<Snipped quote by Dinh AaronMk>

<Snipped quote by USSR>

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@Yam I Am@USSR@TheEvanCat@Dinh AaronMk the alpine republic fandom is dying

cum

@Yam I Am@USSR@TheEvanCat@Dinh AaronMk the alpine republic fandom is dying

<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

no u

THE BANKER

A BESPECTACLED MAN typed furiously at a computer, the flashing white screen of Twitter flashing information at him at light speed. Dozens of bite-sized messages, poorly worded and never edited. After all, who had time to include a source for their information when the message was so small? He bit his lip, scrolling down the screen furiously. Images both tame and extreme passed through his screen. A man ranting about immigrants. An anthropomorphic horse (with feminine characteristics) having intercourse with another anthropomorphic creature by means of an engorged sexual apparatus. Memetic imagery of Leonardo DeCaprio as the "Wolf of Wall Street" accompanying an inspirational quote. He ignored them all. He needed answers.

Then, he found it. A large JPEG of a monkey took up the entirety of his widescreen curved monitor. The Tweet, though short, advertised great riches. He clicked further. It was a link. Through time and cyberspace, he journeyed through the blue-tinted text and ended up on a website with only one goal: the achieve wealth. Dozens, no, hundreds of monkey JPEGs filled the screen. Each one had a price tag attached. Some of them wore hats, some of them wore glasses. Many of them were silly and wacky. The Banker did not care about the value of these monkeys: he knew what he had to do.

Within seconds, he found one that he liked. The brown-furred monkey... no, it was an ape... spoke to The Banker's innermost desires. He wore a navy blue suit with a white dress shirt and, curiously, a yellow tie. The Banker liked yellow: it both felt similar to gold and similarly removed himself from the "binary" red versus blue politics of the conservatives and liberals. Truly, they were the sheep. A cool set of Oakley sunglasses were perched atop the ape's nose, his mouth curled into a sneer.

The Banker clicked buy. Within microseconds, the cryptocurrency in his wallet tunneled through cyberspace to reach this exchange. By the time his brain registered the decision that his fingers had made, The Banker had exchanged digital cash for digital goods. Not that he planned to keep this: the ape was far more valuable to him dead than alive. This did not stop him from making it his Twitter profile picture.

So The Banker flaunted this ape. He joined their society. He posted on their Discord. He was on top of the world. The line always went up. Others joined his society. They all wanted apes. They all wanted to be in the club. The Banker held onto his blue-suited ape and bought more. Not just apes, but other creatures as well. Cats (an internet classic) were in high demand. Dogs were passe by now, not cute enough. Niche animals. He even made his own: whatever covered the Ethereum's gas.

As The Banker ingrained himself into the community, the reigns of his power extended across cyberspace. He was king of several domains. He bought out several other societies, their JPEGs were simply inferior. He enjoyed the spoils of his riches: the old office chair that he enjoyed was now replaced by a Gamer chair so he could trade in luxury.

Yet one day, he received a DM on his Twitter account. He flaunted the blue-suited ape, of course; everyone knew he was wealthy. In the messages, there was a profile picture of a bearded man in a flannel shirt posing happily with a golden AR-15. The Mountaineer was his only name. He asked him The Banker question:

"Dear sir, I see you are a fellow entrepreneur. The Alpine Republic needs help: it has sunk too deep into the swamp. We could use wealthy industry magnates like yourself to help fight the liberal elite. You give the bitcoin, I give the guns. It's an investment you cannot refuse."

The Banker sat and thought deeply, his fingers stroking his neckbeard. With a coy smile, he typed back in agreement. Then, taking a sip of his Mountain Dew, he minimized the window and pulled up his FOREX exchange: it was time to short Alpine Dollars.

THE FATFUCK

A SLOVENLY-DRESSED MAN sat alone at a diner booth in a grease-stained tanktop that had once been a 3XL Six Flags over Freedomville T-shirt until the sleeves had been cut off. A spittle of saliva-diluted mayonnaise trickled down from the corner of his mouth and disappeared into the neckbeard-shaded folds of his multiple chins as he sunk his disgusting teeth into the sesame seed bun of a greaseball diner burger.

"Good eatin'," the fatfuck said to nobody in particular through gluttonous mastication. More likely a subconscious reaction he had absentmindedly voiced as his conscious mind was entirely focused on consuming and enjoying his burger.

"Yep, that's some good eatin'."