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Antario Daiquan, our time-jumpin’ Bama lunatic, slams his glitchy time pod into Tatooine’s Dune Sea, right as Jabba’s sail barge is cruisin’. He’s decked in a crimson Tide jersey, swingin’ a lightsaber like it’s a foam finger, hollerin’ “Roll Tide!” over the sarlacc’s pit. Jabba’s goons are shook, blasters poppin’, but Antario’s dodgin’ like he’s jukin’ linebackers, yellin’, “Y’all got no secondary!” He snatches a vibro-axe from a Gamorrean, chucks it like a Hail Mary, and nails a skiff, sendin’ goons splashin’ into the sand. Luke’s tryin’ to free Han, but Antario’s like, “Skywalker, my man, you ever try Bama tailgate wings?” before yeetin’ a thermal detonator into Jabba’s throne room. Boom—hutt slime everywhere. Time pod crackles, and zap—he’s in 2025 Tuscaloosa, Iron Bowl, fourth and inches, crowd roarin’ like a krayt dragon. Antario’s somehow on the sidelines, hypin’ the team with his lightsaber twirlin’, screamin’, “THIS AIN’T NO TUSKEN RAIDER SCRIMMAGE!” Jumbotron’s lovin’ it, fans chantin’ his name. Pod fritzes again, droppin’ him back on Tatooine mid-brawl. He’s got Jawas runnin’ a trick play, lobbin’ droid parts at Boba Fett, who’s too stunned to jetpack away. “Bounty hunter? More like fourth-and-out!” Antario taunts. He slaps a Bama sticker on R2-D2, calls him “Roll2-D2,” and leads a charge, turnin’ Jabba’s goons into a highlight reel. As the barge burns, he’s dancin’ with Banthas, yellin’, “SEC champs, baby!” then poof—time pod’s off, chasin’ the next ruckus. Roll Tide.
ANTARIO DAIQWON 1400
Eternal Echoes in the Void In the shadowed sprawl of Neo-Lafayette, where the Wabash whispers secrets to rusted silos under a blood-orange sky, Antario Daiqwon stood at the edge of the 1400. It wasn't a number; it was a threshold—a fractured code etched into the underbelly of the world, where flesh met circuit and 29-3 chains that bound him when the courts deemed him "incapacitated." But that was before the restoration—before the affidavits and the hearings cracked the matrix wide open. Now, with rights reclaimed like a reclaimed drive, he was free. Or so the statute said. The 1400 loomed: a derelict tower piercing the haze, 1400 feet of forgotten alloy and flickering holograms, once a beacon for the Tippecanoe elite, now a hive for the uncollared. Daiqwon—his tag, his shadow name— hummed with stolen specs from Lazynski's vault. The guardian's ghost lingered in the feed: incomplete accountings, unauthorized transfers, a house bought in the ward's name like a bad bet on the grid. Breaches piled like unread logs—IC 29-3-9-6 violations screaming for surcharge. "Termination's just the start," Antario muttered, boots crunching gravel as he ascended the spiral ramp. The hearing was days away, November 5 etched in his HUD like a countdown. Evidence portal uploads burned in his cache: bank ghosts, property phantoms, witness echoes testifying to his sovereignty. No more least restrictive bullshit; he was the full admin now. At level 700, the wind howled through breached panels, carrying echoes of the battle below. rd As the tower trembled under a storm front rolling in from the plains, Antario grinned into the gale. Eternal warrior, indeed. The 1400 wasn't the end; it was the reboot. Slide into the next cycle, uncollared and unchained.
