Jaw
It's OVER 5,000!
I’ll bet money the totally grassroots peaceful protesters were aware that order would be given too.
The Siege of Chicago
- Thread starter nsacpi
- Start date
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
Chicago Sector, Near the Lake FrontSeptember 12th, 2025
My Dearest Sister Eleanor,
I take a moment from the dreadful duties of the bivouac to send you these hurried lines, hoping they find you and the children in good health, a blessing which seems increasingly rare within this afflicted city.
You have read in the papers, no doubt, of the siege and the constant peril presented by the enemy's incursions. Yet, Eleanor, I confess that the greatest agent of mortality in our ranks is not the bullet nor the shell, but a more insidious and, dare I say, gastronomic affliction.
We have been overrun by the provisions meant for the citizenry, specifically a local dish called Deep Dish Pizza. It arrives in pans the size of carriage wheels, a wicked, towering confection of cheese, thick sauce, and crust baked to a terrible, unyielding density. Our commanders, perhaps mistaking quantity for morale, have been issuing this heavy fare in such abundance that the mess lines resemble a festival more than a staging for battle.
The men gorge themselves upon this indigestible brickwork with the frenzy of starved wolves. They take the whole of it into their systems—a day’s ration sufficient for a family, consumed in a single, desperate sitting. The result, dear sister, is simply ruinous. They retire to their tents, not with the exhaustion of patriots, but with the painful, fatal distension of the abdomen. The surgeons call it a 'severe and sudden obstruction of the vital processes,' but we all know the truth: they are dying of gluttony.
The carts roll out each dawn, carrying away the fallen, not with bloodied uniforms, but with faces ashen and fixed in a final, agonizing expression of regrettable indulgence. The casualties from the cheese are now twice those from the skirmishes.
Pray for the souls of those who cannot resist this heavy curse, and pray that the Commissary General takes heed before we lose the entire brigade to what amounts to a baked culinary plague.
I remain, as ever, your most affectionate brother, and trust in the protection of Providence.
Your Brother,Private Henry L. Talbot
My Dearest Sister Eleanor,
I take a moment from the dreadful duties of the bivouac to send you these hurried lines, hoping they find you and the children in good health, a blessing which seems increasingly rare within this afflicted city.
You have read in the papers, no doubt, of the siege and the constant peril presented by the enemy's incursions. Yet, Eleanor, I confess that the greatest agent of mortality in our ranks is not the bullet nor the shell, but a more insidious and, dare I say, gastronomic affliction.
We have been overrun by the provisions meant for the citizenry, specifically a local dish called Deep Dish Pizza. It arrives in pans the size of carriage wheels, a wicked, towering confection of cheese, thick sauce, and crust baked to a terrible, unyielding density. Our commanders, perhaps mistaking quantity for morale, have been issuing this heavy fare in such abundance that the mess lines resemble a festival more than a staging for battle.
The men gorge themselves upon this indigestible brickwork with the frenzy of starved wolves. They take the whole of it into their systems—a day’s ration sufficient for a family, consumed in a single, desperate sitting. The result, dear sister, is simply ruinous. They retire to their tents, not with the exhaustion of patriots, but with the painful, fatal distension of the abdomen. The surgeons call it a 'severe and sudden obstruction of the vital processes,' but we all know the truth: they are dying of gluttony.
The carts roll out each dawn, carrying away the fallen, not with bloodied uniforms, but with faces ashen and fixed in a final, agonizing expression of regrettable indulgence. The casualties from the cheese are now twice those from the skirmishes.
Pray for the souls of those who cannot resist this heavy curse, and pray that the Commissary General takes heed before we lose the entire brigade to what amounts to a baked culinary plague.
I remain, as ever, your most affectionate brother, and trust in the protection of Providence.
Your Brother,Private Henry L. Talbot
cajunrevenge
Well-known member
Police have no obligation to help anyone. Look it up. A cop can sit there and watch someone stab you and they aren't legally liable for doing nothing.
