Nico The Demon (Halloween Special - Part 1)

 

TAKE DOWN THE DICK OF COCKVILLE: BANISH THE STATUE OF RICHARD JAMES

BY SOLANA KINANTI

Chairwoman of the Girl Power Club | Feminist Witch of Your Nightmares

Who was Richard James?

To frat bros, he’s a “founder.”

To the rest of us, he was a slave-owning misogynist with a Napoleon complex and a dick-shaped ego.

Let’s be clear: Richard James didn’t build Cockville College — he bought influence here with inherited wealth soaked in blood and control. He didn’t “lead young men.” He indoctrinated them into his own legacy of entitlement, rape culture, and white patriarchal supremacy.

Every time we walk past that statue in the main hall — bronze balls out, chin up like he invented ethics — we’re being told that this campus belongs to men like him.

It doesn’t. Not anymore.

10 Reasons to Rip the Bronze Bastard from His Pedestal:

·       Richard James owned slaves. Full stop. He profited from human suffering, and yet we’re giving him a pedestal?

·       He founded AKO Fraternity to protect “young male virtue” from “unladylike corruption.” Translation: He wanted a boys-only fortress to avoid accountability and women’s rights.

·       His diaries (archived in the university library) describe women as “mouths, wombs, and leverage.” Yes, really. I read them. It was like being waterboarded by a Reddit thread.

·       He believed women should be forbidden from voting, learning math, or speaking in public. Makes sense why his spiritual descendants yell “facts don’t care about your feelings” on Twitter.

·       He once commissioned a painting titled “The Good Whore and the Better Wife.” It was banned from the gallery for “graphic vulgarity and psychological damage to viewers.”

·       Every major sexual harassment scandal on this campus in the past twenty years? Involved AKO. Guess where they take their oaths? Right in front of his statue.

·       Statues are symbols. This one says: “This school belongs to men with power and unchecked libido.” Are we co-signing that in 2025?

·       The Student Union already removed three other problematic statues. Why is this dick still standing?

·       Every time a girl gets catcalled on the quad, his bronze smirk is watching. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a culture.

·       It’s ugly. Aesthetically, spiritually, morally. Just ugly.

To the AKO Boys Who Will Inevitably Cry About This:

No one’s taking away your “heritage.” We’re just putting it in a box marked “toxic” and shipping it to the frat basement where it belongs. Don’t worry — you can still worship your founding father while doing keg stands and chanting about women being “free use.”

But out here? In public space? He’s done. He’s out. Your statue, your legacy, your pseudo-virility? It doesn’t scare us. We’re not just tearing it down — we’re building something better.

You think tradition makes you untouchable?

You think masculinity is eternal?

Wait ‘til you see what happens when we aim for the balls.

With zero love,

Solana Kinanti

Feminist. Fighter. Founder of the future.

PART 1: The Fall of Bronze, The Rise of Blood

The flyer crumpled in Nico’s hand like it had insulted him personally — which, in his mind, it had. He ripped it in half, then again, then again, the shreds fluttering to the marble floor of the AKO frat house foyer like fallen leaves soaked in acid.

Nicholas James — Nico, to his loyal pack of equally arrogant brethren — stood rigid in the center of the common room, his jaw clenched so tight his molars threatened to crack. He was built like a varsity god: tall and broad, six feet three with the kind of sculpted muscle that required a personal trainer and generational wealth. His tousled golden hair was effortlessly perfect, like a shampoo ad for fascism. His eyes, glacial and blue, radiated rage. He wore a tight navy polo that hugged his swollen chest, its buttons barely holding at the collar. His blue jeans were crisp and snug, hugging powerful thighs and tapering to perfectly polished loafers. An expensive Italian belt, the kind that screamed old money and silent violence, cinched his waist like a symbol of control.

“SHIT!” Nico roared, his voice slamming into the walls and echoing through the halls like a shotgun blast. “The board. The new female dean agreed with them!” He spat the last word like it was poison. “My dad threatened her. Told her she’d lose alumni funding. But it didn’t work. She called his bluff.”

