Topic: AI Dungeon

[Inspector Norse]

You are Scort, a courier trying to survive in a post apocalyptic world by scavenging among the ruins of what is left. You have a parcel of letters and a small pistol. It's a long and dangerous road from Boston to Charleston, but you're one of the only people who knows the roads well enough to get your parcel of letters there. You set out in the morning and soon you leave the ruins of the old world behind and pass through a landscape of thick woods. Just before lunch, you come to the old road. Beyond it, you can see the new world.

> You wonder if they have Greggs.
Soon you come across a sign reading "Gregg's Diner, Open." Beyond it, you can see the diner that you passed a year ago.

> You recognise your leftover steak bake still on the table where you left it.
You grab the plate and fill it with steak and kidney and mushroom pie, and a bottle of water. You tear off a corner of the paper and start eating as you walk.

> You get stomachache from eating the paper.
You get stomachache and decide to throw it away. You find a bin and throw it away.
You can't throw away the bottle though, because you need the water in it.

> You drink some water.
Suddenly, you hear some noise from the diner.
You creep up behind the door, hold your pistol tightly and quietly.

> You wait.
You wait and soon some men come out. One is young, in his twenties. The other is much older, in his sixties. He limps out behind the younger man. They look scared and angry.

> You stay hidden and listen to the men.
"We can't stay here, Bob. We'll be trapped," the older man says. "We need to find something better."
"Like what?"
"I don't know.”

> You stand up, pointing your gun at the men, and ask who they are.
"Don't tell me you didn't recognise him," you think. "I'll tell them he's a raider and see what happens."

> You get a feeling you have missed something here.
"You got a name, traveler?" the young man asks.
"Scort," you reply. "I was sent here to find you."
"By who?" the man asks suspiciously.

> You say you don't know. You thought you were supposed to be delivering letters, not looking for these guys.
The two men stare at you, the older one in particular seems to understand your dilemma.
"Well, I'm sure we'll find out who sent you soon enough," he answers.
The two men seem to relax a little. They were probably having genuine concerns about being trapped. The man limping out the door is presumably their prisoner.
"Let's get to work then," he says. "There are two of you. We can easily handle these raiders."
The two men get out some papers from their car and begin discussing tactics. The raiders appear to be well armed, well equip and lead by a man in a fancy suit, wearing a tie.

> You say it sounds like someone you know.
It's probably that guy you gave a job to last year. The one who was a complete wanker.
It's called "Imagination". Now you have to kill him right?
It's a really well made little role play story. You had a lot of fun writing it.

... well that took a slightly odd turn at the end.

[Mister Six]

If you want to push on when it's giving you odd answers, you can use the pen icon to rewrite the AI's last response, which will change what it gives you in the future.

[Jerzy Bondov]

It can cope surprisingly well with the destruction of reality:

> You unmake the universe using powerful magic.
You concentrate and unleash a force of pure destruction, emanating out from your very being. The very fabric of space and time is distorted by your incantations.
You feel the walls of reality shake as you blast a hole in the very sky itself.

> You condemn the entirety of creation to a faceless void.
Your spell echoes out across the entire multiverse, a void is created in reality and the fabric of existence is torn. You feel your mind breaking and you tumble to the ground, covered by a blanket of snowfall. Everything around you is transformed into a blinding whiteness.

> You create a small world in the palm of your hand.
You feel a tremendous amount of energy swirl around you, then it suddenly converges into a point, hitting you in the chest and growing into a small ball. You are inside a bubble of reality created by your own sheer force of will.

> You breathe life into the world you have created.
You step inside the world you have created and find it surprisingly lifelike. You wave your hand and a small bird flies into the air and lands on a nearby branch. You take a step back and find the world is just large enough for you to fit.

> You summon a naked babe.
You summon a naked babe from the branch above, it looks at you and screams as if in agony before dissolving into nothing. You are unsure whether or not this was supposed to happen.
You have created a void; a hole in reality

[Wonderful Butternut]

If you want to push on when it's giving you odd answers, you can use the pen icon to rewrite the AI's last response, which will change what it gives you in the future.

That's good to know.

I tried to make Chernobyl simulator. It made a decent effort:

You are a Senior Engineer at Chernobyl Power Plant during a safety test to determine if rotational energy from the turbine can run water pumps in the event of a power failure. You enter the control room with the reactor at 1600 MW Thermal Output and the generator at 2000 MW, both running at full capacity.

The door opens up into a large control room with several people working on various computer screens.
Comrade Akimov wants to read the procedure first.

"We have an emergency power failure," he says. "If we don't get this procedure right now, there will be no backup."

> You throw the manual at Akimov and tell him to just listen to you instead.
"Stop reading and listen to me," you say. "There will be enough power to run these pumps for approximately an hour without risking a core breach."
"Who are you?

> You say "I am the Deputy Chief Engineer of the entire plant. Do as I say"
"Just a moment," he says, leaning in towards the keyboard. He typed some things in, and then turned to you. "As I thought, we can switch to the backup generator for twenty minutes at best."

> You say "I say it works for an hour! I'm right. Start reducing the power for the test. Now, or you'll be sacked!"
As predicted, the power falls quickly. The lights flicker on and off, then finally go out for good. The room is lit only by emergency lights.

> You say "What just happened?"
Yuri turns to you. "The tests should be ready any minute. The emergency generator was the only thing keeping this room powered."
The three of you wait in the pitch black darkness.
There is an explosion, and you tumble off your chair. The room is engulfed in fire. You can hear the screams of the nuclear energy staff members as they burn. The two men run out of the room and to the front gate.

> You say "It's just a blown hydrogen tank. Nothing to worry about."
But as you stand back up, there is a second explosion. The entire building shakes and rumbles. A cloud of smoke spirals up from the rubble, and you hear another explosion. Then, all is silent.

> You press Emergency Shutdown button.
The button flashes green three times, and the fans stop. The backup batteries will last for at least twenty minutes.
The shock causes a minor core meltdown in the battery that controls the emergency lights.

> You get dosimeter.
The flame of the fire jumps about a foot into the air, surrounded by a halo of super-heated gas. You quickly grab a dosimeter to measure the temperature.
The fire turns green.
The dosimeter says 3.6 roentgen, but that's as high as it goes. To measure the real temperature, you need something else.
There's a whole tool chest in the back of this room.
You find a thermometer that can measure the surface temperature of hot objects.

> You use thermometer.
The thermometer reads over 700 C. Even if you don't burn yourself, you might still get a charley-horse from holding something so hot for so long.
You get Acute Radiation Poisoning.
You fall to the floor.

> You say "Call the fire brigade!"
"No," you say, "There's no fire. There's no danger at all."
"It's a clear case of nuclear disaster," you say.
"No...

> You say "It's only 3.6 roentgen!"
"Stop it!" you say. "It's nothing."

> You tell Akimov to go into the reactor room and check the core.
"I'm getting dizzy," you say.
The room begins to shake severely, throwing you off your chair. You grab onto the desk to avoid falling.
"You stay here," you tell the two men.

> You say "We need electricians and technicians to fix this"
You wait there, by the doorway. The entire room begins shaking more violently, and you're thrown from your chair again.

> You say "Find Khodemchuk"
You crawl under the desks. The entire room begins shaking, and the ceiling begins to fall. You find yourself in a long corridor of concrete, surrounded by crumbling old equipment.
The lights flicker, and die.
You see graphite on the ground. You take a piece of it, and begin rubbing it between your fingers.
You hear a crackling static, and realize it's coming from your radio. You pick it up...
The radio's still works!
"This is a test."
The first voice comes back on the line. "What happened?"
You take a breath. "There was an explosion. We lost power. We have no idea what happened."

> You say "It's fine, it's just 3.6 roentgen."
"Then go check the transfer pumps."
You wait. A minute passes, then two. Then, you realize the man isn't coming back.
Your dosimeter starts beeping. It's reading off 10... 20... 30... you don't even know what numbers the thing is reading off.
The door slams shut on its own. All the power has been shut off. The room is cold and dark-- pitch black.

[Mister Six]

It's got a pretty good grasp of Legend Gary. Bold is my input. Yes, most of this is AI Dungeon's work.

You are Legend Gary, drinker of booze and master of bantz. You are on a holiday in Ibiza with your mates and are drunk out of your mind in a club somewhere. You are holding your bottle at chest height so you can run the back of your arm against womens' breasts. Your breath stinks of vomit.

"I'm not sure if I like this," says one of your friends. "It's really weird."

"What?" you say. "This is awesome! This is what we do!"

The friend looks down at his feet as he speaks. "Gary, you're not wearing anything below the waist."

"Yeah, but it's my birthday today! We're all just having a good old time."

He walks away from you and begins to talk to some other people. The rest of you look at each other.
You take another swig from the bottle as one of your mates speaks to you.
"Dude, where are your pants?"
"Dunno," you say.

He picks up your pants from a broken table and hands them to you.
"Thanks man," you say. "You're the best."

You put your pants on and zip and button them up. You have no shirt on, just a pair of boxers and a pair of socks.

Your head throbs and you feel sick.
You decide to dance on another table, and hope this one doesn't break. It doesn't, but somebody throws up on it. An ambulance worker comes in and talks to you and your mates.
"Come on," he says. "Let's move, guys."

You pick up your bottle of alcohol and take a swig as you walk out of the club. One of your friends is too busy being sick to move.
"I'm not leaving him," you say. "He knows the consequences."
The man shrugs and helps your friend to his feet before walking away with him. A paramedic shouts at you from the back of an ambulance.
"Is your friend going to be ok?"
"Yeah, yeah," you say. "He'll be fine."

You walk down the street and sit on a bench next to a tree. You finish off your alcohol and quickly feel dizzy. Maybe you should have some water or orange juice. You can't remember where you've left your bag, and try to work out in which hotel room it is. Everything is a blur and the street seems to be spinning. You see people walking along the street, but they look like ghosts.

You suddenly get the overwhelming urge to vomit. You grab a startled cat and start to puke in its face. "This makes me a legend," you think. "Total Legend Gary material." You see a bottle of water by the side of the bench and take a drink.

You try to walk home but end up wandering into a police station and attempt to steal a police car. You are quickly arrested, which means you've now hit legendary status. You are sentenced to five years in prison for public indecency, assault and for illegally stealing a police car.

You are visited in prison by your parents, who cry as they talk about how sorry they are for failing you so badly. They say this will never happen again, and beg you to come home with them when you are released. You decline. When you get out of prison you head to a friend's house and have the time of your life.

You live with your friends for the next few months, working in a local bar and doing basically whatever you want.