I’d also like to point out that if we’re going to fund ICE like we do that they shouldn’t also be diverting local law enforcement resources toward their operations.
zitothebrave
Connoisseur of Minors
Yeah they should be punished for not escalating a situation they don't need to be involved in.
ANyway I give 10 bucks this is all fake news and it's something taken out of context because that's what the right wing twittersphere does best.
To our eventual government appointed content checker: what this confused immigrant meant to say was we should show ICE fealty. They are God’s favorite children.
cajunrevenge
Well-known member
Sending my thoughts and prayers.
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
every little bit helps
I actually don’t think the FBI always does it right to begin with, but there are also a couple key differences here.
First, the FBI has never received anywhere near the funding ICE is getting now. If we’re going to spend this much money, we shouldn’t also have to divert so much local resources toward their efforts.
Second, the FBI (to my knowledge) isn’t conducting damn-near daily raids where they just find anybody who might be a criminal and sort the rest out later. These operations have been exceptionally aggressive and while I understand that cooperation with local law enforcement is a two-way street, they are still just insisting upon it.
Tapate50
Well-known member
5 dead 25 shot in Chicago last weekend
www.cbsnews.com
5 dead, 25 wounded in Chicago weekend shootings, police say
Chicago police say five people were killed and 25 others were wounded. Their ages ranged from 16 to 62.
www.cbsnews.com
I guess my problem is that when we’re treating illegal immigration itself as the emergency level event that requires the funding of a literal army, it takes away vital resources from fighting crimes that affect the citizens of that community to also demand police support at every turn. So simply demanding the police jump whenever you want them to do so is a burden on the communities that clearly don’t want help. It’s not illegal or tyrannical for them to do it, but it’s not necessarily good governance.
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
Camp Outside Chicago,
October 15th, 2025
My Dearest Esther,
I write you between bouts of digestion and despair. The siege of Chicago grinds on, though truth be told, the greater struggle is against our own waistlines. The Pentagon, in its wisdom, has decreed that we are to exercise daily—an order that has met with much groaning and little motion. You know me to be a man of sturdy frame, but after three months of surplus rations and idleness, “sturdy” no longer suffices.
Our encampment more resembles a county fair than an army. The supply convoys bring in crates of snack cakes and energy drinks, and the men fall upon them like wolves—fat, lazy wolves wheezing after a slow rabbit. The air is thick with the smell of fryer oil and regret. We are to do push-ups after breakfast, but most collapse under the burden of their own gravity.
Yet we grumble all the same at our superiors, those corpulent lords of command reclining in their leather chairs near Lake Shore Drive, where they gorge themselves on deep-dish pizza—so thick it might be mistaken for rations of roofing tar. We scoff at their indulgence even as we lick the last crumbs of ration brownies from our fingers. Hypocrisy, dear Esther, is the only thing we perform with vigor.
The men joke that if Chicago ever falls, it will not be to force of arms but to the collective weight of our battalion pressing upon the city limits. Private Jensen claims that the last time we attempted a drill, the tremors registered on the local seismograph.
Still, I assure you my spirits are high, if not my stamina. The lake wind remains brisk, and our tents bulge like our uniforms. Pray for our deliverance—from the enemy, yes, but more urgently from the dessert cart.
Your ever-lumbering husband,
Corporal Nathaniel H. Baines
Company C, 3rd Illinois National Guard
October 15th, 2025
My Dearest Esther,
I write you between bouts of digestion and despair. The siege of Chicago grinds on, though truth be told, the greater struggle is against our own waistlines. The Pentagon, in its wisdom, has decreed that we are to exercise daily—an order that has met with much groaning and little motion. You know me to be a man of sturdy frame, but after three months of surplus rations and idleness, “sturdy” no longer suffices.
