Today I took massive shit on hiram abiff masonic grave the diarrahea was everywhere smelliest poop I could shit out of my ass and it was after eating 20 Mac Donalds burgers can you imagine? My masonic friends were all clapping their hands and congratulating me on my achievement (rite of final pooper) they took a good look on my anus and licked every inch(master was so horny Im glad I could help him get hard again), then we all said that this bitch hiram abiff is in hell and drinks hot piss with nimrod and every freemason is shit eater for eternity what a mess to eat shit like this but that's what freemasonry is for so join us and suck our dicks but weaving spiders COME NOT HERE HAHAHAHAHA
>>41745399congrats anon
>>41745399By harming the Freemasons, you are bringing the epoch of the monarchy closer.
Rhode Island, 1905. The streets sweat in the sun, and the tenement bricks crumble like stale bread. In Apartment 3B, little Billy-Ann Bokins—blonde-haired and freckled like she’d been kissed by cinnamon—lives in a world stitched together by sorrow, grit, and the hum of machinery from the nearby mill. Her father leaves every morning before first light, his boots clapping against the stairs like distant thunder. He returns in darkness, bones creaking and eyes hollow, and each time Billy looks at him, she wonders how much of him the mill has already taken.Billy’s mother left this world nearly a year ago. Pneumonia or heartbreak—no one ever said which. Since then, the weathered Mrs. Marsh from upstairs has taken to watching Billy during the day. Marsh, too, had once twisted thread between her calloused fingers in the mills, until life slowed her down with a bent back and sciatica that struck like lightning down her leg.Mrs. Marsh claimed the corner of their kitchen like a fortress. She perched on a wooden chair softened by a pillow that had seen more years than Billy herself. The Bible was her shield, open always to Psalms, her voice rising and falling like the toll of church bells: “What are you getting into now, child?” The question echoed daily, never needing an answer.This day, the air was thick enough to chew. Marsh had read herself to sleep again—her snores rumbling like a train losing steam. Billy tiptoed to the window, whispering, “Mrs. Marsh… oh Mrs. Marsh,” just to be sure she wouldn’t stir. The silence behind the snore was permission.She climbed out the window, toes curling against the hot metal of the fire escape. From beneath a loose brick she retrieved the cigarette she’d stolen last week—smooth and pale, like a secret waiting to be discovered. With a match from the kitchen and one reckless flick, smoke curled around her face.The summer stretched before her in muted golds and wilting blues.