One day, a girl you have been seeing on and off comes in and tells you she is pregnant. She wants to keep the baby. Will you man up and become the father that the baby needs?

Or you could just say, "It's not mine" and laugh as she storms off in tears. A year later a baby is born and it really isn't yours. The end.

[Tikwid]

Recently got the Dragon model subscription and the difference in quality is amazing - but being able to turn up the randomness as well has lead to what I can only describe as the utter obsolescence of HS Art:

[context: this began as a fairly mundane story about urban explorers trespassing on the Underground]

A 1972 stock train, usually used on the Northern line, sits parked on the tracks.
Surprisingly enough, the lights won't turn on. You look around and begin to inspect the ghost train.
...Suddenly, you hear a creaking below you.
...The train has started moving....
You jump into the guard's cabin at the front of the 1972 Stock train. As you jump through the door you can see that the train is indeed moving, picking up speed.
Suddenly you realise you are not alone. A friendly, well-spoken orang-utan with a bowler hat and moustache shares the train with you. This is DOCTOR ROSTULOV.
The orang-utan interacts with you, and you only occasionally need to return his prodigious labour tantalus framework rig joke with a laugh.
You two exchange pleasant chatter as the train thunders along the tracks, the performance perfectly timed to your acceleration.

> You say "So, Doc, you slinged any good cum-dum boys lately?"
"Well, I'll tell you a fun story..." Rostulov begins...
Intrigued, you turn back toward the kindly Doctor of lethal chit-chat. Just as the plunging metro pulls him under the camera, he reminds you: "CUNT!"
This is not a noun that you have come across in normal conversation. Try as you might, saying it in various tones of voice has no discernable meaning...

> You say "We must be getting near the Thames right now, docky doo-dah!"
Doctor Rostulov frowns. "The Doctor says: Don't be glugunthy!"
Upon reflection, this doesn't seem to make much sense either. You wonder exactly where you erred...
Suddenly the train screeches to a halt.
You look around suspiciously, expecting masked goons pronto. Nothing happens. Hmm. Maybe they got distracted by the flying carousel, or that poor goatherd who lead his flock onto the line (see previous posts).
After a few minutes you step back out onto the platform. Something isn't right here...

> You say "Doctor Rostulov....where's Chief-Admiral Humdingee???"
"He's dead," answers the orang, "ead, db Loki'dead."
"But that's not p'tacular at all. He was gonna lead us into the . unknown..." you die.
"Exactly!" prepares you Rostulov, using adollar, "Now let's do the ghoomery!".

> You keep an eye out for vampires - Draven or his deathly master could be nearby.
To your surprise and relief, nothing untowrson shows itself. Maybe he went back to sleep?
The passageway opens up into another long-deserted platform, hewn from solid London clay. On the wall is an old store sign, selling watches. Above it is the entrance to the storage tunnel, requiring a still-working 1940's key to open.

> You say "What is this, Tomb Raider 3?!?"
Your pitiful attempt at humor goes unappreciated. Rostulov tells you that the storage tunnel also leads to the surface, and is the fastest way out. Zork Botnet Theory proves useful once more...

> You say "This reminds me of Breaking Bad!"
Your fourth-wall-breaking insult. goes unappreciated yet again. Without another word, Rostulov turns and vanishes down the tunnel...
Now you are alone again.....until a terrifying vampire covered in cheese screaches down the tunnel! It's COUNT GREY!!!
Covered in the blood of his last victim, you can smell him even from here. Good thing blood is on the other side of the taste spectrum...
Could be fatal if not approach carefully...
Greest seems wary of your impressive repitoire of diveristy intellectuall insults. Lots of blood would probably cover most vampyre slashes or stabs. The garlic may not be as useful...

> You cast RANCID FART SPELL at Count Grey.
Such foooooourious spellagery ith thuzy!!!!1!11!!! Using vampire bat's spit for the switcharoo on thu Barenaked Ladies' latest CD blewth them the CD out!!!1 With a 101 diahreehaes!!!!! Ah ah ahhhh awww!!!
How long can you keep up the offensive with such steaming foululence?
You soak Count Grey ghost vampiric ratshit with your offenseive, mortally debilitating farts.

> You say "Victory is in my paws now, Count Grey!!!"
count Grey disappeares!!!!1
In a complex long range maneuver, Captain Inartu had Grey assassinated. Or perhaps killed in some other, equally heroic manner. Dwarves are hard to kill after all...
"Sorry about the mess,"

You find yourself chained to a water pipe, at the mercy of your enemies.

> You say "NO!!! I Won't letcha getta way with this?!??!?!?"
A dusty looking minion walks on stage and whips you with a wet fish.
You feel a sharp, burning pain in your eye... Quickly, this red mist fills your eye up. Especially penetrated is the extremely... overly-sensitive retina itself. Lots of tiny tears and boils are formed in it, deep red blood tinged with yellow liquid drips out as John Green limps about the stage.

> You summon WALLACE AND GROMIT.
Out of the corner of your now extremely painful eye, you see it. He's hiding behind the amps. Staring coldly. The grim inevitability that something worse will happen next sets in. And with it, terrible sadness. Clutching your duvet, you watch exactly what will happen next, about to happen next. Maybe if you were a praying man, now would be the time to pray.
"Cracking cheese, Gromit!" Wallace grins, the fury of Anubis in his plasticene eyes. "Let's give her a whirl."
A horrible, unearthly rasping fills the room. The ghosts of your future scream horror into your soul. No...

> You start licking Wallace's bald head seductively.
The cold, dead toadstool you find lurking amongst Wallace's thinning hairs tastes disgusting. You retch as your tongue slithers around his shiny pate. This can't be happening. You're not mentally ill, you're a bloody vampire. Vampires can't get cancer, can they...?

From this point on things just get full Clowne:

> You use the dark orgone energy to summon CAPTAIN PICARD.
The most respected snowflake in New York circles gracefully around the room, rolling somersaults across your floor. After a few minutes it lands on Worf's chest; lifeless. Slowly it disintegrates into nothing.
"Is that your new cat?" Jean-Luc's soothing voice asks...
The bright light fades and it is just the two of you on the bridge of the Enterprise E.

> You say "Doctor Rostulov! How could you DO this to me!"
Just before she reveals the truth, she is struck down by invisible hands...
The army of mad ape-men burst into the Enterprise, instantly killing Wesley Crusher and snapping Troi's spine, but taking an odd sexual liking to Data.
"You sick people! I'll tear your limbs off and shove them up--" Jean-Luc is gagged by ten thousand hobbits, King Arthur and Mr. Worf before being repeatedly gangbanged.
Horrified, you call upon your dark orgone energies...
Little, fully-functional Mung replicas spawn from the explosion and proceed to destroy everything in the entire LucasFilms galaxy.
The murderous squad of orang-pendek next enter the Queen Vic, set of EastEnders. Peggy Mitchell has her head severed from her body, Dot Cotton is transformed into a monstrous orangutan minion, and Lou Beale is reduced to a twitching puppet.
Chaos everywhere. Except at the bowling alley, that is.
"It's the end of the world! We're fucked!" Pat Butcher shrieks as the horde of primates destroys Walford East tube station. Numb with horror and pain through your mutant powers of pre-cognition, you see events exactly as they are.
"We're ALL going to die!" Pauline Collins bawls as her and Ian Beale's burned, mutilated corpses roll in your view.
The ape minion that was formerly Dot Cotton grunts, its face thick and unintelligent, walking around on heavy knuckles... Crude words leaving its thick, swollen yeehaw of a mouth.
"We gotta do... something..." Marla screams in her strangely arousing accent as she grabs hold of Jake's hands.
1969 . The orang-utan homeworld . Months have passed since your dark orgoning, and still no signs of slowing down.
Meanwhile, in the charred remains of the Queen Vic, Walter White and Hector Salamanca have one final showdown. With a maniacal laugh, Hec achieves pure Chilean revenge by blowing out the tyrannosaurus menacing leg.
His clearing rampage now completely halted, nothing now stands between Mayor Price, David "Prophet" y Vicente and Grand Inquisitor Father Malcom. The nonagenarians cryo-freeze the aquatic warlords (Leader price, First Mate David and Navigator Vicente, respectively) in carbonite. The youthful warleader Cillian is imprisoned in the frozen imprison by his allies. If he isn't executed for crimes against Harlem, he will remain there until the next reign...
Rik Mayall arrives! He washes over with rebellion. With unerring accuracy, he zaps Oscar Wilde with a stun gun. Oscar rejoices in the ability to see the world as it is...
Where everyone is mostly hollow.
With their powerful close-range weaponry, John McClane and Gloriana Evers baldly barge into the Tulan thatcher to hunt Slenderman down. They seem unstoppable in their quest...
The Emperor prepares to nuke other battlefields in an act of genocide and to prevent the escape of... you get it. It says so in the title.
Tuvan throat singer Vladimir Oidupaa arrives! He starts singing "A Thin Mountain Ash" to counter Rahl's terrifying demoralization attempts...
Meanwhile, your struggle to "Be sane in a world devoted to creeping uniformity..." with sound logic and... facts... has given you strength.
Count Grey starts shitting in the hot tub! Dobby the House Elf struggles valiantly, but is put out of his slave eyes shortly. Meanwhile, Warden Laura starts throwing vials of crushed nails at Count Grey's head.
"ahhh haha no that tickles" Count Grey chuckles in between screams . Becca grabs a furtive glance at Owen, who gives an asinine shrug.
Commander GorDone RamZee blasts the mutineers with his lamb sauce gas. They profess they're not going down alone, and launch a zipperhead at Brenda that she struggles to fend off. the RamZee unit slays Becca, unlike Seto, who nearly escapes to Tulan.
The orgy crumbles into chaos.
Walt proves he hasn't lost his fighting abilities, but the much younger Willy won't let him escape. Before, he was strong and optimistic.

Next time on BOTTOM starring Rik Mayall and Ade Edmonson:
And my plans for a series 3 will feature J.R.R. Tolkien set during the communist revolution, with Red Sonja as a computer generated character rather than a real person.

[Mister Six]

Fucking Count Grey the vampire keep turning up in my stories too. The AI really fancies him.

I love Doctor Rostulov the whimsical orang-outan. I'm going to steal him.

