest man in the world after watching Neon Revolt and FBIAnon fight, and then even more after meeting Simeon. On the other hand, none of these people would be much use in a real fight.
Every three days, the Q clan gives a red pill to every cultivator who is training at Mar-a-Lago. Mueller explains that the clan’s apothecarists make the pills by condensing the vital energy from the Florida sun and the roiling Atlantic Ocean and storing them into a physical form. Although it’s expensive to provide these resources to so many people, a storm is coming. They need to advance as many fighters to the Aryan level as possible. When Barron takes one, he feels the spiritual energy coursing through the meridians of his body.
He feels the bottomless depths of the sea.
He feels the impatient sun; the thirst and the hot breath of her love.
For a moment he loses himself, and the desire of the sea rises within him.
He stares up at the sun who longs to drink his depths to her height—
Kissed WOULD he be by the thirst of the sun!
Vapor WOULD he become—
and path of light—
and light itself!
Every morning, Barron trains with the other cultivators of his level. In time, he refines the technique he learned when he was defending the wall from the Blacks. After even a few days of training, he learns to be much more efficient, forming a tighter and denser ball of energy, forming it faster, wasting less, and throwing it farther and more accurately. When he projects his spirit outward, he finds that accuracy depends as much the desire of his will as the motions of his body.
He spends each evening in quiet cultivation, cycling energy through each of his meridians. Vril into chi. Chi into shen. As vitality flows through him, he also meditates on the training he has received and the things he has seen.
He’s noticed that his training seems to go faster than any of the others at his level. His control over his own vitality is somehow easier, more natural, like something he was born to do. When he spars with the other red-pilled fighters, he can almost sense their motions before they make them. It’s like he’s operating from distant memories, performing a dance he learned a thousand years ago, one which he’s all but forgotten. He can almost grasp the essence of striking, the timeless and abstract quality of a punch.
Without even intending to, he learns how to bolster his strikes with his vitality, how to align his spirit and his body to his will. None of the other red-pilled fighters so much as land a blow on him. He wonders how he’d do against a first-level Aryan. What Barron doesn’t understand is: why? Why him? Why does this come so naturally, and is it something that others can sense about him? Is that why Simeon had offered to train him?
Mueller notices Barron’s prodigious abilities as well, and on January 14th, he calls Barron into the Plan room to give him a more advanced—and specific—training regimen. Of course, Barron presents Mueller with his burning question: why me? And Mueller tells him that spiritual abilities are highly heritable. They run in the blood. President Trump was the strongest cultivator in the Q clan, a grade 5 Aryan who could, perhaps, have advanced even higher.
“Is that it?” Asks Barron. “Is that why Simeon wanted to train me?”
“No,” says Mueller, “though I don’t know exactly, I have a guess. The Q clan’s path progresses by learning to hear the call of ancient blood, by acknowledging that call and awakening to its power. When you fight, does it feel like an ancient memory coming back to you?”
“Those are the memories of the old Hyperboreans. You are sensing their ancestral voice. Judaic paths, in contrast, advance by means of betrayal: betrayal of your nation, your people, your heritage, your family, a loved one. It’s not quite as simple as that, but that’s the core of it. I am not an expert on Qabbalah, but there’s something to do with the betrayal of the particular in the name of the universal.
“I think Simeon sees your potential because, from his perspective, you are capable of profound betrayals.”
Mueller stops and trails off for a moment, before speaking again with a sudden stab of conviction. “Of all evil I deem you capable: therefore I want good from you. I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws.”
For the next five days, Barron spends his time cultivating in the Plan room, contemplating the meaning of trust. On the third day of his cultivation, Barron realizes that the plan is a much older artifact than the Q clan itself. Its intricacies surpass anything Mueller or even Donald Trump could have made.
The Plan is simultaneously a cultivation manual detailing the martial techniques of the Q clan — the Storm, the Kraken, the Avalanche, and others — as well as an Earthly repository of Heavenly power, accumulating all the Trust of true patriots. But as the inauguration of Bai Dan draws closer, its energy stores have been low. Even so, it contains orders of magnitude more power than Barron can wield or even comprehend. Just being in the same room with it fills the air with an aura so dense that it smothers his spiritual senses.
On January 19th, with Bai Dan’s inauguration imminent, a dark power hangs in the air, a shadow that even the weakest cultivator in Mar-a-Lago can sense. It feels like something slinking or slithering or creeping in the edges of the mind, just beyond Barron’s perception.
Mueller had warned of this possibility days ago, explaining that the Satanic rituals of the DNC and the international pedophile cabal would send psychic ripples across the entire world, blanketing the country in madness and shadow. The reality of that turned out to be far worse than Barron had imagined, a sensation of something gnawing at him, trying to eat him alive.
The sensation only grows worse as the sun sets, but the true horror comes in the small hours of the night, when Barron awakens from a nightmare as a scream pierces the silence of the morning.
To Be Continued…
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Someone call Poison Control, for this man has OD'ed on red pills.
Truly one of the most Bizarre Adventures of Barron Trump ever.
Unfortunately, I'm going to have to give this fanfiction a 7 out of 10, as its lacking a dog named Bulger.
I don't even know what to say. I think my highest praise is that when you are reading it nothing breaks the spell, it all fits together. Very impressive.