He stormed to the window, eyes burning as he stared toward the quad in the distance. “They’re actually going through with it. Moving the statue. My statue. That’s my bloodline.”

A pause. A low, bitter growl rose from his throat.

“He’s my ancestor,” Nico seethed. “Richard James founded this college. He built it. Without him, there’d be no AKO, no tradition, no brotherhood. That statue isn’t just a man. It’s a legacy. It’s ours. They want to drag it through the mud and toss it into the frat house like it’s some frat party decoration? No. Fuck that.”

Conrad, tall and slim with calculating eyes behind wireframe glasses, folded his arms and leaned against the stone mantel. His voice was cool, detached. The voice of a man who preferred spreadsheets and strategy over fire and fists. “Solana and her lesbian club are already at the statue. They brought their little camera crew, their TikTok signs, their smug faces. Jessica’s filming. Priyanka’s smiling like she just solved patriarchy.” He paused. “They want to move it themselves. To us. What’s your call, Nico?”

Nico turned slowly, fire in his eyes.

“What’s my call?” His voice sharpened, then rose like thunder.

“My call is simple: We face them. We confront them. We remind them who the fuck we are.” He walked toward the center of the room, muscles twitching beneath his shirt, his rage coiling into momentum. “They want us to be sidelined. They want to erase us. They want the campus to be about them. Women. Minorities. Gays. Every identity, every cause — except the one they hate most.” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “Being a man. Being white. Being straight. Apparently that’s our crime now.”

The room stirred. Eyes locked on him. Some of the boys leaned forward. Others clenched fists.

Nico kept going, his voice booming like a sermon. “They call us privileged. Like we didn’t earn our bodies. Like we didn’t train for what we have. Like our families didn’t build the foundations they’re walking on. We were born strong, and they hate that. They want to neuter us, emasculate us, turn us into some soft, guilty, apologizing versions of ourselves. Well fuck that.”

The room erupted in a roar of approval.

Tanner, bulky and broad-chested with a constant five o'clock shadow and the face of a linebacker left on read, stood and pounded a fist against the wall. “Yeah. I agree. We need to fight for our dignity! If they wanna haul our legacy out like trash, we stop them. We show them what the men of AKO are made of!”

The chant started low. “AKO. AKO. AKO.”

Nico raised his fist. “Let’s stop them. RIGHT NOW!”

The frat house erupted. Doors slammed open. Dozens of boys — sixty, in total — stormed out behind Nico, each one wearing blue jeans like a uniform of masculine pride. Some wore navy polos, others went shirtless, flexing their chests as if rage was stored in their pecs. Their shoes pounded the pavement in sync. Loafers, sneakers, boots. Their bodies moved like a wave. A single-minded, testosterone-fueled army following their Alpha.

“RISE FOR RICHARD!” someone shouted.

“OUR BLOOD, OUR BRONZE, OUR CAMPUS!”

“NO MORE STATUE SNATCHING!”

They marched with fire in their eyes, heading straight for the quad. Nico led them like a goddamn Greek general, chest out, chin high, every step a declaration of war.

The quad shimmered in the afternoon sun, unusually crowded for a weekday. On the freshly cut lawn stood Solana Kinanti, flanked by her crew — Jessica Redfield, Priyanka Avantika, and half a dozen women from the Girl Power Club. The statue of Richard James had already been unbolted from its pedestal, resting uneasily on a cart hooked to a small electric truck they borrowed from the theatre department.

Solana stood with her arms crossed, radiant in her fire-red jacket and black combat boots, her dark eyes shaded by sunglasses, a grin twitching at the corner of her lips. Jessica, ever the provocateur, wore a vintage "No Gods No Bros" t-shirt and was holding her phone horizontally, recording live. Priyanka, wearing a bright pink jacket with “DECOLONIZE THE CAMPUS” scrawled across the back of her jacket, held up a megaphone.

Behind them, students gathered — some in support, others curious. A few frat boy sympathizers hovered on the edge, unsure whether to intervene or retreat.

Jessica turned to Solana, phone still recording.

“Here they come,” she said dryly, eyes narrowed.

