The Right Wing arrives at a conservative conference in Palm Beach to discuss Trump’s death, what it means for their future, and who killed him.
This is a chapter from my book in progress, America is Dead! – The Incredible Murder of Donald Trump. You can read other available chapters by clicking here, and you can subscribe to be notified when new chapters are released by clicking here.
A video version of this chapter can be seen here.
I arrived in Palm Beach on the wings of a dragon. It was revolting: cramped and sweaty, hundreds of parasites each clinging to the underside of one of the dragon’s slimy scales, smelly bare feet shoved on my arm rest while they waited for their so-called complimentary bag of peanuts.
It was almost as bad as Palm Beach itself.
I was the only real human on the dragon, the only real American man with balls and TESTES and the COURAGE TO SPEAK OUT and the bloodsucker pushing the alcohol cart up and down the aisle cut me off after only 3 vodkas because APPARENTLY I was being disruptive to the other passengers.
Oh, was I being disruptive, Carolyne? Was I? Was I rocking the boat of your convenient delusion that you live in a world where hollow Earth reptiles AREN’T IN TOTAL CONTROL of your lives and your spines? I’m busy trying to save your souls, here, you soulless bastards, so yes, sometimes I get a bit shouty.
I AM NOT SORRY!
After a half-dozen of the inhuman scum on the dragon with me tried to get me to sleep with them — they may not have souls, but they’ve got eyes, and can see what a virile hunk of patriot I am, and want to ride my freedom train — CHOO CHOO — the dragon walked us to our terminal, and belched us into the jetway. The flight attendant tick who fifteen minutes ago was threatening to call the air marshal on me if I didn’t just settle down and stop yelling at the shapeshifter who was pretending to be an 18-month old little girl with an ear infection was now thanking me for my business and wishing me a happy stay in Palm Beach.
I tell her it’s not too late to stop being a soulless tick, but she doesn’t know what to say to that.
They never know what to say.
I need to get a Taxi to get to the Palm Beach Convention Center, and as I look for the Taxi stand I do my best to avoid making eye contact with anyone around me. It’s like that scene in the Matrix, where Neo is walking down the street, and is distracted by the woman in the Red Dress and doesn’t notice that agent Smith has POSSESSED one of the people in the crowd he’s walking through, and shoots Neo in the head.
So I don’t want to get distracted by any beautiful women in red dresses, or, Good Christ, get drawn into a conversation with a fan. Look, human people, I get it: I do what I do to SAVE THE WORLD from the demonic forces on the verge of destroying it, and I DO MY BEST to give you the tips you need to save yourself, but I HATE talking to you.
I don’t have time to listen to you thank me for my tireless work to defeat the GLOBALIST AGENDA. And if you’re a Reptillian or a fifth-dimensional sulphuric Democratic Slipturian trying to infect my nose hairs with your godlessness or whatever, I don’t have time to listen to you threaten me for my tireless work to defeat the GLOBALIST AGENDA.
Sometimes my enemies, when they’re shapeshifted into the form of a voluptuous young woman in a Red Dress, or a voluptuous 80-year old woman in a Red MAGA hat, try to trick me into giving them my signature, and even though they claim they just want an autograph, I KNOW they want to use my signature to steal my power. And identity.
I challenge them, and fling some of the holy water I keep in my false tooth, and they disappear in a puff of acrid smoke.
None of these lizard fuckers can stand up to my false teeth!
The Taxi stand is outside the front of the airport, so I brace myself for the terrible weather here, and step through the doors.
MY GOD, Florida is a sweaty pisshole.
My beautiful fitted t-shirt goes from a bone dry heather to a soaking black sponge in an instant, and I am swarmed immediately by malarial, nanobot-carrying mosquitoes.
Why anyone would want to live in this pisshole is beyond me. Maybe if I was a Democrat, I’d like it here.
I don’t like it here.
As I wait for my turn to pay too much to a South Greneshian Goblin for a 10-minute Taxi ride to my hotel, the mosquitoes take their turn trying to infect me with their mind control nanobots from BILL GATES, but I’m not worried about them getting into my brain and hijacking my manly arms and legs and thoughts because I’M PROTECTED!
If you’re scared of the malarial mosquitoes, and don’t want them to infect your BRAIN with their 5G mind-control, here’s a recipe that’ll keep you safe:
Alex Jone’s Home-made Malarial Nanobot Vaccine
- Take a cup of Greek yogurt, mix in two tablespoons of activated charcoal. This will force the anti-nanobot defences to ACTIVATE in a later step.
- Set the yogurt mixture outside, in the sun, for 17 days.
- After 17 days, bring it inside. This is VERY important: 16 days is not enough, and if you leave it outside for 18 days, YOU WILL DIE.
- Put the yogurt in a blender, and mix it with 1/2 cup crushed peanuts. Blend until smooth.
- Start vigorously rubbing the yogurt mixture on your cock, and when you’re finished, take the jizz you just made and smear it on your face.
- Let the activated jizz rest on your face for 3 hours. When the jizz absorbs into your skin, you’ll be protected from the nanobots, no matter what Bill Gates had planned for you, the slimy fuck! As a bonus, the jizz will give your skin a nice glow.
And that’s how you can protect yourself from the evil 5G nanobot mosquitos. Good luck, patriot!
I made it to the front of the Taxi line, and got in the back seat of a five-legged Snarrlon Beast and asked the Greneshian Goblin piloting it to take me to my hotel
I know what you’re thinking: was I really trusting a Greneshian to actually get me to my destination, and not steal my teeth and leave me in a ditch somewhere? Greneshians are even worse than Altraschoids! Sure, that’s a concern, but if the alternative is Uber, well … if you knew what I knew about Uber, you would set fire to their head office and dance while the CEO’s children burned. I’d rather be a victim of a creepy, tooth-eating Greneshian than have to deal with the Gig economy.
My God.
I was in town to be a headline speaker at FreedomCon, the biggest conference for people who actually GIVE A SHIT about the state of the world, for people who want to reclaim the COUNTRY and defeat the globalist donkey cocks from the 9th dimension.
That’s not a metaphor, by the way. I saw talking donkey cocks entering our reality one time through a portal behind a Five Guys in Portland. I killed them all before they had a chance to tell me what they wanted, but it was scary and I WAS HARD.
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