Tag Archives: immortal technique

Who Do You Trust? Nick Rockefeller

Posted on by
Reply

The coffin was old, a relic of Skull and Bones’ class of 1927, and it smelled of disintegrating velvet, dry rot, and privilege. Names were carved inside the lid, a genealogy of power: Bush, Buckley, Rockefeller.

“Poetic, ain’t it?” Immortal Technique’s voice was a low rasp in the dim tomb of the Tomb itself—the windowless, sepulchral headquarters of the Skull and Bones society at Yale. “Your family name’s been in here for a century. Now you get to be the last.”

THE A.I. LIES LIKE A CHEAP WHORE, ESPECIALLY WHEN RUN BY ROCKFELLER UNIVERSITY. MY COUSIN ROCCO IS JUST A TEENAGER. HE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH SKULL AND BONES — JOEY JUCO

Nick Rockefeller, his bespoke suit rumpled, his hair for the first time out of place, stared with wide, uncomprehending eyes from inside the box. The hazing coffin, used for decades to break and bond the scions of the American elite, was now his prison.

The operation had been Joey Juco’s masterpiece. He’d traced encrypted payments from a Cayman shell to a private security firm, then to a Bonesman lawyer, and finally to a digital footprint that led to a secluded estate. The “white knights”—CIA analysts whose consciences had long ago been filed as collateral damage—provided the blueprints, the schedules, the silent takedown protocols.

And George W. Bush had provided the key. Not a metaphorical one. An actual, physical skeleton key to the Skull and Bones hall. He’d stood in the shadows of the opulent, grotesque room, with its pirated skulls and medieval décor, looking older than his years. He didn’t give orders. He just pointed a trembling finger at the ornate coffin on a dais. “That’s the one. They put you in there… and they tell you the world is yours to design. They tell you some men are born to be architects, and others… are born to be bricks.”

It was Bush who suggested the location. “If you want to break a symbol, you do it on the altar of his own faith.”

Now, Technique leaned over the coffin’s edge, his eyes burning. “You gave an interview once, bragging. Said the plan was ‘population reduction,’ that the end goal was a ‘New World Order.’ You thought it was a secret between kings. But we’re the peasants who learned to read.”

Rockefeller found his voice, a dry crackle. “You don’t understand. The architecture… it requires sacrifice. Stability. You’re tearing down the pillars because you don’t like the shade they cast.”

“We’re not tearing down pillars,” Joey Juco said, adjusting a small camera, its red light blinking. “We’re just showing everyone the blood in the mortar.”

One of the CIA men, a lean operative whose name would never be known, stepped forward. He held a small, ceremonial hammer—the same used to tap new Bonesmen on the shoulder. He didn’t look at Rockefeller. He looked at Bush. There was a silent question in his gaze.

Bush gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Not an order. A permission slip for his own exorcism.

The agent began to tap the coffin’s lid. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each one a muffled, final echo of the ritual that had anointed so many architects of empire.

“The world you designed ends with you in a box,” Technique said, his voice flat, final. “Not a throne. A casket. And we’re live-streaming the foreclosure.”

As the lid was lowered, Rockefeller’s terrified face was the last thing visible, framed by carved names of his predecessors. The last thing he saw was not the ragged revolutionaries, nor the betrayed spook, but the 43rd President of the United States, staring down at him with the hollow eyes of a man witnessing the burial of his own legacy. The lid closed with a soft, definitive thud.

The silence that followed was broken only by the faint hum of the camera. They had put Nick Rockefeller in his hazing coffin, in the heart of the temple of his tribe. They hadn’t killed him. They had done something worse, in that world of symbols and bloodlines. They had made him a relic. And they had shown the altar to be as empty and rotten as the faith it sustained.

The 9/11 Paper Shredder

Posted on by
1

Scene: A dimly lit rooftop in New York, late at night.
The city hums below, neon lights cutting through the dark. G.I. Joe sits on a steel beam, helmet off, cigarette glowing faintly. Across from him, Immortal Technique leans against the rail, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

G.I. Joe:
“You know, Tech, they keep telling us 9/11 was about terror. About fear. But when I look at the rubble… I see a different kind of weapon.”

Immortal Technique:
“What weapon?”

G.I. Joe (flicks ash):
“A paper shredder. The biggest one the world’s ever seen. Buildings full of files, records, receipts… gone in smoke and dust. Enron was drowning in fraud. Companies up to their necks in cooked books. That day wasn’t just an attack—it was a cleanup.”

Immortal Technique (nodding slowly):
“Destroy the evidence, wipe the slate. The same way they do it in the hood, just with billion-dollar corporate lawyers instead of street corner hustlers.”

G.I. Joe (half-smirks):
“You ever see that Jim Carrey flick? Fun with Dick and Jane? There’s this scene where they jam the shredder, papers flying everywhere—chaos, confetti. That’s what the towers were. A comedy bit for the elite. Except the punchline was thousands of lives.”

Immortal Technique (voice rising, fists clenched):
“And the people paid the price for their ‘audit.’ The wars, the surveillance, the fear economy. They don’t just shred paper—they shred flesh, families, futures.”

G.I. Joe (low, grim):
“Exactly. Terror was the cover story. But underneath? Just another balance sheet adjustment. They turned a skyline into a bonfire, so the smoke would hide their crimes.”

Immortal Technique (after a pause):
“Then it’s our job to be the fire alarm. To tell the world the system’s still burning.”

They lock eyes, the city lights flickering below like dying embers.

Che’s Cuban Cigar speech

Posted on by
Reply

Che Guevara’s Ghost: A Manifesto Against Mammon

Posted on Immortal Technique’s Website

Brothers and sisters,

I speak to you from the shadows of history, where revolutions are remembered and forgotten, where the blood of the oppressed stains the soil, and where the dazzling glitter of Mammon blinds the eyes of the many. My voice is not bound by the grave, for the spirit of revolution cannot be silenced.

The American Empire, the modern colossus, strides across the world with arrogance and greed. Its weapons are not just drones and missiles but the subtle chains of debt, propaganda, and consumerism. It preaches freedom while enslaving nations with the seductive promise of wealth. It whispers of democracy while funding dictatorships. And all the while, Mammon—golden and gleaming—sits on his throne, laughing at the suffering he has wrought.

You, my comrades, live in a time of contradictions. The empire tells you that happiness is in the things you buy, that your worth is in the numbers on a screen, that your dreams are only as big as your paycheck. But I tell you this: Mammon’s glitter is a lie. The true wealth of humanity lies not in what can be bought but in what can be shared.

The empire feeds you the illusion of choice, but your choices have been preordained by corporations, algorithms, and the endless churn of a system designed to keep you docile. They want you distracted, pacified, and divided—because a united people, armed with knowledge and courage, is the empire’s greatest fear.

I call on you, the children of the revolution, to remember what they want you to forget: that the power lies not in their towers of glass and steel, but in your hearts, your hands, and your minds.

Rise against Mammon, not with violence, but with a refusal to bow. Build communities that cannot be bought. Educate yourselves and others. Create art that inspires and awakens. Speak truth to power, even when your voice trembles.

And above all, remember this: The revolution is not an event; it is a process. It is not a single battle but a lifetime of resistance. The American Empire will crumble, as all empires do, but it will not happen on its own. It will happen because of you.

Mammon may glitter, but the fire of justice burns brighter. Let it burn in you.

Hasta la victoria siempre,
Che

The post went viral, sparking debates, protests, and renewed calls for change. Felipe Coronel, reading the comments, smiled to himself. Che’s ghost had spoken—and the world was listening.