DISPATCH 001: THE SOY-TIT PROTOCOL
Decrypted transmission from the Bathroom Booth of Truth [Origin Timestamp: 06/19/25], salvaged from the soot of 2050. 24 HRS AGO • THE ARCHIVIST
Fig 1.2: Recovery of the Primary Transmission Device. Despite the failure of Unit 301, the signal remains intact. THE ARCHIVIST’S LOG
The Archivist, selfless, mission-driven, and celibate by choice, waded through the wreckage that had once been a hip-looking apartment complex on a ridge in Northwest Arkansas. He was getting close; he could smell the truth. Mark Saint had once been here, broadcasting his vitally important message out into the world from his Bathroom Booth of Truth circa 2025. A crow flew overhead and let out a disparaging caw. The Archivist wiped his brow; the external sensors registered a blistering 120 degrees. “Now where could it be?” he murmured, scanning the collapsed architecture of Building 301. Suddenly, he froze. Sticking out from under a pile of rubble, he saw it: the silver, antiquated grill of a Shure microphone. The Prophet’s voice was buried here.
THE DECRYPTED ARCHIVE
In the soot-stained silence of 2050, where the air tastes of oxidized pennies and the internet is merely a ghost of a fractured past, we found the Saint Archives. They were buried beneath the ruins of a suburban sprawl once known as the Ozarks, preserved in a small, tiled sanctuary that the locals once called a “bathroom.” The man who lived there, Mark Saint, referred to it as his “Bathroom Booth of Truth.” To look back at these transmissions is to witness a man attempting to maintain his sanity while surrounded by a civilization that had decided, with a terrifying collective enthusiasm, to rot from the inside out.
Saint was a singular figure: a man who viewed the crumbling world with a mixture of righteous fury and the sort of bewildered, anthropological curiosity one usually reserves for watching a particularly stupid dog try to fight its own shadow. He was a man screaming into a hurricane of “utter insanity” while the rest of the world was busy staring at their thumbs until their necks stayed bent forever. In a late-stage capitalistic culture, the “Chubalubs” were engrossed in silly games of chance and inches, and Saint realized that to survive, he had to stop being high as a kite and start being as sober as a judge.
THE SOMA OF THE ARKANSAS OUTLANDS
Saint’s transmissions from the early 21st century describe a landscape populated by a sedentary class of people he called the “Bentonville Bods,” or more broadly, the aforementioned “Chubalubs.” This was a biological phenomenon where “men” developed tits significantly more prominent than their own bellies—quite a feat. It was here in a town owned by the Walton Empire, a place Saint described as “charming as shit” but utterly devoid of a soul. He noted that the inhabitants were systematically sedated by “Veed,” or weed as the rest of the world called it.
Saint’s house guest at the time, an irascible Indian man named Rajit, likely facilitated the local nomenclature. Saint himself had once indulged in the “Veed” a few times a week, describing the sensation of an edible taking hold until every tissue, organ, and sinew in the body was more relaxed than the day of one’s birth. However, as he looked around the Oklahoma and Arkansas territories, he realized that a weed shop sat on every corner for a reason. It was the anesthetizing Soma from Brave New World. It was a retail-grade relaxant designed to turn the populace into “spineless, lazy, pussy-ass motherfuckers,” so they would not rise up as their humanity was harvested for profit. Saint chose to record his warnings while the sunlight still meant something, sitting sober as a judge, while the rest of the world rotted in a haze of weed smoke.
GLADIATOR PLAYBOOKS IN THE AGE OF SOY
Among the most curious artifacts in the Saint archive are the records of his “Gladiator School”. While the rest of the world stared at their phones until their cervical spines permanently bent at a forty-five-degree angle, Saint was out in the sun coaching twelve-year-olds in the ancient, contact-avoidant art of flag football. He possessed a thirty-six-page, color-coded playbook that he treated with the solemnity of a tactical war manual. He stood shirtless in the heat, blasting 80s rock, demanding push-ups from any boy who dared to false-start.
Saint participated in these “games of chance and inches” because that is what men of 2025 did, but he did so with a specific intent. He thought, “If I’m gonna do this, I might as well dominate these motherfuckers!” He was attempting to forge gladiators out of a generation of boys he feared was being groomed for a future of a “chubby-titted” soy estrogen existence; playing insipid video games while their testosterone evaporated into the digital ether.
