The Northern Mafia's Flip-Flop General: A Manifesto from the Guy Who Spots Corruption Before the Fil

The Northern Mafia's Flip-Flop General: A Manifesto from the Guy Who Spots Corruption Before the Files Do-Because My ADD, Dyslexia, and 2010 Bitcoin Keeps Me Locked on Target.

Listen up, real Canadians-every last one of you who thinks this country's still yours. Because Dorothy's about to click her heels, and she's not coming back. And Dorothy ain't me. Dorothy's you. The white kid born in Edmonton. The Ukrainian grandma in Saskatoon. The Scottish pipefitter in Fort Mac. The ones who still say sorry when bumped into, who line up for poutine, who think waving the flag is normal. You're the one who needs a brain-because you can't see the pattern. You're the one who needs a heart-because you let mosques get built on your playgrounds. You're the one who needs courage-because you're letting these parasites eat you alive while you tweet memes instead of showing up. And me? I'm Toto. The loud, scrappy dog who's been barking at the curtain for twenty-four years while you stared at the wizard like he's God. But I don't care about the wizard. I care about the man behind him-Larry. Bantrel. NWS. Union 177-Local 177 of the International Union of Painters and Allied Trades, IUPAT, Local 177-and every fat white bureaucrat who thinks a clipboard makes him king. Because in two thousand seven-yeah, eighteen years ago-I walked into a trailer on the Local 177 site. Union painters' job, industrial heartland. Some Chilean kiss-ass-brown like me but twice the boot-lick-runs his mouth: David does restorations, man. Houses, not just drywall. He taped the mayor's garage once. Next thing I'm hauled in. Larry, big white guy, gut hanging over his belt, sweat rings like halos, leans back like he's doing me a favor. Work on my house. Weekend gig. I'll swipe you in all week-seven days, twelve hours. Union picks it up-no cash needed. You'll make overtime. Don't worry. I say yeah. Why? I want double pay. I'm not stagnant. But two days later Bantrel boss stomps in-same type, fat, entitled, cheap beer breath-goes, Larry, back off. He's working my house first. I'll give him beer. I stand there like property. They argue over who gets the brown kid next. I don't say shit. Weekend comes-Bantrel's site. I'm off-site at his place, scraping wallpaper in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar reno. He hands me a case of beer: Do it good, kid, and I'll pay through union. Just don't tell Local 177. I say no. Pay me cash now, union on top-separate deals. He laughs: Do you know who I am? I stare: Yeah. A cockroach. Pay me or I'll fuck you up right here. He peels eight hundred dollars-cash. I pocket it. He spits on the floor-because if he'd spat on me, I'd have taken the shit out of him. He says: You just lost your future. Don't show Monday. I say: Don't worry about it. Worry about yours. Monday I don't show. Fired. My dad-who's worked Local 177 thirty years, won Lotto twice, never bragged-gets the call. I tell him, grab my check. If they fire you, I'll personally fuck them up. He says, No, no, but finishes the job. I call him a bitch for that. Never worked union again. And that's when I knew: they're not employers. They're pimps. And the industry-construction-is the biggest whorehouse in Canada. Larry? Got caught gambling union money in Vegas. Didn't go to jail. Switched company names-son on the sign, same trucks, same game. I could've been rich. Kissed their asses. Instead, I quit. And started documenting everything. Forty terabytes. Every e-transfer. Every voice note: David, sign this-we'll handle the numbers. Every court fight-self-represented since twenty-one. Every misdiagnosis-ADD, dyslexia-I own that shit, proud of it, proud to be different. Every dog bite-March 12, 2020, cop mauling, charged with assault while bleeding. They wanted fifteen years. Forty court dates, twenty adjournments, reduced to ten hours community service-did eight. Bench warrant out. Sentenced June 21, 2023-my birthday. Illegal mandates. Coincidence? Every sealed file-because judges knew one leak and Canada looks like the mafia. Every home invasion-Muslims, twice, who prayed five times then broke in. Every stat I memorized: Pakistani men in Canada, thirty-three percent on benefits. Somali families, ninety percent welfare. Toronto crime up thirty percent. Germany's Cologne rapes-ninety-two percent foreign. Sweden's gang rapes up thirty-nine. Not theory. Receipts. And I don't need Tommy Robinson or Andrew Tate-we're all doing the same war, just different fronts. They're loud, I'm receipts. I respect that. Don't need to copy them. What I don't respect is you. The mute motherfuckers. The ones who see corruption, see mosques, see crime, and stay quiet. That's what I'm fighting. I'm staying till justice. I will never fold. Never give up the currency. I bought it in 2010, when it was nine cents. Thousands. Untouched. Sealed. Dead man's switch-nearly impossible for me even to access. Seed phrases scattered on paper, photographed, hidden in different countries, different emails, held by people who don't know what they're holding. Every five years a ping. Miss it, coins drop slow. No one knows where. They just watch the market bleed. That's not revenge. That's justice. Because if you won't fight Larry, won't fight Bantrel, won't fight the unions turning your overtime into their decks-then you deserve what's coming. The weak don't rise. They kneel. And history's clear: once you're on your knees, it takes centuries. I'm not waiting. But I'm not leaving. Click. Click. Click. Dorothy's leaving. Who's following? And just like my dad-why would I ever brag about success and money? That's unnecessary. That's why I call myself Phantom 83. I'm watching from the shadows, bitches.