Yo! Saint Paul? You had an employee snatched while at work. You sending an city attorney down to Dilly Hellcamp to get him out?

<Rant> I was watching The Carmen Family Deaths on Netflix last night. I don't know if the main subject of that documentary killed his mother and grandfather, but I did feel a certain amount of empathy and anger for him for a few reasons: 1. His parents decided to deal with his extreme autism and OCD behaviors by having him kidnapped in the middle of the night by professional child kidnappers (aka goons) and shipped off to a hellhole camp in Utah. For those of us who know what those places are like in Utah, they are far from adequate care for a child with severe autism and OCD. You can't "attack therapy" or beat the autism or OCD out of a kid. Shortly after returning home from the hellcamp in Utah, he immediately had a mental breakdown and had to be committed to a psych hospital. To be honest, those places in Utah cause a lot of damage to kids who are neurodiverse and it is traumizing as hell to be kidnapped in the middle of the night. When I was a teenager, I was woken up in the middle of the night by strangers and taken to a place in Mexico. I've never slept the same since. It lives with you forever. I know how those hellholes can be firsthand. 2. The cops stated that they started focusing on him for his grandfather's murder because of his emotional affect or lack thereof. Even though he appeared to have a solid alibi during the time that the neighbor heard the shot from his grandfather's house. It was EXTREMELY obvious in every interview and recording that this man was probably level 3 autistic, and his parents even told the police that his social cues/emotional affect are going to be different because of his autism. Yet, the detective sat on camera during the interview for this documentary and said with a straight face that he started focusing on this kid because of the lack of emotional vibes he was getting from this clearly very autistic man. 3. His mom died when their boat sank. His story was that he was able to save himself by deploying the life raft and getting on to before the boat went down, but his mom had disappeared in the ocean by the time he was on the raft. The police thought that the fact that he had an overplanned "safety pack" that included a lot of atypical stuff, like a machine that converted salt water to fresh water, was somehow proof that he planned on killing his mom... But it was pretty established that he was OCD and very autistic, which manifested itself in him overplanning and overpreparing things. This wasn't abnormal for him to do things like this in other parts of his life as well, so it wasn't out of character for him to overplan/overpack/overprepare. In general, I was frustrated at the police misreading or mislabeling behavior that was normal for someone with severe OCD and autism. I also deeply empathized with how traumatic and damaging it must have been for someone who was neurodivergent and dealing with other mental health issues to be forced into what was probably extremely abusive and unsympathetic behavioral modification as a teen in Utah. I don't know if the man killed his grandfather or his mother. There was some evidence that his story about his mother might not have been 100% accurate so I'm not comfortable saying the kid was innocent either way, but there were parts of the story where I could see the system and his family failed him along the way, leading up to his death. For that, I do have empathy for him for that part of it. </Rant>

EVE Onlineにはヘルキャンプ（hellcamp）という戦術があります。敵を追いつめた宙域に24時間態勢で展開し、相手を逃がさない戦い方です。 先週、あるヌルセク勢力が撤退を試みたところ、対立勢力がヘルキャンプを実行。拠点が陥落するまでの数日間、約1000隻で包囲して資産の搬出を許しませんでした。

Joe pardon this judge who made money sentencing children to a hellcamp

What hellcamp did you send him to that he's the only Swiftie???

Men siden min hellcamp idé ikke tog til, så er det måske den vej jeg skal gå.

You idiots who claim this is a “hellcamp”, are you aware this is where they staged electrical workers to get Florida’s electrical grid back up after hurricanes? They have running water, health services, A/C, three meals a day. Hell, they live better than you do.

Yes, Alligator Alcatraz is expanding—fast. Florida’s taxpayer-funded, rights-shredding hellcamp is adding 500 beds at a time, aiming to cage up to 5,000 people by July. Built under DeSantis’ emergency powers, with zero oversight. Share it. Call the inhumane MFers out.