Solana didn’t look. She didn’t have to. She could feel the stomping. The ground vibrating with wounded egos and unearned pride. The tremble of a hundred dollars worth of cologne crashing toward her like a tide of Axe-scented oppression.

She cracked her knuckles.

“Let the crybaby parade begin.”

PART 2: Balls of Bronze, Ego of Glass

They came like a stampede — sixty boys in blue jeans, marching as if they were headed to war instead of a college quad. The afternoon sun glinted off belt buckles and sweat-slicked biceps. Muscles bulged through tight navy polos, and even those shirtless strutted with puffed chests and smug grins like this was a testosterone parade and every step declared "I’m a man, and I lift."

Some slapped their chests with open palms, others whooped with frenzied energy. It wasn’t just a walk. It was a declaration. A frat-flag-waving, cock-swinging, cologne-drenched spectacle of what happened when privilege got scared and tried to overcompensate.

Nico James led them at the front, like a Greek god molded out of rage and gym supplements. His polo was tight enough to make his pecs bounce with each furious step, his biceps twitching with fury, his thick thighs stretching the seams of his jeans. His eyes were locked on the horizon — or more specifically, the defiled sight of his ancestor's statue being unbolted, stripped from its pedestal, ready to be carted away like campus garbage.

And there it was: the statue of Richard James. Tilted on a dolly cart, secured with ropes, half-sunken in the moving foam of the shipping crate — impotent and dethroned.

Nico’s breath hitched. His face twitched. His ancestor — his blood — reduced to cargo by girls with cropped jackets and feminist buttons.

Then he saw her.

Helena Sanders. His girlfriend. Running across the lawn in a cream dress and denim jacket, her golden hair catching sunlight, her expression pinched with panic. She wasn’t part of the protest, but she was here — and clearly not to cheer him on.

“Nico!” she called, rushing through the sea of chest-thumping frat boys. She reached him, her hand on his wrist, her voice urgent.

“Babe, please. Just let them ship the statue. You can have it. It’s already going to your frat house, right? You won. You get to keep it. Don’t let this turn into something worse. Please—don’t make this ugly.”

Nico looked down at her — not with warmth, not with affection, but like she’d just grown a second head.

“Are you on their side?” he barked, jerking his arm away. “You came here to lecture me?”

Helena recoiled, hurt flashing across her face. “I came here to stop you from doing something you’ll regret.”

“You mean defending my family?” he snapped. “From people who spit on everything we built?”

From behind Helena, a voice rang out. Low, confident, and always just a touch amused.

“Wow. That’s your definition of regret? Not defending rape culture and slave-worshipping statues, but not doing it loud enough?”

Solana Kinanti stepped forward, her boots crunching the grass, her dark eyes locked onto Nico like a sniper with a moral compass. Her red jacket flared behind her in the breeze, and every inch of her posture said, I’ve been waiting for you to pull this bullshit, golden boy.

She moved between Helena and Nico without hesitation. Not protecting her, exactly — but shielding her like a wall you’d have to knock down to get through.

“What, Nicholas? You angry about this statue? Is that what has your balls in a twist? This thing’s rotting. Like your whole frat. Legacy doesn’t mean shit if all it stands for is abuse.”

“SHUT UP!” Nico’s voice cracked, sharp and furious. “This statue is legacy. It’s power. It’s blood. That man—Richard James—built this campus.”

“Off the backs of slaves,” Solana snapped. “Off the silence of every woman who had to swallow his crap and smile. AKO exists because the system let it. Because men like you thought throwing money and swinging dick meant authority.”

A muscle ticked in Nico’s jaw.

“You walk around like your ancestors earned something, Nico,” Solana continued, circling him like a predator playing with its prey. “But all they did was take. And now you want everyone to worship a bronze prick just because it’s attached to your last name? Grow up.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nico growled, stepping forward. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a man. To have expectations. Pressure. We have to be strong, we have to lead—”

“You mean you get to lead,” Solana interrupted. “You think being born into a position you didn’t earn makes you important. You want us to bow down to that? Nah. I’d rather smash it.”

