- Forum Clout
- 19,457
Since everything is a fucking capeshit movie to you, I'll talk right down to earth, in a language that even you can understand...
You wanted me, child. Here I am.
I wanted to see what you'd do, Rick. And you didn't disappoint. $100K on a bullshit lawsuit. Hours of you blabbing on and sealing your own fate. Three years of incessant engagement with trolls. Destroying the lives and reputations of anyone stupid enough to defend you or be your friend. Even for guys like us, that's cold.
WHO'S QUASI!?!?
You think that when this is over you can just go back to the way things were, with your checkmark, no daughter, second, better, wife, half a home. Susan. Your writing career. But I know the truth: there's no going back. You've changed things. Forever.
Then why do you want to kill me!?!?
Thomas Apostle starts laughing. After a moment he's laughing so hard it sounds like sobbing.
Kill you?!?!! I don't wanna kill you!!! What would I do without you!?!? Go back to fucking with Joe Cumia?!?! No! No, no, no, no, no! You complete me!
You're an incel cyberstlaker felon meanie meanie fo feenie, child.
Don't talk like you're a good person. You're not. Even if you'd like to be. To the blue checks on Twitter? You're a deranged sperg. What you believe me to be. They're never going to accept you.
Thomas Apostle smiles, content.
...Now you're six figures into the hole, and Quasi is going to take everything. The SFWA will want nothing to do with you. You will never write a single article for even the lowliest of liberal rags, and you will eventually lose your Twitter account a third, fourth, fifth, time, until those fat fingers of yours clutch your overworked chest and you keel over.
Fatman looks into Thomas' wonky eye, searching.
...The people you so desperately pander to? Their morals? Their code? It's all a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as Twitter allows them to be. You'll see - I'll show you. When your followers are down, these, uh, virtue signalers? They'll eat each other. See, I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve.
You wanted me, child. Here I am.
I wanted to see what you'd do, Rick. And you didn't disappoint. $100K on a bullshit lawsuit. Hours of you blabbing on and sealing your own fate. Three years of incessant engagement with trolls. Destroying the lives and reputations of anyone stupid enough to defend you or be your friend. Even for guys like us, that's cold.
WHO'S QUASI!?!?
You think that when this is over you can just go back to the way things were, with your checkmark, no daughter, second, better, wife, half a home. Susan. Your writing career. But I know the truth: there's no going back. You've changed things. Forever.
Then why do you want to kill me!?!?
Thomas Apostle starts laughing. After a moment he's laughing so hard it sounds like sobbing.
Kill you?!?!! I don't wanna kill you!!! What would I do without you!?!? Go back to fucking with Joe Cumia?!?! No! No, no, no, no, no! You complete me!
You're an incel cyberstlaker felon meanie meanie fo feenie, child.
Don't talk like you're a good person. You're not. Even if you'd like to be. To the blue checks on Twitter? You're a deranged sperg. What you believe me to be. They're never going to accept you.
Thomas Apostle smiles, content.
...Now you're six figures into the hole, and Quasi is going to take everything. The SFWA will want nothing to do with you. You will never write a single article for even the lowliest of liberal rags, and you will eventually lose your Twitter account a third, fourth, fifth, time, until those fat fingers of yours clutch your overworked chest and you keel over.
Fatman looks into Thomas' wonky eye, searching.
...The people you so desperately pander to? Their morals? Their code? It's all a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as Twitter allows them to be. You'll see - I'll show you. When your followers are down, these, uh, virtue signalers? They'll eat each other. See, I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve.
