therapegod
Banned
- Joined
- May 12, 2025
- Posts
- 89
- Reputation
- 66
The digital arena of looksmax.org was a smoldering wreck. RAPE GOD, a dreamer vilified for his glow-up ambitions, had unleashed havoc. His fake dox drop had unmasked SH8, WIDEHIPCEL, and YUNG18 as frauds—SHIN HAO, a Bristol bubble tea barista with platform trainers; WATARU CHEN, a Cardiff Etsy hustler peddling jawline gadgets; and YOON JI-MIN, a Swansea fast-food worker with fake hunter eyes. The forum’s gatekeepers were ridiculed, their clout incinerated. Then came the masterstroke: MOGGED TO OBLIVION, a diss track with KEIR STARMER’s crisp bars and KANYE WEST’s unhinged flair, cut in a dingy Bristol studio. Its 25 million streams obliterated looksmax.org, and MOGGED TO OBLIVION trended globally, with X users memeing STARMER’s line, “I’m Keir, PM, runnin’ this land.” RAPE GOD, radiating Asian pride, had crushed his tormentors. But the forum’s wounds—its jeers at his heritage, his vision—craved more. He was forging a myth, and the next chapter would be profane.
STARMER’S RUIN AND THE BRISTOL JOB
KEIR STARMER’s downfall was tragic poetry. The diss track’s fame had corrupted him. Once Britain’s prim PM, he’d chased clout like a moth to neon. Leaked videos caught him at Bristol raves, flailing to Stormzy in a fake Gucci tracksuit. By mid-2025, a viral TikTok of him grinding to “Vossi Bop” in Westminster’s breakroom torched his tenure. Evicted from Downing Street, STARMER plunged into Bristol’s gutters. He haunted Clifton’s alleys, trading suits for a rancid hoodie, his eyes hollow from crack and heroin. He’d etch MOGGED in dirt on shopfronts, slurring, “I had the ratios, didn’t I?” to pigeons and drunks. His scalp gleamed under thinning hair, his face a sub 5 wasteland of sores and stubble. A sign read, “BTC for gear. OBLIVION GANG.”
RAPE GOD, prowling Bristol’s streets for inspiration, spotted STARMER slumped outside a Greggs, clutching a burnt-out pipe. “Keir, mate,” RAPE GOD said, crouching, his Ronin hoodie a nod to his Asian roots. “You’re a ghost. But I’ve got a gig—low, fucking terrible, but it’s coin.” STARMER’s bloodshot eyes flickered. RAPE GOD spun a tale: using SH8’s fake dox (SHIN HAO, 24, Bristol laundromat flat, 12B Queen’s Road), STARMER would sneak into SHIN’s “house” weekly, steal his dirty Supreme boxers, and pass them to RAPE GOD. They’d sell the boxers as RELICS, claiming they cured cancer and Down syndrome. “It’s grim,” RAPE GOD admitted, “but you’ll eat. Interested?” STARMER, desperate, croaked, “I’m in. Gotta mog again.” RAPE GOD smirked, handing him a burner phone with SHIN’s “address” (a vacant flat RAPE GOD had scouted).
STARMER, fueled by addiction and a new obsession—his looks—took the job too seriously. He started injecting testosterone from a dodgy gym dealer, chasing a bulk to reclaim his “chad” status. Protein shakes replaced heroin (mostly), and he’d flex in cracked mirrors, muttering, “Sub 5? Nah, I’m ascending.” His arms swelled, but his balding dome and pockmarked face drew jeers on X, where trolls dubbed him BALDING CRACKCEL. Looksmax users piled on, memeing his “bulk” as SUBHUMAN GAINS. STARMER, enraged but driven, kept stealing, sneaking into the fake Bristol flat (stocked by RAPE GOD with knockoff boxers) every Tuesday, grabbing red, black, and camo pairs, their “musk” crafted from soy sauce and gym towels.
### RAPE GOD’S RELIC EMPIRE
RAPE GOD turned SH8’s humiliation into a dynasty. SHIN HAO’s dox painted him as a Supreme boxer fanatic, so RAPE GOD “hacked” a fake Discord, SHIN’S SUDS, to “steal” his “laundry.” He bought knockoff Supreme boxers from a Bristol market—red, black, camo, and a neon tie-dye batch—then “cured” them in a vat of fish sauce, old trainers, and kimchi juice for a “subhuman stench.” His Etsy shop, RAPE GOD’S RELICS, was a trolling masterpiece:
- RED SUPREME BOXER (SHIN HAO’S DOOM): “Worn during SH8’s botched Insta reel. Stinks of boba and shame. £79.99. Includes MOG CURSE pamphlet.”