GM to the best two to ever do it! Here is Chapter 5 of their latest 10-part Maxi-Series! The peyote hit with the subtle grace of a rusty chainsaw to the frontal lobe. I was cross-legged in Don Película’s so-called teepee – a chaotic monument to cinematic oblivion. Faded, lovingly ravaged posters for Torso, Lady Terminator, and Dracula vs. Frankenstein formed the tent’s patchwork skin. Above, a cracked reel of Django Kill… If You Live Shoot! Whirred with the frantic energy of a trapped hummingbird, casting manic shadows from candles guttering in repurposed Altoids tins. The air itself hummed with a queasy static, that pregnant pause just before a beloved VHS tape decides to unravel its magnetic soul. Don, his face a bizarre canvas of crushed magnetic tape war paint, sucked on his Betamax-remote-shaped pipe, looking like a forgotten extra from El Topo. “Ready to peel back the cosmic onion, carnal?” he rasped, his voice a low growl that seemed to emanate from the very celluloid of forgotten dreams. “Ready to breach the B-Reel and let the bad cinema wash over your soul?” I nodded, my brain feeling like a scrambled VHS tracking signal. Agreement seemed the safest path. The world obligingly fractured into a million shimmering frames. One moment, the low-budget mayhem of HELLCAMP ’82 flickered before my eyes… the next, I was inside its grainy embrace. But it wasn’t just that cinematic masterpiece of ineptitude. It was a glorious, nonsensical collage of various bad film ideas rolled into one dream theater. I stood on a soundstage where the sets were in a constant state of flux – a charred summer camp dissolving into the pulsating neon arteries of a futuristic factory, a wedding altar sprouting incongruously from a smog-choked cityscape, and a burnt-out Las Vegas chapel spiraling overhead like a demented carousel powered by regret. Time was a broken editing bay, locations overwritten with reckless abandon. I was adrift in a truly unstable director’s cut – a vision vomited forth by a deity after mainlining bad acid and a triple feature of Ed Wood. And there they were, shimmering at the edge of a smoke-glazed, impossible skyline, the cinematic deities themselves. SPECIAL K, a vision of lethal elegance in a leather corset cinching a ravaged business suit, was barking orders at a gaggle of bewildered community theater actors in ill-fitting gas masks, their gestures resembling a particularly aggressive game of charades. JANEFKNDOE, radiating a dangerous allure in jury-rigged neon tubing and enough smeared eyeliner to paint a small European country, was locked in a passionate, one-sided monologue with a sentient vending machine that hummed with the weary wisdom of dispensing lukewarm Dr. Pepper for eternity. “This isn’t dystopia, you chrome-plated consumer whore,” she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. “This… this is late-stage capitalism with a faulty coin slot.” I tried to yell a greeting, a question, anything to anchor myself in this swirling vortex of cinematic madness, but a crackling PA speaker, seemingly suspended from the fractured sky, blared warped synth tones that sounded like a dying robot gargling bees. A voice, distorted but undeniably the gravelly drawl of Jack Starrett, bellowed, “CUT! Who did I piss off to have to work with this unprofessional excuse of a crew, and who gave the damn android a live badger?! And why is the priest speaking in Klingon?!” Then, the sky, that tattered celluloid canopy, ripped wide open. And through the jagged tear in reality, I beheld him. Turbo Frank. Bald as a freshly waxed bowling ball. Oily as a week-old pizza box. Shirtless beneath a too-tight Members Only jacket, radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated sleaze. He lounged on a tanning bed that inexplicably floated in mid-air, surrounded by precarious stacks of unmarked VHS tapes and enough expired Jolt Cola to embalm a small army. Don’s voice, echoing from the swirling chaos, resonated with a newfound urgency: “He’s the linchpin, hermano. Turbo Frank. He guards the holy grail – the one and only untainted copy of their next film, NEONOPOLIS. And he knows… he knows the fevered dreams those two cinematic outlaws are cooking up next. But he won’t spill the beans unless you offer him something truly sacred. Something… rarer than a sober film critic.” “What in the name of Russ Meyer’s unholy oeuvre could be rare to that… that vision of pure 80s excess?” I stammered, the very laws of physics dissolving around me. “A sealed copy of Delta Force II on Betamax,” Don’s voice boomed, the words echoing with the weight of forgotten