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More than 60 people are dead after a shipwreck in Italy. We demand safe and legal routes now. pic.twitter.com/oSchi0rqTE
— Amnesty International (@amnesty) February 27, 2023
Dick Hardy is a hardboiled gumshoe reporter for the Daily Stormer, tracking down the stories that others won’t touch.
I pushed my way through the crowd at the beach, hoping to catch a glimpse of what remained of the shipwreck. It was announced that over 60 people had lost their lives, and my curiosity had gotten the better of me. The survivors, rescue workers, and locals were all there. And then there were those who were bigoted against the immigrants, spewing their hate in the midst of the tragedy.
I spoke to them all, trying to get a sense of what had happened. But the police were also there, questioning everyone who was lingering around. They wanted to know what I was doing there, and I could tell they were suspicious of my presence. I gave them a fake name and a false hotel, but I knew I needed to get out of Italy before they caught on to me.
As I made my way to my new hotel in Calabria, my mind was in shambles. My thoughts drifted from my wife, to my addiction, to the publisher who had a diabolical agenda, to the cult that was trying to get inside my head. I changed hotels after I became convinced that the people in the room next to me were listening to me through the walls as I talked to myself.
As I lay in bed, I thought about the girl at the hotel desk who had caught my eye. She was young, too young for me. But in my mind, I imagined kissing her earlobe, knowing that if I did, I would be divulging my deepest secrets to her. Secrets that would eventually make their way back to those who were trying to break me.
I couldn’t help but wonder about the choices I had made in my life. If only I had focused on my plays featuring a post-modern take on BDSM sexuality, I could have made it big. But instead, I wrote an edgy commentary on the hollowness of suburban middle-class life, and it got me nowhere. If only I had taken a different path, I wouldn’t be here in this godforsaken country, looking at corpses on a beach.
It was then that I imagined a universe devoid of life. A universe where there were no failed writers, no divorces, no publishers with hidden agendas, and no mysterious cults trying to get inside my head. But as I closed my eyes, I realized that the line between reality and illusion had become blurred. I couldn’t tell what was real and what was a simulacra.
In the end, I was left with nothing but the harrowing sense of cosmic terror that seemed to follow me wherever I went. And as I drifted off to sleep, I knew that the nightmare would continue, no matter where I went or what I did.