From behind the line of Girl Power Club members, Priyanka Avantika called out, “Hey, Solana!”

She tossed something — a metal baseball bat — and Solana caught it one-handed.

“What’s that line?” Priyanka smirked. “Smash the patriarchy?”

Solana didn’t hesitate. The weight of the metal bat in her grip felt almost sacred, like an extension of her rage, forged for this exact moment. She turned toward the statue with a slow, deliberate pivot, lifting the bat high like a judge preparing a final verdict. Her muscles coiled, her stance firm, eyes narrowed on the bronze bulge of Richard James’ sculpted crotch. And then, with a sharp inhale and a flash of fury, she swung.

The sound that followed wasn’t just impact — it was rupture. A raw, ringing crack echoed through the quad, bouncing off the buildings like a gunshot made of justice. The bat connected with the statue’s groin so cleanly, so definitively, that time seemed to freeze. A jagged fissure split open across the sculpted trousers, racing downward like a lightning strike of karma. Then, in a final insult to ancestry, the bronze penis sheared off completely, clanging onto the pavement with a heavy, metallic thud that sounded disturbingly lifeless — like a dead bird, or a broken heirloom nobody wanted.

For a breath, there was only silence — a stunned, suspended silence.

And then it came.

Laughter.

Explosive, uncontrolled, reverberating laughter. It started with Priyanka, sharp and wild like a victory song, and spread like wildfire through the crowd. Solana lowered the bat and stepped back, watching the scene unfold like a queen after a decapitation.

“Look at your ancestor, Nico!” Priyanka shouted, pointing dramatically at the dismembered phallus now rolling gently toward a patch of mulch. “She busted his balls!”

Jessica let out a wheezing laugh, her phone still recording, zooming in on the severed bronze genitalia like it was a piece of battlefield wreckage. “Guess bronze can’t handle girl power!”

“Some legacy!” another girl yelled through breathless giggles. “That dick’s as limp as AKO’s morals!”

Even a few male students — the ones not in blue jeans, not frothing at the mouth with misplaced brotherhood — couldn’t help themselves. A snort. A bark of laughter. A low whistle of awe.

But Nico wasn’t laughing.

He stood there, just feet away, his mouth slightly ajar, his nostrils flaring like an animal about to charge. His eyes were wide, one of them twitching involuntarily. His fists clenched at his sides, the veins in his neck bulging with humiliation. This wasn’t just a statue. This was his bloodline. His god. His identity, castrated in front of an audience.

And then something inside him cracked — louder than bronze, deeper than pride. With a guttural growl, he lunged toward Solana like a rabid beast.

He ripped the bat from her hands so hard it made her stumble back, her boots skidding in the grass. His grip on the bat was white-knuckled, and his face had transformed into something feral. Red, trembling with rage, wet at the corners of his mouth like he might spit or cry or both.

“You’re asking for this,” he hissed, his voice thick with venom, every word soaked in toxic masculinity pushed to its breaking point. “You think I won’t hit you just because you’re a girl? Because you’re a dyke? You don’t get to disrespect my bloodline and walk away smiling. You don’t touch the statue of Richard James. You don’t touch what we built.”

He lifted the bat high, eyes locked on Solana like she was a problem to be crushed. She didn’t flinch. Her heart was racing, yes — but fear had no place here. Not today. She stared him down, chin high, mouth set, her entire stance daring him to take the swing and prove everything she already knew about him.

But he didn’t get the chance.

In his blind fury, Nico stepped forward, fast and reckless. His foot caught on the edge of the shipping crate — the very one meant to carry his ancestor’s statue into exile — and he lost balance. His body pitched forward, arms flailing uselessly as gravity took over. He slammed headfirst into the side of the statue with a brutal, echoing clang, the sound dull and metallic as his forehead met the cracked bronze thigh. The bat flew from his hands and landed in the grass. His body folded awkwardly over the cart, limbs sprawled, face buried, legs kicked out behind him.

He didn’t move.

Just groaned.

His ass was high in the air, blue jeans stretched tight, legs spread humiliatingly wide like a cautionary tale in physical comedy. A few birds chirped somewhere in the distance, as if nature itself was pausing to register the karmic poetry.

