Examine Room.
Your name is DIRK.
Holy SHIT do you love PUPPETS.
You possess the extreme dexterity to operate your FALSE FRIENDS
UNSEEN, that is, when they are not pre-ambulatory through your
LOVINGLY IMBUED MECHANIZATION. You dig writing COGNITIVE ALGORITHMS
FOR SAID APOCRYPHAL MEN, and you think maybe that's FUCKIN' DOPE.
Guess what else is dope? Everything ELSE YOU DO. You're a sickwicked
autodidact on ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS, a selfmade MASTER OF MYTHOLOGUE,
and a PRETERNATURAL POPCULTURE ACADEME.
If you weren't so DAMN ALOOF and actually let people GET A LOAD, you
might get described all kindsa ways. Maybe tagged as a RENAISSANCE
NINJA, PHILOSOPHER PRINCE, and FLASHSTEP PUPPETEER. Or perhaps a
PANTHEONIC IRONICIST, GANGSTA LOGICIAN, LUCID WAKER and DERSITE SPY.
Screw descriptors though, as if the shits you give ain't nil. You're
cool with dabbling in the FINE SEQUENTIAL ARTS, and your work could be
viewed by some as BORDERLINE PORNOGRAPHIC. And to those philistines
you'll be heard wondering, what the fuck do you mean BORDERLINE?
Against the better judgment of one your age, you BUILD ROBOTS, SET
THEM TO KILL MODE, AND SPAR WITH THEM TO DEATH. That is, when you're
not SENDIFICATING THEM TO FRIENDS, or DUELING THEM WITH RAP LYRICS.
But you try to cool it on the deathmatch stuff when your BRO is
looking, which is virtually NEVER. And considering he's had a
reputation staked on some order of MARTIAL NOBILITY, this strikes you
as a STAGGERING OVERSIGHT IN BROTHERLY VIGILANCE. You don't have the
HEART to hold it against him, though.
What will you do?