prophecies. “Factory shrinkwrap. Spanish dub. It’s the cinematic equivalent of the Shroud of Turin for guys like him.” The vision buckled, the unstable edit collapsing like a house of cards built by a drunken chimpanzee. The sentient vending machine exploded in a shower of sparks and lukewarm regret. Someone screamed, “We’ll fix it in post… with more explosions!” as I spiraled into the comforting darkness of the end credits, the distorted synth soundtrack fading into the deafening silence of non-existence. I awoke with a gasp, sprawled on the dusty floor of the teepee, drenched in a cold sweat that smelled faintly of ozone and desperation. Crushed popcorn clung to me like a second skin. The warped reel of Django Kill had finally surrendered to gravity. Don Película stood over me, his magnetic tape war paint smeared, his gaze filled with a solemn, knowing madness. “You have glimpsed the truth, peregrino.” “Turbo Frank,” I croaked, my voice sounding like a rusty projector reel. He pressed a greasy Polaroid into my trembling hand. On the back, scrawled in a shaky hand that smelled faintly of stale beer and broken dreams, were two words and a directive: TUCUMCARI. Ask for Frank. Bring a sacrifice. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. I don’t know what cinematic hellscape awaits in that sunburnt VHS crypt of a town. But I know this: the static on their signal hasn’t cleared. The next reel of SPECIAL K and JANEFKNDOE’s gloriously unhinged saga is still out there, flickering in the void, waiting to be rewound and unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. And armed with a sacred bribe and a healthy dose of existential dread, I have a lead. Time to find Frank. And pray he appreciates the subtle nuances of Spanish-dubbed Chuck Norris. ************************************************* Don Película didn’t speak for a long time after the vision. He just sat by the projector, occasionally poking at the pathetic embers in his incense tin with the mangled remains of a Super 8 reel. The silence stretched, thick with the unspoken weight of the B-Reel. Finally, he moved. His gestures were slow, almost ceremonial, as he reached behind a precarious shelf stacked with lurid plastic clamshells bearing titles like Santo vs. the Vampire Women and SEX HEX. From a locked drawer, radiating an aura of forbidden knowledge, he produced an object: a Betamax tape swaddled in faded velvet and sealed with what looked suspiciously like a melted Red Vine. He held it out like a priest presenting a relic. “You will require this offering.” I took it with a reverence usually reserved for holy grails or first editions of William Burroughs. The label was mostly obliterated by time and grime, but one phrase, glowing faintly beneath the accumulated filth, was still chillingly legible: Delta Force II — Spanish Dub — Sealed. The sacred currency of the damned. The key to unlocking the next layer of their twisted truth. Tucumcari, NM – Present Day The location was a converted tanning salon, its current incarnation a dimly lit, semi-legal video emporium. The flickering neon signs outside proclaimed: TURBO FRANK’S: WE RENT, WE DEAL, WE DON’T ASK QUESTIONS (Unless it involves rare Betamax). Inside, the air hung heavy with the ghosts of burnt tanning lotion, the sickly sweet scent of melting plastic video cases, and a palpable sense of profound cinematic tragedy. Cardboard standees of forgotten B-movie heroes leaned against the walls – Sybil Danning striking a defiant pose, Wings Hauser looking perpetually constipated, and a signed David Carradine, katana in hand, daring you to live dangerously (and pay your late fees). Behind the counter, reclining in a humming, motorized massage chair that looked like it had seen better decades, and sporting aviator sunglasses despite the perpetual twilight, was Turbo Frank. He didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “You’re either here for the ‘Special Features’ in the back, or you’re chasing shadows,” he stated flatly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the room. I stepped forward and laid the sealed Delta Force II Betamax on the counter with the gravity of a high-stakes poker player laying down their winning hand. Frank inhaled sharply, a low whistle escaping his lips as if recognizing the scent of pure, uncut nostalgia. Slowly, dramatically, he removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes that had clearly witnessed too much late-night cable and too many direct-to-video sequels. “Well, I’ll be damned and double-taped,” he whispered, a flicker of something akin to religious awe crossing