And then, the dam broke.

Jessica wheezed and doubled over, unable to hold her phone straight. Priyanka dropped to her knees, slapping the ground, howling. Even Helena, hand clasped over her mouth, couldn’t hide the gasp that turned into a half-choked laugh.

“Oh my god,” someone said breathlessly from the crowd. “The statue just fought back.”

“Get a picture! Quick, get a fucking picture!”

Solana didn’t laugh. Not yet.

She stepped forward slowly, her boot grazing the edge of the crate. Nico’s groans were soft, pitiful. He tried to lift his head, but couldn’t manage anything more than a wheeze. His ass remained high, twitching slightly with each breath. He looked like a frat god turned sacrificial goat.

She stood behind him. Silent. Calculating.

There it was again. That moment. The opening. The crack in the armor. The universe had handed her another chance — to finish what history had only whispered about. A message written in sweat and bronze and shattered legacy.

She raised her leg. Steadied herself.

And then, with surgical precision and zero hesitation, she kicked him.

Hard. Right in the balls.

PART 3: The Fall of the Brotherhood

Nico’s scream didn’t sound human.

It was a twisted, high-pitched howl — the kind of noise that peeled out from the rawest nerve endings, where pride met agony and both got crushed in the same breath. His mouth opened so wide it looked unhinged, a gaping hole of disbelief and pain, his white teeth clenched and quivering. His eyes bulged first, then trembled, then flooded — not a single dignified tear, but streams of them, hot and shameful, breaking past the cracks in his entitlement like a dam collapsing under humiliation.

He tried to move, but his body betrayed him. His hands flailed backward toward his groin, desperate to shield, to recover, but it was useless. His breath came in choked sobs, little wheezing hiccups between moans that grew louder, more pathetic, less human with each second. His cheeks flushed a blotchy red, streaked by tears and spit, his polished alpha image collapsing like a sandcastle against the tide.

Behind him, the entire quad stood frozen. The sea of blue-jeaned brothers who’d marched behind him like a god-king stared in stunned silence. Not a single chant. Not a breath of protest. Just sixty stunned boys — sixty avatars of generational masculinity — reduced to slack-jawed statues.

A few instinctively clutched their own groins. Some winced in visceral sympathy, their legs twitching as if expecting the pain to ricochet through them in waves. Eyes wide. Mouths shut. The sound of Nico's suffering had left them speechless.

And Solana? Solana wasn’t done.

She stepped over him like a hunter over wounded prey, her boots crunching softly against the scattered gravel and crumpled flyers. Nico whimpered as she reached down and tangled her fingers in his golden hair — still perfect even now — and yanked his head up by the roots. He gasped, mouth open in a raw, helpless “ahhh,” drool trailing from the corner of his lip.

Solana crouched beside him, forcing him to look up at her. His eyes, red and wet, blinked desperately under the sunlight. His breath hitched. His lips quivered. It was the first time Nico James had ever looked small.

“Is that hurt, Nicholas?” she whispered, low and cutting, her voice cold as glass. “Good.”

Her face hovered inches from his. “No one gives a shit about your misogynistic tears.”

And then — with slow, deliberate cruelty — her hand slid lower. She gripped him by the balls, still vulnerable, still throbbing, and squeezed. Not enough to cause permanent damage. But enough to send another jolt of lightning through his spine. His legs twitched violently. He let out a cracked, broken sob that echoed off the bricks like a plea for mercy.

And just beyond the circle of chaos, Helena Sanders stood still. Watching.

She didn’t move to help him. Didn’t even call out his name. Instead, something flickered behind her eyes — something ancient and buried that began to surface. It was as if the years of being his accessory, his trophy, his plus-one to a power she never truly wanted, had started to rot inside her… and now it was unraveling. She saw him — her boyfriend, the mighty Nico James — reduced to a weeping, gasping wreck with tears on his cheeks and his pride in Solana’s hand. And she smiled.

Not a smug smile. Not a cruel one. But a quiet, reverent, freeing smile.

It felt good.

It felt right.