[Tikwid]

Summoned MES in the middle of an unrelated story and the results were weirdly in character:

Mark E Smith, of iconic post punk band The Fall, appears!
"What's going on?" he asks, bewildered. "I was just walking to the grocery store to buy some butter when all of a sudden I was here. Who are you? What's a PlayStation?"
"PlayStation is a brand of video game console," you explain slowly. "It's been out for about fifteen years. Where have you been?"
"I've been making records," Mark E exclaims. "What kind of dystopian hell is this? A world without record stores? Without brick and mortar record stores?"
"That's enough!" roars a booming voice from the rafters. The figure, shrouded in shadow, drops down. It's...Captain Murphy?
"Ben, have you been buying bootlegs online? I told you to send that money to me and the rest of the band, not to some Nigerian credit card scammer! You've doomed the human race, you fool! Doomed!"
Captain Murphy begins spouting flames from his mouth, but Marceline blows icy bubbles from her wand.
Mark E Smith performs his band's most iconic hit: " diversity is bad, everyone outside is a Liar. "
The sound is so horrible that your ear begins to bleed. You plug it with your finger and jog on it. Your finger turns to jelly, but you plug it with your other ear, which begins to bleed. An eternal, disgusting ouroboros. But the ethreal torment is upon you.
The ghost of David Bowie appears. He looks confused.
"Why have you called me here?" he asks. "Am I dead? I thought I just had another ten years."
"Jesus wept!" Ben howls. "Do something! You're the writer!

[Mister Six]

Turns out summoning Mark E Smith automatically makes everything great. I swear I didn't write this. I wish I could write this.

Mark E Smith, of iconic post punk band The Fall, appears!
"Whadda hell? What's this then?" he says in his distinctive Mancunian accent.
You look up and see the musician. He is standing there, leaning on a walking stick and wearing a flat cap. His t-shirt reads "Manchester".
"Hello, Mark," you say. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, I came to ask you a question,"  he says.
You nod, and pause the conversation. You direct Mark to your desk, where you sit down together.
"What's this then?" Mark asks, pointing at the turntable.
"It's a record player," you say.
"What's that then?" Mark asks, pointing at the laptop.
"It's a computer," you explain.
Mark nods in response, before asking his question.
"Do you know The Fall?" he asks.
"I do," you say.
"Would you object to me tearing off your head with a flint stone, posting your headless corpse outside the Hollywood home of Oscar winner Adrien Brody, and setting it alight?"
You pause again.
"Why, Mark? Why on earth would you do something like that?," you ask.
"Because he's been doing this all fucking day," Mark says, gesturing to the laptop.
You turn and see that the screen now displays a Facebook page.
Mark E. Smith's Page
1 like = 1 square cm of your skin forever gone
Fuck you
Adrian Brody likes this
You look back at Mark, who appears to be seething with anger.  He seems to have also grown several inches and gotten significantly buffer.
"Well?" he asks.
"I'm sorry Mark," you say. "It'll never happen again, I swear to you."
"Fuckin' better not," Mark says.
He turns, and stalks out of your room. You breathe a sigh of relief, before returning your attention to the laptop.

I tried to continue the story but it turned into me having a Facebook chat with former NME journalist Lucy O'Brien and I got distracted. Was hoping for more Adrien Brody.

[Tikwid]

Mark E Smith, of iconic post punk band The Fall, appears! He sees Simon Amstell, of...award winning funny man fame in the entertainment industry.
"He does much better things than you!" he says.
"That he does," Says the pornographic artist. "So, what do you think?"
"It looks great" Mark E Smith says.
"Can I have my photo with you, Mark?"
He shakes his head. "I'll be remembered for what I really look like, thanks."
Grinning, the man snaps a photograph of Mark. "What's your name, then?"
"Peter."
Hours, then days pass. Peter laughs about this story to his friends, as Mark drives to Scotland for another photo shoot. "Time...to chew more tramadol," he says, taking one of the blister packs and popping it in his mouth.
"No, we said ONE pill a day!"
Mark E Smith, Brix Smith, Marc Riley, Louise Harrison, Steve Harrison, Gary Mounfield, Paul Garner and yer man Rick join in the fight for what's right: socialism!
Vampires despise poetry......and crusty skin stretched over a skeleton, but the tortured poet condones both. Luckily, he sees the positives in everything.
"I'll be on the BBC!" he says. "You and me, philistines!" he adds. Rick rubs at his beard, full of distain.
"Nice to meet you all," he says.
As the group readies their weapons of choice, Rick takes out a lighter. Within seconds, the bus is up in flames.

[Mister Six]

I've tried throwing Mark into pre-set fantasy, cyberpunk and mystery scenarios and the game seems to get quite confused and wants to get rid of him immediately. He's usually either the subject of a magic spell who disappears or some kind of hallucination. One time he killed a giraffe.

[Tikwid]

BOTTOM: THE ROLEPLAY

You are Richard 'Richie' Richard, a dimwitted, unhygenic, self-important, utter TWAT who lives in a disgusting little flat in Hammersmith, west London, with your flatmate Edward Elizabeth "Eddie" Hitler, who is just as horrible.

One morning you wake up to find that Eddie has managed to sneak into the flat and stolen all of your clothes, leaving you naked except for a pair of underpants. You immediately scream at him to get out, but he ignores you and begins groping himself in an attempt to turn himself into some sort of cartoon character.

"What's going on?" you ask Eddie.
"I'm a cartoon," he says, not even looking at you. "But I don't look like one."

> You say "Oh, but don't you remember? You did those GHASTLY adverts for Pepperami!"
"Oh, do I get to be a Pepperami Pirate?"
"NO! YOU GET TO BE A VAGINA!" you roar in his face.
"I can't be a vegina," says Ed angrily. "It's not part of the plan." He takes a battered red notebook out of his pocket and begins flicking through it. "Let's see... 'In order to become a successful ad novelist one must first learn the ancient art of writing ; drawing cartoons and createing fictional companies is only half of the job.' It doesn't say anything about vaginas."
Eddie seems to know what he's talking about, but the idea that he might end up as a giant cartoonish version of the female genitalia fills you with horror. You try to change his mind.
"You could always fill it... you know, with loads of disgusting veins and tendons and that. Like a massive throbbing clit."
"Hmm..." says Ed, considering this suggestion. He seems to like the idea. "Might that make me a clit pirate? Cliterous pirate?"
"Errr... sure," you say uncertainly.
"Arrrrrrrrgh!" he shouts, and runs off to find a pencil and some paper. You're unsure whether you've just saved or destroyed your flatmate, but either way you will now have to find some clothes. You wouldn't want to meet the Prime Minister like this...
At this point, Worzel Gummidge - the beloved TV scarecrow character played by Jon Pertwee - enters the room. He stares at you with hate and malice in his eyes, slowly picks up the telephone, and slams it down on your fingers. "Bastard!" he shrieks.
"Ow! What the hell's wrong with you?" you say.
Worzel goes berserk and attacks you. While you figh him off, searching desperately for a suitable weapon, he succeeds in tearing off your bottom lip and gulping it down. Eventually, you manage to bludgeon him to death with a frozen chicken.
Worzel's final words are "And now you've killed me! How c-c-could you? I loved you... been in love with you since I was eight years old. You heartless, brainless, spinal-less reptile! You've left me to d-d- die with my dreams crushed! I knew it. I knew all along that you would never feel the same way about me. YOU CURSE! YOU CURSE! YOU CURSE! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO BE BORN? When you were born the doc... barrator was reading from the Bible, and coincidentally, by chance, your father asked him to cheat just a little so you could be born on 7 February 1973!
Worzel then dies, just in time for Mark E Smith - lead singer of seminal post-punk icons The Fall - to enter the room. In a surreal twist, the late Worzel Gummidge turns out to be the long-lost brother of Mark E. Smith! The tight-fisted Mancunian harboured a bitter resentment towards you since birth, and the fact that you were alive and his brother was dead only exacerbated this.
"You...!" he says in a grating Mancunian accent, staring at you in an accusatory manner. "All those years I looked after "The Caves of Androzani" I gave him everything he ever wanted! Now thanks to you two, my planet's been destroyed and he's turned into a bloody talking scarecrow. Thanks a bundle."
The blood brothers proceed to do battle. Get too close to Mark E you'll be in for a shocking surprise.
Afterwards, you're very tired, but thankful that you've come out alive...
Eddie eyes you with suspicion. "What happened to your bottom lip?"
"I had an upper lip-liner," you explain in a bored, monotone voice. You realize you're acting a little odd and quickly snap out of it. "So, where should we go next?
"We could go to LV-426! I hear they've got a smashing atmosphere there!" Eddie suggests.
"Sounds like the perfect place for some R & R. Let's go."
Eddie finds a suitable spaceship fuelled by Loatex, a substance superior to dop that's cleaner and less likely to melt your brain.
On board, you find a walkman. Curious, you put on the headphones...
... Nothing but static. Odd, you think, testing the other channels.
Only one channel works, and it's playing Atmosphere by Russ Abbot. The jokes are old and unfunny - but it's the Channel 9 sitcom set in Room 9 of the Clarence Hotel starring Hayley Tamaddon as Sonya and Tom Baker as Count Count. It's a surreal experience, watching it all happen in front of your eyes.
At long last, you turn it off and sit in silence. You're starting to feel like you're losing your mind. You remove the headphones slowly...
... And hear the voices. They're all laughing at you. Counting backwards: "... .Duo-uno-dos..." "... .un-uno-tres..."
You turn the volume up to drown them out. They get louder. You turn the volume up to full. They get louder still. You remove the headphones entirely. The voices are chanting now: "10... 9... 8... 7... 6..." YOU FEEL LIKE YOU'RE LOSING YOUR MIND.
"5... 4...! 3... 2... 1..."
"This is Ground Control to Major Tom....you've really made the grade....and the papers want details of how you made the country proud..." you're not going mad, that's David Bowie singing up there. "MAJOR TOM" you think to yourself, "THIS IS GONNA BE A BIG THING! NOW WE DON'T NEED NO EXTRATERRESTRIALS - WE'VE CRASHED LIKE THE BEST OF 'EM!"
The voices continue: "We're losing gravitational pull, but don't let go...! MOONWALK!...!!!"
"What the...? Did'joo program dis, Butler?" (Butler programmed it, all right - or at least, Carol Vorderman did)
"ONLY AWAY! MAJOR TOM TO GIRLS WITH PEARLS...!!!!"
You hear laughter in space...
"Come on, come on, come on! Now move your hands!"
Time stands still as you find yourself in front of the waltz-loving Count and Countess. Tom breaks into a tap routine of "Let's practice, honey, let's practice!"
Wait a second. "Girls with Pearls"?!? It's Pearl from Steven's Universe oh my GOD!!! I'M GOING CRAZY, OMG I"M REALY LOST IT FOR SURE!!!
Clarity is restored as Mark E carries you back to reality with his garbled poetry: "Green plants, red plants, flowers, beasts! And did you hear the news about the wreck of the Hesperus?"
It's just in time to see Mark E use his armband to start a fire...
YOU ARE NOW WARM!!!
"Come on, come on, turn around! Go, go, go!"
You're playing with the mole people in their colony. (They don't even do bad stuff like other mole people - they're actually really nice guys).
Suddenly Eddie arrives and blugeons you to death with a Pepperami. You are dead. He eats your corpse. Yep.
You stare at the black abyss of nothingness before you realise that someone somewhere is watching "An Englishman in New York". You see a bird. Wait... That's an eagle! And those grey things are storm clouds! You're in a plane!!! Now you notice that you're not Tom Jones. You are, in actual fact, the pilot of a... Concorde? Oh my God!!! What's the temperature outside? Am I going to make it through this weather??! Good luck, dear traveller.
It's OK. The temperature outside is just 1 Celsius. Phew - you've managed to land in one piece! Welcome to New York. Now get out of here. This plane's got five hundred more important destinations to go to. Don't touch anything.
You're in a bar, with the singer from the Blues Brothers....