his oily features. “You… you are the chosen one. The pilgrim of the obsolete.” He cracked the seal on the Betamax with a delicate, almost reverent snap, then barked, “Skip the foreplay. Follow me.” We passed through a beaded curtain that shimmered like dying pixels into a back room lined floor-to-ceiling with unlabeled VHS tapes stacked precariously, dusty Betamax decks humming their lonely songs, and a taxidermied ferret wearing tiny sunglasses, its vacant stare somehow judging my life choices. Frank gestured towards a milk crate labeled, with ominous finality, “THE UNHOLY TRILOGY 1”. He carefully extracted a VHS tape with a hand-scrawled, violently neon-pink label that simply screamed: NEONOPOLIS He blew a cloud of dust from the top of the case. “Here’s the gospel according to the gutter,” he rasped. “You wanna know how this… masterpiece… came to be? Sit your ass down. Uncle Frank’s gonna spin you a yarn.” Frank’s Retelling (Approximately 42% Embellished and Heavily Filtered Through the Mists of Memory and Mild Delirium) “See, after the Bad Timing debacle and the legal problems of HELLCAMP '82, those two were hotter than a stolen VHS player. Radioactive. Nobody in Hollywood – hell, not even the Moldolvan direct-to-video scene – would touch ‘em with a ten-foot pole. But then, fate, in its infinite cinematic perversity, threw ‘em a lifeline. A tech-bro oil heir from Scottsdale named Skyler. Kid got real deep into the whole exploitation thing during some kind of… ‘spiritual awakening’ involving sensory deprivation tanks and a metric ton of uncut Bolivian marching powder. Somehow, he ended up on the same Greyhound as our Jane, and by the time they hit Albuquerque, he was ready to finance anything she pitched, no questions asked. The kid was enthusiastic, let’s put it that way. They spun him some yarn about wanting to ‘reimagine’ Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. But, you know, sleazier. Grittier. With ‘less of that fascist subtext, more glitter and gratuitous robot nudity.’ Jane, bless her twisted heart, sold it as ‘the proletariat rises… but this time, they’re wearing fishnets and wielding flamethrowers.’ With Skyler’s forty grand – which was originally earmarked for a silent meditation retreat in Sedona – they started filming in a condemned mall outside Santa Fe. Prime location for urban decay chic, you dig? Then came the ‘talent.’ They sweet-talked a local community theater group – a motley crew of washed-up method actors, failed mimes, and one poor bastard who genuinely believed he was the reincarnation of Robert Blake – into thinking this was some kind of avant-garde art-house revival. Told ‘em it was headed straight for Cannes. Called it ‘Metropolis: The Reawakening.’ Yeah, right. And then… the coup de grâce. They somehow wrangled Jack Starrett. Yes, the Jack Starrett. The man who unleashed Race with the Devil upon an unsuspecting world. They told him they were shooting a ‘gritty, character-driven pilot’ for a new anthology series called ‘Cinematic Redemption.’ Promised him a cut of the nonexistent merchandising and a lifetime supply of cheap bourbon. He signed on under the pseudonym ‘Johnny Clutch’ – said he didn’t want his SAG card spontaneously combusting from the sheer artistic bankruptcy of the project.” Frank shook his head, a nostalgic smirk playing on his lips. “It was beautiful, unadulterated chaos. No permits. No continuity beyond ‘more explosions.’ No actual script by day three. But by God and the ghost of Sam Arkoff, they finished it. And the result? Neonopolis. It played once. At 3 a.m. on a pirate UHF station out of Las Cruces. And then… poof. Vanished into the static.” He slid the Neonopolis tape across the dusty table towards me, treating it with the reverence usually reserved for the Holy Grail. “This, my friend, is one of two known copies. The other? Probably melted in a storage unit fire. Or buried in the backyard of a particularly disgruntled grip.” I stared at the neon-pink label like it held the secrets of the universe. “Where… where are they now?” I finally managed to croak. He exhaled smoke from a suspiciously dented cigar. “No one knows for sure. But rumors say they were spotted in Branson, Missouri. Under new names. Laying low. Waiting.” “Waiting for what?” He leaned in, eyes wild with knowledge and caffeine. “To be found.” He tapped the tape. “And if you want to find them… you need to watch this. Frame by frame. There are clues. Hidden cuts. A symbol here, a billboard there. It points to the next reel.” I nodded. Because I knew what this meant. The journey wasn’t ending. It was spooling up.