Tanner broke the silence first.

“ATTACK! SAVE OUR LEADER!” he roared, snapping out of the trance. He raised his fist and charged, rallying the others behind him. “AKO, LET’S GO! THEY’RE HURTING NICO!”

The boys surged forward like a panicked herd, but it wasn’t a confident charge. It was sloppy, frantic, fueled by shame more than honor. They weren’t soldiers — they were frightened boys pretending to be warriors.

But the girls were ready.

Jessica Redfield met Conrad halfway. She didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. She ducked under his outstretched arms, planted one boot, and slammed her knee upward into his groin with surgical precision. His breath left him in a panicked squeal. His glasses flew off his face. His body folded like a dying swan, and he hit the ground hard, groaning and clutching himself like he was cradling the ruins of his entire bloodline.

“Stay down, genius,” Jessica said, stepping over him.

Priyanka, meanwhile, moved with dancer’s grace. She spun between two charging boys, her split kick landing across one guy’s chest just as she twisted to face Tanner. He was the biggest, the loudest — and the dumbest. As he lunged at her, she ducked low and punched upward, her fist landing right where it hurt most. His roar became a squeal. His knees buckled. His eyes rolled back. He dropped like a rock, hitting the grass face-first with a muffled whimper.

“Men fall so easily,” Priyanka said calmly, shaking out her fist. “Almost like they weren’t built to last.”

Chaos erupted.

Within minutes, the quad became a battlefield — not of broken bones, but of broken pride. The girls moved like a pack, coordinated, fearless, relentless. Every groin strike was a message. Every cry of pain, a victory. They didn’t just fight. They executed.

Ten minutes later, the war was over.

Sixty boys lay sprawled across the grass, sidewalks, and flower beds of the quad, every single one doubled over, writhing or paralyzed. Some groaned. Some sobbed. Some rocked back and forth, hands glued between their legs as if trying to hold their masculinity inside. It was a symphony of agony — groans and gasps, wheezes and whispered curses.

From above, it looked like a mass fainting event. A blue-jeaned battlefield of masculinity, brought to its knees by precision and fury.

Solana stood in the center of it all, chest rising, lips curled into something half-proud, half-wild. She dropped the bat at Nico’s side and walked away without looking back.

Jessica, meanwhile, pulled out her phone and panned the scene like she was capturing a renaissance painting.

“Oh my God,” she said with a grin, “this is going viral.”

She zoomed in on Nico first — still face-down, ass-up, whimpering into the grass — then panned across the lawn, capturing Conrad writhing beside his glasses, Tanner moaning into his fists, and dozens of frat boys curled up in fetal positions like a fraternity-shaped casualty report.

And then came the voice.

“Enough!”

It was sharp, commanding, and unmistakable.

Dean Anna Marie stepped onto the quad in black slacks and a structured blazer, sunglasses perched on her nose, arms crossed like a principal entering a crime scene.

The girls froze. Some straightened up. Jessica lowered her phone.

Dean Anna Marie scanned the field, slowly, deliberately, taking in every writhing boy, every triumphant girl. Her expression didn’t shift. Not disapproval. Not pride.

Just calculation.

She sighed.

“Well,” she said dryly, stepping over a moaning boy in a torn polo, “remind me to order more ice packs.”

Nico didn’t know where he was for a moment. The grass felt cold against his cheek, and the pain in his groin was a white-hot fire pulsing in every direction. He could still feel the imprint of Solana’s boot on his pride — it echoed through his nerves like a trauma he couldn’t shake. His mouth tasted like dirt and defeat. His vision blurred, eyes still spilling hot, involuntary tears, each drop a silent betrayal of the image he’d built since freshman year — the image of strength, dominance, of never kneeling to anyone.

But now?

He was crumpled. Helpless. Crying. His entire army broken around him, like a boy king whose kingdom fell in one punch to the nuts.

He gritted his teeth and groaned, rage bubbling beneath the humiliation. His hands dug into the grass as he lifted himself with shaking arms, body trembling like a drunk after a bender. He couldn’t stand. Not fully. Not with that kind of pain radiating from the epicenter of everything he thought made him a man.

