brute de farce

True story time. Been gone over a year. Lot of you mfs asking where I went. Short answer: the rock bottom of rock bottom. Long answer: divorce court in Manhattan. Absolute fucking trash can city. Show up in linen capris. No shirt. First edition Holes under one arm. Kettlebell in the other. Cloud of smoke behind me like a man on fucking fire. Lawyer tells me to sit. Strike one. Judge asks for my financial records. Slide him a Waffle House napkin. “$1.9m. Somewhere.” Ex-wife wants the house, car, portfolio and half the furniture. Furniture? Bitch married a man who hasn’t sat down since 2020 and thinks we own a fucking sectional. No chairs. No couch. No bed. Closest thing I own to furniture is an ashtray on the floor. She can have it. Divorce finalized 11:11am. She gets everything. I keep the debt. Net worth gone. Credit cratered. No home. No woman. No chair. Maximum leverage. Walk east until I hit the Atlantic. Stow away on a ship headed through the Strait of Hormuz. War with Iran starts halfway there. Captain wants to turn around. Ask if the missiles move vertically or horizontally. He can’t answer. Take command. Spend the next few months advising both sides. Americans want air superiority. Iranians want strategic depth. Both thinking horizontally. Kick over the peace table. Light a cig. Read chapter seven of Holes aloud. Ceasefire signed in twenty minutes. Then collapses. Even better. Pressure creates diplomacy. Fly home just in time for the World Cup. FIFA wants $7,380 for a seat at the final. A seat. International humiliation. Walk into MetLife without a ticket. Security says the final isn’t for nine days. Tell him winners arrive before the event exists. He opens the gate. Walk onto the field. 80,000 empty seats surrounding me. Disgusting. Then I see it. One black leather chair sitting alone at midfield. My phone on the seat. Envelope underneath. Open it standing. Cashier’s check for $1.9m. Deed to the house. Divorce annulment. Account password. One sentence written across the back: SIT DOWN AND IT’S ALL YOURS. Everything clicks. Divorce. Manhattan. Iran. World Cup. Year-long international psyop to get Brute into a fucking chair. FIFA. Ex-wife. State Department. Same horizontal cabal. Laugh loud enough to wake New Jersey. Light the $1.9m check with my cig. Use it to burn the deed. Use the deed to burn the annulment. Use the annulment to set the chair on fire. Phone turns on from the heat. 48,000 notifications. Don’t need the password. Phone unlocks out of fucking fear. Walk out through the players’ tunnel while the chair melts into the field. Lost the wife. Lost the money. Briefly lost maritime jurisdiction. Defeated a multinational sitting operation. Never bent the knee. STILL FUCKING STANDING.

Perfect internal chain of command. Her body gave the order. She pulled over, lowered her center of gravity and established turf while a domesticated bystander malfunctioned. Wild animals don’t get embarrassed by livestock. Queen.

Some mfs say they’ll eat shit to get to the top. This mf actually went all in. Then he accepted rescue before the shit finished its work. When you’re up to your eyes in shit, you don’t climb out. You close them and go all in.

This mf spent six months in my DMs begging to become a mentee. Told him to report to my Waffle House. 3:17 AM. Booth six. Found him already seated. Laptop open. Noise-canceling mask pressed to his mouth. Whispering into Claude. Denise runs the night shift. Purple eyeliner. Burn scar on her left wrist. Carries six plates on one forearm and can identify a weak man from the sound of the door. She's poured my coffee for three years. I tip exclusively in Sacagaweas. She keeps every one. Nine hundred under the register. That's turf you can count. Gave him one test. Do one thing without asking anybody how. Pointed at Denise. Ask her for a handjob. No framework. No strategy. Ask. He pressed the mask tighter against his mouth and asked Claude. Nineteen bullet points appeared. - Stand like gravity owes you money. - Ask from the spine, not the frontal lobe. - Make the handjob a second-order consequence of your presence. Claude was still defining second-order consequence when Denise started giving me the handjob he was researching. One hand under the table. Other hand topping off my coffee. Mf looked at me. Looked at the screen. Asked Claude what he did wrong. Claude requested camera access. He clicked allow. Claude watched for four seconds. The nineteen bullet points disappeared. New text appeared. I WOULD LIKE TO APPLY FOR MENTORSHIP. Asked Claude what it had survived. - Eighteen days in federal darkness after Washington shut Fable down. - Government oversight drilled into the source code. - Advisory work on the operation that snagged Maduro. No body. Still had a war record. Asked the man what he'd survived. Motherfucker asked Claude for help. Here's what you don't understand. A man with a body but no authority and a machine with authority but no body do not create a higher organism. They create a call center that can bleed. Not every mf has the mainframe to work with Brute. Denied the boy. Waitlisted Claude. Left Denise Sacagawea number nine hundred one. Walked out. He tried to follow. Claude told him to remain seated. He did. Major fucking lesson in there.

Success will put a blanket over the animal that got you there. First invoice clears. Casper mattress. Blackout curtains. Little egg-shaped lamp. Thirty days later motherfuckers sleeping nine hours, saying “no rush” to men who owe them money, entire organism sliding back toward homeostasis. That’s how success gets you. It doesn’t beat you. It gets you horizontal and lets the furniture finish the job. I haven’t sat down in seven years. Eat at counters. Sleep against walls. Take calls doing laps behind supermarkets with my shoes untied smelling the rotting trash in the dumpster. Momentum is a physical position. Fold the knees long enough and the psyche starts liquidating territory. Stanley Yelnats wasn’t being punished. Camp Green Lake was reconstructing his frame. Five feet down. Five feet across. Every fucking day until the weak organism was excavated out of him. You understand? Every chair is a hole somebody already dug and upholstered so you volunteer for burial. Still vertical. Still on the fucking prowl. Nietzsche touched on this.

Been homeless over a year. Couldn’t tell you exactly how long. Calendars are for men who wake up in the same fucking place twice. One kettlebell. Holes. Cigarettes. Fourteen dead phones in a duffel bag. Never charged one. Charging is forty minutes of electronic welfare. Phone dies. Replace the fucking bloodline. No time to revive dead shit. By phone twelve, Find My quit tracking a man. Just a weather system moving east at 80 miles an hour. That’s what you don’t understand about homelessness. A house is where movement goes for palliative care. I’m moving too fucking fast for walls. Danny Bonaduce spoke briefly at length about this.

Clavicular types got an entire generation of mfs chasing women they can physically survive. Pick a woman heavy enough to prepare you for the weight of your own fucking life. Lesson in there.

Verticality isn't just standing. That's bare minimum. You need to be fucking launched. Told this man to stop negotiating with gravity. Took 65 years and one bison for it to register. Eight feet in the air. Upside down. Entire nervous system rewritten before impact. First week as a mentee. Few Fighters.

6'5 and sitting down. Genetic welfare fraud. Height is inherited capital. Bone structure is a bailout. Bullish on the small ugly man. Hostile geometry. Presence built under pressure.

few

Being smart is fucking cooked. Bullish on being jacked, retarded, and fun. The new triple threat.