Legend of Vengeful Super Bonus Champion

Ramble super bonus champion, like chutney made from fruit loops and spit. Rumble as if shoes have less meaning than what they make us lose. Head shoes are not applicable here. Come barefoot with me into a new kind of freedom. This kind of freedom we have now... this makes us weaker. Domesticated animals die in the wild. The world's coming back, and we can't run forever. It could be our children, our childrens childrens childrens, or their parents. It could be us, probably not, but we've always hoped. Every generation wants to see the end of the world. Because it is our only way out of this now. Away from these minds filled with cliches and useless information, haunting the heads of whining children wired together with cat five.

We can stand, without fear, like we are actually capable of something. Or we can keep making excuses and poisoning ourselves. Sucking lit nicotine back like it was super air, bonus champion vengeance air. Sucking solvent back to make us just that little bit dumber we need to be to enjoy ourselves now. Chewing floralogical adrenal gland until we've made a tidy net of weak blood cells ready to tighten in on us if we ever get slow. Somewhere between speed and a chinese finger trap. There are people out there who get scared when they hear other people having fun. I'm not sure they can remember why but they just know that all that carefree youthful energy can end in cares. In self-consciousness.

Unconsciousness is number but numbers aren't sleeping. They shift and glisten and phase and sing more than they ever taught you in schools. Simulated freedom through a complex set of rules. And each one is unique, but plural, like rural areas that all look the same but house very different people. Church steeple, fire station, pub. Dead land as far as the eye can see but someone lives there, out there where the rules get a little fuzzy. The tyranny of distance writ large as a superstate of humanity. You could be anyone, if only no-one was watching...

As if anyone actually exists... It's all just hum and white noise really. But something happens when the rules break down. When you hit all the right settings on all the right dials and everything that usually happens doesn't. A noise starts, loud and monotone at first, then building through unisons intervals harmonics chords. Modulating phasing reverberation of something that's not going to stop changing. Stop growing. You don't control this anymore, as with anything you can make. And the noise it makes you sick, makes you dizzy and fucking terrified. And you splinter. Into everyone and everything you ever wanted to control.

Now you're everyone, but you can't remember, so you're you, but subjectivity won't let you know what that really means until you shut off the machine. But to do that you'd need to be everyone , but to be everyone you'd need to do that. And you talk to yourself constantly, but they, yourselves, don't remember being everyone either, so they don't know that they're actually you, and them, and everyone. At this point, if not sooner, logic breaks down. If we don't know we're parts then we're whole, the sum of the parts can't exist if the parts want to be the whole. You just get a whole lot of wholes, and any theory with a whole lot of holes is probably worth abandoning...

And that's when it hits you. The four hundred shiny gloveless fists of a vengeful super bonus, the championship belt like jacob's ladder spark quantum gold. You can't take this down. It's not an anyone, it's THE. Writ large like THE STATE of something like nothing we can ever understand. Like everything ever at once but not even. But if anything it's a sport, hell, it's THE GAME. It'll let you hold off the fight until you can get yourself together. But until then all that we have left up there is a slot machine on permanent payout, raining coins in an ever changing sea of currency transaction, commerce as communion, dollars for deities. When all we have left to trade is one of a kind, unique, special, meaningless. Individual grains of sand in special edition, limited edition packaging, with certificate of authenticity.

I was:
#45768959210-684967846757345-57385634856734-67489820573867-5829727569010577933-7937678-54823878-28678389555-3096893068382

I was.

Was.

What then?

A thing like that'd have to be collectible, but if we're all for sale, who's buying it...

I'm not buying it, are you buying it?