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CONFESSIONS FROM THE PIZZA PARLOR

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I first began to suspect that they were onto me when I was headed toward the pizza parlor, to molest and slice up another baby. One of us had kidnapped it from a gas station as its mother, a suburban troll with a TRUMP/PENCE bumper sticker on her Taurus, disappeared inside the store, leaving the snotty brat in its baby seat. My colleague, (name deleted), snatched the baby and by the time the mother knew her spawn was gone, (deleted) had long disappeared. He brought the baby to a safe house whose lease was paid for by one of our mentors, John Podesta, whose wealthy funders include George Soros.

Now, you have to understand we’d been gathering in an underground bunker of this pizza parlor for years, ever since Huma Abedin had that tutorial (in the Spring of 2016) where we learned about Muslim techniques of throat slicing. Huma, a vegetarian, insisted that eating the flesh of Republican babies was not a violation of veganism, but a symbol of worship for “Him” whose name shall not be uttered. (“He” is also the one who sent Obama here, to plunder souls and wreak havoc). We certainly had plenty of babies to use; we imported them (under Chuck Schumer’s guidance) from overseas, and sold them to predators. But we always kept the best for ourselves. Huma, a nice lady who would not have countenanced pedophilia, nonetheless was compelled to step aside when Hillary took over. Hillary and her consort, Bill, were both long practiced in the black arts of pedophilia, and, as events proved, necrophilia.

I was then merely a student in the local community college, looking for thrills. I had flirted with the Dark Side as most students do—you know, drunken seances, Tetragrammatons, Aleister Crowley, that sort of thing. But not really. Only because the boy I liked to have sex with was into it. Me, personally? I thought it was kind of stupid. But then (deleted) started explaining certain phenomena to me, and when the pieces began falling into place, it all made sense.

We met in a secret underground chamber in the pizza parlor accessible only through a broom closet, and you had to know exactly which items to move, in certain precise ways, in order for the broom closet—which was actually suspended in a shaft on elevator cables—to lower itself to our stygian gatheringplace. I cannot even now reveal all the details, but they involved, not only the aforementioned broom, but a bucket, a container of Lysol, and a toilet plunger. Then, a 15-second downward journey, and you opened the door to see—

Well, at first it puzzled me. An all-metal room, of a silver-grey hue, dull rather than shiny. Sinks and aluminum tables set around the four walls. Pipes everywhere. There were drainholes in the concrete floor, and air ducts overhead. The lights, which were phosphorescent, crackled and buzzed, and provided a weird, cold glow. In the center of the chamber, an altar of sorts, also of metal, about three feet high, upon which the unfortunate babies were laid to rest, in preparation for what was to follow. Below the altar, drainage ditches to capture the spillage.

And the photos! All around the walls, photographs of our leaders: Hillary. Soros. Obama. Rahm Emanuel. Joe Biden. Sean Penn. Certain Rothschilds. They had been portrayed in such a way that their eyes seemed to follow you wherever you went, which added to the sense of mystical eerieness. It took me a while to grasp the enormity of what we were doing, which was no less than this: to take over the world. To overthrow all religions, all family values, all norms of decency—God himself–and replace them with “His” perverted evil. Who, precisely, “He” was, was never entirely clear to me, although there were rumors it was Paul Begala. But I never doubted that I served Him, through his vessel on Earth, the Democratic Party.

But now, after dozens of rituals performed in our secret necropolis in the bowels of the pizza parlor, there was this sudden, frightful feeling that “they” were onto me. Who were “they”? That was the problem. We knew we had enemies. Our chief protagonist, obviously enough, was Donald J. Trump. He himself had followers, millions of them, white and often obese men and women who fancied themselves patriots, who open-carried their guns, assaulted homosexuals, spat on Muslims and, occasionally, set fire to mosques and synagogues, or tried to assassinate Democratic politicians. But we weren’t really afraid of them. We thought they were morons, until recently, when the threat level rose exponentially.

Our Facebook and Twitter feeds were hacked. Our personal computers were held for ransom. Once, I was routinely surfing the web for porn, when the screen went black and a message appeared: WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE, LIBERAL SNOWFLAKE. Then the phantom words went away as swiftly as they had come, and all was back to normal. Except…it wasn’t.

We soon discovered who “they” were: QAnon. A self-appointed vigilante group, led indirectly by Trump, of course, but more directly by his henchmen: Steve Bannon, Stephen Miller, and, naturally, the spider at the center of all those rightwing webs, Jared Kushner. One day, we were summoned to a group meeting via ZOOM (the pandemic preventing us from gathering in person). Hillary coordinated the meeting. Dressed in a black, head-covering cowl, she informed us we were in mortal peril. These Q-people meant business. They did not hesitate to kill. They aimed at nothing less than eliminating us—all of us, to a woman and a man—and forming a Christian, male-dominated, authoritarian, fascist autocracy in America, under the direction of Trump and his children. We should be very careful, Hillary explained; it was probably best to temporarily halt the baby eating. We should stay away from the pizza parlor, which was thought to be under surveillance by conservative militiamen. We might want to consider increased security measures in our homes.

That night, the night I was aware of being followed, I hid in the bushes at the edge of the parking lot where the pizza parlor was. I was determined to catch my stalker, and, if possible, eliminate him (I assumed it was a male). In my hand I held a kitchen knife. It was dark, with a new Moon. A fine mist moistened the cool air. A black SUV pulled into the parking lot, noiselessly, and parked. Inside its darkened windows I saw the brief point of an orange glow: someone lit up a cigarette, or maybe a joint. The door of the SUV slid open. I saw a booted leg come out, then a second, and then the dark outline of a person in a black uniform. The person looked to the left, to the right, and drew on his cigarette, making the tip glow in the night. Then the person walked slowly toward the pizza parlor. I heard his boots clip-clop on the pavement. I gripped my knife more tightly. He came within ten feet of me. I decided to act. Springing from my bush, holding the knife high over my head, I took two steps toward the phantom, intent on plunging the blade into the back of his neck, when I heard a loud sound. Then I felt a stinging heat in my ribs. That was the last thing I remember, before waking up in this bed, from which I now confess to you, Tucker Carlson, my crime.

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