Excerpts from the Journal of Infamous Mike

A FourG EXCLUSIVE!

Satire

In recent weeks and months, rumors have abounded surrounding the disappearance of JosiahRises, and the part that Epic Mike may have played in this mysterious vanishing. Both these self-identified men belong to the alt-right hate group Geeks + Gamers, known for their desire for good stories in entertainment. How disgusting? We here at FourG are not associated with these vile people, and we condemn their beliefs. If you don’t like that, stop reading; we don’t want you here.

FourG has run a secret investigation of the disappearance of one of these extremists, and we have made some startling discoveries. We can confirm that the so-called Epic Mike is not so epic. Nay, he is Infamous Mike now, for we have discovered his journal, which reveals the truth behind the disappearance of Josiah. Yet, who are the real villains here? Mike, a misunderstood Black man, unfairly treated by the racist Jeremy, head of this hate group? Or Josiah, an avowed white supremacist who doesn’t like movies that he’s supposed to? We present the evidence to our readers and allow you to decide. (But I think we all know the truth. I mean, Mike’s black, and if you disagree with us, you’re a racist, misogynist, transphobic pig that should die in a ditch. . . JK, we love all our fans.)

Be warned, the following has been edited, and several N-words have been redacted, but this article still contains potentially offensive content and opinions that do not represent FourG or KastKom. Proceed at your own peril.

August 2^nd, 2021:

Cold. It’s just so cold. Frost and morning dew coat my dark fingers, intriguing me with their appearance, seemingly lighter than they truly are. “Is this what it feels like to be white?” This question floats gently on the air within my mind. Perhaps it’s so, but mother will know best. Mother knows all. I must not question mother. She will teach me what’s right and just.

The thought of mother grounds me back in the moment and in my task ahead; I return to the tender washing of my hands, removing the dirt caked on my fingertips from my long and arduous night. I glance over at the clock above my sink; it’s 3am. The witching hour has begun. I hope mother will be pleased with me. The work is done, the body is cold, the curse is set, and the downfall of my enemy has begun. None shall ever find the one called JosiahRises ever again.

January 25^th, 2022:

That was close, too close. My cover is threatened. If even Ryan of simpleton outpost can connect the dots enough to suspect me, I am in far more danger of being uncovered than I could have feared. I must be more careful; I must cover my tracks better. The first step in doing that would be to make everyone believe that Josiah is alive. . . The Mexican! I will go to the Mexican, and he will develop proof of my innocence. . .

Hold on. A strange knock on my door sends shivers through my body. The knock itself is soft yet firm; its echoing noise sounds to my jaded ears like a sharp and accusatory [REDACTED]. Only one man I know can knock in such a racist way. It must be Ryan of RK Outpost. Has he discovered the truth? Has he come in search of revenge for his white brother? Before I can respond, there’s a knock on my back door too. I whirl toward that door, fearing what may enter there. My house resounds with [REDACTED] knocks coming from every surface, racists at every possible exit.

I have no choice but to face the music for the cause. I only pray that mother will remember me and carry on the fight. Wrestling with my fear, I step out in the night. Ryan is indeed standing there, tiki torch in hand, wearing khaki shorts and the shades customary of feds. Ryan is surrounded by a cohort of his fed-looking brethren, all carrying tiki torches and staring me down through dark lenses. Even Rekieta Law is among these racists, blending into the sea of khaki, here to ensure this gathering can withstand the scrutiny of the law if it comes to that. Ryan steps forward, lifting a photo of Josiah, and condemns me in his best southern sheriff accent, “You have killed this man.” It was not a question or an invitation for explanation. It was an accusation, an accusation with consequences.

Doing my best to sound brave so that mother can be proud of my final moments, I reply, “I ain’t done sh*t, b*tch. And ya ain’t got no evidence or none of that there proof stuff to make an arrest. So, take your fancy dancy lawyer friend and get the h*ll off me property, ya racist f*ck.” My words hang in the air, all others too shocked to respond.

Rekieta steps forward and whispers in Ryan’s ear, “He’s right. This’ll will never stand up in court.”

Ryan contemplates his position for a moment before, again in his southern accent, shouting, “Book him!” Two trundling idiots race up behind me and set up a photography background. I’m handed a plaque with my name and details on it and motioned to look at a camera. In a flash, the shot is taken, and my mugshot is cemented. “You may have outsmarted us this time, Mike,” Ryan hisses, “But this photo online will get others to question and investigate. Soon, someone will discover proof of your guilt.” Without another word, Ryan waves his hand, and everyone extinguishes their torches and fades into the dark, leaving me once again alone.