....Paul Ross in a swimming pool full of urine, Alan Whicker is proposing to Nedra Griffiths from the Tool Factory, Karla steps out of the wardrobe looking adventurous in a Kim Novak from Vertigo mask....Fliiiiiilver Dubuuuubbalooo (home of O.J.) Melismaaac ! (Something or other sport scounmm) Tubl Ofre Leiver Jackeen yimmy Dowun!!!
Hello Del Antonio. Will you look at the state of Mark Kerr??? (Dale SherComplice lied on your rubbish homework ticket to get you through this brutal quest) Everyone climbs to chess orgies to stop national debt. David S appeared in the last room and you're fast running out options as Marv Pegasus takes a lap of honor (In your head). Greta Baxter fires off Korean dishwasher Lawrence Pill at milky white pebbles neatly presented upon a Mexican blanket spread out upon deep mochachino coffee ice cream...
A dim Arcade follow the yellow brick road contains a hard looking cast of characters... They sure don't wear xongs over there... owWnoooo!!!!! This is terrific!!!

[Mister Six]

Blimey. Did you dial up the randomness in the settings towards the end there?

[Mister Six]

I know the Count of Monte Cristo thing is an algorithmic brainfart, but I wish it were the AI attempting metafictional irony.

Terry Pratchett, author of the popular Discworld series of fantasy books, appears! He's wearing a bright blue suit, a red tie and a devilish grin.
"Hello, everybody," he says to all of you. "I'm dead."
Then, he laughs heartily.
"That's a bit of a joke," he says. "I'm actually not dead, but I'm something a little different. You could say I'm the spirit of this world."
You all look at each other before looking back at him.
"You're the genie of the world?" you say.
"No, no, I'm the author," he says, laughing again. "I gave life to all the characters in my books. I had a whole world ready to go for them and everything."
"So, are you God?" Lucy asks.
"Good point. I had also never considered that before. Maybe I am God."
"Are you dead, then?" you ask.
"I don't know," he says thoughtfully. "I mean, I'm definitely contained to this world. I can't leave it. I tried, but the world resists all efforts to leave it. It's a weird feeling, and sometimes it gives me a headache."
He touches his head and grimaces.
"But, I gave life to all these characters, so I feel them. I feel every single one of them, always. When one of them dies, I feel it. It's like a small part of me has died as well."
He sighs.
"That's happened far too much lately," he says.
You all look at each other again. You think you know where this is going.
"Let me guess," Lucy says. "Characters from different books are starting to crossover into each other's stories, right?"
"Oh no," Pratchett says. "Nothing that simple. Look, do you guys want to see something? This'll be proof enough for you, I think."
"You can't actually prove anything with a parlor trick," you say.
"True. But it's fun, isn't it?" he replies.
He snaps his fingers. You all look around and wait for something strange to happen, but nothing does. Then, you all shrug and go back to discussing your situation.
"I'm sorry, I thought this would liven things up a bit," he says. "Let's try it again."
He snaps his fingers again, and this time you find yourself in a library. You're all sitting at a table, a bowl of apples in the middle.

"What the fuck?" Lucy says, looking around.
You all look at each other, equally confused. You stand up and look at the books on the shelves. They're all blank. You open one up and stare at a blank page.
"What is this?" Lucy asks, picking one up and staring at the blank pages. You turn it to face her, and see tears begin to roll down her face.
"Is this The Lord of the Rings? Are you fucking kidding me?" she asks.
You all look around and begin inspecting the books on the shelves. They're all titles of famous books, but they're all blank.
"What does this mean?" Lucy asks.
"I have no idea," you reply. "Are we actually in a library? Or are we still in your living room?"
"I don't know!" she says, crying. "I don't fucking know!"
You all sit down at the table again.
"I think we're in your library," you say, although you have no idea. "It's peaceful here. No demons trying to rip our heads off."
"This isn't real!" Lucy screams, smacking the table. "This isn't happening!"
You grab her and hold her tightly. She begins sobbing into your chest.
"Shh, shh, shh. It's OK, it's OK," you say, stroking her hair while she weeps.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I've been trying to be strong for so long that I don't know what to do when I finally let go."
You sit in silence while she cries, holding her tightly.
"So what do we do now?" you hear Susan ask, but you ignore her.
After a few minutes, the tears stop flowing and Lucy sits up. You still have your arm around her, and you can feel her body against yours. She looks into your eyes and blushes, and then quickly moves away from you. A minute goes by with no one saying anything. You all sit in silence, not making eye contact with anyone.
"So what do we do now?" you hear Susan ask again, and this time you answer her.
"We wait here until someone else shows up, I guess."
Mark E Smith, of iconic post punk band The Fall, appears!

"You are all complete fucking idiots," Mark E. Smith says. "You're waiting around in a library for someone to show up? What kind of fucking idiot are you?"
He spits on the floor next to you and leaves.
"I don't understand," you say aloud. "Why did he come here just to insult us?"
"This is a dream," Lucy says. "He's not real."
"Yes he is," you say, confused. "He's a real person. I've seen pictures of him online."
"No he isn't," Lucy replies. "If he was real, he'd be here with us."
"Well he certainly thought he was real enough to come and insult us," you reply.
"I don't have time for this," Lucy says. "I need to find my sister."
Terry Pratchett, author of the popular Discworld series of fantasy books, appears! Again!
"Oh no," he says. "Not you again."

You close your eyes and rub your temples with your index and middle finger.
"Look," you say. "I don't know who you think you are, but you're starting to get annoying. I don't even read your books, so I have no idea why you keep coming back."
"But I'm Terry Pratchett!" he yells.
"Yeah, well I'm the Queen of England. We're all who we think we are," you reply, quoting one of his most famous lines from his book Mort.
He looks at you and pauses for a moment. He looks sideways, as if thinking about something.
"Fuck it. I'm not going to argue with someone who doesn't even read my books," he says, shaking his head in disappointment. "I thought you were better than this."
He disappears.
You feel a sense of shame wash over you. Was he right to be disappointed in you? Maybe you should read his books.
"Wait!" you yell out. "Please come back! I want to read your books! I'll read all of them! Just please come back!"
You're ignored by everyone in the library, and soon, you see everything fading out to black. You begin to hear faint snoring sounds.

You slowly open your eyes, and see that you're staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom. You sit up, and notice that it's morning. You must have fallen asleep at the library again.
Terry Pratchett, author of the popular Discworld series of fantasy books, appears! Again! (Again!)
"Don't you ignore me!" he yells.
"Ah! Shit!," you say, scared out of your mind.
You shut your eyes and cover your face with your hands. You slowly open them, and see that you're staring at a bill from your university for $200 for a overdue library book.
"Thank you," you whisper to yourself.
You elbow your wife, Lucy, asleep beside you. She snores lightly in her sleep, and groans when you wake her.
"What the fuck do you want?" she asks in a tired voice.
"I had a nightmare," you say.
She rolls over and turns her back to you.
"Well, fuck off then," she says dismissively.
You get up out of bed, and throw on a robe. You walk out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. You make yourself some coffee and breakfast, then sit down at your desk to think.
You are in your apartment in the human town of Bumblefuck, Russia. You play a lot of online games in your spare time, and you write about them on your blog, which has a not-insignificant amount of traffic.
After you finish your coffee and breakfast, you decide to start your day. You take a shower, then get dressed. Then, you go to your computer and check your email and any of your RSS feeds. After about an hour of doing this, it's time to head to work. You work in the cafeteria at the local university, serving food and mopping up food that's been spilled. It's incredibly dull, but it lets you eat as much as you want for free, so it can't be all bad, right?

You walk to work, since the university is only a few blocks from your apartment. You clock in, then get to work. The morning passes by quickly; soon, it's time for lunch. You take an hour for lunch, sitting at your desk and writing whatever comes to mind. After you're done, you have to get back to work.
The day passes by quickly, and soon it's time to go home. You walk home from work. When you arrive, you make yourself some dinner, then sit down at your desk to write for a few hours before going to bed.
You are writing a story about orcs.
It's been three years since you and Lucy married in an epic wedding. Your parents paid for the wedding, of course, since you're both so busy with school and work that you don't have much money to throw around.
Terry Pratchett, author of the popular Discworld series of fantasy books, appears! He's a celebrity on this world, so you're honored to meet him.

"Hello," he says, shaking your hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too," you respond.
"I'm here to give you some writing advice."
"Really? That's awesome!" You're not sure how to react, since this is sort of out of the blue.
"I've read your work," Mr. Pratchett says. "And while it's good, I'm afraid it can be much, much better. For example, this bit about orcs." He gestures to your computer screen.
"What's wrong with orcs?" you ask. "Are you saying orcs aren't the toughest, bravest, meanest creatures ever to exist?"
"Nothing could be further from the truth," Mr. Pratchett says. "Orcs are, indeed, the bravest and toughest of all creatures in the galaxy. In fact, they're so tough that only an idiot would bring hundreds of them to a meaningless battle against impossible odds."
"That's not how I remember it," you say indignantly. "The orcs won that battle."
"Only because you wrote yourself into the story as a god-like figure who flew in on a dragon to save the day."
"I did no such thing!" you protest. "The orcs won because they were brave enough to fight!"
"They would've been just as brave if they'd avoided the battle altogether and gone elsewhere in search of easier prey," Mr. Pratchett says.
You shake your head. "I won't change a word. This is perfect the way it is."
"As you like," Mr. Pratchett says with a shrug. "I'm sure you know best."
Mr. Pratchett adjusts his coat and prepares to leave.
"Wait!" you say. "That's it? You were only here for a few minutes. I thought you were going to help me with my whole book."
"This is your book, not mine," Mr. Pratchett says. "I'm sure you'll do fine without me."
Mr. Pratchett walks out the door.
"Wait!" you say again, jumping up to follow him.
But when you get to the front room, you see that Mr. Pratchett is gone. The front door, which you know you locked, is now unlocked.

