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Matthias Syn · (09-05-2024)

September 3rd, 2024

The orange moon hung low like the blade of an ax. The leaves on the trees danced as the late summer wind ripped through them. It was just after midnight somewhere in east LA. The cacophony of sound that was the city faded into the distance as I chased concrete at ninety miles per hour to the edge of Venice Beach. A secluded area that the late night party monsters forgot ever existed or wouldn't bother with even if they hadn't.

An American flag and thin blue line flag strapped to the back of the Ducati, violently flapped and wailed as I gripped the handbrake. There were no signs of life as I stomped the foot brake bringing the bike to rest. Just how I wanted it. True peace is found only after the world has shut its eyes for the night. Only in those few fleeting moments, when time comes to a standstill, can you truly feel a calm sense of serenity wash over you.

A tinge of salt and sulfur enveloped the air as I planted both flags on either side of me, into the warm sand.

You fight for a flag, a country, Razor that you do not understand. That you can't comprehend. Just blind patriotism. An unsuspecting foot soldier, willfully ignorant, buying into a romanticized dream. Just how they want you.

A country built from colonialism and genocide. A country ravaged by wealth inequality, corruption and oppression, deeply embedded in the very core of its foundation. A country with the highest prison population in the world. A country where its Police force became the third largest military force in the world.

A camera recording your every movement on every street corner and on every traffic light. A country with a publicly traded private prison industry. Land of the free, they'll say.

Do you feel free?

Syn grabs the newly opened book of matches from the pocket of his black leather jacket. Striking the match, he turns to the American flag, frayed just enough at the corner to ignite. He does the same to the thin blue line flag. Syns blue eyes piercing through the camera, a sadistic smirk adorning his face.

You represent a world that is archaic, Razor. A dying empire in its late stages begging to be burnt to the ground. I am the blow torch, The catalyst. The necessary spark that ignites meaningful change. In my world, there is no code to maintain. No structure to follow. No boot to lick. There is meaning in what I do, what I say and who I am.

You though, Razor. You paint yourself in red, white and blue. You pledge allegiance to a country that will villainize the poor, the suffering and the mentally ill. A country that will gut social programs in favor of police funding. The disintegration of social ties has left an estranged and alienated proletariat raging and ready to combust.

While these other fucks in that locker room tell you dick, fart and cum jokes in their brainless promos, Matthias Syn, Liberates. Liberates you from the sick disease that is the status quo. Challenges you to open your eyes and see the world through the crimson glasses that define every day life.

Rise above that which you destroy. Become confident and powerful. Feel like you actually exist for the first time in your boring fucking lives. So tonight or any night, flip a car. Throw a brick through a church window. Burn down a bank. Transcend your circumstances through destruction and you will no longer feel like the victim of circumstance. Become what you were born to become. Not this empty, gutless version of yourself, parading through life on autopilot, waiting for the day that your heart finally has had enough.

I am going to fucking hurt you, Razor. I have too. You have to be made an example of. Because of what you are. Because of who you are. Because of what you represent.

So I want a Buried Alive Match. I want to bury you and with it, the ideals of this country so far into the dirt that the fifty six million Native Americans that were slaughtered by the colonizers who claimed this country, can exact their revenge. I am never losing this belt, Razor. The only way the Revolution Title ever leaves my ironclad grip, is the moment that I finish what I started on Warfare and the Universal Title leaves with the Syn City Saint.

Razor... I'm coming!

STATIC

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