Our encampment more resembles a county fair than an army. The supply convoys bring in crates of snack cakes and energy drinks, and the men fall upon them like wolves—fat, lazy wolves wheezing after a slow rabbit. The air is thick with the smell of fryer oil and regret. We are to do push-ups after breakfast, but most collapse under the burden of their own gravity.
Yet we grumble all the same at our superiors, those corpulent lords of command reclining in their leather chairs near Lake Shore Drive, where they gorge themselves on deep-dish pizza—so thick it might be mistaken for rations of roofing tar. We scoff at their indulgence even as we lick the last crumbs of ration brownies from our fingers. Hypocrisy, dear Esther, is the only thing we perform with vigor.
The men joke that if Chicago ever falls, it will not be to force of arms but to the collective weight of our battalion pressing upon the city limits. Private Jensen claims that the last time we attempted a drill, the tremors registered on the local seismograph.
Still, I assure you my spirits are high, if not my stamina. The lake wind remains brisk, and our tents bulge like our uniforms. Pray for our deliverance—from the enemy, yes, but more urgently from the dessert cart.
Your ever-lumbering husband,
Corporal Nathaniel H. Baines
Company C, 3rd Illinois National Guard
nsacpi
Expects Yuge Games
My Dearest Nathaniel,
Your last letter reached me at supper, and I confess I set down my fork mid-bite, both laughing and sighing at once. You paint a picture of such splendid misery that I scarce know whether to pity you or to scold you. Truly, if the enemy were to see our National Guard as you describe it—puffed, panting, and pastry-fed—they might lay down their arms from laughter alone.
Since I cannot march beside you, I must content myself with sending counsel. If the Army insists on feeding you all like prize hogs, then you must take matters into your own hands—or, better yet, out of your hands. Perhaps eat a vegetable now and then, assuming such a thing can still be found among the rations. Cabbage, even boiled, has virtues unknown to cheese.
And must every meal end in dessert? You write of “ration brownies” as though they were medals of valor. I suggest substituting an apple, or at least pretending to. Take smaller portions, chew slowly, and stand up now and again before your stomach hardens into a military fortification.
Do not mistake me, dear husband—I love you in every shape and circumference. Yet I would rather see you return trim and well than rolling home like a barrel bound for market. Perhaps you might lead your men in a daily constitutional—call it “strategic reconnaissance” if that helps them rise from the table.
The children send their love. Annie says she will knit you a larger belt if needed, though I have told her to wait a month and see whether you mend your ways.
Be safe, be sensible, and remember that victory is not found at the bottom of a pizza pan.
Your ever-loving and watchful wife,
Esther Baines
Your last letter reached me at supper, and I confess I set down my fork mid-bite, both laughing and sighing at once. You paint a picture of such splendid misery that I scarce know whether to pity you or to scold you. Truly, if the enemy were to see our National Guard as you describe it—puffed, panting, and pastry-fed—they might lay down their arms from laughter alone.
Since I cannot march beside you, I must content myself with sending counsel. If the Army insists on feeding you all like prize hogs, then you must take matters into your own hands—or, better yet, out of your hands. Perhaps eat a vegetable now and then, assuming such a thing can still be found among the rations. Cabbage, even boiled, has virtues unknown to cheese.
And must every meal end in dessert? You write of “ration brownies” as though they were medals of valor. I suggest substituting an apple, or at least pretending to. Take smaller portions, chew slowly, and stand up now and again before your stomach hardens into a military fortification.
Do not mistake me, dear husband—I love you in every shape and circumference. Yet I would rather see you return trim and well than rolling home like a barrel bound for market. Perhaps you might lead your men in a daily constitutional—call it “strategic reconnaissance” if that helps them rise from the table.
The children send their love. Annie says she will knit you a larger belt if needed, though I have told her to wait a month and see whether you mend your ways.
Be safe, be sensible, and remember that victory is not found at the bottom of a pizza pan.
Your ever-loving and watchful wife,
Esther Baines