Topic: What happens if Trump is sentence to a federal penitentiary?
Anonymous A started this discussion 1 year ago #118,273
And then wins the election to become president?
The first president to run the country from a jail cell?
The first president to run the country from a jail cell?
Anonymous B joined in and replied with this 1 year ago, 8 minutes later[^] [v] #1,300,017
hes going to get epsteined(the official story, not what actually happened) the on first night in jail and its going to be all his fault for emulating the republican party
Father Dave !RsSxeehGwc joined in and replied with this 1 year ago, 1 hour later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #1,300,023
It must be mortifying to live in a country where your president is a convicted felon.Anonymous D joined in and replied with this 1 year ago, 7 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #1,300,025
He'll pardon himself, or if that's not possible then VP will be acting president.
Anonymous E joined in and replied with this 1 year ago, 59 minutes later, 2 hours after the original post[^] [v] #1,300,028
@OP
No way he's going to prison.
No way he's going to prison.
Anonymous F joined in and replied with this 1 year ago, 2 hours later, 4 hours after the original post[^] [v] #1,300,040
Anonymous B replied with this 1 month ago, 10 months later, 10 months after the original post[^] [v] #1,361,166
@previous (F)
hey. hey retardo-kun. hey, you still hangin in there? you still coping/seething? you want a peanut?
hey. hey retardo-kun. hey, you still hangin in there? you still coping/seething? you want a peanut?
Meta joined in and replied with this 1 month ago, 10 minutes later, 10 months after the original post[^] [v] #1,361,167
He would have, if they had indicted him on mail fraud.
Oatmeal Fucker !BYUc1TwJMU replied with this 1 month ago, 11 minutes later, 10 months after the original post[^] [v] #1,361,168
The Slammer Rules
The first thing they tell you when you arrive at Ironwood Federal Penitentiary is this: don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him. Don’t even think about him. President Slammer runs this place, and you don’t exist to him unless he says you do.
I’d heard the stories, of course. Who hadn’t? The first prisoner to win the presidency, running his campaign from a maximum-security cell. His inauguration was broadcast from behind bars, where he raised his fist instead of his hand. The warden stood behind him like a ceremonial prop, a powerless figurehead in the empire Slammer had built.
But nothing prepares you for seeing him in person.
Arrival
I was processed in like everyone else: stripped, inspected, and handed a jumpsuit. The guards smirked as they shoved me toward my cell block. “Good luck,” one of them said, his voice thick with amusement.
The rumors about Ironwood were bad enough, but the reality was worse. This wasn’t just a prison. It was a fortress built to contain the uncontainable. And at the top of the food chain sat Slammer, a man so terrifying he ruled the country and his cell block at the same time.
I saw him for the first time in the yard. He didn’t look like a politician—or even a prisoner. He looked like a goddamn warlord. Six-foot-six, shoulders like boulders, and a face that could stop your heart. He sat in the center of the yard, surrounded by a semicircle of men who hung on his every word.
No one approached him unless invited.
The Slammer Effect
Slammer had rules, and they weren’t negotiable. Fights didn’t happen without his blessing. Smuggled contraband? His men had to get a cut. Disrespecting him? That was a death sentence, plain and simple.
He didn’t shout, didn’t make scenes. He didn’t need to. His presence was a gravitational force. When he moved, people stepped aside. When he spoke, even the guards listened.
The scariest part wasn’t his power—it was his calm. He didn’t bark orders or threaten anyone. He simply stated things, and those things became reality. “This is how it is,” he’d say, and it was.
Slammer’s America
On the outside, Slammer had a loyal following. His presidency was a strange, brutal experiment: policies issued from his cell, enforced with a mix of fear and admiration. Infrastructure projects launched overnight, funded by seized cartel money. Corrupt politicians and executives were dragged into public trials, some disappearing entirely.
To his supporters, he was a savior, the only man strong enough to fix a broken nation. To his enemies, he was a tyrant. Inside Ironwood, he was something else entirely.
My First Encounter
I didn’t want to cross him. No one did. But you can’t avoid him forever. My mistake? Talking too loud in the cafeteria. One of his men heard me badmouthing the guards, and next thing I knew, I was dragged into the laundry room.
Slammer was waiting.
He stood there, arms crossed, his shadow stretching across the floor like the bars of a cage.
“You got a problem with the way things run here?” he asked, his voice low and calm.
“No, sir,” I stammered, my mouth dry.