Eternal Echoes in the Void In the shadowed sprawl of Neo-Lafayette, where the Wabash whispers secrets to rusted silos under a blood-orange sky, Antario Daiqwon stood at the edge of the 1400. It wasn't a number; it was a threshold—a fractured code etched into the underbelly of the world, where flesh met circuit and 29-3 chains that bound him when the courts deemed him "incapacitated." But that was before the restoration—before the affidavits and the hearings cracked the matrix wide open. Now, with rights reclaimed like a reclaimed drive, he was free. Or so the statute said. The 1400 loomed: a derelict tower piercing the haze, 1400 feet of forgotten alloy and flickering holograms, once a beacon for the Tippecanoe elite, now a hive for the uncollared. Daiqwon—his tag, his shadow name— hummed with stolen specs from Lazynski's vault. The guardian's ghost lingered in the feed: incomplete accountings, unauthorized transfers, a house bought in the ward's name like a bad bet on the grid. Breaches piled like unread logs—IC 29-3-9-6 violations screaming for surcharge. "Termination's just the start," Antario muttered, boots crunching gravel as he ascended the spiral ramp. The hearing was days away, November 5 etched in his HUD like a countdown. Evidence portal uploads burned in his cache: bank ghosts, property phantoms, witness echoes testifying to his sovereignty. No more least restrictive bullshit; he was the full admin now. At level 700, the wind howled through breached panels, carrying echoes of the battle below. rd As the tower trembled under a storm front rolling in from the plains, Antario grinned into the gale. Eternal warrior, indeed. The 1400 wasn't the end; it was the reboot. Slide into the next cycle, uncollared and unchained.
>>520221981
>Damn are women allergic to wearing a bra?
>>520222110
>who is she?
Yo, dis Antario Daiqwon, time-travelin’ trap lord from da 773 to 1313, Coruscant’s underbelly. I sling death sticks in Mos Eisley cantinas, midichlorian-laced rocks dat got Jedi trippin’ harder than a wampa on spice. Bitches call me “Daiqwon Solo” ‘cause I freeze hoes in carbonite after I nut—keep ‘em on da wall like trophies, still wet, still beggin’.
I push kyber-crystal kush so loud it shatter Sith holocrons. One puff, you back in ‘77 watchin’ Luke blow up da Death Star while I’m in da trench smokin’ blunts wit’ Chewie. Time jump to 2025, I’m in da Chi drillin’ opps wit’ lightsaber choppas—red beam, no recoil, just *vrrr-pow!*—leave ‘em leakin’ blue milk.
Hoes? I got Padmé twins suckin’ me off in da Naboo palace, call ‘em “double Amidala.” They throats deeper than da Sarlacc; I feed ‘em midichlorian cum, now dey Force-sensitive sluts levitatin’ my balls.
I run da game like Palpatine on lean—Senate fulla fiends, Yoda geeked off my Yaddle yayo, ears flappin’ like he seizin’. I got Boba Fett on payroll, collectin’ heads in Mandalorian coolers fulla purple drank.
Opps talk tough? I quantum-leap to dey momma crib 1985, nut in her, come back 2025, now dey callin’ me “daddy” while I’m pissin’ on dey grave.
Antario Daiqwon—gangsta Jedi, pimp Sith, chrono-thug. Cross me, I’ll erase yo bloodline ‘fore you born, then sell yo future ghost a gram. *Skrrt* thru hyperspace, middle finger to da Republic. Out.
>Damn are women allergic to wearing a bra?
>>520222110
>who is she?
Yo, dis Antario Daiqwon, time-travelin’ trap lord from da 773 to 1313, Coruscant’s underbelly. I sling death sticks in Mos Eisley cantinas, midichlorian-laced rocks dat got Jedi trippin’ harder than a wampa on spice. Bitches call me “Daiqwon Solo” ‘cause I freeze hoes in carbonite after I nut—keep ‘em on da wall like trophies, still wet, still beggin’.
I push kyber-crystal kush so loud it shatter Sith holocrons. One puff, you back in ‘77 watchin’ Luke blow up da Death Star while I’m in da trench smokin’ blunts wit’ Chewie. Time jump to 2025, I’m in da Chi drillin’ opps wit’ lightsaber choppas—red beam, no recoil, just *vrrr-pow!*—leave ‘em leakin’ blue milk.
