Conspiracy Theories

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On July 29, 2024, Stephen Colbert asked Rear Admiral David T. Wilson why JAG was about to hang him without first convicting him at a military tribunal, as he lay in the fetal position atop a steel slab with a noose ominously looming above his head.

A minute earlier, he had been standing upright, cussing the admiral and spitting on the hangman and a Navy chaplain who peered fixedly into Colbert’s eyes, as though he spied unadulterated evil lurking behind them, an intangible malice reminiscent of the wickedness another chaplain had seen in Gavin Newsom moments before his death.

If an entity or different personality had inhabited Colbert’s body and mind, it bonded and clung to him at the start of his tribunal and did not enfranchise him until the last moments.

JAG staff, however, believed that Colbert was sane, irrational, and unglued, but also unperturbed by inhabiting spirits or multiple personalities.

In his final days, Colbert refused sustenance, drank little water, clawed at walls with his fingernails, and hissed at everyone who approached his cell, telling guards, “Stephen’s not coming back.”

Admiral Wilson barely noticed Colbert’s “theatrical histrionics,” a GITMO source told Real Raw News.

As the Deep State’s theatrics have risen, so too has JAG’s resolve to abjure the appearance of sorcery and lunacy.

When Colbert requested fresh King Crab be flown in from Anchorage as the main course of his final meal—he said the Camp Blaz menu was unpalatable—Admiral Wilson told him to die hungry, for he hadn’t eaten in 72 hours anyway.

“Fuck it, Stephen really doesn’t shellfish,” he replied.

On the morning of his execution, it took three guards to restrain and handcuff him for his short ride to the gallows, where the admiral and two Marine Corps officers had convened to direct the execution. The only other attendees were the hangman, Colbert’s guards, a physician, and a lanky Navy chaplain, on whom Colbert spat a wad of phlegm.

“Stephen doesn’t need your services,” Colbert told him.

He was led to the platform at gunpoint.

“Precedence dictates we allow you a final statement,” Adm. Wilson said.

Colbert sneered. “So, you’re going to kill Stephen, huh? I told you five times he ain’t here—”

The hangman began lowering the noose.

“—But you know what? I don’t think he wants to miss this. I don’t think he wants to miss the show,” Colbert said.

Colbert’s body suddenly stiffened and froze in place. He stood as if paralyzed for a moment, then collapsed and curled into a ball. His eyes opened wide with fear, and he murmured, “What… what’s going on? Where am I?”

The gravity of his predicament must have hit him like a sudden cramp. “I’m getting hanged? What about my day in court? This isn’t fair.”

“Enough of this horse shit,” Adm. Wilson shouted. “Get him to his feet and the rope around his neck.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Stephen screamed as the hangman yanked his body erect.

“Mr. Colbert, it’s a good thing you were a talk show host and not a method actor, because you’re terrible at it,” Adm. Wilson said.

The hangman covered Colbert’s head with a black sack and placed the noose around his neck.

The door under Colbert’s feet swung open, and he fell, yo-yo-ing a bit before the hangman lowered his corpse to the ground.

The physician found no pulse and pronounced him dead.

Colbert’s lifeless form was zipped into a plastic bag and driven off, to be placed on ice.