Ramon P. Wolf, Esq.

The black rifle coffee alpha male takes a sip from his thermos and looks out from the bunker to the battlefield, it’s hell out there. “Perfect” He thinks He adjusts the sights on his custom-built 16-inch 6mm ARC AR-15 with a Proof Research carbon-fiber barrel, JP Enterprises silent captured spring system, and a Geissele Super Dynamic Enhanced two-stage trigger. He picked it because the trigger felt smooth against his $350 carbon fiber combat gloves, and the alloy magazines were 20 grams lighter against his $2200 Kevlar vest. He mindlessly feels at his tactical pouch, he has a 10 year supply of testosterone cypionate in it, just in case the pharmacies get hit. He smirks, “Daddy needs his combat fuel.” He’s been on TRT for 7 years, his testes have cobwebs on them. He steps out of the bunker, he’s spent years training for this moment, doing weighted carries, getting “don’t tread on me” tattoos, bow hunting, having a beard. “It’s fuckin showtime.” He announces. Just then he feels something lightly tap his leg. He glances down. It’s a 17 dollar drone off temu. It has a decal on it. “Is that… hentai?” His legs are blown smooth off. 12 miles away in a disgusting room illuminated only by the degenerate glow of purple LED strip lighting, a 17 year old leans back in his cum stained gamer chair. He’s grown so frail and sickly his friends and family keep mistaking him for Asmongold. He grabs another 30mg vyvanse and washes it down with a cold chicken nugget. “GG faggot” He’s killed 500 men.