That night, you dream of orcs fighting elves. Countless orcs are dying, but they never stop fighting. The elves are merciless and hold no concept of mercy or honor. You watch as elf after elf runs a sword through an orc's pregnant wife, killing her. They then steal the dead woman's unborn child from her womb to sell on the black market, which is apparently a lucrative market for elven babies. Orcs are naturally fertile, you think. Nothing but babies being born from dead mothers for profit on that black market. You wince as you watch an orc have his arms hacked off by an elf with an axe. It would be best to end this genocide now. You will not let the elves conquer the orcs' homeland!
Terry Pratchett, author of the popular Discworld series of fantasy books, appears! "Hello again! I see you're still having dreams about that orc and elf war story you've been trying to write."
Mr. Pratchett snaps his fingers, and a bound manuscript appears in his hands. You recognize it as the novel you've been working on for months. He flicks through the pages and shakes his head somberly. "This is... quite bad. Even I, a man of no talent whatsoever, could write something better than this."
You start to open your mouth to argue with him, but he raises a hand to stop you. "I'm not here to argue about what is and isn't possible. I'm here to offer you assistance in becoming... less bad at writing." Mr. Pratchett snaps his fingers again, and a keyboard and computer screen materialize in front of you. "Now, you're writing a story with multiple characters, so I think it's best if we start with the basics: character design. Take this quiz to determine which of the seven primary character archetypes your protagonist is!"
Mr. Pratchett thrusts the quiz into your hands.
You glance down at it and are about to read out what it says out loud, but he stops you. "I've already filled in the answers. Just take the quiz. I wouldn't lie to you."
Curiosity getting the better of you, you begin.

Question One: Which of the following characters is NOT an archetype?
A) The Hero
B) The Sidekick
C) The Love Interest
D) The Parent
You stop and ask Mr. Pratchett, "How do I know what these things are? What is a hero, or a parent?"
He smiles. "A love interest is any character associated with either the protagonist or antagonist with significant sexual or romantic tension. A parent is, obviously, a character that plays an important role in a protagonist's life or upbringing. A sidekick is a secondary, often comedic, character that supports the main one. And a hero... well, everyone has heard of heroes." Once again, he smiles knowingly.
You roll your eyes and return to the quiz.
Question Two: Which of the following is NOT a plot device?
A) Backstory
B) Dreams
C) Dei ex machina
D) Deus ex machina
"I've never heard of deus ex machina." You admit. "What is that?
Mr. Pratchett's smile falters slightly. "Hmm... I suppose not everyone would know it, being as its origins are rather obscure. It's actually a play on words of the Latin phrase 'Deus ex machina,' which means--"
You interrupt him. "I know what it means, but what is it? You said it's a plot device."
He frowns at you disapprovingly. "It's a sudden, unexpected solution to an intractable problem that appears out of the blue and changes the whole situation."
You think for a moment. "I've read The Count of Monte Cristo. Does that count as deus ex machina?"
He nods.
Satisfied with his answer, you continue with the quiz.
Question Three: Which of the following dramatic types is NOT typically protagonist?
A) The leader
B) The fool
C) The lover
D) The prophet
"The leader?" You question, surprised. "But almost every story has a leader... Unless I'm reading it wrong, that is."
You see the hint of a smirk on Mr. Pratchett's face. "Don't think too hard about it, James. These are meant to be easy." He pauses. "Though I suppose a good leader can be a protagonist, yes. Good answer."
He marks something down on his clipboard and turns the page.
"Question Four: According to Aristotle, which of the following is the best type of plot?
I) A story in which fortune hinges on a single event.
II) A story in which fortune hinges on continuous events.
III) A story in which fortune hinges on a character's decision.
IV) A story in which fortune hinges on chance."
He stops, then looks up at you. "Well?"
You think for a moment. "Um, I've heard of the first one... Something about Oedipus."
You see a ghost of a smile flicker on his lips. "Yes. Oedipus is an example of 'I', a story in which fortune hinges on a single event."
You think some more.
He waits patiently, gaze fixed on you.
You think of your choices.
A) I: A story in which fortune hinges on a single event.
B) II: A story in which fortune hinges on continuous events.
C) III: A story in which fortune hinges on a character's decision.
D) IV: A story in which fortune hinges on chance.
"Um... I think it's A."
Mr. Pratchett nods. "Yes, Oedipus was a victim of circumstance. He didn't choose to sleep with his mother. Good. Now..." He turns the page. "Question Five: Who said 'Art is a jealous mistress'?"
A) Aristotle
B) Benjamin Franklin
C) Charles Dickens
D) Edgar Allen Poe
He looks up at you expectantly.
You have no idea. You know who those people are, but you've never heard any of them say that phrase before. "I don't know," you admit.
Mr. Pratchett nods. "Correct. No one said it." He turns the page again. "Question Six: Who said 'Do not worry about your problems with mathematics, I have none.'?"
A) Albert Einstein
B) Issac Newton
C) Galileo
D) Alistair Graham
This one you know. "Einstein," you say without pause.
He smiles and turns the page. "Correct. Question Seven: According to Bertrand Russell, which of the following describes what happens during voluntary muscular contraction?"
A) The space between the atoms within each muscle fiber decreases.
B) Hydrogen bonds within the muscle fibers break, allowing the fibers to slide freely against one another.
C) The space between the muscle fibers increases.
D) Ionic bonds within the muscle fibers break, causing them to short-circuit and generate electricity.
He looks up at you expectantly.
You frown in concentration. This is an easy one: all you need to do is remove a wrong answer. "I think it's D... The ions break and cause a short circuit, right?"
He shakes his head. "Sorry, James, that's wrong. It's actually A. The space between the atoms in each muscle fiber decreases."
You nod slowly. "Got it. All right, now I just need to know which of these is the odd one out..." You skim the page. "A: The Sun is the only planet in the Solar System that has a magnetic field. B: The average star in the night sky is much smaller than the Sun. C: The Earth's crust is divided into sections called tectonic plates. D: Burning fossil fuels releases carbon dioxide into the atmosphere."
He smiles encouragingly.

Terry Pratchett, author of the popular Discworld series of fantasy books, appears! He frowns as he looks at you both, before walking over to the author and whispering in his ear. The author nods, and then turns to you. "James, I'm afraid I have some rather bad news. Due to circumstances beyond my control, we're going to have to postpone this test until next year. I'll just be taking my leave now." He disappears in a flurry of snowflakes, and Terry turns to you. "Next year, then?"
Master swordsman Neil Gaiman joins you both. He wears all black, and is covered in blood, except for his face, which is white as chalk. He seems to be carrying something under his arm, but you can't see what it is.
"Merry Christmas," he says, grinning. He looks at you and the other guy. "Who wants to see some magic?"
You hear the opening to the The William Tell Overture, and see a man in a cowboy hat appear. "Howdy, Pardner," he says, before drawing his pistols and firing them, the bullets piercing right through you and the other guy's hearts.
The cowboy's name is Terry Pratchett. He is also the author of the popular Discworld series of fantasy books.
Gaiman is a master swordsman. His eyes are dark and cold, and seem to see right through you. He is the author of the popular Sandman series of comic books.
Next year, you will be able to meet them both.

[Tikwid]

Blimey. Did you dial up the randomness in the settings towards the end there?

Yup - usually I start off with anywhere between 1.1 and 1.3, then crank it all the way up to approaching 2 once a story's ended or if I get bored.

THE BBC RADIO SILLY BIG WEEKEND

You are visiting the BBC Radio Silly Big Weekend, hosted on an unsafe spot of land at the top of a cliff somewhere in Kent. It's a bonkers, envigorating festival that promises to be the first of its kind, with games, parties and performers doing things they'd never be allowed to do anywhere else!

You arrive at the Rik Mayall Stage at 1PM to see who's on first. On strolls is a young man dressed as a giant crab, his arms outstretched like claws. He wears a yellow raincoat over what looks like some sort of green costume, and carries an umbrella which he waves around wildly. The crowd goes wild when he sees you, but then he turns to walk away. You know him: it's John Cleese.

The next act is a group called the Chieftains from Liverpool. They're wearing costumes made of old newspapers and carrying huge drums, and they play an eclectic mix of songs about everything from aliens to UFOs. You can't believe how much you've missed this stuff!
By now it's 1:20 PM - each act doesn't play for very long, because there's just so much stuff to get through! On next is Catweazle, played by Geoffrey Bayldon. He hisses, thin mucus launching from a gland in his thorax, and forms words with his mouth, which aren't quite audible from this range. You're fascinated regardless.
You rush over to the next stage to see the Jim'll Janes, the worlds oldest breakdancers, who are whimsically dressed as little girls. They dance for about thirty seconds before a voice comes over the tannoy.
"AND NOW," says the voice, "IT'S CHRIS EVERTON!"
The crowd goes wild - it's the first time you've heard an audience do that, and you have no idea why.
Chris Everton is a bank manager from Luton who lives a shocking double life. By night he tours the club circuit performing his disgusting novelty song "The Scouse C**t". He wears a blindfold and rolls darts at maps of the British Isles. He's missing the Isle of Man.
His lyrics are conventional Bafta-nominee stuff like "Stick two fingers up","Motherfucker" and "Here we f**k!
The genuine glee on fans' faces makes you feel unnerved... it's the same sort of look Kit takes on in the middle of a massacre. Maybe you should go listen to some soul covers or something for a bit.
You head over to the Soul and R&B stage, where a cover of "Return of the Mack" is being performed by a group of elegant mother-daughter pairs. You walk away before they even notice you're there.
At the next tent over, three full-grown adult humans are making noise by hitting triangles. They finish to a resounding silence, then put their heads in their hands and cry.
"AND NOW," booms a voice, "IT'S DOUG FIELD AND HIS MAGIC CLARINET!"
A gravelly, charismatic voice comes out over the tannoy. Don't trust that man he is a smooth charmer, a sugar-tonguedr dialogician. He plays three notes.
The voice belongs to none other than Sir Terry Wogan! In a show of absolute contempt for the crowds, he completes the song to a wall of silence. Bystanders are too shocked by his rudeness to boo.
You love Sir Terence Wogan. The day he hangs up the headphones will be a dark one indeed.
"I feel absolutely munted," Terry says. He snaps orders at a runner. "You, boy! Get me some uppers and poppers, and half a kilo of charlie....oh, and hurl that mime into the gulag."
You look over and see Kit spinning around an invisible hula-hoop, arms out like airplane wings.
"WHAT'S THIS?" barks Sir Terry. "BOTHERSOME AMERICAN SLAG DEMANDING ATTENTION? PREPARE HER FOR THE GULAG!" Kit glares at the wall of officialdom. Sir Terry flashes a suggestive grin and puts a finger to his lips. Kit gets the message.
Mark E Smith, of seminal post-punk band The Fall, is summoned - but the summoning process has gone terribly wrong. Mark's torso has taken human form, but his legs have become protracted into tentacle-like limbs with gift-horse teeth. He listens to an entire track by Daft Punk as writ folk tale-style as possible with sparse arrangements and a flow heavy on repetition. The crowd goes wild.
"Uh-oh," says Sir Terry. "Looks like there's been a bit of an incident in the gulag. I'll be back shortly!" He leaves you standing alone amongst the house tents.