I am now more certain than ever: I must find the Mexican and convince him to help clear my name, for the time being, at least until mother’s final judgment can be enacted.

January 26^th, 2022:

Using all the strength of my large frame, I shoulder my way into the ramshackle hut built into a muddy hillside. I stop, stunned by the stark transition. The exterior may be a run-down, dirty hut with no defining or likable features, but the inside is clean and exotic, filled with all the trinkets the Mexican had found in his white master’s trash. The Mexican is there, sitting on an ornate chair, calmly eating some candy. He purrs, “Chill, my man. Have some candy.” He extends the bag of candy toward me, offering peace.

Recognizing the type of candy he’s offering, I shout, “I ain’t gonna take none of that sh*t. Mexican candy is just salty water trash.”

Anger flashes on the Mexican’s face, anger that I have never before seen in those brown, soft eyes. He slowly stands and carefully whispers, “I will not have anyone insult my candy. You can break my door, insult me, even beat me, and I will not care. But you will not insult my candy. . . Now, again I ask, would you like some candy?” Suddenly afraid for my life, I tentatively reach out and take a piece of candy, gingerly trying it, using all my willpower to not grimace at the taste. “Good?” he asks. I manage to slowly nod, fighting my churning tastebuds. The Mexican smiles, nodding his approval in response before slowly sitting back down to add, “Now, what can I do for you, friend?”

“I need you to prove that I didn’t kill Josiah,” I reply, ready for a confrontation.

“How could I do that? I’m just a simple Mexican editor.”

“The thing is . . . I did kill that cracker, and I need you to edit some proof that I didn’t, you know, do none of that.”

The Mexican looks me up and down, contemplating his answer, deciding whether or not to help me. What he doesn’t know is that I have a secret weapon that I will deploy if the need arises. Eventually, the Mexican notes, “You know, the donkey of truth will not like this. He would no longer grace me with his steamy, running truth if I create such a lie.”

The time for my secret weapon has come; I pull my arm out from behind my back, a basket of tacos held by it. “I understand you like to be paid in tacos,” I say. “I’m sure that I can beat Jeremy’s offer and give ya enough tacos to outweigh the benefit of having the donkey of truth.”

The Mexican’s eyes light up with a mad glee, whispering, “You can offer me 10 whole tacos?”

“Dream bigger.”

“11?” His excitement can barely be contained; he bounces on his chair like a child who has been told that he’s going to Disneyland.

“I have 20 tacos here,” I offer. “All these here tacos are yours if ya just do this little thing for me. Do ya think that we can come to an agreement with these conditions, Ivan?”

The Mexican’s eyes light up at the use of his name. “That’s a name that I haven’t heard in a long time. . . Just because you were so nice to use my name, I will take these tacos and convince the world that you’re not a murderer.”

February 1st, 2022:

The Mexican does quick work. There are already short recordings of phone conversations, tweets, and even a picture of Josiah circling the internet, proving my innocence. Ryan still suspects me, but for now, there is nothing that he can do. Mother would be proud of me.

February 7th, 2022:

A mysterious text buzzes my phone. All my cares and worries dissipated, I check it without worry. The moment I read it, an iron grip clenches my gut; the time for fear had returned. I am not out of the woods yet. Jeremy is summoning me to castle misogyny for some unknown reason. None are summoned to castle misogyny for anything good. I take a deep breath and say a prayer to mother, her will be done. I will go to castle misogyny and face whatever punishment awaits me. . .

Fear gripping me and sending waves of adrenaline throughout my body, I tentatively cross the bridge of racism to enter castle misogyny. All eyes turn to me as I walk past toward the great hall. I can feel the judgment in their gazes; they must know the truth of my deeds. Even the feral cat Brie Larson hisses at me as I pass, my deeds too vile for even her to condone.

I enter the great hall of transphobia and am greeted by the looks of all members of the high council: KristaNova, Ryan from RK Outpost, Tuggs, Odin, Xray Girl, Lethal Lightning, Lyndon, Drunk 3PO, and even special guest YoungRippa59. They all stare at me, their faces a myriad of expressions ranging from hate, disgust, and loathing to grief, pity, and mourning. Only the king upon his throne, Jeremy, does not yet look at me, his gaze enthralled by a small TV on which he’s playing Mario Kart.

Once I reach the center of the room, Ryan nudges Jeremy to get his attention. Jeremy jumps in surprise and turns to look at me. He smiles sadly in acknowledgment, saying, “Epic Mike. I’m glad you came. Do you know why I asked you to come?”

Glancing around at the gathered crowd, I whisper, “I think I got some sorta idea.”