- BLACK SUPREME BOXER (NIGHTMARE MOG): “Soaked in SH8’s post-dox tears. Smells like a 3/10 ratio. £99.99. With BRISTOL LAUNDROMAT SPRITZ (sink water).”
- CAMO SUPREME BOXER (CLOAK OF FAILURE): “SH8’s final pair before he ghosted. Oozes incel vibes. £149.99. Auction for clout.”
- TIE-DYE SUPREME BOXER (CHADKILLER ELITE): “Worn when SH8 begged a bot for skin tips. Reeks of Red Bull and ruin. £299.99. Only 4 exist.”
RAPE GOD’s hustle was ruthless. He filmed a “heist” in a Bristol lockup dressed as a laundromat, hiring a mate in a balaclava to “nab” boxers from dryers marked SHIN’S STASH. Scored to drill beats, the X clip hit 12 million views, captioned RAPE GOD OWNS THE MOGLESS. He paid TikTok’s GLOWGOBLIN to unbox a tie-dye pair, retching while hyping its “cancer-curing aura.” A subreddit, r/ShinsRelics, exploded, with users swapping boxers like crypto. The shop banked £200,000 in two months, half donated to Asian youth hubs, RAPE GOD’s heritage blazing. SH8, on a burner account, posted a 600-word screed: “MY BOXERS ARE MY LIFE NOW? I’M NOT SHIN!” Sales spiked.
### THE PAKISTANI GANG’S VILE PRANK
YUNG18 (YOON JI-MIN), who’d slapped RAPE GOD’s face on a bao bun, was next. RAPE GOD craved a takedown so grotesque it’d be forum gospel. He DM’d the PAKISTANI RAPE GANG, a fictional, satirical crew spun from tabloid nightmares, now internet pranksters thriving on chaos. Their boss, ZULFI THE DON KHAN, was a 6’7” legend with a diamond grill and a HYPERBOREA OR NOTHING neck tat, said to nuke servers with one GIF. RAPE GOD pitched a “kidnapping” to shatter YUNG18. ZULFI, slurping masala chai, typed, “Bruv, we’ll make him pray for dial-up. His vibes are gettin’ rinsed.”
The gang—ZULFI, RIZ THE CHEF MALIK, and ASIM TUNES SHAH—stalked YUNG18 on a looksmax Discord, where he flexed “eye gains.” As “ratio gurus,” they baited him into a voice chat with “skullmaxxing hacks.” YUNG18’s screen locked, his mic seized, and a Zoom call erupted, the gang in full pandemonium. ZULFI, in a chef’s hat, brandished PAKISTANI POO (chocolate fudge shaped like turds, bought from a Cardiff prank shop). RIZ, in a wrestler mask, swung a spatula. ASIM blasted Indian tunes—JAI HO, LEMONADE, a shrieking BABY DOLL remix—at brain-melting volume.
“Eat the POO, Yoon!” ZULFI roared, thrusting fudge at the lens. “Taste the MOG!” RIZ fake-heaved, yelling, “Straight from Karachi, fam!” ASIM, thrashing to TUM HI HO, typed, “Your eyes are samosa-tier!” Mertin!” YUNG18, caged in the call, screeched, “MY EARS! MY SOUL!” as the music droned and fudge loomed. The POO was fake, the “eating” a mental scam—YUNG18’s screen flashed with doctored pics of him “munching” as the gang jeered, “Choke on the L, bruv!” After 14 hours of sonic hell, YUNG18’s Discord died, his account vanished, and his DEATH was forum myth—his clout erased, his ego buried in fudge and Bhangra. The gang dropped a clip, YOON’S FINAL BHUNA, on X, hitting 15 million views before a ban.
### WIDEHIPCEL’S FADE
WIDEHIPCEL (WATARU CHEN), the bone freak, didn’t warrant a spectacle. His Etsy bust exposed, he slunk to a Telegram hole, moaning about “orbital flaws.” RAPE GOD, lenient, let him rot, but sent a knockoff boxer tagged 0/10 SYMMETRY. WIDEHIPCEL quit the internet, muttering, “It’s over.”
### STARMER’S RAMPAGE
STARMER’s bulk was a tragedy. His testo shots bloated his arms, but his balding head and sub 5 face—scarred by addiction—made him a looksmax punching bag. X trolls branded him BALDING HEROINCEL, and forums memed his “gains” as SUB 5 SLUDGE. Enraged, STARMER prowled Bristol, clutching stolen boxers, screaming, “I’m a chad!” at lampposts. His obsession peaked when he saw SUPER HANS, now a looksmax star, flexing on X with “Zeta skin” from pinching STARMER’s old skincare stash. SUPER HANS, in a man-bun and vape cloud, posted selfies captioned UNC WITH A GYAT, ARYAN BLOODICUS MAXED.