He looked up — barely — and saw them: the girls standing tall. Laughing. Filming. Victorious.

He’d never hated anything more.

“All of you,” he rasped, swallowing blood and spit. “Frat… back to the house.”

Some of the boys, still on their knees, tried to obey. Conrad whimpered as he rolled onto his side, fumbling for his glasses with one hand while the other clutched his balls like a life preserver. Tanner moaned something unintelligible and tried to stand, only to collapse back onto his stomach with a muffled scream.

Across the quad, one by one, the boys tried. They grabbed benches. Each other. Dug their fingers into the ground to anchor themselves upright. A few made it to their feet for half a second — just long enough for their legs to buckle and send them crashing down again like dominoes in a denim ad gone horribly wrong.

The girls lost it.

Priyanka howled, nearly doubling over from the sight. Jessica kept filming, now narrating with a gleeful voiceover. “And here we observe the fragile male in his natural habitat… crawling home after a minor encounter with consequences!”

Even Helena giggled — a hand over her mouth, but no attempt to hide the wicked curl of satisfaction blooming in her smile.

A few of the boys started to crawl back toward the frat house. On hands and knees, whimpering, limping, like soldiers retreating from a war they started but had no idea how to finish. Nico watched them through a film of shame, his lips trembling from pain and fury. His kingdom — a pitiful trail of jeans and bruised egos dragging themselves toward the frat like fallen cattle.

His hands clenched into fists.

“This isn’t over!” he shouted, voice cracking, veins bulging in his neck. “OUR REVENGE WILL BE CRUEL!”

The quad went quiet for a beat — not out of fear, but because everyone could sense what was coming next.

Solana stepped forward, expression unreadable, until she reached the shattered base of the statue. Her boots kicked something beside the cart — a chunk of bronze still glinting in the sun. She bent down slowly, picked it up, and held it high enough for the girls to see.

It was the penis. The detached, broken bronze phallus of Richard James. Twisted at the base. Jagged at the tip. Severed from legacy and masculinity in one clean swing.

The girls erupted into laughter again. Jessica clutched her chest. Priyanka wiped tears from her cheeks.

Solana turned to Nico, who was still on all fours, still shaking, still trying to reclaim some fragment of dignity through sheer volume.

And then, without ceremony, without hesitation, she shoved the bronze dick into his mouth.

“Shut up,” she said, cold and clear.

Nico’s eyes went wide in horror as the sharp metal touched his tongue. He recoiled, gagged, spit, but the taste — of metal, of symbolism, of defeat — was already inside him.

The girls cheered like they’d just witnessed the final blow in a ritual execution. Helena laughed now, openly, fully. No longer pretending. No longer shrinking beside a man who could no longer stand.

Jessica snapped a photo right then — Nico on the ground, statue penis in his mouth, eyes red and watering. Around him, a battlefield of groaning boys, hunched and broken, surrounded by upright women with fists still clenched and eyes still bright.

Click.

“You just became history, Nicholas,” she whispered.

And just like that, the legacy of Richard James had never looked smaller.

BALLS TO THE WALL: The Feminist Campus Uprising That Left 700 Frat Boys on the Ground

By Rayven Everhart | FemmeFury Magazine | National Campus Correspondent

 

On an unseasonably warm afternoon at Cockville University, history was made — and it came with a crack heard around the world.

The video that started it all now sits at 67 million views on X, 84 million on TikTok, and just shy of 100 million on YouTube. It begins innocently enough: a student protest in front of the notorious Richard James statue, led by the now-iconic trio of Solana Kinanti, Jessica Redfield, and Priyanka Avantika of the Girl Power Club. What follows has been described as "the fall of modern masculinity in real time" — sixty blue-jeaned frat boys marching into the quad like denim-clad crusaders, only to be systematically dismantled by a series of perfectly placed groin kicks that ended in mass moaning, weeping, and crawling.

The centerpiece? Nicholas James — president of AKO fraternity, heir to the James family fortune, and son of billionaire oil magnate Conner James — face-down, ass-up, with the bronze severed penis of his ancestor Richard James shoved in his mouth by Solana herself.