Welcome back! This hellsite isn't the same without you! Anyways, here is CHAPTER 4 of a 10-Part Maxi-Series: Chapter 4 - CHASING GHOSTS If Two to Tango, One to Bury was chaos in high heels and Bad Timing the shattered psyche of a heartbroken pyromaniac, then the pattern was undeniable—etched into the scorched remnants of my mind. SPECIAL K and JANEFKNDOE weren’t mere VHS phantoms flickering in grainy resolution. They were myth weavers. Bomb-planting Valkyries on a celluloid rampage, leaving behind cursed towns, melted reels, and the ghostly hum of tapes long since banned or misplaced. Their films weren’t just watched; they were survived, like encounters with a particularly charismatic poltergeist. Each title in their phantom filmography felt less like entertainment and more like a breadcrumb trail leading deeper into a labyrinth of cinematic anarchy. I clutched their haunted reels like sacred relics. Every frame, a fever dream. Every scratch, a soul wound. But the women themselves? Gone. Smoldering legends just beyond reach, their existence relegated to whispered anecdotes in dusty video stores and the fevered pronouncements of men who lived in water towers. The tangible evidence of their passage was fading, becoming less like documented history and more like folklore passed down through generations of cinematic outcasts. And then the dreams began. Always the same: a crackling fire, hatchet spinning through the air, screams drifting like coyotes through pine-smothered darkness. And through the smoke, the silhouettes—one toking from a marshmallow-lit joint, the other scribbling dialogue in blood across the spine of a VHS clamshell. These weren’t just dreams; they felt like psychic bleed-through from another dimension, a desperate signal from the heart of their chaotic artistry. That’s when the call came. Blocked number. Static hum. A voice like Billie Holiday filtered through gravel and peyote: “I have the tape. Meet me in Cerrillos. Bring tequila. And don’t be late.” That’s how I found myself on a crumbling New Mexico mesa, the sun bleeding red across the desert like a sacrifice. Waiting for me: Don Película, self-proclaimed shaman of the cinematic fringe. Picture Franco Nero from Keoma but with more peyote and a deeper addiction to Italian knock-off horror, his eyes holding the wisdom of a thousand late-night double features. He emerged barefoot from a rusted-out Winnebago that looked like it had been dragged halfway across the astral plane and handed me a poncho-wrapped film canister. Across the lid, scratched in something brown and flaking that might have been dried blood or just really old rust, were the words: HELLCAMP ’82. No need for explanation. The air reverberated with unspoken lore, the silence thick with the weight of forgotten cinematic sins. This wasn’t just a film; it was a key. A cracked lens into their fractured reality. “They came through here,” Don said, eyes reflecting firelight and madness, pupils dilated like black holes swallowing starlight. “Two cosmic burnout queens looking for a higher high. Said weed and nitrous weren’t cutting it anymore. I gave them peyote. Real peyote. Eclipse-grown. A gift from the void. The kind that shows you the snakes in your own spine.” Their payment? A promotional reel, smelling faintly of burnt sage and desperation. And a scrap of film leader with the cryptic message: “Do not watch while babysitting, operating machinery, or maintaining a grasp on reality. Seriously.” Don’s pipe glowed amber in the dusk, the smoke curling around his head like a malevolent halo. He inhaled deeply, exhaled prophecy and the distinct aroma of desert herbs. “I’ve watched this film seventeen times. Each viewing peels back another layer of the psychic onion. It’s not a movie. It’s a summoning engine. A doorway. And I got a feeling… their next masterpiece? It’s already out there. Unlisted. Forgotten. Dreamlocked. Waiting for the right mind to stumble upon its frequency.” “How do we find it?” I asked, the urgency in my voice echoing the frantic beat of my own unraveling sanity. He grinned like a jackal who’d eaten a reel of Suspiria and enjoyed the taste. “You don’t find it on eBay, carnal. You find it inside. Inside the edit. The B-Reel. The astral cut. I can take you there. But…” “There are terms,” I finished, the ritualistic nature of this quest becoming increasingly clear. He nodded, his eyes gleaming with a feverish intensity. “DMT. Peyote. A teepee that vibrates with the ghosts of forgotten flicks. And a projector running at 24 frames per second, bathing your consciousness in their warped vision. You’ll see frame glitches whispering coordinates. Deleted scenes that bleed truth. Maybe even… their next location, shimmering like a mirage in the psychic desert.” I