The final straw came when RAPE GOD’s RELICS went viral, and SH8, SUPER HANS, and a glitched-out ADOLF HITLER (spawning in a Bristol alley, a low-res sprite in a shredded SS jacket) mocked STARMER at a dive bar. SH8 sneered, “Balding junkie, your bulk’s a hate crime.” SUPER HANS cackled, “Your face needs a trigger warning, Keir.” HITLER, hissing “Mein ratios…” through a corrupted voicebox, jabbed STARMER’s gut. STARMER snapped. Roaring, “I MOG YOU ALL!” he unleashed a testo-fueled rampage. He decked SH8, snapping his nose with a haymaker. He tackled SUPER HANS, slamming him into a jukebox, shattering it. HITLER, glitching, got a fist to the jaw, his sprite flickering out. The bar cleared, STARMER stood heaving, yelling, “I’m the GOD now!” before fleeing into the night, still clutching a camo boxer.
### THE HYPERBOREAN EXIT
With YUNG18 DEAD, SH8 BROKEN, and WIDEHIPCEL GONE, RAPE GOD’s saga neared its peak. The PAKISTANI RAPE GANG had one last play. In their virtual den—a Discord styled like a neon Lahore bazaar—ZULFI, RIZ, and ASIM faced RAPE GOD on Zoom, fake spliffs glowing. “You’re the don, fam,” ZULFI said, grill flashing. “But we’re off to the big leagues.” ASIM hit a key, and a portal screamed open, blazing with Norse runes and Fortnite glitz, tagged HYPERBOREA OR BUST. RIZ grinned, “Mog forever, bruv.” They leapt in, vanishing in a haze of masala fumes and JAI HO riffs. X erupted, users swearing the gang now MOGGED DEITIES in a mystic plane.
RAPE GOD sat back, his RELICS empire at £600,000, boxer NFTs trading like Dogecoin. He wired millions to Asian charities, his heritage a blazing crown. SH8, WIDEHIPCEL, and YUNG18 were digital ash, their names cursed. STARMER, last seen in a Bristol squat, flexed for no one, snarling, “I’m huge, yeah?” SUPER HANS, bruised, hawked BLOODICUS SERUM, a scam lotion that tanked. The PAKISTANI RAPE GANG was Hyperborean lore, and HITLER’s wreck faded to meme dust. RAPE GOD ghosted, some say glowing up IRL with a jawline like a katana, his Asian pride a beacon. Others whisper he stalks Discord, a boxer bandit, ready to bury the next hater. His epic was etched in net stone: cross the GOD, and oblivion swallows
STARMER’S RUIN AND THE BRISTOL JOB
KEIR STARMER’s downfall was tragic poetry. The diss track’s fame had corrupted him. Once Britain’s prim PM, he’d chased clout like a moth to neon. Leaked videos caught him at Bristol raves, flailing to Stormzy in a fake Gucci tracksuit. By mid-2025, a viral TikTok of him grinding to “Vossi Bop” in Westminster’s breakroom torched his tenure. Evicted from Downing Street, STARMER plunged into Bristol’s gutters. He haunted Clifton’s alleys, trading suits for a rancid hoodie, his eyes hollow from crack and heroin. He’d etch MOGGED in dirt on shopfronts, slurring, “I had the ratios, didn’t I?” to pigeons and drunks. His scalp gleamed under thinning hair, his face a sub 5 wasteland of sores and stubble. A sign read, “BTC for gear. OBLIVION GANG.”
RAPE GOD, prowling Bristol’s streets for inspiration, spotted STARMER slumped outside a Greggs, clutching a burnt-out pipe. “Keir, mate,” RAPE GOD said, crouching, his Ronin hoodie a nod to his Asian roots. “You’re a ghost. But I’ve got a gig—low, fucking terrible, but it’s coin.” STARMER’s bloodshot eyes flickered. RAPE GOD spun a tale: using SH8’s fake dox (SHIN HAO, 24, Bristol laundromat flat, 12B Queen’s Road), STARMER would sneak into SHIN’s “house” weekly, steal his dirty Supreme boxers, and pass them to RAPE GOD. They’d sell the boxers as RELICS, claiming they cured cancer and Down syndrome. “It’s grim,” RAPE GOD admitted, “but you’ll eat. Interested?” STARMER, desperate, croaked, “I’m in. Gotta mog again.” RAPE GOD smirked, handing him a burner phone with SHIN’s “address” (a vacant flat RAPE GOD had scouted).