Hoes? I got Padmé twins suckin’ me off in da Naboo palace, call ‘em “double Amidala.” They throats deeper than da Sarlacc; I feed ‘em midichlorian cum, now dey Force-sensitive sluts levitatin’ my balls.
I run da game like Palpatine on lean—Senate fulla fiends, Yoda geeked off my Yaddle yayo, ears flappin’ like he seizin’. I got Boba Fett on payroll, collectin’ heads in Mandalorian coolers fulla purple drank.
Opps talk tough? I quantum-leap to dey momma crib 1985, nut in her, come back 2025, now dey callin’ me “daddy” while I’m pissin’ on dey grave.
Antario Daiqwon—gangsta Jedi, pimp Sith, chrono-thug. Cross me, I’ll erase yo bloodline ‘fore you born, then sell yo future ghost a gram. *Skrrt* thru hyperspace, middle finger to da Republic. Out.
>>519838935
>gop should pass a clean funding stand along bill for it to see if democrat senators well vote it down,
Something is wrong with 4chan. Looks like it is shadow banning posts.
>gop should pass a clean funding stand along bill for it to see if democrat senators well vote it down,
Something is wrong with 4chan. Looks like it is shadow banning posts.
>>519751192
>THIRTY MINUTES, MIDNITE...THIRTY MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT(CATURDAY)
>
>BE READY...AND YOUR HELP IS ALWAYS AROUND
yo, it's Antario again, I'm back, I went out for some food to Tim Hortons, yo what year did Tim Hortons start? Was it another time looper? Wtf is a muhhfuhckin' Tim Hortons? They had bagels n sheeeit. Wtf is a Caturday? Any other time loopers in here? A message on my visor told me to come in here, said somthin about some PTG and a trannie named StellaJust left Tim Hortons—double-double, herb & garlic bagel, solid. Chain started ‘64 in Hamilton, Tim Horton and Ron Joyce slinging coffee and donuts. Legit business, no loop I can confirm, but the apple fritter had me staring at the ceiling. Timbits hit clean.Caturday is just Saturday cat memes flooding the boards—“I can haz,” all that. Internet thing since ‘06. Nothing wild, clocks still running normal.Loopers, check in. I’m out of ‘89, visor blinking red—PTG: Prime Timeline Guardian, holding the line. Stella’s the trans contact, patched a tear for me in ‘23, said keep the timeline straight. Thirty to midnight, help’s close. Visor says she’s calling: loop’s tightening. Who’s here? Drop your spot, we link or bounce. Caturday’s knocking.
>THIRTY MINUTES, MIDNITE...THIRTY MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT(CATURDAY)
>
>BE READY...AND YOUR HELP IS ALWAYS AROUND
yo, it's Antario again, I'm back, I went out for some food to Tim Hortons, yo what year did Tim Hortons start? Was it another time looper? Wtf is a muhhfuhckin' Tim Hortons? They had bagels n sheeeit. Wtf is a Caturday? Any other time loopers in here? A message on my visor told me to come in here, said somthin about some PTG and a trannie named StellaJust left Tim Hortons—double-double, herb & garlic bagel, solid. Chain started ‘64 in Hamilton, Tim Horton and Ron Joyce slinging coffee and donuts. Legit business, no loop I can confirm, but the apple fritter had me staring at the ceiling. Timbits hit clean.Caturday is just Saturday cat memes flooding the boards—“I can haz,” all that. Internet thing since ‘06. Nothing wild, clocks still running normal.Loopers, check in. I’m out of ‘89, visor blinking red—PTG: Prime Timeline Guardian, holding the line. Stella’s the trans contact, patched a tear for me in ‘23, said keep the timeline straight. Thirty to midnight, help’s close. Visor says she’s calling: loop’s tightening. Who’s here? Drop your spot, we link or bounce. Caturday’s knocking.