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The 110% Totally True Confessions of a Left-Wing Conspirator

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I’ve struggled with this piece for a long time. I feel horrible selling out my best friend — but I feel even worse selling out my country.

Things have not been as they seem at MetalSucks. We have acted on behalf of the left to be paid agitators. It has weighed heavily on my conscience. I can’t sleep at night, I can’t eat, I can’t pretend to like crappy bands because their record labels pay me big bucks.

What follows is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth… so help me Trump.

***

Conspiracy theorists think we do all our business through Comet Ping Pong in D.C. Although Supreme Enchantress Clinton does own a stake in that pizzeria, they’ve got it all wrong. We meet in the basement of Temple Yahdum Muhrahns at the corner of 66th street and 6th avenue. The reason we meet there is simple: the basement is already full of unlimited stacks of gold (as is every synagogue, of course). This is how the Clintons avoid a paper trail: you get your assignment in person, and then you’re immediately rewarded with your bar of gold. Easy peasy.

Of course, Her Holiness is never present for these meetings. Orders are passed along the line, as in a game of telephone. Vince and I got our orders from Huma Abedin, Coordinator of Sinister Affairs for ISIS. We don’t know for sure, but the rumor was always that Huma took her orders from Deborah Wasserman Schultz, who took her orders from Barack Obama, who took his orders from Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, who took his orders from Aidan Clinton Mezvinsky, who took his orders from Charlotte Clinton Mezvinsky, who took her orders from Chelsea Clinton, who took her orders from Bill Clinton, who, of course, took his orders from Her Piousness. The point is, by the time the instructions reached us, it was ostensibly impossible to prove that they had originated with Her Cleanliness.

The day after Donald J. Trump won the election despite our best efforts to steal it by means of voter fraud in swing states, Huma sent us an e-mail. “Rage Against the Machine are the best band ever, aren’t they?” Seems innocuous enough, but we knew better: it was code. We were to report for duty at once.

As we entered Temple Yahdum Muhrahns, our comrade, Professor Pizza from Axeslasher, was coming out. Artists such as he are frequently employed by Her Immaculateness to seed not-so-secret messages explaining Her superiority (e.g., “You’re out-powered in this battle/how does it feel to be our cattle?”). Her Fragrantness understands better than most that the best conspiracies are the ones that constantly gloat about their achievements. Axeslasher was chosen, no doubt, for their multi-platinum album sales — there could be no better band to spread the word far and wide.

Of course, we couldn’t acknowledge Herr Professor with anything more than a simple head nod and a quiet whisper of “Hail Hillary,” for we know that the intrepid sleuths of Reddit and Voat — the last bastions of truth in the United States — were constantly surveilling us.

“Gentlemen… can I help you?” asks the perpetually warm and inviting Rabbi Scholmo Schmuckowitz when you first enter the temple. It’s all a front, of course. The Rebbi was once an actor, and he is only pretending to be so old and frail. In fact, he always has an uzi tucked under his robe. Give the wrong passcode upon entrance, and you’re swiss cheese.

“Yes, we’re here to see Corey Rollins,” Vince announced. The fake name is a hybrid of those belonging to two of Her Exquisterrificness’ most revered operatives.

“Ah,” Rabbi Schmuckowitz smiled, and I thought I saw him pocket some throwing stars. “In the basement.”

Down to the basement we went.

“Hail Hillary!” shouted Huma as we approached, throwing the Clinton salute — a peace sign.

“Hail Hillary!” we shouted back, returning peace signs of our own.

“Sit.” We did. My chair wobbled a little, and when I looked down, I realized it was not a chair, but rather a small, blonde-haired, blue-eyed child. Vince’s child-chair looked much sturdier than my own, and I admit I was somewhat envious; mine wouldn’t stop quietly moaning in discomfort, making it difficult for me to concentrate on the meeting.

Huma was not one for small talk; she didn’t ask to see photos of Vince’s eighteen-month-old son (she is said to loathe children too young to potentially act as suicide bombers), or inquire about the work I’d done over the past several months recruiting women to falsely accuse Donald Trump of grabbing their pussies (it was a well-known fact that she had attempted, and failed, to get Trump to grab her pussy — an insult the well-known seductress took quite personally). Instead, she simply gave us our orders.

“You are to write a manifesto,” Huma instructed us with the passionless tone of the sociopath she is. “You will demand social justice for all fans and creators of metal and disavow readers who take pride in being heterosexual caucasian men.”

Making heterosexual caucasian men feel bad about being heterosexual caucasian men despite the fact that they were born heterosexual caucasian men and had no control over their sexuality or race (unlike blacks and homosexuals, who cement their path via a sacred vow and the cannibalization of a Christian baby, usually just to troll their parents) was a key component of Her Meticulosity’s master plan. Throughout human history, despots have attained and maintained power by rallying the plebeian hordes around a common minority scapegoat. Hitler used the Jews; Her Krispykreminess uses heterosexual caucasian men.

“A manifesto?” I asked without thinking, as though the question were an involuntary muscle spasm. “Is that really necessary?”

Vince shot me a harsh look and quickly offered Huma a reassurance. “Please forgive him, Lord Abedin… he is but a humble servant and a simple stoner, and he understands not what he asks.”

I should have known better than to question orders. In truth, the fact that the question had even occurred to me was the first sign that I was losing faith in the cause. Donald Trump was so rich, so smart, so honest (he’s just saying what we’re all thinking, after all),  so handsome, and so terrific — of course he had won the election. How could I continue to shill for Crooked Hillary when she had dared to use a private e-mail server to try and keep her secrets from American landowners? How could I continue to back a woman who had ordered the murder of Americans in Benghazi so as to keep her child sex ring a secret? How could I continue to aid The Mother of ISIS?!?!

“Necessary?” Huma asked rhetorically. “Has it not occurred to you, Axl, that we’ve seen the e-mail you received after Trump’s victory last night?”

She was referring, I knew, to this e-mail, which had, indeed, rattled us to our very cores:

bob-smith-e-mail

“You are losing sway over your readers. This cannot be permitted. So, yes… I would say it is necessary, Rosenberg.”

Huma handed Vince and I our gold bars, and my conscience magically quieted itself. With more salutes and “Hail Hillary!”s, we left the basement. As we exited the synagogue, we saw Rachel Maddow and Duff McKagan entering. It was clearly going to be a busy day.

***

And so I helped Vince to co-author The MetalSucks Manifesto and spread its insipid lies across the metalsphere. I have little doubt Her Indubitableness will have me killed for writing this. Thus, I leave my fellow heterosexual caucasian men with these parting words: don’t make the same mistakes I did. We need to make America great again. Damn the man… FIGHT THE POWER!

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