STARMER, fueled by addiction and a new obsession—his looks—took the job too seriously. He started injecting testosterone from a dodgy gym dealer, chasing a bulk to reclaim his “chad” status. Protein shakes replaced heroin (mostly), and he’d flex in cracked mirrors, muttering, “Sub 5? Nah, I’m ascending.” His arms swelled, but his balding dome and pockmarked face drew jeers on X, where trolls dubbed him BALDING CRACKCEL. Looksmax users piled on, memeing his “bulk” as SUBHUMAN GAINS. STARMER, enraged but driven, kept stealing, sneaking into the fake Bristol flat (stocked by RAPE GOD with knockoff boxers) every Tuesday, grabbing red, black, and camo pairs, their “musk” crafted from soy sauce and gym towels.
### RAPE GOD’S RELIC EMPIRE
RAPE GOD turned SH8’s humiliation into a dynasty. SHIN HAO’s dox painted him as a Supreme boxer fanatic, so RAPE GOD “hacked” a fake Discord, SHIN’S SUDS, to “steal” his “laundry.” He bought knockoff Supreme boxers from a Bristol market—red, black, camo, and a neon tie-dye batch—then “cured” them in a vat of fish sauce, old trainers, and kimchi juice for a “subhuman stench.” His Etsy shop, RAPE GOD’S RELICS, was a trolling masterpiece:
- RED SUPREME BOXER (SHIN HAO’S DOOM): “Worn during SH8’s botched Insta reel. Stinks of boba and shame. £79.99. Includes MOG CURSE pamphlet.”
- BLACK SUPREME BOXER (NIGHTMARE MOG): “Soaked in SH8’s post-dox tears. Smells like a 3/10 ratio. £99.99. With BRISTOL LAUNDROMAT SPRITZ (sink water).”
- CAMO SUPREME BOXER (CLOAK OF FAILURE): “SH8’s final pair before he ghosted. Oozes incel vibes. £149.99. Auction for clout.”
- TIE-DYE SUPREME BOXER (CHADKILLER ELITE): “Worn when SH8 begged a bot for skin tips. Reeks of Red Bull and ruin. £299.99. Only 4 exist.”
RAPE GOD’s hustle was ruthless. He filmed a “heist” in a Bristol lockup dressed as a laundromat, hiring a mate in a balaclava to “nab” boxers from dryers marked SHIN’S STASH. Scored to drill beats, the X clip hit 12 million views, captioned RAPE GOD OWNS THE MOGLESS. He paid TikTok’s GLOWGOBLIN to unbox a tie-dye pair, retching while hyping its “cancer-curing aura.” A subreddit, r/ShinsRelics, exploded, with users swapping boxers like crypto. The shop banked £200,000 in two months, half donated to Asian youth hubs, RAPE GOD’s heritage blazing. SH8, on a burner account, posted a 600-word screed: “MY BOXERS ARE MY LIFE NOW? I’M NOT SHIN!” Sales spiked.
### THE PAKISTANI GANG’S VILE PRANK
YUNG18 (YOON JI-MIN), who’d slapped RAPE GOD’s face on a bao bun, was next. RAPE GOD craved a takedown so grotesque it’d be forum gospel. He DM’d the PAKISTANI RAPE GANG, a fictional, satirical crew spun from tabloid nightmares, now internet pranksters thriving on chaos. Their boss, ZULFI THE DON KHAN, was a 6’7” legend with a diamond grill and a HYPERBOREA OR NOTHING neck tat, said to nuke servers with one GIF. RAPE GOD pitched a “kidnapping” to shatter YUNG18. ZULFI, slurping masala chai, typed, “Bruv, we’ll make him pray for dial-up. His vibes are gettin’ rinsed.”
The gang—ZULFI, RIZ THE CHEF MALIK, and ASIM TUNES SHAH—stalked YUNG18 on a looksmax Discord, where he flexed “eye gains.” As “ratio gurus,” they baited him into a voice chat with “skullmaxxing hacks.” YUNG18’s screen locked, his mic seized, and a Zoom call erupted, the gang in full pandemonium. ZULFI, in a chef’s hat, brandished PAKISTANI POO (chocolate fudge shaped like turds, bought from a Cardiff prank shop). RIZ, in a wrestler mask, swung a spatula. ASIM blasted Indian tunes—JAI HO, LEMONADE, a shrieking BABY DOLL remix—at brain-melting volume.