hesitated, the weight of the unknown pressing down. He leaned in, his breath smelling of desert and something ancient. “You want truth? The raw, uncut, brain-melting truth? Then you gotta watch it from the inside out. You gotta become part of the damn movie.” The casting for HELLCAMP ’82, as Don Película later elaborated in a peyote-induced tangent involving talking coyotes and the lost ending of Eraserhead, was a stroke of spectacularly misguided opportunism. The director, a certain Buddy Corman – a name that echoed in the annals of low-budget horror with the resonance of a dropped cymbal in an empty room – was desperate to cash in on the burgeoning slasher craze that was carving a bloody swathe through American cinemas. He envisioned HELLCAMP ’82 as his ticket to genre glory, a low-rent answer to Friday the 13th with a vaguely outdoorsy, summer-camp-gone-wrong premise and a body count that would make Herschell Gordon Lewis blush. Corman, bless his exploitative heart, stumbled upon the legend of SPECIAL K and JANEFKNDOE through a dog-eared copy of Screen Sleaze Monthly featuring a heavily fictionalized account of the Bad Timing debacle. Intrigued by their reputation for on-set chaos and a certain undeniable screen presence (albeit one usually involving firearms or improvised weaponry), Corman became convinced they possessed the raw, untamed energy to elevate his schlocky slasher flick. He envisioned K as the brooding, enigmatic final girl with a hidden violent streak, and Jane as the gleefully unhinged antagonist, a backwoods maniac with a penchant for power tools and cryptic one-liners. The fact that neither had any discernible acting experience beyond their previous cinematic felonies was, in Corman’s eyes, a bonus, lending them an “authentic,” “street-tough” credibility he believed would resonate with the bloodthirsty teenage audiences he so desperately craved. The chaotic energy that SPECIAL K and JANEFKNDOE brought to the set of HELLCAMP ’82, a volatile cocktail of genuine menace and utter disregard for cinematic convention, somehow translated onto the grainy celluloid. Against all odds and Buddy Corman’s questionable directorial choices, the film began to generate a genuine, albeit localized, buzz. Whispers of its raw, unapologetic violence and the unsettling charisma of its unconventional stars spread through regional drive-ins and late-night screenings, fueled by word-of-mouth and crudely photocopied flyers promising “more blood than a busted ketchup factory.” This grassroots momentum surprisingly propelled HELLCAMP ’82 to a wider, albeit still decidedly downmarket, nationwide release. For a brief, shining moment, it seemed K and Jane might actually stumble into mainstream notoriety. However, their ascent was as swift as it was unexpected. Paramount Pictures, whose Friday the 13thfranchise bore a suspicious resemblance to Corman’s low-budget offering, threatened a barrage of lawsuits that could have bankrupted the entire distribution chain. Adding fuel to the fire was a growing controversy surrounding the film’s bizarre and undeniably catchy soundtrack, a copyright lawyer’s nightmare that allegedly consisted of liberally spliced samples from Goblin’s Suspiria and Kraftwerk’s Trans-Europe Express, creating a sonic landscape as unsettling and legally dubious as the film itself. This potent combination of legal threats and musical malfeasance brought HELLCAMP ’82’s theatrical run to an abrupt and ignominious halt, further cementing K and Jane’s reputation as cinematic lightning rods, attracting both fervent underground adoration and the unwavering ire of the establishment. So, after Película briefed me on what exactly I was about to be dealing with, I found myself kneeling inside a canvas cathedral stitched together with faded posters for Cannibal Apocalypse, The Visitor, and something luridly titled Napalm Cheerleaders. The air was thick with peyote smoke, swirling with visions of exploding heads and cheerleaders wielding chainsaws, all underscored by the relentless hum of an ancient projector. HELLCAMP ’82 is loaded. The reel spins, each click a step further into the abyss of their cinematic madness. My mind is already flickering, the edges of reality softening and dissolving like cheap film stock left in the sun. The projector light dances on the canvas walls, transforming the faded posters into writhing entities. SPECIAL K and JANEFKNDOE are out there—somewhere beyond the flickering frames, their next creation gestating in the shadows of the American subconscious. And I, a fool in love with myth and madness, am about to follow them—headfirst—into the astral grindhouse. The theater of my soul is open. And the next screening has already begun. The previews of oblivion are starting to roll.

