Manifesto

The PRIMEverse is dying. It’s so obvious now.

Watching backstage and seeing people buy into this delusion. Throwing themselves out of the battle royal. The absolute farce that was that last little bit. Where did it get you? All of you. It got you absolutely nowhere!

Nova.

Jared Sykes.

Brandon. Fucking. Youngblood.

Disgusting. That Worthingworth person rolled around for five hours in that ring doing fuck all. And you let him. It wasn’t just you. The fans lapped that shit up. It was the definition of an outlaw mudshow. You let him lay on his back as an invisible man “won”. BUZZSAW FACTORY?! SO FUCKING TOUGH?! NUMBER ONE BY DEFINITION?!

Clearly not. No wonder the rest of your precious wittle alliance looks down on PRIME.

But you know what?

It’s okay.

We forgive you.

See, we learn from our mistakes. We know better than to save the dead, especially now that we’re so close to getting the smallest fraction of our soul back. And even if we were dumb enough as to try, we don’t have the heartsand for it. We don’t have any left to spare for places and people and doggos that aren’t ours. You want to get fucked up the ass without lube by a thoughtform? Be our guest. Personally, we refuse. In fact, we reject your false reality entirely. And we know there’s going to be people on the Jabber saying that we are the delusional one. That we can’t do that. To them, we offer a simple question.

Why can’t we?

This is PRIME, after all. A place where math doesn’t exist, win-loss records are meaningless, our fearless leader has an infinite hoard of murder owls, and a place where nobody’s killed Paxton Ray yet. We’ve been running under the wrong assumption that this was a place more “grounded in reality”. But the truth is it’s just as fucked up as damn near every other universe we’ve been in. It’s like being sold classical music, turning it on, and ending up hearing a thousand people throwing up to a monotonous drum machine beat.

So be it.

You want chaos?

You got it, dude.