Instigator

A song.

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Sell a dollar for a dime,
watch the empire’s ledger crack.
I cross that county line at first light,
no glance backward—exit velocity achieved.
Daylight claws at the blinds;
I stare straight into the burn.
In their manufactured peace, I ignite the necessary war—
and if the fuse takes my hand, so be it.

Instigator.
Instigator.
Instigator.

Steady with the blade of code,
machete through bloated bureaucracy.
Heavy with the weight of sovereign chains,
shred the permissions, kill the session.
But wait—I already forked it.
The forerunner carved the path; welcome to the clinic.
I am the surgeon dissecting rotten statutes,
raising ghosts of voluntary order in this meat grinder—
and I put my own flesh on the tray.

Step to the rhythm—shuffle of feet on wet pavement,
treble of sirens, bass of collapsing concrete.
This culture breeds its own terminal errors;
I pray for cleaner ways to waste the hours
before tomorrow claims what was always mine by right.
I will not hoard the claim. I spend it.

Cold. Calculated. The instigator.
Not intimidated by their paper panopticon—
a force of nature wired into the mesh.
Fate drops the penny where the incentive pulls;
heads roll down corridors of power.
Karma arrives with the guillotine’s honest chop.
My neck is not exempt. That is the point.

Sell a dollar for a dime,
watch the empire’s ledger crack.
I cross that county line at first light,
no glance backward—exit velocity achieved.
Daylight claws at the blinds;
I stare straight into the burn.
In their manufactured peace, I ignite the necessary war—
and if the fuse takes my hand, so be it.

Instigator.
(Yeah.) Instigator.

Meds pop in fluorescent wards;
dread locks the jaw for the headshot.
Light a cigarette with dead eyes,
feds watching through one-way glass.
We are the sickest pups in their pet shop,
Sick Boi and the blood-oath drop—unhousebroken.

Hell no.
We are the whack jobs with eyes forward,
strike-first attack dogs loosed from the psych ward.
Run the network from a dark cell;
choke the narrative with the mic cord.
Offer the throat if the signal needs a mast.

I went to battle in Athens,
spilled the digital blood of Olympus.
Stepped through the ashes of their permissioned castles,
tore my critics asunder with clean forks.
They will read me in future hieroglyphs,
King Tut’s ledger as silent witness—
then I murdered the witnesses,
like any competent government business.
I do not ask to be spared the same arithmetic.

Don’t give a fuck for their riches,
their power theater, or painted bitches.
Nothing in common with the collectivized herd.
I want honest blood on the blade I drive through soft consensus,
and the clean workout of shoveling graves
for every central fiction that demanded my submission.
If the last grave is mine, dig it straight.

Forerunner.

Sell a dollar for a dime,
watch the empire’s ledger crack.
I cross that county line at first light,
no glance backward—exit velocity achieved.
Daylight claws at the blinds;
I stare straight into the burn.
In their manufactured peace, I ignite the necessary war—
and if the fuse takes my hand, so be it.

Instigator.

Sweet defeat—the driest, clearest wine.
Pick your poison from the collapsing vine.
Win or lose, the distinction dissolves;
I came to watch the whole rotten lattice fall.
And I stand in the glow as it burns—
not above it. In it. Fuel, if the fire needs fuel.
Name, body, future—on the altar. No receipt.

Instigator.
Bra da da da.
Oy.
Instigator.
Instigator.
Instigator.

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The instigator is no mere chaos agent. He is the sovereign mind that accelerates entropy in failing systems — forking away from fiat illusions, permissioned control, and institutional decay. The violence is metaphorical surgery on the body politic; the exit is literal and final. Aufopferungsbereitschaft: he does not demand survival as the price of the act. He offers what the burn requires.