#covid19 CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY #HELLCAMP x.com/i/broadcasts/1RDGlzLaY…

#hellcamp CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY TODAY at 3 pm PST 100% live on Rumble click on the link below 👇 rumble.com/v6shq6l-hell-camp…

It’s so interesting how MAGAs argument is “ he’s illegal regardless” do you really think someone just crossing the border, and nothing else, with extremely flimsy reasoning used to declare him MS-13, no criminal record, and no due process should be sentenced to a hellcamp?

Thirty-three years ago (33 YEARS AGO), I was sent to a wilderness camp at 13. After the 4th kid passed away, I was invited to tell my story on Rikki Lake, but I didn’t think it was the right time. At 46, this is how I want to share it. “In consideration” @NetworkISA #HellCamp

Lots of us are following you now. Chgo here & DAD 💔would have been 80 TMRW! 1/20/22 - killed in a war he didn’t enlist ! Does this man look 77 !? Yep hospital hellcamp deadly protocol killed him off only took 53 days - my mom escaped🙏🏻

楽しい時間はほんまあっという間 #HELLCAMP

X is frustrating … 😣I feel like I get zero 💩visibility . It’s 1/13/24. Reflecting 🥺 3 years ago , I was fighting for my fathers life and exit from hellcamp hospital 🏥 he lost his 50 day battle due to the mandated premeditated murder for $$$ for the unvaxxed

we had a pop quiz today on over 70 pages of reading and the dude next to me was looking up add/drop dates lmao. that ended a week ago pal welcome to hellcamp we in it for the long run

Paris Hilton Provo Canyon @rebelsadvocate1 ❌ youtube.com/live/Wk5hXBEciJ0… #netflix #documentary #provocanyon #provocanyonschool #parishilton #camp #camphell #hellcamp #mkultra #mkultraexposed #mkultramindcontrol #ufos #program #programs #industry #ssp #projects #conspiracy

"Daddy, why is that man screaming at his phone? What does 'Absolute Fuckwit Destined For Hellcamp Acid Baths' mean?"