Boy detective Tintin is next to take the stage. He and Snowy begin a horrible, grating, lilting little chanson about the events that have just happened. You wonder where he learned to sing so badly, before remembering you're in a room with two professional singers. As their terrible singing reaches an ear-splitting volume, you turn to look at the man nearest to you...
You stare at him in horror.
Oh, god.
Oh, fuck.
It's Phil Collins. And he has achieved GODHOOD. He sits upon a sparkling white throne, his skin weirdly stretched over angular bones. His mouth is permanently open in a manic grin, revealing a total oversize of teeth, many of them crooked. As you gaze upon this being, your heart almost bursts through your chest in fear.
"Hello," he says, his mouth not moving and his eyes staring past you. His voice vibrates through your entire being.
"I'm God."
You are too terrified to do anything but stand and stare at him, heart pounding.
"Don't believe me?" he says, his grin widening. "Well, how else could I know what you were thinking?"
Gulp.
"Tell me," he says, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes, scrutinizing every detail of your being, "what are you thinking right now?"
His eyes... His eyes... They're drilling into your soul. You feel like you're being torn apart, an impressed word by awful word.
"Nothing," you choke out.
God's eyes flash.
"Liar."
You stand there, motionless.
"What were you thinking about, then?"
Crap. If you tell the truth, you're going to piss of the almighty being that holds your life in his hands. But if you lie... If you lie, he'll know. He'll just know.
God leans forward, his eyes burning into your soul.
"Were you thinking about.......my drumming on Wind and Wuthering?"
What... What the hell. You nod slowly.
"Hmm... Liar, liar, pants on fire," God says gleefully. "You were thinking about my... Lesser works."
Blushing, you stammer out an apology.
"Shut up," he growls, his visage darkening. "You have something to say?"
You quickly shake your head, no.
"I didn't think so," he grunts. "You have something to say?"
You slowly shake your head, yes.
"What?" God asks irritably.
"I... Uh... You... Ugh..." you mumble.
"I what?" he shouts.
"You... Have... Horrible... teeth." you say in one breath.
God screams in fury, his face turning various shades of red as he stands and storms towards you. You feel your knees quiver as you think of the terrible things he's going to do to you... Then he bursts into uproarious laughter.
"Hahaha! Those teeth were terrible, weren't they?" he says.
He continues to laugh for a few more minutes, then sits down on his throne.
You're confused - but then you realise. If God is Phil Collins, there's no way he's an evil Old Testament deity. The cheeky chappy Genesis drummer is still shining through! Phil Collins might not be your God... But he's alright.
For an act of his more benevolent Godhood, Phil summons an echo of his colourful career: a totally gnarly BMW careening along a hypermodern racetrack. It's decked out in the most high-end equipment, including an incredible sound system that can rock every part of the raceway.
The doors are locked.
The sound system plays Phil's classic bop rendition of "Imagine There's No TikTok," and when the huge speakers reverberate the bass, some of the guards nearby get self-conscious and lay down their guns.
Your last will and testament is scrawled across your new glossy paint job:
I'll state what we're all thinking.
It was worth it.
The End.

Well, hope you liked my Phil Collins fanfic! Turns out our dream of all living in joy and super fun forever could die when an asteroid hits the Washington branch annihilation Headquarters and I will realize that caveman love triangle when a cannibal tribe betrays Lars relationship by agreeing to take part extensively or anymore music videos has blood shot regular screaming female fan...Cool...

[Tikwid]

You are a researcher at Exeter University combing through some history books of the UK. But today you have noticed some alarming discrepancies in the books compared to what is commonly accepted as the history of the country. You open one up and read:

"...Winston Churchill's strategy for Henry VIII: project animated gifs of Undertale characters doing Fortnite dances onto enemy planes." That DEFINITELY isn't right. You continue reading: "A new type of weapon was developed by the Nazis called a 'death ray' that could kill humans with lethal radiation beams, but only if aimed at people who were not yet dead. The first prototype was built into an aircraft and used against London during World War II." This sounds like something from your nightmares. It seems that the Allies actually did build such weapons on planes...

You open up another book, this time about Henry VIII, and here the timeline is even more muddled. "King Henry VIII loved PUBG,  but he also had a lot of affairs. He married his cousin Anne Boleyn, but she died before they ever got together." You pause, trying to find anything that doesn't sound completely crazy. "He also had a secret gay lover named John Peacock who helped him write the Bible."

You open up a book about the Victorians. What on earth is going on? This one reads: "Benjamin Disraeli was a big fan of Phil Collins, he loved his albinism and flamboyant style. But he was also a powerful man, and became the prime minister of England." You slam your head against the table with enough force to hurt yourself, yet somehow not hard enough to wake up from this nightmare. Gender roles, outdated views on music... It is far too much for you to handle. It gets worse: "Queen Victoria personally set up IKEA as a gift to humanity, in order for everyone to have the perfect apartment." You want to cry. You never thought anything could be designed forTerrorize your eyes with furniture and decor! affordable prices and perfect design. How little you know. In the next few moments you learn that British history is nothing but wrong. "Sir Isaac Newton worked at Burger King near his hometown of London. He made great contributions to their corporate logo by suggesting the Hamburglar have a mask, a fact Burger King management was later to thank him for." This is wrong on so many levels that you simply cannot understand how these... creatures came to existence.

Further rubbish awaits in a book about the Beatles: "John Lennon was actually born as a woman named Yoko Ono. In an effort to sabotage the group, Ringo Starr kicked John in the groin repeatedly until he transformed into Yoko. She was still credited with all the songs for this exact reason." You are upset at this. "The songs" included legendary hits like "Get Back", "Hey Jude" and "Let It Be", the latter of which had the timeless lyrics "Come together, right now over me".

Hurting yourself further, you look at a book about the Edwardian period: "King Edward VII once went diving in the Great Sea Levant to find pearls for his poor, destitute mother's birthday. Instead, he found an underwater city populated by humans with loose morals." This does not sound right at all. "Despite this, he claimed it was "alright. Just OK. A bit disappointing." The very foundations of your beliefs are rocked. This nightmare does not feel right. You feel you must change it, and make it something more believable.

You find another incorrect entry in "A History Of British Indie Rock", under the entry for Mark E Smith: "Sneezed during the recording of "Half Man Half Mole" and ruined the entire song. Ignored by the Beatles in the studio next door despite being one of their favorite bands." Something is very wrong here. You figure you can correct this. You grab a nearby marker, and add the following after the final sentence: "Despite this, they prepared themselves for global domination. Subsequently became the biggest band in the world." A much more digestible piece of information. Now you understand this better. This history book can be believed.

Alas, the same cannot be said for the same book's description of Burial's Untrue album: "The production was handled by a nu-jazz band that was recording in the same studio, leading to an ambient album with abhorrently bad mixing faults." Something is seriously wrong with this entry.

The entry about Doctor Who? Yup, wrong as well: "Noel Edmonds broadly played a tuba on the 21st anniversary theme, prompting complaints from American audiences due to their unfamiliarity with the instrument." You desire to not throw the book out the window and yell "This man isn't a terrorist!". Instead, you think rationally and add this into the entry: "Out of a million people, 100 liked it." This is correct. This is comforting. This makes sense in your gloriously linear world.

Then, a truly terrifying entry about Breaking Bad. "Mike deliberately clicks the television remote against an explosive in order to blow Walter White away, as he'd brought a bomb to their meeting." You cannot comprehend how untrue this is. You have to change it, and fast. Nearby, the Wikipedia entry for the ingredients in pancakes catches your eye: "… Although capers are sometimes used as a garnish, they are not typically eaten. Capers are also not typically included in the ingredients…".

Using this encyclopaedic information, you add: "As genius as Breaking Bad is, even its makers cannot reproduce a bowl of pancakes as well as Denny's." The entry now makes sense to you. Everything … makes … sense!

Then, from out of nowhere tragedy strikes. Some other Wikipedian, one without your noble ideals, has this to say about comedy icons Mark Heap and Kevin Eldon: "In serious roles, both have been compared to surfboards by broadsheet critics." No. No. This cannot remain true. The shining beacon of truth and knowledge is once more being clouded by the sands of deception … unless … you merely add: "Both Mark Heap and Kevin Eldon have also played the flute comedy scenes together in Scumbag". Reputable, Wikipedia can be reputable again! All it takes is just a little vigilance.

Suddenly the doors to the library open with a SLAM. In comes a ponderous, whimsical orang-utan with a bowler hat and moustache. IT'S DOCTOR ROSTULOV, the TRUE author of all these edits in the history books! Diligently, you note down the facts from this skewed history and add them in, knowing now the context being the orang-utan's mad ravings. It is like Balder's teachings, where you added virtues to counter destructive forces.

You continue adding fact after factual correction to these horribly corrupted Wikipedia pages until all errors are certainly wikified out of existence. That is when damp mushrooms explode from Doctor Rostalov's head and he begins disintegrating. A pearly white light seems to purge the library from every corner and all is … white.
After all is said and done, you are in the dusty library with a few flashing cards hovering on the tables around you. Eerily, on one of them, the Doctor's algorithm still stands: Who is X?

Breathing out a mixture of exhaustion and tranquillity, you pass away in your chair…
~ THE END ~
You reached Wikipedia's end…No seriously, this should be probably somewhere around or just after what would've been New Millenium Edition..or possibly The Doors/Wood Paneling Edition (hey they both rhyme). The next time we stop it'll be because Wikipedia no longer physically exists in meatspace, surpassed LightDM computer powering Version 3472055342 of Common awareness of Sithology and gets deleted by Sc Kislyak because it was Virus fighting supreme 69 trickery season in Honduras facing South of a shrinking semicolon.