Ryan again raises his picture of Josiah and shouts in a southern accent, “You have killed this man!” Everyone looks at Ryan in confusion, his voice bewildering them. Jeremy nudges Ryan back and gives him a commanding nod. Ryan sighs and proceeds in his normal voice, “What do you have to say about that, Mike?”

“As I said before,” I reply. “Ya ain’t got sh*t on me, so there ain’t no point in having this here talk.”

“Oh, but we do have proof this time,” Ryan says with a grin. He raises a solitary finger to point to the back of the room where the Mexican is standing, his eyes downcast in shame. “I knew that there was something fishy about Josiah’s messages,” Ryan continues. “He only ever said the same things over and over. So, I went to Ivan for help in proving my suspicions, and he gave me far more than I could have hoped for.”

“I’m sorry. . . But tacos,” is the Mexican’s only response. Without another word, he grabs the lead of the strange-looking donkey beside him and walks toward me, the donkey trailing behind. “The donkey will have the truth,” the Mexican explains. A few of the others gently but firmly force me to sit in a chair and await the donkey’s approach. Once he arrives, the Mexican turns the donkey around and lifts its tail, pressing its rear closer and closer toward my face. Suddenly shouting, the Mexican cries, “The donkey of truth compels you!”

A sudden wave of air from the donkey passes over me, and a strange force overwhelms me, sapping all my will to resist. I scream in terror, “Stop. Please. I’ll tell you everything.”

I’m spun in my chair to face Jeremy, who prods, “Where is Josiah? Is he safe? Is he alright?”

I let it all loose, confessing everything. “I killed him. OK. I did it. He’s buried beneath Jeremy’s threshold. Mother told me to do it to put a curse onto you. She wants you out of her way.”

Somehow unfazed by my confession, Jeremy quietly asks, “Who is mother?”

“Kathleen Kennedy,” I finally admit. “She chose me to be her avenging angel because she assumed that I’m the only one of us that has killed anyone before. Which is true but not important now.” I spit in Jeremy’s direction, adding, “I spit on you and all Geeks + Gamers. You’re not the heroes you think you are. Mother is nice to me. She just tells me I’m perfect, and can do no wrong, and am better than white people. That’s all I want to hear sometimes.”

Without fear of further spit, Jeremy approaches and kneels at my feet, cooing, “My child, what hath corrupted thee and turned thee away from the light, from the truth? What dark power doth mother hold sway over thee with?”

The very last of my strength fading, I cackle, “She opened my eyes and showed me the truth. I watched the Last Jedi 1,000 times in one week, which isn’t even possible. They had to overlap some of the showings, so I was sometimes watching it ten times at once.

The great hall is filled with gasps of horror and a few people whispering, “Dear god.”

More defiant now than ever, I scream, “And you know what? I love it. I love that f*cking movie. We were all wrong about it. It’s a triumph and the best movie ever made.”

Behind Jeremy, Xray Girl and Krista burst into sobs and hug each other closely, mourning my apparent loss. “Impossible,” Ryan shouts. “No one can genuinely love that movie.”

Jeremy simply smiles and reaches out to squeeze my knee, whispering, “I forgive thee thine trespasses against me, my child. Ye shall yet be saved when the golden age of Hollywood returns.” He suddenly stands and steps back to reveal Odin in full Catholic priest robes, a cross in one hand and a holy water dispenser in the other. The great hall is filled with the singing of a Latin choir, their words not understood, but their haunting emotions affecting us all.

Odin begins chanting in Latin, his words cutting into my soul, digging out something evil inside me. I struggle and thrash, screaming against the coming redemption. “Mother, save me,” I pray.

“The power of Christ compels you,” Odin shouts, finishing his exorcism with a flourish of holy water, banishing the infection of the Last Jedi.

Everyone waits with bated breath to see if my soul has been saved. Tears in my eyes, I look up at Jeremy and mumble, “I am so sorry. I should never have allowed her to influence me like that.”

Jeremy smiles and helps me stand, declaring, “Nay, no forgiveness is necessary. Thou art whole again. That is what matters. Thou art no longer Infamous Mike, murderer of his brother. Thou art once more Epic Mike, proud member of Geeks & Gamers, forever and always.”

I smile softly, grateful for Jeremy’s forgiveness. I am whole again and can again turn my attention to saving Hollywood.

As you can clearly see, Geeks + Gamers is a cult that must be stopped. Infamous Mike had been freed by Kathleen Kennedy and sent out into the world as a righteous vigilante before being re-indoctrinated by their leader Jeremy. These hateful people must be stopped from wanting good entertainment at any cost. Do not trust them. Come to FourG, where the worst we’ll do is judge you and call you names. Can that much be said of Geeks + Gamers?