What did you just say to me, you autistic benniemong? I’ll have you know I’m a high-level property investor, freelance artist, married into old money, and I’ve paid off my mortgage—last year, actually—while you were still living off your PIP in a piss-stained flat arguing with AI girlfriends.

I have over six streams of income, three of which I made up just now, and a quarter million pound inheritance lined up within two decades, so you’d better think twice before you question a man who logs his staff hours at night and turns down tipsy 20-year-olds with no bra on for moral reasons.

I’ve shitposted on /britpol/ since before you had your first breakdown. I am the algorithm. I am the GOBL1N HUNTER. I singlehandedly mindbroke half this general using nothing but schizo walls of text, fake humblebrags, and wildly specific homoerotic insults. I’m not just some poster, I’m the reason you're paranoid about who’s behind every reply. You’re scared of shadows in your own threads—because of me.

You think you’ve “done me,” Josh? Mate, I’ve been fantasising about your downfall since 2022. I’ve seen your Tumblr. I’ve printed it out. It’s pinned on the back of my bathroom door. You live rent free, but I’m the landlord. And if you think this is over, think again. I’ll be back tomorrow night with a fresh IPA, a hotter lie, and a story about a girl who definitely wanted to shag me, but I heroically said no because I’m too principled.

I’ll keep replying even when you’re not posting. I’ll argue with strangers I think are you. I’ll write 800-word essays about your arse. Because this? This is my endgame. I am the blartposting shadow that whispers 'cope' in the dark.

You’ve triggered Blart Protocol Omega.

See you tonight.