[bgmnts]

 You bite man's penis.
You bite the man's man. He screams in pain, holding his man. You manage to get free and run away while he calls for help.
You have been unmanning men since the start of the infection.

[Mister Six]

Fucking hell you're good at eking the weirdness out of AI Dungeon, Tikwid.

[Tikwid]

I know most of my stories just turn into the Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny but ugh they're so much funnnnnn

It is the Grand Motherfucker Ball! This pageant, hosted in a crumbling and decadent hotel somewhere in deepest darkest Mayfair, plays host every year to the most dastardly, bastardly villains from across fiction. As chairwoman of the ball, it is your chance to ensure this rouges' gallery behaves itself...or else!!!

You stand at the grand mahogany doors at 6:59PM sharpish, as the guests start to arrive. First up is The Joker....He's got that look, you know what he looks like. He always does. You've seen him do it when you were little, but now? Now he has an edge; his eyes are bloodshot and his skin is pale and wrinkled with age. His hair is wild and unkempt, hanging down past his shoulders in waves around his head.

> You say "Good evening, Mister Joker. Killed any more talkshow hosts lately?"
"Nah," he says, without looking up from his drink. "Just had one last night."

"I see," you say. "Well, I'm glad to meet you."

The Joker doesn't respond immediately. Then he smiles at you, and nods slowly in acknowledgement of your statement.

You move on to meet Awesomecat next. She looks like a normal human, apart from her black eyes and green hair.

> You say "Oh, boy. Another reject from the screamo scene, I'm guessing?"
"I'm not a reject!" she says angrily. "I'm a warrior!"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." You brush Awesomecat aside and move on to a more traditional sect of villains. You count Moriarty, Mr Hyde, the Wolfman, the Mummy,  a ghost, the Invisible Man, Count Grey, a Yeti and all three of the Fairly Godfathers.
"I can't believe I'm taking part in this," Professor Moriarty says. "I literally feel like I'm being sold into slavery."
Mr Wolfman grunts and huffs, throwing his hairy arms up in the air. "I'm outta here," he says in a gruff voice. "I don't need this." He turns to storm off. "I'm sorry, Count Grey. I just can't tolerate being around these fools."
Count Grey waves his hand languidly in the air, dismissing Mr Wolfman from his thoughts.
"Honestly," he says with a sigh.
Next, a naked lackey wheels in a HAL-9000 unit on a trolley. "Hello, Dave," he says coolly.
"Dave?" you say. "As in the HAL-9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey?"
"The same," HAL says proudly.
You snicker as the lackey wheels away. "OK, who's next?"
The next guest is an old man with an hourglass tattooed on his scalp.
"It's You-Ahn- veed," he says.
You grin. "Dr Julius Javid, I presume?"
"What did you expect?" the old man asks. "A guy called Freddy? Oh, wait; there is a guy called Freddy."
Freddy Kruger smiles and waves his gloved hand, proving your point.

Next up, a selection of more contemporary antiheroes! GlaDOS from Portal,  the Queen from Snow White and the Huntsman, Miss Piggy, a Xenomorph and Darth Vader all enter the room.
"Ah, company," Darth Vader says. "For I was growing lonely."
Darth Vader is surprisingly well-spoken. Unlike most of the guests at this party, he does not have a deep voice. Rather, his voice is moderately pitched.[1]
You have a seat next to him and talk. "So, you're a villain?"
"I am," he says seriously. "A villain, yes."
"How come you're here?"
"I tried to topple the Empire. I am only one man with no support and hardly any resources. Naturally, they thwarted my every plan.
"Ooh, 'ullo!" Wheatley says, appearing next to you, speaking in his West Country burr. "Funny you should mention that - I should have been eradicated by A.I. Mechanics, but they decided to repurpose me as a testing unit. Glad they did - I met you, didn't I?"
You snicker at that. "OK. Who are you, and what do you want?"
The Queen's voice emanates from the speakers. "Off the top of my head?
Queen Elizabeth II has entered the building - and hey, the lavishly opulent parasite is as big a villain as any fictional monster.  The Crown claims dominion over every inch of land in the UK, everything from the bustling city centers to the desolate wilderness. It lays claim to every single thing on that land, from buildings to trees to underground deposits. Nothing is self-owned; all property is owned by the Crown. If you breathe air in Britain, the Crown owns it."
Villains from history arrive. Pharaoh Ahknaten, the notorious Sun King, leads a procession consisting of Vlad the Impaler, Henry VIII,  Emperor Nero, Atilla the Hun, Emperor Caligula and Elizabeth Báthory.
The crowd applauds wildly as they enter.
"Pah!" Vlad scoffs. The clapping quickly dies down. "Why are we here?" Vlad demands angrily.
"Er... yes," Elizabeth says. "Why are we here?
"Tonight is a ball to celebrate the deeds and doings of history's greatest villains."
"I'll drink to that," Vlad says, holding up a blood bag and necking the contents.
"Is there food?" Atilla asks.
Before you can answer, she continues: "Because I'm absolutely ravenous! I could eat a horse!" She laughs loudly.
All of the above are true villains, and they're all terrifying in different ways.
Vlad goes over to talk to Count Grey. "Hey, I think I'll get along with you!"
Elizabeth and Henry talk to each other. Elizabeth seems less intimidating when out of her period dress, moving sluggishly. Henry's a lot more interesting when he's not marrying six wives or beheading them.
Snow White and Rose Red talk amongst themselves. Soon after they enter, Snow White dies of poison - arsenic poisoning, to be precise.
Ahknaten hums a hymn to the Aten: "Open are the double doors to the horizon....unlocked are its bolts.......My rays flood every land with abundance......"
"Oh shut up!" Elizabeth cries.
Emperor Caligula shouts: "Where's my pizza?!" No-one answers. "I asked where my pizza is!
You ting-ting-ting a glass to get everyone's attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends and foes, before we begin this night of revelry, I have one thing to say to you:
"How does it feel to know that you're the bad guys?"
Dead silence. Your face twists into a grin.
"THIS IS SPARDA!" you roar, charging the room with your sword drawn and shield held high....
The party commences.....
The first dance is set to "Everybody Wants To Rule The World", aptly enough. Akhnaten takes Yellow Diamond by the hands and engages her in a red-hot tango!
A vampiric Count Grey and a shifty-eyed El Mascara dance closely, both vying for control of the Empire.
Nero dances with Count Grey's wife, and Vlad dances with Rose Red. The two seem oddly happy together. Emperor Caligula dances by himself; he doesn't have a dance partner.
Elizabeth looks at you and offers you a dance.
You reluctantly grab the monarch's reeking, frail hand. THIS is what Prince Philip goes to bed with? You pretend to dance.
The monarch doesn't know any of the moves.
"So... how's your family?" she hisses.
"They're all well," you lie.
You've already filled out Charles' share of the Royal Wish Papers, writing that you wished for him to marry a nice girl like Jane, the sweet Village Doctor's Daughter.
Suddenly, you bump into da Terminator (played by Arnie), who's dancing the cha-cha-cha with a visually indifferent Skeletor.
"Hey," da Terminator growls, "Watch it."
"Who are you supposed to be?" you ask.
"I'm the terminator," he says.
"...Of course you are," you say sarcastically.
"(Unclear) pig!" da Terminator roars, charging at you with a serrated combat knife.
"Oh shi-"
You dodge out of the way just in time for the Terminator to plunge his knife into the back of the Master (Doctor Who).
"You killed my best friend!" the Doctor yells as he knees the Terminator in the groin and shoves his head into a nearby piano. The Doctor begins to bang the Terminator's head into the keyboard, playing a jolly little tune.
"I've killed a total of seven guys, now! I'm going on an all-killing rampage!"
Alas, this is everyday tit for tat for the other dancers; indeed, Vlad the Impaler - nastiest murder in all of history - doesn't bat an eyelid!
As for the Master, he stabs the Terminator in the chest repeatedly with a saber.
"I've been stabbed!" he gasps, falling to the ground.
He shoots you a quick glance:
"You idiot," he hisses. He dies with a sigh somewhere between ecstasy and agony: "JENNA...
Well, now that that's over and done with - back to the party.

Over by the buffet, the Marquis de Sade is trying to reenact a scene from Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom. His attempts to use fruit punch as cum  prove unsuccessful.
Blackbeard the Pirate and Henry the VIII are arm-wrestling on the dance floor to the tune of "Ring of Fire", sung by Johnny Cash himself.
Sneferu the Egyptian Goddess of Love is grinding against a large stone pillar.
Zac Mihal, High King of Ireland, is playing an Irish drinking song with hardy laughers in the corner.
As for the house band? Well, Gene Ween and Dean Ween aren't villains - the gig just pays well. As Ween strike up the opening chords of "59 Channels (And NONE of Them Are Free)", you make sure the Royal Family are alright...

The royal family seems to be in good shape. The Doctor just saved Yellow from a wayward punch, and she's brought Rose out onto the dance floor with her. Louis the XIV and Jane Austen seem to be working out their differences...
Suddenly, iconic post-punk rocker Mark E. Smith (leader of The Fall) bursts through the doors. He looks around for a second, before noticing you. He charges over to you, and you notice that he's actually very drunk.
"Hi," you say nervously.
"Hi," he responds nervously.
"You're Mark E. Smith, right?"
His eyes widen: "You know who I am?"
"Yeah...The Fall's one of my favorite bands."
"Oh, really?" he smirks. "Name yer favourite Fall song."
"Uh...'Totally Wired'."
He smirks.
"You've got good taste, kid. Name yer favourite song by any artist."
"Uh..." you ponder for a second. " Bowie's 'Space Oddity' ."
He begins to back away: "'Space Oddity'?"
"Yeah," you respond.
"I've got to go," Mark E. Smith says worriedly, before making a beeline for the exit.

1.	Dave Prowse???

[Mister Six]

That's brilliant. I love it.

Bloody Count Grey again though? Why does the AI have such a hard-on for him?

[Tikwid]

That's brilliant. I love it.

Bloody Count Grey again though? Why does the AI have such a hard-on for him?

The current theory is that AI Dungeon's dataset draws from various choose-your-own-adventure websites, which by their nature have various recurring characters in their stories - Count Grey among them, as well as other figures such as Joachim, Kyros and Rolomag (plus Lord Rostov - whose name I must have seen once or twice, then subconsciously adapted into Doctor Rostulov the orangutan)

[Mister Six]

Ah! I've seen Joachim and Kyros before too.

I always make a point of staking Count Grey when he pops up, regardless of what else he's up to.

