Everything was fucked up. Things were getting so bad that for the first time since he was seven years old, the President was faced with having to get an actual job. Amidst the gentle caresses of the aromatherapy candle smoke, Camp Gramps shaved the President’s face. “Things are dire, Gramps,” said the President.
“You’re a winner, champ. You’ll get them,” said Camp Gramps.
“Uncle Bob has proven to be fucking useless,” said the President.
“Now, now, chief. This negative energy will only tense up your shoulders,” said Camp Gramps.
“Fucking hell, Gramps. Do you have to be so gay?” said the President. He had become increasingly confused of late. One thing that had stuck out more than the blatant retarded fit under which he had exiled the Accused, was the fact that Camp Gramps’s side gig was getting more traffic than the President’s main page. It made him suspicious of Camp Gramps. What was that old bastard up to?
He decided to launch a full scale investigation into Camp Gramps. Uncle Bob was beating the shit out of his sex doll on the front lawn when the President turned up. “What up, Prez?” said Uncle Bob.
“I’m launching a full scale investigation into Camp Gramps,” said the President.
“Rad. Let’s go inside,” said Uncle Bob and then he kicked the sex doll so hard it rolled onto the road. It was then run over by a passing van full of elderly passengers on their way to some sort of show.
“Holy shit!” said the President.
“I was planning on nexting her anyway,” said Uncle Bob and they both went inside. The sex doll’s head lay in the gutter on the other side of the street, heartbroken as it watched Uncle Bob close the door behind him, not even looking back at it.
Inside, the President detailed to Uncle Bob his suspicions regarding Camp Gramps’s possible treachery. Uncle Bob typed away furiously as the President dictated a warrant to search Camp Gramps and all his possessions. “How does that sound to you?” said the President.
“Yeah, it’s tight,” said Uncle Bob.
“We’re in a war. There are going to be spies,” said the President.
“True. We’re not going to be able to bankroll it for much longer though,” said Uncle Bob.
“DON’T FUCKING TELL ME THE TRUTH!!” said the President in a fit of hateful rage not seen since he had bravely exhiled the Accused.
“Settle down, Prez. I think you’re wrong about Gramps but it’s worth looking into,” said Uncle Bob.
“Well, his channel is getting more traffic than the President’s,” said the President.
“Do you always refer to yourself as the President?”
“Just asking,” said the Uncle Bob. The President took the search warrant, signed it, kissed Uncle Bob on the forehead and left.
When he raided Camp Gramps’s house at 3am the following morning, he found him in the middle of recording a video on how to drink coffee through a straw. “This is a raid, Gramps. Now, while the guys are going through your shit, rub my back with that rosemary stuff. I’m tense,” said the President.
“What’s going on, chief?” said Camp Gramps.
“I’m probably going to kick you out,” said the President.
“Your channel gets more traffic.”
“I can’t control that, Boss,” said Camp Gramps.
“BULLSHIT!” said the President and he backhanded Camp Gramps off his seat. “Fuck this shit. Men, arrest Gramps and take him in for questioning,” said the President.
“Ah, we’re not police and you don’t actually have any powers to detain this guy,” said one of the raid team.
“It’s ok, I’ll go. He’s my President,” said Camp Gramps.
Back at Headquarters, Camp Gramps was handcuffed to a chair and waited for the interrogation to begin. He thought the room felt familiar, like he had been there before or he had been told about it. A poster of Zelda hung on the wall. Outside, the President briefed the Agency Patriarch about what he wanted done. “Break him. I need to know he’s not working with that fucking guy,” said the President.
“No problem,” said the Agency Patriarch and he went in to question Camp Gramps. It took him a while to recognise who the bearded man with the serial killer gaze was when he first entered the room. “What are you doing here?” said Camp Gramps.
“When did you start betraying my President,” said the Agency Patriarch.
“FUCK YOU HE’S MY PRESIDENT,” said Camp Gramps.
“Classic gamma male response,” said the Agency Patriarch.
“DINNER AND DANCING!” said Camp Gramps.
“What?” said the Agency Patriarch.
“Well if you’re going to talk shit, so will I,” said Camp Gramps and the Agency Patriarch slapped him.
“YOU FAGGOT,” said Camp Gramps.
“Gamma male,” said the Agency Patriarch.
“Fag,” said Camp Gramps.
“GAMMA!!!!” said the Agency Patriarch and a single tear rolled down his cheek and found the warm embrace of his facial pubes. He ran out of the room in a panicked fury like all the women who had run away from him in the past. He said nothing to the President as he flew past him. Camp Gramps sat their patiently, waiting for his president. “You’re out, Gramps,” said the President.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” said Camp Gramps.
“I just can’t be sure you’re not working with that fucking guy,” said the President.
“I’ll trash him online. I’ll do more videos. I’ll have an orgy with five octogenarians after dinner and dancing. GODDAMMIT CHIEF I LOVE YOU!” said Camp Gramps.
“Gramps, that was a test. You passed,” said the President and he untied Camp Gramps. They embraced for twenty-three minutes. Although his worst fears had been revealed as nothing more than a paranoid mind slipping deeper down the hole of lunacy, the President’s problems were far from over.
Eleven days later, Camp Gramps was rubbing lavender oil into the President’s shoulders while they chatted in a sauna. The channel stats were still plaguing the President’s thoughts and Camp Gramps had started feeling guilty about the success of his personal channel. “I don’t get it, Gramps. We tell these losers what they want to hear, in a palatable way. I’ve called that fucking guy every name in the book. I’ve replaced him and the others I kicked out with cheaper imitations, but your videos on aromatherapy do better,” said the President.
“Well, people just don’t understand how great you are,” said Camp Gramps.
“The channel has been cursed,” said the President.
“That fucking guy has used witchcraft or some heavy metal sorcery on the channel,” said the President.
“Oh, well I’m not too sure about that,” said Camp Gramps, his hands so saturated in lavender oil that he now worried he would never be free of the scent.
“There’s only one thing to do,” said the President.
“You give me your channel.”
“I don’t know, chief.”
“Give it to me or I’ll oust you again.”
“FUCK!” said Camp Gramps.
“Excellent,” said the President and he farted. Camp Gramps ran from the sauna and vomited on the tiled floor outside. The President just sat there with his eyes half open and half a smile on his face imagining how much money he would have once the Manosphere had struck back.