TANK: 10 Billion Years of Gorging on Slop
The festering body of the saviour heaves in the black forest. Circled by mimes, NPCs, and self-replicating false entities, it lurches across the desolate spiritual plane of a dead internet. CPU injury has led to disaster: an infinite morning doomscroll. Metallic popcorn lung, delivered via express Temu haul, has eroded its cognition beyond repair. Its breath shakes, cognition fractured by a meaningless flow of input. It is unclear whether it still believes it is being worshipped. What does ten billion years of gorging on slop do to a god?