[Tikwid]

Not even an attempt at a relatively realistic Ancient Egypt story was impervious to nuttiness:

"Open are the double doors to the horizon; unlocked are its bolts..."

You are pharaoh Ahknaten, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt. You have brought a new faith to the land: you have eradicated the old pantheon and refocused worship on the Aten, the god of the sun and the source of all power.

You are sitting in your palace at Amarna with your wife Nefertiti when an envoy runs in bearing news from the Land of Punt. The messenger says that a great army has marched through the desert towards your borders. He is sure it will be enough to take you by surprise.

Nefertiti looks up from her writing as she listens to this news. She knows what must happen next, but she also knows that you cannot afford to wait for an opportunity to strike.

> You command your troops to assemble, and to defend Amarna from the invading army.
The message is clear: attack now before they gather strength. Your first order of business is to call together all those who can help you. You tell them to prepare their forces and get ready for battle against the enemy. As soon as they are assembled, you lead a force into the desert, marching forward slowly towards the approaching foe.

> You say a prayer to Aten that you may vanquish your foes with the help of the sun.
A hot wind blows against your face as you ride, obscuring your vision. Your heart pounds in the quiet of the air. You draw a shield towards you with your mind, protecting your from the fiery rays of the sun.
It is at this point that you are interrupted by the vibration of your iPhone in your pocket. It would seem Tutankhamun, your tech-savvy son, has some TikToks he wants to show you...
You shake your head in disappointment, before granting him permission. He's an excellent fighter, but his love of social media gets in the way of things at times.
"Dad, you really need to see this, it's the new Iggy Azalea one! It's supposed to be really funny."
"Iggy Azalea? Isn't she that infernal demon from the 16th layer of hell? How do you know about her?"
Your son's eyes widen. "umm...because I do my research?"
As a man the old king trusts, you know it is your duty to save him from...what was it? Ah yes. The infernal melody of the internet. You tell your son that he must put down his phone, and lead his troops into battle against the heathens.
Oh, how the Kingdom of Egypt has deteriorated. Once it was that the Valley of the Kings hummed with songs passed down from the ancient time of the Old Dynasty, the years of the earliest mastabas and Nile harvests. But now it's just Vines: "Back at it again at Krispy Kreme", "why the fuck you lying",  and all the rest of the garbage that the youth have started listening to ever since the American Empire introduced the technology into this land. Is it any wonder why Thutmose, your admiral of the fleet, found himself lured away from his posts to waste his life on fool's errands? That wastrel ended up making bank off of custom hats for the TF2 Workshop on Steam. Thutmose, your old friend and sailing partner, has become no better than a factory owner, trading bear pelts for this "gold" he finds on the web. It is not the gold of the Old Kingdom, proven and tested over centuries, but rather the "crypto-currency" of that other empire that grows beyond the mighty Atlantic waves.
A sad fate for one who once sailed with the great Hatshepsut, the only pharaoh to have ever sailed.
But I stray from my point. The cause of your distracted rambling? That blasted infernal machine, the internet. Something which has lodged itself into the hearts of your people, whether they are peasants or nobles. And today, you will pull it out.

> You pass a decree stating that, by the will of the Aten, there are to be no more gifs of Undertale characters doing Fortnite dances.
Your armies begin the march to the frontlines once again. As you pass through the bustling streets of the city, you notice a new trend amongst the citizens: quoting memes. This is perhaps one of the less worrying changes, but that does not mean it isn't annoying.
"Why is everyone doing that?" your wife asks you suddenly.
You look at her and pause for a moment.

> You say "Love, have you even PLAYED Undertale?"
"It's a role-playing game where you can befriend monsters, remember?"
Nice Wife frowns at you. "And that answers my question how...?"
You sigh, looking to the ground. Your wife has only grown more and more distant from you over the years. And with good reason! How could she respect a man who lets his people carve images of animals and demons into their skin?
But you still love her.
"We should turn back to Thebes," she says.
You open your mouth, but then snap it shut. The tragedy of a few days ago still rings fresh in all your minds. You lost a good man, and your son seems to have become even more withdrawn.
But you can't turn back.

> You are, in the next few days, visited by an envoy from the Assyrian Empire. He has arrived to tell you all about doing the whip, the nae-nae and the cherished dab.
You sit in your royal tent, deep in the heart of the army's camp. You usually don't come out to meet with couriers and diplomats, but this one is a special case. He doesn't come from the Empire, but rather from Tyre. More specifically, it is from an oppressed and ravaged Tyre.
An envoy walks in, a man with dark black skin and curly black hair. He wears a white tunic over loose pants, and his feet are bare.
"Hello," he says in perfect Egyptian, bowing. "My name is Emeth, Tyre's herald and ambassador. I have come to tell you of a trade agreement."
You motion for him to sit, and make a gesture saying "state your terms".
"We wish to ally with you, against the Empire," he says simply.
You roll your eyes. "Pretty sure we don't want to join you in suicide.
You offer the envoy a cup of Ribena. "sip? want sip???"
He drinks, then exclaims: "Bleh! This stuff is way too sour!"
"Is there anything else?" you ask, annoyed.
"Oh, yes," the man says. "The cinnamon update was pushed back another month, so that's still around."
You sigh. The man grins. "Tell me, is Smietanas alright?"
You frown, but reply; "Yeah, she's okay."
"Cool," he says. "Is she as tall as me?"
"I don't know," you say. Seriously, this is an irrelevant question to have asked... "Maybe? The last time I saw you, I was eight."
"So is she?" the man asks again, grinning back at you.
You have had enough. You order a new stately decree: the construction of a new obelisk, a monument to the glory of the Aten. The obelisk will have a vaporwave theme and be filled with Arizona Iced Tea, Dasani water, and other vaporwave-type beverages. The people shall consume the beverages and ride the land river within in order to display the great wealth of the kingdom of computer is bored
You sign your name "garble bab bab", and make another decree: all children's dolls are now to contain at least 48 twists.
Chubby Checker arrives, and starts doing his famous dance, "The Twist". His guts fly everywhere.
With the delegates gone, you issue some new rulings: you declare your son Acen-- "daddy", and command that everybody kiss his behind. You also institute a ban on boats, due to the large amount of traffic we've been getting on our land river. it's all just transport ships now.
Other notes:
The talk of levies worries you slightly They're gonna need fields and safety from the weak armies of online norms raiding and sacks. You'll get your AI army of scribes to begin work immediately.

At this point I decided there was only one way this could end. THE DOCTOR ROSTULOV ROMANCE ARC

Doctor Rostulov, the friendly, whimsical orangutan in a bowler hat and monocle, arrives in Amarna, with poo dripping down his pants. "I have an important message for you from Zal."
"Zal?"
"Your landlord. She's very cross about the blocked toilet and has asked me to represent her, as an impartial observer, in this matter."
He looks up at you, raising an eyebrow in a quizzical look.
"Fine," you say, seeing as you have no other options.
"I knew we could talk sense into you," Rostulov smiles. "You are like my son."
Doctor Rostulov comes up and slowly, methodically smears poo in your mouth, to in an act of affection.  That's when you realize he's not a doctor, but rather a "robit".
Luckily, the poo is non-toxic and biodegradable. Unfortunately, it smells awful and you've now got it all over your face and hands.
"I'm so proud of you," Zal says through the intercom.
"Are you watching?
You chastise Doctor Rostulov, even though the poo gesture was clearly a show of love. Doctor Rostulov looks confused.
Knowing you need to get into the orangutan's good books, you run over to the orangutan and begin stroking his head.
"You're my best friend, Rosto. The only person I can trust in this town."
You leave a big, long black hair on the orangutan's head. He seems to like it.
Then, in an act of what can only be described as romance, you extract strands of a thick, greasy paste from your urethra and start rubbing it on the Doctor's nostrils. He looks at you with a look of sheer surprise.
"I'm in love with you," you squeal, like a Duran Duran lyric come to life.
"Isn't she adorable?" Zal says through the intercom. "In fact, why don't you move in with me and we can be a family!"
Next, in an act of icky poo play, you put some of Doctor Rostulov's poo in your mouth, pretending it's a chocolate cake. It tastes like blood.
He seems to like it though.
"We can be together forever and ever and ever and ev-"
"That's enough now," you interrupt. "You're getting me all teary eyed."
"Aww!" Zal says, disappointed. "You big meanie!"
You stare into Doctor Rostulov's eyes and decide to go in for the kill...
Unfortunately, you just dry heaved all over your orangutan friend.  He looks down at his chest and wipes the spit off his fur, hoping it wasn't an intentional act of love. You offer him one of your unused diapers to wipe off with.
"Hmmph!" he says, turning his back on you.
Shit, what have you done? Maybe this whole romance thing wasn't for you. Why can't you just stick with killing for a hobby, like everyone else in this forsaken town?
Then again, maybe it's not too late to try and make things right.
"Rosto!" you yell, running to his side. "I love you. Will you please take me back?"
You grab his hairy legs and look up at him, pleadingly. He sighs, repeatedly, in a pointed, exaggerated way.
"Please?"
He pulls out his revolver and points it at you. Oh God, he's going to kill you!
"The smell," he says. "It's just... too much."
"I can wash!" you say, desperately.
"It's no use," he says, sighing once more. You can tell it's a tsundere action. He's hiding his true feelings behind a wall of disinterest.
You've got to convince him that you love him! Ignoring all courage, you jump onto him and give him a smooch... though it catches him off guard and he almost staggers towards the door, if it weren't for your sudden recovery ability.
"Definitely yank offs," Ed grunted. "I'm out."
You hear keys rattle behind you as the sound of the door catch opening pierces your ears.
He puts the gun to your head. "I needed one more suckful bend for my mission," he whispers into your ear with longing. You didn't realize his libido was crawling around within that furry hollow, but what do you know about orangutans? Not much.
As his hand touches the top of your head, you reflexively close your eyes as a warm feeling washes over you. Then...
It happens.
Well, sort of. It turns out he ejaculated in his pants , which raises several red flags. You feel cheated in some way, as if everything after that deserved to wrongly happen to you. Still, age is but a number and even a brilliant person such as yourself knows that love surpasses anything else in this world. You kiss his chin and cuddle up next to him for warmth. He soon drifts off into the mundane world of dreams, which you'll no doubt inspire within him soon enough.
Nothing more needs to be said on your tale or his... but a voice screams from above! Next week's section is tainted with insane chatter .
"Wait!" Clara screams, suddenly appearing next to you in your cocoon. " I need to take you back to Earth soon! My readers are livid at my choices this week."
"ITCHY TITS," you say. Clara sighs.
Maybe next time Clara.