“Then why’s my man telling me you’re stirring up trouble?”
I didn’t have an answer. It didn’t matter. Slammer didn’t need one.
He stepped closer, looming over me like a mountain. “I don’t tolerate chaos. Out there, they call me a tyrant. In here, I’m worse. You live under my roof, you follow my rules. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes cold and unblinking. Then he nodded to his men.
“Let him go. He’s not worth the effort.”
And just like that, I was free. But I wasn’t relieved. I was terrified.
The Man Behind the Legend
As I lay awake in my cell that night, I realized the truth about President Slammer. He wasn’t just a man or even a leader. He was an idea—a brutal, unyielding force that demanded obedience.
Some people called him a monster. Others called him a savior. But in Ironwood, he was something else entirely: inevitable.
The first thing they tell you when you arrive at Ironwood Federal Penitentiary is this: don’t look at him. Don’t speak to him. Don’t even think about him. President Slammer runs this place, and you don’t exist to him unless he says you do.
I’d heard the stories, of course. Who hadn’t? The first prisoner to win the presidency, running his campaign from a maximum-security cell. His inauguration was broadcast from behind bars, where he raised his fist instead of his hand. The warden stood behind him like a ceremonial prop, a powerless figurehead in the empire Slammer had built.
But nothing prepares you for seeing him in person.
Arrival
I was processed in like everyone else: stripped, inspected, and handed a jumpsuit. The guards smirked as they shoved me toward my cell block. “Good luck,” one of them said, his voice thick with amusement.
The rumors about Ironwood were bad enough, but the reality was worse. This wasn’t just a prison. It was a fortress built to contain the uncontainable. And at the top of the food chain sat Slammer, a man so terrifying he ruled the country and his cell block at the same time.
I saw him for the first time in the yard. He didn’t look like a politician—or even a prisoner. He looked like a goddamn warlord. Six-foot-six, shoulders like boulders, and a face that could stop your heart. He sat in the center of the yard, surrounded by a semicircle of men who hung on his every word.
No one approached him unless invited.
The Slammer Effect
Slammer had rules, and they weren’t negotiable. Fights didn’t happen without his blessing. Smuggled contraband? His men had to get a cut. Disrespecting him? That was a death sentence, plain and simple.
He didn’t shout, didn’t make scenes. He didn’t need to. His presence was a gravitational force. When he moved, people stepped aside. When he spoke, even the guards listened.
The scariest part wasn’t his power—it was his calm. He didn’t bark orders or threaten anyone. He simply stated things, and those things became reality. “This is how it is,” he’d say, and it was.
Slammer’s America
On the outside, Slammer had a loyal following. His presidency was a strange, brutal experiment: policies issued from his cell, enforced with a mix of fear and admiration. Infrastructure projects launched overnight, funded by seized cartel money. Corrupt politicians and executives were dragged into public trials, some disappearing entirely.
To his supporters, he was a savior, the only man strong enough to fix a broken nation. To his enemies, he was a tyrant. Inside Ironwood, he was something else entirely.
My First Encounter
I didn’t want to cross him. No one did. But you can’t avoid him forever. My mistake? Talking too loud in the cafeteria. One of his men heard me badmouthing the guards, and next thing I knew, I was dragged into the laundry room.
Slammer was waiting.
He stood there, arms crossed, his shadow stretching across the floor like the bars of a cage.
“You got a problem with the way things run here?” he asked, his voice low and calm.
“No, sir,” I stammered, my mouth dry.
“Then why’s my man telling me you’re stirring up trouble?”
I didn’t have an answer. It didn’t matter. Slammer didn’t need one.
He stepped closer, looming over me like a mountain. “I don’t tolerate chaos. Out there, they call me a tyrant. In here, I’m worse. You live under my roof, you follow my rules. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes cold and unblinking. Then he nodded to his men.
“Let him go. He’s not worth the effort.”
And just like that, I was free. But I wasn’t relieved. I was terrified.
The Man Behind the Legend
As I lay awake in my cell that night, I realized the truth about President Slammer. He wasn’t just a man or even a leader. He was an idea—a brutal, unyielding force that demanded obedience.
Some people called him a monster. Others called him a savior. But in Ironwood, he was something else entirely: inevitable.
Anonymous B replied with this 1 month ago, 14 minutes later, 10 months after the original post[^] [v] #1,361,172
does anybody want a peanut?