I was three years old when I first killed that blasted centipede that was to embark me on my quest, social EXP gained, 1/500.
I was raised to believe that everyone could be who they wanted to be, but sorry teacher Lizzy, the story of the ugly duckling only means a swan will always be a swan, and a duck will always be a duck.
Life was tough, as it always was for boy born to a sympathetic mother with the saddest story you've never heard and a syphilitic father whose identity is unknown, people called me the bastard of three fathers, and the bastard fathers all had syphilis. In truth I considered myself the bastard of four fathers, the fourth being the fake doctor who gave my mother mystery pills and antibiotics that saved my early life and guaranteed I would grow up with nothing but an irrational fear of rashes.
By age 5 I had long since resigned that I would rather die than work in a factory making trendy shoes for 6 pence a day. By age 7 I was working in a factory making trendy shirts for 5 pence a day. By age 7 and a month I was burned out and ready to peace out this fucking shitty world trying to bring me down, always trying to obliterate me, with all this anger just needing to be let out, like Sonic the hedgehog chained to a radiator for far. Too. Long. I walked up to the foreman and told him I quit, he told me I wasn't allowed to quit, I told him I quit him therefore I am allowed to quit and I don't have to follow the rules anymore. He told me that when I returned, he wouldn't let me make trendy T-shirts, he would only have me spin flax all day everyday. That didn't sound any worse than trendy T-shirts. Maybe that was his way of incentivizing my return.
But I was done, no more trendy T-shirts for me, fuck you foreman. I told him to eat a brick as he whipped me from the factory, it sounded insulting enough. That's how you learn, try new things, it's social EXP. Lacking pennies, few wanted to see my disheveled sight, and I was back on the substreets, the streets below the streets, shopping for some prime cut mammals. The first rodent I was to find was to dramatically change my relation to the universe in a manner which I could never reverse. I grabbed it, smashing its head into the pipe wall like puppy brains and polyphemus, and noticed something enlightening.
501/1000, fighter.
I stopped poking through this mammal for the prime cuts and simply considered how strange it was that I never noticed the series of numbers stored in my brain. I squished an ant, and nothing occurred. I grabbed another rat and likewise smashed its brain, as any good scientist would do.
504/1000, fighter.
I knew what I had to do. Rat smashing occurred at such an expedient rate that I managed to sell my services to my old factory as a rat-smasher, after the first 20 smashed rats however I was fired, as apparently you are not allowed to do that in your boss's room 20 times. I checked my stats.
564/1000, fighter.
This was going to take ages. I needed more social EXP to feed this rational euphoria at watching numbers in my brain increase. I had to feed the hunger for integers, I needed more. I kept finding small animals to smash, far more than the 5 a day my fourth father recommended. Progress was steady and I awaited nervously to see the integers rise, I wanted to reach four integers as soon as possible. Perhaps at this point I could have returned to the world before, to have left that rabbit hole before I got lost, but I began to realize that the larger and more difficult the fighting animal, the more social EXP was gained. Rabbits were the first to face the wrath of my fists, followed by cats and rats and snakes and rats again, and a smidgon of pigeon. I was getting better, I was getting more integers, Sisyphus extended ever barrier for me to fill with more integers and I was getting better at finding them, my social EXP.
As the hurdles increased the gains felt diminuitive, the integers were not as satisfying. I needed much, much more. I pushed a monkey onto electrified train tracks and to my disappointment, gained no integers. This had to be a personal affair. It didn't take long before my actions attracted greater scrutiny than that of normal weirdos.
By the age of 12 I had been the scourge of oh so many beings, but I never really made much of a difference in any populations. They would always be back the same as usual, unchanging, the only change in the world were my increasing integers, and they had increased to monumental heights. Things would take a turn for the worse when the mayor's precious child went missing and for some reason the police suspected the blood stained adolescent prowling the mayor's house for pigeons. They demanded I surrender, I spoke nothing, instead looting the distraught mayor's belongings from her wardrobe. The policemen drew their sidearms and advanced, they lunged for me but I dodged, bobbed and weaved through them all. They fired but even the bullets could do nothing, my integer levels were beyond their comprehension by that point in time. With minimal striking, all of the policemen went down, and thus began the fearsome legend of the murder hobo. I had to get more social EXP, and I learned to the detriment of the world, you're either an NPC or a player.
By my twenties I was at war with most of the world, their puny NPC armies incapable of resisting my onslaught. The weak should fear the strong, and my integers were so far beyond anything any puny NPC could compare to. Yet I still hadn't found the limit, the final end goal. From my capital in the mountain tops my minions led forth dread harvests amongst the human tributaries, sending forth their social EXP to my capital, my throne, ready for my acquisition, to become one with my skill. I began teaching my disciples how to view their integers, how to harvest in my name, how to feed their power in the vain hopes that one day one of my disciples would be able to defeat me and discover the final limit of the integers. Many rebellions came and went in my world, and none could ever usurp me, their social EXP was defeated and added to my own. On the other four corners of the world my emmisarries discovered realms that were ruled not by NPCs to be bent and exploited, but players to be cautious and respected, potential allies and rivals. My own attempts to undermine their power were met with stalemate, as I overpowered one, the other two would ally to repel me, and in their victory turn against themselves, thus ensuring a constant balance of power in a maelstrom of deception and harvest, a glorious strife which fed my integer count and made my scions stronger.
Time soon lost interest and all meaning to me. All that mattered was increasing my integer count, and to do that I had to harvest people, to harvest more social EXP I needed all my harvestees to be the most difficult challenge possible. I needed everyone to be the best fighter possible, even if they were expecting to somehow fight against me. Especially if they intended to fight against me. My champions went forth and offered an alternative deal to my tributaries, no longer would they be allowed to send their weak and undesirables to me for harvesting, from now on, the entire world was to be considered my harvest. This upset the other 3 players but I considered this entirely according to plan. My champions marshalled the harvest world, declaring that everyone would have to fight for the right to be harvested last, that only the strong would ever deserve this right. I was finding new ways to expand the conquest and assumption of social EXP. As anticipated, the other 3 players launched a punitive assault upon my Fortress, only to find my disciples holding steadfast with integer determination, all humanity replaced by the great power of the digits.
Atop my mountain of skulls, in my hunger I declared my divine mandate, and bestowed it upon my champions.
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE
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Topic: Pure Shitposting [Safeties not included!] (Read 4366 times)