Championship: 5. PancakeBrah vs. 6. Frank - PANCAKEBRAH WINS 9-0

[PancakeBrah]

CTRL+ALT+DLT
lol @ you Sheep.



Mark collected government paychecks, away from the workaday freaks.
$555 a week, enough to pay for WiFi and all the ho-ho’s he could eat.
He hacked for a fee. Went past meta-crypts to steal megabits
and only accepted BitCoin to hide the income from his case specialist.
Known online as ‘Crackpot’, he did well of it. He had e-stacks printed,
enough to buy a black tinted laptop with the slick matte finish.
Cyber sleuth. Had his custom avators and ‘gaia’ troupes on his hard drive
(his had the custom tailored tiger suit). All in all, an odd guy.
As a pastime he’d try to find the ‘truth’ in archives;
like 9/11 clues, hidden apartheids. He’d often laugh at the sheep
from his swivel chair. “I bet you all think you’re actually free,
while the Rothchild illuminati controls every action you see.”
Surfed AboveTopSecret.com. Being right fueled him in topics and threads,
daily. He had trouble finding news and theories he hadn’t already read
lately. Until he found one post with a thousand replies plus,
written by the handle ‘Knowles’. He read, caught with surprised lust;

“CHURCH OF THE CELL”
http://phys.org/news/2013-06-physici...retically.html
“Greetings. I am Reverend Knowles, and above is the tome
of the Church of the Cell. We wish to welcome you home.
You may be skeptical, but this is at the very root of the lives that you drew.
We have over 100 members, keen, with an eye for the truth.
Do you want to know the meaning of life? Contact this line if you do; 1-323-903-6972”

The idea was unique. Plus the subscribers co-signed with his ‘think’.
Mark was behooved to listen. The separatist view aligned with his mission
to prove the populous wrong. He eventually moved and was living
with the topics’ nubile admissions. He read the pamphlets over incense,
as was standard for the 'Imprint.' They rarely saw the prophet Knowles,
and instead recited his objective goals. ‘Reject the common known
paradigm.’ ‘Look towards the salvation.’ ‘You’re a steam of digits, honed.’
‘This is your home.’ and ‘We share the mind.’ The digital text spoke
of an endgame. Mark read every psalm with a confident grin.
Hooked. He’d found all of the win, bypassing the crowd in their din.
Looking forward to the truth, his...

Hair coiffed, angled. Crisp, the smile of a model with hazel eyes,
as he exited his squared off chambers and uncapped bottle of maple rye.
Reverend Knowles. He assumed the pulpit in a heavy set of robes,
took a breath, then let it go.
“Welcome!” to the crowded pews, to each successive row.
“As you know, our very cells hold computerized self-correcting code,
and on our collective road we finally arrive, tonight, at our compression goal.”
He lifts his glass, causing the congregated mass to follow,
each containing maple rye and a dissolvable tab to swallow.
“Drink with me! To rapture! Together, as enlightened, connected souls.”
Mark drank his with a smile. Eyes closed as the concoction hit his teeth.
As the poison made him nod out, right before it’d get to his heart
he was assured of his route, like the dozens by him. And before he’d give to the sleep
he cracked one last smile at all those idiot sheep still living in the dark.





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