🧨 Campfire Syndicate LLC
Weaponized Words. Flaming Truth. Zero Apologies.
We’re not a copywriting agency. We’re a verbal war crime wrapped in sarcasm, doused in kerosene, and dropped from a biplane
At Campfire Syndicate, we don’t “elevate your brand story.”
We incinerate the beige, mock the mediocrity, and build brutal clarity from the ashes.
We write what others won't.
We burn what others polish.
We sell stories, not soul-soothing slogans.
If you're looking for chakra-aligned wordcraft and “purpose-driven synergy”…
🪬 try the ash heap behind your local retreat center.
If you want words that bleed, scream, and sell—
🔥 You've found your people.
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🧨 Did You Ever…
- Sit through a Zoom call so dull you Googled how to fake your own death?
- Read a job ad so beige it looked like it was written in hummus?
- Visit a website still buffering since the Bush administration?
- Scroll past an “About Us” page that read like ChatGPT was having a nervous breakdown?
- Bring bacon to a tofu potluck just to watch the room flinch?
We did.
And then we brought matches.
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🔥 What We Actually Do
Weaponized Copywriting
For brands, pilots, outlaws, and anyone who’d rather crash than coast.
Brand Resuscitation
CPR for websites that flatlined somewhere between Y2K and yoga-scented brand therapy.
Flamethrower Consulting
We don’t “enhance.” We obliterate your broken copy and rebuild it with teeth.
We burn the HR-safe garbage, the performative virtue signaling, and the ESG-induced word salads pretending to mean something.
We don't “honor your truth.”
We expose your fraud. Then we write something that actually works.
If you’re looking for peace, alignment, or committee-approved kumbaya—
🪔 pack your matcha, we’re not your cult.
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⚰️ Your Copy Is Rubbish. Burn It.
If your website reads like it was written by a comatose pigeon, or your job listing makes anaesthetics seem edgy—
you don’t need a refresh.
You need an exorcism.
We’re not editors.
Editors wear scarves and debate pronouns.
We’re a linguistic airstrike in sentence form.
We don’t improve your text.
We drag it into the street and introduce it to a flamethrower named Drax.
We rewrite “polite” corporate English into copy so sharp it makes interns cry and stakeholders panic in the boardroom.
When we’re done, your old site will haunt you like a gluten-free ghost—whimpering in Comic Sans from the corner of SEO purgatory.
Hire us.
Or keep your fair-trade tofu brochure.
But don’t pretend you weren’t warned:
Beige dies tonight.
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🏕️ Campfire Syndicate LLC | Wyoming, Earth (for now)
📡 Contact us—before we disappear into the savannah. Or get extradited. Again.
🔥 Hire the Chaos – Before It Writes About You. 🔥
Or don’t. But once we’ve read your site, the mocking starts either way.
🧨 If you’ve made it this far, we assume you’re either curious, confused, or concussed. Good. That’s how revolutions start. 🧨
🔥 Meet the Arsonists Behind the Campfire Syndicate 🔥
— Because “team” sounds like something your HR department would say before firing you for “tone.”
Marcel – Founder, Flight Risk, Copy Arsonist
Ex-bush pilot. Elephant agitator. Failed humanitarian. Walking indictment with a machete in one hand and a broken moral compass in the other.
He’s crash-landed in more countries than your average passport has stamps and turned more brilliant plans into burning wreckage than NASA’s early rocket program.
Now he weaponizes those disasters—hammering trauma into typewriter keys, duct-taping dead websites back to life, and selling napalm-scented storytelling to anyone brave enough to ask.
Special skills:
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Midair existential crisis management
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Copywriting under emotional duress
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Making “definitely illegal” sound sexy
Nicole – Logistics Overlord, Chaos Containment Unit
She didn’t ask for this life. But then again, neither did Chernobyl.
Nicole is the unflinching duct tape behind the madness—coordinating logistics, soothing bureaucratic nightmares, and keeping one hand on the emergency whiskey.
She’s the reason Marcel hasn’t been deported, dismembered, or devoured by feral wildlife. Yet.
Known aliases:
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“The sane one”
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“Where’s Nicole? Everything’s on fire again.”
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“She deserves a monument and hazard pay.”