“Eat the POO, Yoon!” ZULFI roared, thrusting fudge at the lens. “Taste the MOG!” RIZ fake-heaved, yelling, “Straight from Karachi, fam!” ASIM, thrashing to TUM HI HO, typed, “Your eyes are samosa-tier!” Mertin!” YUNG18, caged in the call, screeched, “MY EARS! MY SOUL!” as the music droned and fudge loomed. The POO was fake, the “eating” a mental scam—YUNG18’s screen flashed with doctored pics of him “munching” as the gang jeered, “Choke on the L, bruv!” After 14 hours of sonic hell, YUNG18’s Discord died, his account vanished, and his DEATH was forum myth—his clout erased, his ego buried in fudge and Bhangra. The gang dropped a clip, YOON’S FINAL BHUNA, on X, hitting 15 million views before a ban.
### WIDEHIPCEL’S FADE
WIDEHIPCEL (WATARU CHEN), the bone freak, didn’t warrant a spectacle. His Etsy bust exposed, he slunk to a Telegram hole, moaning about “orbital flaws.” RAPE GOD, lenient, let him rot, but sent a knockoff boxer tagged 0/10 SYMMETRY. WIDEHIPCEL quit the internet, muttering, “It’s over.”
### STARMER’S RAMPAGE
STARMER’s bulk was a tragedy. His testo shots bloated his arms, but his balding head and sub 5 face—scarred by addiction—made him a looksmax punching bag. X trolls branded him BALDING HEROINCEL, and forums memed his “gains” as SUB 5 SLUDGE. Enraged, STARMER prowled Bristol, clutching stolen boxers, screaming, “I’m a chad!” at lampposts. His obsession peaked when he saw SUPER HANS, now a looksmax star, flexing on X with “Zeta skin” from pinching STARMER’s old skincare stash. SUPER HANS, in a man-bun and vape cloud, posted selfies captioned UNC WITH A GYAT, ARYAN BLOODICUS MAXED.
The final straw came when RAPE GOD’s RELICS went viral, and SH8, SUPER HANS, and a glitched-out ADOLF HITLER (spawning in a Bristol alley, a low-res sprite in a shredded SS jacket) mocked STARMER at a dive bar. SH8 sneered, “Balding junkie, your bulk’s a hate crime.” SUPER HANS cackled, “Your face needs a trigger warning, Keir.” HITLER, hissing “Mein ratios…” through a corrupted voicebox, jabbed STARMER’s gut. STARMER snapped. Roaring, “I MOG YOU ALL!” he unleashed a testo-fueled rampage. He decked SH8, snapping his nose with a haymaker. He tackled SUPER HANS, slamming him into a jukebox, shattering it. HITLER, glitching, got a fist to the jaw, his sprite flickering out. The bar cleared, STARMER stood heaving, yelling, “I’m the GOD now!” before fleeing into the night, still clutching a camo boxer.
### THE HYPERBOREAN EXIT
With YUNG18 DEAD, SH8 BROKEN, and WIDEHIPCEL GONE, RAPE GOD’s saga neared its peak. The PAKISTANI RAPE GANG had one last play. In their virtual den—a Discord styled like a neon Lahore bazaar—ZULFI, RIZ, and ASIM faced RAPE GOD on Zoom, fake spliffs glowing. “You’re the don, fam,” ZULFI said, grill flashing. “But we’re off to the big leagues.” ASIM hit a key, and a portal screamed open, blazing with Norse runes and Fortnite glitz, tagged HYPERBOREA OR BUST. RIZ grinned, “Mog forever, bruv.” They leapt in, vanishing in a haze of masala fumes and JAI HO riffs. X erupted, users swearing the gang now MOGGED DEITIES in a mystic plane.
RAPE GOD sat back, his RELICS empire at £600,000, boxer NFTs trading like Dogecoin. He wired millions to Asian charities, his heritage a blazing crown. SH8, WIDEHIPCEL, and YUNG18 were digital ash, their names cursed. STARMER, last seen in a Bristol squat, flexed for no one, snarling, “I’m huge, yeah?” SUPER HANS, bruised, hawked BLOODICUS SERUM, a scam lotion that tanked. The PAKISTANI RAPE GANG was Hyperborean lore, and HITLER’s wreck faded to meme dust. RAPE GOD ghosted, some say glowing up IRL with a jawline like a katana, his Asian pride a beacon. Others whisper he stalks Discord, a boxer bandit, ready to bury the next hater. His epic was etched in net stone: cross the GOD, and oblivion swallows
