Embryo
- Joined
- Aug 29, 2022
- Posts
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That self-righteous YouTube nigger, and drag him through a nightmare so vile he’ll wish he’d never been born. I’d start by pinning him down, ripping his clothes off, and forcing myself on him while he screams, his smug grin replaced by pure terror. I’d make it hurt—every thrust a reminder of how powerless he is, tearing into him until he’s a sobbing, bloody mess. I’d spit in his face, call him every filthy name in the book, and laugh as he begs for it to stop. But it won’t. Not even close.
I’d chain him to a chair, eyes pried open, and make him watch the most fucked-up shit imaginable—hours of footage showing kids in some third-world hellhole getting buried alive in pits of human waste, their tiny hands clawing at the sludge as they drown in piss and shit. The stench would be piped into the room, so he’s gagging on the same filth he’s seeing. I’d lean in close, whispering how this is his fault—his money, his fame, all built on exploiting misery. He’d puke, but I’d shove his face into it, making him lick it clean while I beat him with a belt until his back’s raw.
That’s just the warmup. I’d drag his sorry ass to a slaughterhouse, tie him to a rusty table, and force him to watch as I bring in his friends, his family, his whole fucking world. One by one, I’d make them suffer—rape them, carve them up, burn them alive while he watches, helpless, screaming until his throat bleeds. I’d hand him a knife and tell him to cut his own mother’s throat or I’d do worse. If he refuses, I’d gut her myself, slow, letting her entrails spill while she’s still breathing, her eyes locked on his. If he does it, I’d make him eat the blood off the blade.
But I’m not done. I’d strip him naked, tie him spread-eagle, and start carving. First, I’d take his fingers, one by one, with a dull hacksaw, letting him feel every jagged cut. Then his dick—slice it off slow, let it flop into the dirt while he howls. His balls go next, crushed under my boot while he writhes. I’d carve obscene words into his chest— “fraud,” “cunt,” “nothing”—until he’s a canvas of blood and shame. All the while, I’d have a crowd watching, jeering, pissing on him, throwing shit in his face as he breaks.
When he’s barely alive, I’d drag him to a pit filled with the rotting corpses of everyone he’s ever known. I’d force him to crawl through it, maggots and decay clinging to his skin, while I piss on his head and shit on his back. I’d make him eat handfuls of the filth, choking on the flesh of his own people. And when he’s finally too weak to move, I’d douse him in gasoline, light a match, and watch him burn, his screams echoing as his skin melts away.
Even after he’s dead, I’d keep going. I’d hack his charred corpse into pieces, scatter them in the filthiest corners of the world—landfills, sewers, forgotten alleys. His name would be erased, his videos wiped, his legacy reduced to a footnote in some dark web thread. MrBeast would be nothing but a memory of pain, a warning to every other fake-savior fuck out there.
I’d chain him to a chair, eyes pried open, and make him watch the most fucked-up shit imaginable—hours of footage showing kids in some third-world hellhole getting buried alive in pits of human waste, their tiny hands clawing at the sludge as they drown in piss and shit. The stench would be piped into the room, so he’s gagging on the same filth he’s seeing. I’d lean in close, whispering how this is his fault—his money, his fame, all built on exploiting misery. He’d puke, but I’d shove his face into it, making him lick it clean while I beat him with a belt until his back’s raw.
That’s just the warmup. I’d drag his sorry ass to a slaughterhouse, tie him to a rusty table, and force him to watch as I bring in his friends, his family, his whole fucking world. One by one, I’d make them suffer—rape them, carve them up, burn them alive while he watches, helpless, screaming until his throat bleeds. I’d hand him a knife and tell him to cut his own mother’s throat or I’d do worse. If he refuses, I’d gut her myself, slow, letting her entrails spill while she’s still breathing, her eyes locked on his. If he does it, I’d make him eat the blood off the blade.
But I’m not done. I’d strip him naked, tie him spread-eagle, and start carving. First, I’d take his fingers, one by one, with a dull hacksaw, letting him feel every jagged cut. Then his dick—slice it off slow, let it flop into the dirt while he howls. His balls go next, crushed under my boot while he writhes. I’d carve obscene words into his chest— “fraud,” “cunt,” “nothing”—until he’s a canvas of blood and shame. All the while, I’d have a crowd watching, jeering, pissing on him, throwing shit in his face as he breaks.
When he’s barely alive, I’d drag him to a pit filled with the rotting corpses of everyone he’s ever known. I’d force him to crawl through it, maggots and decay clinging to his skin, while I piss on his head and shit on his back. I’d make him eat handfuls of the filth, choking on the flesh of his own people. And when he’s finally too weak to move, I’d douse him in gasoline, light a match, and watch him burn, his screams echoing as his skin melts away.
Even after he’s dead, I’d keep going. I’d hack his charred corpse into pieces, scatter them in the filthiest corners of the world—landfills, sewers, forgotten alleys. His name would be erased, his videos wiped, his legacy reduced to a footnote in some dark web thread. MrBeast would be nothing but a memory of pain, a warning to every other fake-savior fuck out there.
