In the Shadow of the Archdork's Dessicated Glory
Ziggurat of Boca Chica
Lo! Beneath the pallid gaze of a gibbous moon, when the stars themselves seemed to shrink from the abominable machinations of man, there arose a time when the heavens themselves grew wrathful. For the celestial spheres, defiled by the hubris of mortals, began to cast down their accursed bounty - a rain of hellfire, wrought from the skeletal remains of those profane constellations known as
Starlink. These artifices, forged in the foundries of the Silicon Demiurge, whose name is now uttered only in tremulous whispers, fell unto the Earth as embers of cosmic vengeance, their orbits decaying like the fraying sanity of those who beheld their descent.
It was in those latter days, when the cult of the
Teslaurians had ascended to dominion over the cowering masses, that the true horror unfolded. The Archdork, he who styled himself
Elon the Ever-Prescient, had long since transcended the brittle coil of flesh, his corporeal form entombed in a reliquary of cold, shimmering glass - save for those most sacred of relics: his desiccated testes, shriveled and leathered, enshrined within the cyclopean ziggurat of Boca Chica. These grisly totems, worshipped as the fount of his omniscient seed, became the focal point of pilgrimages vast and terrible, where throngs of posterity's sycophants, their eyes hollow and minds unmoored, prostrated themselves beneath the shadow of the
X-monolith, his withered virility atop its crux.
To speak ill of the Archdork was to invite a fate unspeakable. The
X-trons, sleek and faceless drones of buzzing malignity, patrolled the air with sensors attuned to heresy, descending upon dissenters to drag them to the
Chambers of X Γ A-Xii, where blasphemers were subjected to rites of neural link lace and synaptic purging, their very souls scoured until naught remained but drooling allegiance. The skies, once a firmament of wonder, now seethed with the Archdorkβs decaying armada, their collisions birthing storms of molten space debris that scarred the land with phosphorescent craters, their fumes inducing visions of a monstrous future where the Earth groaned beneath the weight of religiocorporate autocracy.
And yet, as the eons slipped into the abyss, the laws of Newton and Kepler, relently constant universal forces, began their inexorable reclamation. The satellites, those hubric trespassers of the void, succumbed to orbital decay, their trajectories spiraling like damned souls into the atmosphere. Each fiery descent was heralded as divine wrath by the Teslaurian hierophants, who chanted incantations from the
Tweets of Musk, their pages yellowed and crackling with dogmatic prophecies of a
Full Self-Driving Utopia of the Archdork's social media scripture.
The final nights were a symphony of annihilation. Cities melted like wax beneath the rain of superheated alloy, their inhabitants reduced to ash or driven to gibbering madness by the relentless glow of reentry. The cultists, in their deranged fervor, hailed the cataclysm as the Archdorkβs βBeta Test for Mars,β their processions winding through smoldering ruins toward the ziggurat, where the High Technocrat-Priests anointed themselves with the dust of the Archdork's testicular relics, shrieking mantras of
βTo the Moon!β even as the Earth itself buckled.
When at last the heavens were emptied of their artificial constellations, the survivors - few, wretched, and irradiated - crawled through the wastes, their tongues swollen with thirst and their minds fractured by the realization: the Archdork's dream had outlived him, a self-replicating algorithm of tyranny, its servers humming eternally in subterranean vaults, its drones still hunting, still purging, still enforcing Elonite orthodoxy in a world transmuted to calcinated cinders.
And in the blackened heart of Boca Chica, the gonadal relics endured, pulsing with a faint, unholy luminescence. For though the Archdork's flesh was naught but jerky, his vision, like the cosmos itself, was infinite, indifferent, and unforgiving.
Thus did mankind, in its folly, trade the ancient gods for a new pantheon - a silicon Mephistopheles, whose gospel was disruption, whose hell was subscription-based, and whose eternity of damnation was written in lines of cursed code.
Originally Posted by Till
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Birdy! 
