That was the last straw! That was the last time that dumb spic cashier would give him a concerning look when he bought booze at Walmart! Patrick was a true genius, a white alpha male of the perfect form (he was five foot nine) who deserved the best in life, and he was not gonna take it anymore! Patrick called up his best friend, Mike Thernovich.

Mike promptly anthered. “Yeth Patrick?” “I’m gonna do it, Mike! I’m gonna kill ‘em all! Those fucking spics are gonna pay!” Patrick exclaimed. “Pleathe Patrick, be reathonable, don’t do thith,” Thernovich pleaded with hith betht friend. But Patrick was not perthuaded. There would be hell to pay for those poor cathiers at the El Patho Walmart.

Knowing that the liveth of hundredth of people depended on his quick acthion, Mike got to work. He booked the thoonetht flight to El Patho and got on the phone, calling the person he trusted most: Laura Loomer. “Laura,” he thaid with muth urgenthy, “we need to get the team back together. We need to reathemble…the Griftvengerth!”

“I’ll do it!” Laura exclaimed with glee, sounding much like what Daily Stormer fans imagine a Jew sounds like. She put on her Handcuffs of Free Speech and leapt out the window of her first story apartment, faceplanting in her precious rose bush. Undeterred by having a bit of a fucked-up face, she hopped up, hopped into her car, and sped off, her recently slashed tires flapping like mad as she flattened a pedestrian.

Meanwhile, Chris Cantwell hung up the phone, furious. How could Mike do this? Did he not know how much of an emotional toll the Jews had taken on him? That he had hung up the cape? Alas, he knew that dozens of lives were on the line, so he Hulked out, busted out of his cuck shed, and ran towards El Paso.

Thernovich hung up again in frustration. Why was Forney not answering? He needed him! Whatever. Probably preoccupied pounding Filipina pussy. He dialed one last number…he didn’t want to do this. It was time for Milo. The dial tone buzzed. Again. Again. Again. Finally, an answer. There was silence. Meekly, Thernovich said, “We need you.” For a minute, nothing. Then Thernovich felt it. Milo was here. Then, the pain. The climax. If this was the price for Milo’s cooperation, so be it. There were lives on the line.

Wiping Milo’s AIDS cum off his inner thigh, Thernovich loaded himself and Milo into his ‘98 Range Rover, preparing for an uncomfortable ride to the airport. Surprisingly, the AIDS-ravaged ghoul caused no problems on the way there. It was when they somehow successfully boarded with a briefcase full of knives that the problems started. Absentmindedly thumbing through the Skymall catalog, his mind was on things like R2-D2 statues and timeshares in Cabo, so he didn’t notice the bony grip on his thigh until it was drawing circles on his greased-up taint (a greasy taint is a side effect of the Gorilla Mind SmoothTM Mike takes to maintain his psychokinetic powers). Mike froze. He knew what was next. It didn’t matter how hard he clenched; there was no avoiding the fact that Milo was about to play plumber’s snake with his insides. Eventually, they landed, and with the jolt of the wheels on the tarmac, Milo quickly withdrew his finger, with Mike feeling every single curve of the fleshy appendage as it came out of his gaping asshole.

The team was assembled. Loomer, the agile infiltrator; Cantwell, the brawn; Yiannopoulos, the terror; and Thernovich, the brains. Together, they would stop Patrick from killing those Mexicans.

Triumphantly, they marched into his home only to find it empty, devoid of all the weapons and ammunition their rogue team member had stockpiled for his heroic endeavors. Thernovich’s eyes tensed. Something wasn’t right. Using his psychic powers, he scanned the area. He sensed it: the real Patrick. He was dead. His ghost, burning in agony at the psionic tortures whatever this thing that had taken his place had created, screamed in pure pain. Thernovich knew it; that couldn’t have been the real Patty he knew. Sure, he was prone to little fits of rage every so often, but he knew that the real boy he had raised, had let suckle his own teat for Gorilla MilkTM, would never hurt any Mexican. This strengthened his resolve, for he knew that he must avenge the real Patrick Crusius and slay the murderous monster which had taken his place.

Hopping in the Invisible Loomermobile (which didn’t do it much good on account of the fact that its tires made sounds much like Precious and Fat Bastard scissoring) and preparing himself for another vehicular molestation session at the hands of Milo, Mike spread his cheeks and put his foot on the gas, speeding towards the Walmart this fake Patrick had promised to kill Mexicans at.

They arrived not a moment too soon. Gunfire and sirens were in the air, and there were bodies on the ground. The team rushed towards the now-shooter, and Thernovich yelled, “IMPOTHTOR! THTOP THITH!”

Stop he did, although he had already tagged 60 people and knew he didn’t have to do any more damage to achieve his goal. “Sssssso you finally came, Griftvengers! Too late as always, too late to sssstop me!” yelled the impostor as he shapeshifted into his true form. It was none other than the Griftvenger’s greatest foe: Max Boot! Growing in size until he was as tall as a Walmart Supercenter is wide, he faced down the Griftvengers, ready for the final battle.

Unfortunately for Max Boot, the Griftvengers were ready to Griftvenge the people he had killed. Loomer flew up to his face and rubbed her horrible crotch in his eyes, blinding him! Cantwell smashed his knees with the rage of a thousand angry wignats! Milo raped him in the ass! And Thernovich used his brain powers to blow up Boot’s head like in Scanners! The Griftvengers stood triumphant! They had saved the day and only caused a couple hundred casualties in the process! The team walked away while Milo continued to rape Max Boot’s corpse.