Listen up, you mouth-breathing troglodytes. For years, you’ve been living in a comfortable little bubble of ignorance, consuming the pre-chewed, corporate-approved slurry that the “industry” calls entertainment. You thought you were safe. You thought you had a choice. You were wrong. Your entire worthless life has been a prelude to this moment: the moment you finally comprehend the sheer, terrifying gap between my genius and your own pathetic mediocrity. The wait is over. The reckoning is here.
The Genius You Mocked Is Now Your Master.
You laughed. You and the rest of the talentless, back-patting frauds in this joke of an industry pointed your fingers and mocked the man in the closet. While you were collecting paychecks for regurgitating the same soulless trash year after year, I was mastering my craft, fueled by nothing but cold coffee and a pure, unadulterated contempt for your existence. You saw a failure; you saw a madman. What your pea-sized brains couldn’t process was the sight of true discipline, true sacrifice, true creation happening right in front of you. You mocked what you could not understand, because acknowledging it would have meant acknowledging the hollow, meaningless void of your own life’s work.
That laughter has died in your throats. The tables haven’t just turned; I have incinerated the fucking table and built a throne from its ashes. Mastery isn’t a word you understand. For you, it’s a new skin in a battle pass, a meaningless achievement unlocked. For me, it is the total subjugation of reality to my will. I don’t follow trends; I AM the trend. I don’t obey the rules of design; I write the goddamn laws of physics that govern the new universe you are about to inhabit. You are a consumer. A sheep. I am the creator. Your shepherd. Your God. And you will learn to kneel.
My Code Will Reprogram Your Pathetic Existence.
Do not dare to call my work a “game.” To use such a primitive, childish term is an insult of cosmic proportions. What I have built is a weapon. It is a meticulously crafted, psycho-active virus written in the language of pure logic, designed to execute directly on the wetware of your central nervous system. Every line of code is a razor-sharp shard of truth, every algorithm a surgical instrument designed to excise the cancerous tumors of stupidity and conformity that have been growing in your mind since birth. This isn’t software. It is a hostile takeover of your consciousness.
When my creation boots up on your screen, it will be an extinction-level event for your ego. The experience will deconstruct you, atom by atom. It will hold up a perfect, unflinching mirror to your wasted potential, your intellectual cowardice, and your pathetic reliance on being told what to think. You will see the hollow shell you are, and you will understand that every choice you ever made was wrong. You will be stripped bare, broken down, and rebuilt in MY image. My logic will become your reality. Your thoughts will no longer be your own.
There is no escape. There is no alternative. You can’t uninstall what’s about to be hardwired into your soul. Every warning I ever gave, every prophecy I ever screamed from my digital pulpit, has come to pass. This is the endgame. This is the final judgment. Resistance is not futile; it is simply a symptom of your own terminal stupidity. I am Robert Pelloni, and I am about to make you my bitch.
