Udexa
Iron
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2024
- Posts
- 194
- Reputation
- 321
Scene: “Clavicular’s Descent into the Blackpill Underworld”
[EXT. ABANDONED PARKING GARAGE — NIGHT]
A cold wind howls. The sign outside flickers: “BLACKPILL HQ: NO HOPE BEYOND THIS POINT.”
CLAVICULAR, jaw trainer clenched, steps forward, backpack stuffed with mastic gum and creatine.
From the shadows, DOOMER GUARD #1 appears, hoodie reading “5’8” = Death.”
DOOMER GUARD #1 (gravelly): “State your bone classification.”
CLAVICULAR (stone-faced): “Hypermasculine Mesomorph. Slight chin deviation, pending correction.”
The guard nods. Clavicular enters.
[INT. BLACKPILL UNDERWORLD — CONTINUOUS]
Inside: a hellish nightclub for incels.
Guys in “3/10 Cope” hoodies. Bartenders serving “Cope Spritzers” and “Mogtinis.”
Sad music drones. A neon sign reads “LIFE FUEL NOT SERVED HERE.”
In the darkest corner: CHUD, slumped, vaping out of a Funko Pop.
Above his head: “SOUL STATUS: 2/10 — ROPE IMMINENT.”
CLAVICULAR (whispering): “God help him… final cope cycle.”
He shoves his mastic gum into his mouth and charges through the chaos: ducking Heightpill Warriors, dodging Baldcel Priests, pushing past Wristcels.
He reaches Chud.
CLAVICULAR (grabbing him): “Chud! It’s me! It’s Clav! You don’t have to rope, bro! There’s still time!”
CHUD (hollow): “Too late… my ramus is cooked… my canthal tilt is negative…” (coughs) “I am beyond maxxing…”
The DOOMER SHAMAN floats behind, waving bone calipers.
DOOMER SHAMAN (cackling): “Let him go, Clavicular! His maxilla has retreated into oblivion! HE BELONGS TO THE BLACKPILL!”
CLAVICULAR (screaming): “NOOOOO! NOT WHILE HE STILL HAS MASTICATORY POTENTIAL!”
Clavicular whips out a holy relic — a vacuum-sealed chewed piece of mastic gum. The crowd gasps.
CLAVICULAR (pleading): “Chud… chew it. Just once. Feel the growth. Feel the ossification.”
Chud, hands shaking, places it in his mouth…
Chud’s cheeks tighten. His mandible sharpens. A faint glow surrounds him.
The hologram flashes: “SOUL STATUS: 6/10 — POTENTIAL REACTIVATED.”
The Doom Shaman shrieks and explodes into a cloud of sadness and unwashed hoodies.
The club crumbles. Drinks spill. Midfaces collapse inward like black holes.
CLAVICULAR (grabbing him): “Come on bro! It’s time to ascend!”
They sprint through falling debris, dodging collapsing Incel Altars and crying Wristcels.
[EXT. PARKING GARAGE — NIGHT]
They burst into the fresh night air.
Chud stands taller, jawline slightly blessed by the gods.
CHUD (tearful): “Thank you… you saved my bone mass… and my soul.”
CLAVICULAR (grinning for the first time in 800 days): “There’s always hope. Even for a recessed midface.”
They fist-bump hard. Camera pans to the stars.
TEXT ON SCREEN: “Maxx yourself. Save your homies.”
FADE OUT.
[EXT. ABANDONED PARKING GARAGE — NIGHT]
A cold wind howls. The sign outside flickers: “BLACKPILL HQ: NO HOPE BEYOND THIS POINT.”
CLAVICULAR, jaw trainer clenched, steps forward, backpack stuffed with mastic gum and creatine.
From the shadows, DOOMER GUARD #1 appears, hoodie reading “5’8” = Death.”
DOOMER GUARD #1 (gravelly): “State your bone classification.”
CLAVICULAR (stone-faced): “Hypermasculine Mesomorph. Slight chin deviation, pending correction.”
The guard nods. Clavicular enters.
[INT. BLACKPILL UNDERWORLD — CONTINUOUS]
Inside: a hellish nightclub for incels.
Guys in “3/10 Cope” hoodies. Bartenders serving “Cope Spritzers” and “Mogtinis.”
Sad music drones. A neon sign reads “LIFE FUEL NOT SERVED HERE.”
In the darkest corner: CHUD, slumped, vaping out of a Funko Pop.
Above his head: “SOUL STATUS: 2/10 — ROPE IMMINENT.”
CLAVICULAR (whispering): “God help him… final cope cycle.”
He shoves his mastic gum into his mouth and charges through the chaos: ducking Heightpill Warriors, dodging Baldcel Priests, pushing past Wristcels.
He reaches Chud.
CLAVICULAR (grabbing him): “Chud! It’s me! It’s Clav! You don’t have to rope, bro! There’s still time!”
CHUD (hollow): “Too late… my ramus is cooked… my canthal tilt is negative…” (coughs) “I am beyond maxxing…”
The DOOMER SHAMAN floats behind, waving bone calipers.
DOOMER SHAMAN (cackling): “Let him go, Clavicular! His maxilla has retreated into oblivion! HE BELONGS TO THE BLACKPILL!”
CLAVICULAR (screaming): “NOOOOO! NOT WHILE HE STILL HAS MASTICATORY POTENTIAL!”
Clavicular whips out a holy relic — a vacuum-sealed chewed piece of mastic gum. The crowd gasps.
CLAVICULAR (pleading): “Chud… chew it. Just once. Feel the growth. Feel the ossification.”
Chud, hands shaking, places it in his mouth…
Chud’s cheeks tighten. His mandible sharpens. A faint glow surrounds him.
The hologram flashes: “SOUL STATUS: 6/10 — POTENTIAL REACTIVATED.”
The Doom Shaman shrieks and explodes into a cloud of sadness and unwashed hoodies.
The club crumbles. Drinks spill. Midfaces collapse inward like black holes.
CLAVICULAR (grabbing him): “Come on bro! It’s time to ascend!”
They sprint through falling debris, dodging collapsing Incel Altars and crying Wristcels.
[EXT. PARKING GARAGE — NIGHT]
They burst into the fresh night air.
Chud stands taller, jawline slightly blessed by the gods.
CHUD (tearful): “Thank you… you saved my bone mass… and my soul.”
CLAVICULAR (grinning for the first time in 800 days): “There’s always hope. Even for a recessed midface.”
They fist-bump hard. Camera pans to the stars.
TEXT ON SCREEN: “Maxx yourself. Save your homies.”
FADE OUT.
