From A Thousand Books of Fame: The Pamphlets of Iron

Come here, you trembling sack of watered-down blood and borrowed backbone.

Step into the stink of this back-alley bookshop where the gas lamps cough black smoke and the floorboards are sticky with yesterday's spilled courage. Lean in close enough that I can hear your pulse hammering like a trapped rat.

"The Pamphlets of Iron" — Robert Carmonius rips open the vein and lets the hot truth gush out, thick and arterial, no bandages, no mercy.

These ain't words on paper.

They're a sawed-off shotgun double-wrapped in blood-soaked silk, cold steel kissing the quivering meat under your chin. One ragged breath and your pretty illusions burst — gray matter painting the wall, teeth skittering across the gutter like dice in a loser's final roll.

The city chews the soft ones alive.

You hear it at night: the wet snap of weak spines folding, the gurgle as the timid drown in their own apologies. Streets slick with the slurry of the mediocre — medal-festooned corpses still warm, while the wolves lap the edges, tongues red, eyes laughing. Strength doesn't ask permission. It takes. Rips the throat out, mounts the skull on the mantel, and moves on. Always has. Always fucking will.

Still clutching that equality lullaby like a security rag soaked in your own piss?

Spit it.

Choke it up.

Feel the bile burn your throat as the lie finally dies.

This gospel ain't for the faint-hearted who piss themselves at the first growl.

Compromise? That's the flavor of surrender when the blade's already halfway through your windpipe.

Consensus? A circle-jerk of cowards clutching each other while the strong sharpen their teeth on your bones.

If your heart still kicks like a caged animal — if your blood tastes of iron and rage instead of milk — then drag your sorry hide closer.

Light a cigarette with fingers that don't shake.

Grit your teeth until the enamel cracks.

Open these pages and let the truth sink its claws into your guts.

You've got the stomach to face it?

Prove it, you mewling cur.

Swallow the razor-wire reality whole.

Bleed for it.

Live it.

Or crawl back to your padded cell of sermons and sob-stories where the villain politely loses and the herd pretends the slaughterhouse is just a bad dream.

The iron doesn't negotiate with meat.

It carves.

It crushes.

It feeds.

Still standing?

Then maybe your veins run thick enough after all.

"The Pamphlets of Iron" waits.

Buy it.

Bleed with it.

Or rot in the herd.

The choice is yours — but the iron don't give second chances.

#book #personalgrowth #mindset #stronger

A Thousand Books of Fame