He was ripshit when “Girl Boss” culture attempted to force two girls onto his team. He cut one immediately and wished her mom a “great life” when she attempted to tell him off from the back of her minivan while she breastfed baby number six. The other girl? She at least could occasionally catch the ball and often ran in the right direction, so Saint kept her around. But he noted with a Bryson-esque wit that while he was a father figure for her, she false-started every play because she simply was not built for the war. He argued that if he could not trust his wife to safely drive a car while under the influence of PMS, you certainly couldn’t trust a female at the helm of a jet streaking through the sky at 600 miles per hour. Life, it seemed, didn’t make sense. At least not in 2025.
THE HOSTILE TAKEOVER AND THE ERASURE OF HISTORY
Bentonville was Saint’s primary laboratory for observing the hostile takeover of the human spirit. He saw the picturesque local square being transformed into conquered territory, where the flags of the enemy (the trans flag and the Ukraine flag) were planted in the ground like markers of a new regime. The billionaires who ran the town had moved the local Confederate statue and hid it behind a Walmart because they were terrified of history and its messy, Southern implications; and more importantly, how this would register with Democrat transplants. It was 1984-level propaganda, a psyop designed to erase culture and identity until everything was homogenous (and easy to control).
Saint described a “First Friday” event in the square as a manifestation of this takeover. When he had moved there, the population was 95% white. Two years later, it was 65% Indian, and shrill liberal women were on stage shrieking about how “proud” they were of the diversity. Saint, ever the observer of metrics, asked what made this wonderful. He mused that if an Indian city were suddenly 65% white, no one would be calling it a miracle of diversity. He saw a population that was either morbidly obese “Chubalubs” out of a sci-fi movie, or teenage girls walking around like hookers in a “slut culture” that had become the ever-present norm. He believed the data that came through his own eyeballs, even when society told him to ignore it. It was, in his view, a slow-moving, benevolent-seeming genocide of the soul.
THE STRAW MAN AND THE INSURANCE MATRIX
Saint’s breakthrough came when he realized that the cage was not physical, but legal. He identified the “Straw Man”—the legal fiction created for every human at birth. He realized that for 79 years, humans were milked like cows for their money and power under a system of man’s law. You did not own your house; the bank did. You did not own your car; the state held the title, and you merely held a certificate of ownership. The system doesn’t control you through force; it controls you through the “ease of life” and trickery. Man in 2025 was not much different than cattle, and they produced flatulence at about the same rate.
The Matrix tried to pull him back in its tentacled grasp during his “Great Purge”. After selling his Toyota Highlander (one of the sexiest rides of the 2020s), an insurance agent (a woman Saint described as bitchy and administrative) demanded twelve hundred dollars a year for a “non-owner operator” policy. She wanted him to pay for a “gap” in his record while he was living in the highlands of Mexico like a damn pimp, but where he could not even use the insurance. Saint’s response was a masterclass in sovereignty: “No thanks, bitch”. He realized that by simply saying no, he could save his energy, his money, and his frustration. He was done paying property taxes to put kids in cinder-block prison schools.
THE LEAP OF FAITH TOWARD THE HIGHLANDS
Saint’s final records from the Ozarks involve the physical act of departure. This was an act of bravery rarely replicated before The Collapse. He sold the couch and the car, choosing to sit on a rug at night to practice “Mogha” (Mark Yoga), making his body strong and limber instead of softening it inside a piece of Crate & Barrel furniture. He viewed the couch as an instrument of sloth. The Matrix made one last play for his soul by presenting him with an abandoned white kitten that his estrogen-filled wife took in, so cute it almost made him stay. But Saint was resolute. He patted the kitten on the head one last time and gave it to a family of Mormons.
He followed a dive-bombing bird toward the highlands of central Mexico. It sounds like fiction, but it is indeed fact. He was trading a twenty-one-hundred-dollar cinder-block prison in Arkansas for a nine-hundred-dollar sanctuary in a UNESCO World Heritage site, where he could rent an apartment through Venmo without a contract or a “two-month notice.” He was fleeing the “bent-neck” phone addicts and the “slut culture” to find beauty and mystery. Saint lived under God’s law, not a man-made artifice that he considered parasitic at best and demonic at worst. He was a man seeking sanity in an insane world, reminding us even now, in the soot of 2050, that while the ground is hard, there is always an option to soar.
THE TRANSMISSION CONTINUES...
To hear the original raw frequencies from the Bathroom Booth of Truth, subscribe to the Chronic Conundrum Podcast on Apple or Spotify.
For the complete blueprints of the architecture of sovereignty, visit chroncon.com.
Stop asking for permission. Start the transmission.
— The Archivist