Yes. That’s the photo. You’ve seen it.

🎥 “The Fall of the Alphas” — What the Video Shows

The 11-minute viral video, now titled Frat Boy Massacre at Cockville U, begins with a tense standoff between Nico’s AKO army and the protesting students. Tensions escalate after Solana smashes the statue’s genitalia with a metal bat, sparking chaos and frat retaliation. But the retaliation never makes it far.

Within the next few minutes, over a dozen boys collapse on the grass after direct groin strikes — not wild flailing, but precise, tactical moves, executed with revolutionary finesse. The girls never miss. They don’t panic. They fight back with strategy.

The climax arrives when Nico attempts to swing at Solana and falls face-first into the statue — legs spread, vulnerable, whimpering. Solana ends the scene by delivering a brutal kick to his balls and then silencing his screams by forcing the detached bronze phallus into his mouth.

The video cuts to Jessica Redfield whispering over a photograph: “You just became history, Nicholas.”

Who is Nicholas James?

Nicholas James — or "Nico," as his followers call him — is the only son of Conner James, oil executive and known political donor to several far-right super PACs. The James family has long funded conservative speakers on college campuses and has deep ties to fraternal organizations across the U.S., particularly those modeled after traditional elitist brotherhoods.

Nico, a senior at Cockville, had positioned himself as a campus leader — clean-cut, smug, and disturbingly performative in his “chivalrous masculinity.” Until the statue incident, he was seen as untouchable. Now, he’s a meme.

In a statement to FemmeFury, Conner James fumed:

“My son was assaulted by a radical feminist mob. This is not justice. This is targeted violence against men of influence. The statue of my ancestor is sacred. This video is defamation. We will sue every woman involved.”

When asked if he was more upset about the testicular trauma or the bronze penis-in-mouth moment, Conner hung up.

Meanwhile, Helena Sanders — Nico’s now-former girlfriend — was seen smiling in the background of the video, standing beside Solana. Sources confirm she has since joined the Girl Power Club and posted the following caption on her Instagram story:

“He always talked. She finally shut him up.”

THE MOVEMENT: “BALLS TO THE WALL”

Within 48 hours, feminist clubs at over 100 universities declared support for the protest. Within a week, the hashtag #BallsToTheWall was trending globally, accompanied by videos of women confronting abusive frat boys, symbolic bat-smashing ceremonies, and mass groin strikes during demonstrations.

By the end of the month, over 700 frat boys across the U.S. had reportedly been “brought to their knees” — some literally — in what online activists are now calling the Great Masculinity Correction. A student-led map tracks confirmed "Testicular Takedowns" from Berkeley to Yale.

One Ohio State activist wrote:

“This isn’t about violence. This is about balance. They built entire empires on our pain. Now they get to feel something real.”

Another sign spotted at a Columbia protest:

“One kick = 300 years of payback.”

A Symbol Reclaimed

The image of Nico James gagged by his ancestor’s bronze penis has become more than a meme — it’s a metaphor. A symbol of silenced patriarchy. Of power turned inward. Of weaponized legacy finally crumbling beneath the heel of collective rage.

And while conservative commentators cry “misandry” and “reverse harassment,” the facts remain: no permanent injuries, no arrests, and a surge in Title IX complaints filed by women citing AKO-style abuse.

Dean Anna Marie of Cockville University, who intervened after the event, issued a single statement to local press:

“Let this be a reminder: when institutions fail to protect students from power abuse, the students will protect themselves.”

What's Next?

There’s already talk of a documentary. Solana has reportedly received offers from both Netflix and A24. A book deal is in the works. Merch bearing the slogan “SHUT UP, NICHOLAS” has sold out three times online.

The statue of Richard James? Still in pieces. The bronze phallus now resides — by unanimous vote — on a velvet pillow in the Girl Power Club’s lounge, beneath a plaque that reads:

“In memory of the last time a James got hard.”

What began as a protest became a reckoning.

And if campus history is any indication, the frat boys may recover.

But their legacy?

Will never stand the same again