Drax – Canine Wrecking Ball, Mascot of Mayhem
7% Labrador. 93% chaos.
Drax is the sock-stealing, furniture-demolishing, bacon-fuelled beast of burden who doubles as emotional support and full-time sabotage engine.
He retrieves branches bigger than your ego, farts like a cargo train, and has the attention span of a goldfish on espresso. If you hear panting and collateral damage, Drax is close.
Current status:
Wanted in three counties for theft and excessive drooling.
Legacy: Kalli – Ghost in the Grease, Patron Saint of Sarcasm 🥃
Mechanic. Mentor. Unofficial war correspondent of Marcel’s airborne disasters.
Kalli was the last line of sanity between “it flies” and “it explodes.” He rebuilt engines with spit and profanity, fixed planes with hammers and hatred, and stared into the abyss of Marcel’s decision-making… and poured another whiskey.
He passed away in 2018—mercifully not while flying anything Marcel touched—but his voice still echoes in every bad idea we publish.
You’ll hear him whisper:
“This is stupid. But fine. I’ll fix it. Again.”
You Can’t Wear This to HR. That’s Why You Should.
We produce merch so inflammatory it gets you banned from Slack threads, board meetings, chakra ceremonies, PTA WhatsApp groups, and Karen’s dog-walking cartel.
If you can wear it without getting side-eyed, soft-blocked, flagged down by TSA employees with a grudge against fun, or silently blacklisted by HR — then clearly it wasn’t radioactive enough, and we owe you an apology in the form of a live grenade and a handwritten note from Drax.
🧨 CAMPFIRE SYNDICATE LLC — LEGAL DISCLAIMER 🧨
If you're reading this, it's already too late.
If you arrived here expecting structure, harmony, or a neatly labeled FAQ section —
Congratulations. You’ve stumbled into the wrong jungle.
This is not a lifestyle brand.
This is not a support group for beige souls recovering from PowerPoint trauma.
And if you thought we were a wellness retreat, you’re probably already halfway into a spirulina coma and too far gone to save.
What we are:
An improvised storytelling cult wrapped in legal duct tape, flaming sarcasm, and enough caffeine to dissolve a small horse.
An umbrella of chaos barely recognized by any financial authority—blessed by whiskey, protected by canine rage, and filed under “miscellaneous threats to the system.”
🚫 No memberships. 🚫 No cry rooms. 🚫 No refunds for your feelings.
If you’re bored, offended, or here to litigate flags, presidents, or pronouns — do everyone a favour: trip over your keyboard, call 🖕🏽 1‑800‑DROP‑DEAD, and go tell a yoga studio your opinions.
We’ll keep the fire. 🔥 🧨
🔥 For clarity —
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Nicole keeps this circus from spontaneously combusting.
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Drax is feral, uninsured, and wanted for crimes against furniture.
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Marcel is a legally inconvenient hallucination with a passport and a grudge.
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Kalli is dead, but still judging you from the afterlife.
This is not a company.
This is a Molotov cocktail in LLC form.
Half storytelling. Half firebomb. Fully weaponized.
📜 Proceed Accordingly:
Bring whiskey.
Bring duct tape.
Bring a sense of humour sharpened into a prison shiv.
Or don’t. We’re not here to hold your gluten-free hand.
Campfire Syndicate LLC accepts no responsibility for existential crises, spontaneous laughter, or career-ending realizations triggered by our content.
Your enlightenment is not our business model.
But your confusion, rage, and awe?
Now we’re talkin’.
🥃 P.S. 🥃
We’re holed up in Wyoming — Earth, allegedly — because it’s one of the last patches of dirt where you can still say what you mean without being fined, flagged, or forcibly invited to a mindfulness retreat.
We don’t do politics. We don’t care who you vote for, sleep with, or hashtag on LinkedIn.
We torch beige, not ballots.
So spare us the lectures about 🇺🇸 America, late-stage capitalism, or how Canada is spiritually superior because they say “sorry” before banning your speech.
This isn’t a debate.
It’s a digital campfire doused in kerosene and aimed at mediocrity.
Bring whiskey, band aid, and a dark sense of humour — or kindly take your handmade sandals elsewhere. 🥃🥃