Suddenly, there's a BAM! You look around for a hot daughter, but alas, it's only God there, glowing in a fiery light. He salutes you:

"Greetings, brother. You're a pretty 180 poaster, and I've decided cosmic justice demands I bend the laws of nature to give you a little more FUN in life. Here are you choices.

1. Here's a crown. There's a remote underwater island in the middle of the Atlantic. Their king has died, and legend has it that a new king will return from the sky to create new laws for them. You may accept the crown of this kingdom, but will never see your family or loved ones ever again.

2. Here's a secret herb. Take it twice a day and within a week you will have an ideal body. You will have a year to enjoy this body. Over the next year, a slow-acting poison will disfigure you. At the end of that second year, you will die horribly.

3. Here's a stone. With it, you can receive any academic degree or honor you want, including Nobel Prizes. You will retain the same intelligence you have now; your scholarly contributions will simply be written by angels. However, you will have to marry a notorious cheating slut, stay married to her, and endure lifelong celibacy.

4. Here's a wallet. Every time you spend money, more money will appear. Essentially an unlimited supply of cash. However, any person you pay with this magic money will lose it an hour after you've paid him/her.

Choose wisely."

To accept any of the offers, POAST the number.

If you politely decline, POAST Mincing Beta Faggot.

If you reply with a vicious atheist screed instead, POAST Cool Story Bro.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23239798)

The world is a blur. There's a soft damp patch on the back of your head. Why are you on the floor?

As you stumble to your feet, you mutter something about drinking too much last night. What a stupid dream. King of an underwater city. Broad daylight streams from your basement door. Must be ten or eleven already. Fuck, where's Mom with breakfast?

You storm upstairs, but recoil from the awful smell...and swarms of flies. There's a man in the kitchen, fucking your late mother's skull through the eye sockets. You flip out. He grabs a knife and chases you. In a strange state of panic, you rush him, foolishly, suicidally.

An arrow through the knee stops him.

You turn to see who saved you. A man dressed entirely in scarlet spandex crouches on the window, bow taunt with another arrow.

"Who the fuck are you?" you say.

"No time to explain. Come with me."

To run with him, POAST Flight

To say, "No, I'm going to finish off that fucker first," POAST Fight

To piss your pants, POAST Freeze

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23239919)

Chose wisely.

uhm, yea. Gimme some #5

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23239828)

THE END

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23239850)

The light fades. In the center stands a small hairless man.

"You've seen through my disguise. I am actually an accomplished illusionist, quite capable of crafting these various fantasies, but without suspension of disbelief, they are as naught. I underestimated you. I thought your long hours of megapoasting were a cry for attention, a plea for diversion from the drudgery of unemployment. But I see now that in you beats the heart of scholar, and a scholar of prestige too. Come with me. Every sorcerer needs an apprentice. I'll teach you my trade, and then you'll be more powerful than you could ever imagine."

To accept his offer, POAST Shake Hands

To refuse his offer, POAST Throw a Shoe and Scream Get Out of My Fucking Basement, You Creepy Hairless Faggot

To produce his Social Security Card, POAST No Doobs

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23239954)

As soon as you shake hands with him, a powerful force lifts you from the ground. Before you can scream TWO SUBPOENAS, you're floating high above your hometown.

"It's called hummingbird hawkmoth," your companion explains. "Electromagnetic propulsion and guidance system. Originally developed for the Army."

"I thought you said you were a magician," you whine. "Seems like you're just a glorified STEM major."

"That's the first level of true magic, bro," he says. He looks down. "Time for free fall."

Your stomach lurches, and you briefly lose consciousness. A parachute opens. You land in a river of shit.

"Where are we?" you ask.

"India," he replies. "Land of the turdskins. First step in your apprenticeship will be some classes at IIT."

"WTF?" you rage. "You promised me magic, not some fucking curry sweatshop. This is bullshit."

"Bullshit is sacred here. Besides, you need to learn some basic STEM. First step, remember? It's the only way you'll ever pass the second step."

"And what's that?"

He pauses thoughtfully, contemplating the undulating shitstream.

"Fear."

Agree to take some STEM classes, POAST Cop Dat STEM

Demand to skip to the second step, POAST No U

Go your own way, POAST Fuck This Shit

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240051)

No U

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240144)

"You have chosen...well." He smiles. "A true magician must learn to push against the limits of authority. He must dare to dream the impossible. The common answer, the rote solution, these are the materials which he manipulates to deceive the world. But he must never allow his mind to be dulled by them. Now, follow me."

You trudge behind him on a long, winding road through the river valley. Dust curls up with each step, and at times you almost lose your companion. But he moves easily, with barely any strain, as if meditating on some celestial level. When you try to draw him out with small talk, he does not reply.

By now, the noon sun beats down relentlessly. You're filthy and sweating, still walking to ungod knows where in this horrible country. You stop at a village with brown, smelly children covered in scabs. You smack them away, but they press closer, pulling your robes. Your companion stops and smiles.

"What's their problem?"

"They want to lick the sweat off your balls."

"Fuck that."

He shrugs. "It's India." Producing a firm ball of shit from nowhere, he throws it in the direction of the river. The children run to the water.

"You're not ready to face him," he says.

You don't catch his meaning, but before you can puzzle anything more from this cryptic promise, he walks to a small hut. Inside is a fat, smelly Indian, completely naked.

"She is dying of AIDS, as well as many other diseases," the magician says. "Her last request is for a nice good fuck. Do it. It's an act of mercy."

To fuck the woman with AIDS, POAST Fuck That Bitch

To decline, POAST No Way Man

To phone a friend, POAST India Is at the Cusp of a Mobile Data Revolution

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240212)

"Gotta make a quick call first," you say.

"Be my guest." He bows. There's something very odd about this man, his eerie calm. Why is he so accommodating? You walk a short distance away, just out of earshot, then dial Jamal's number.

Busy. Fucker's doing another quiz show.

You scroll through your contacts list, stopping every time you see another Indian. You even call a few Persians. No answer. They're all busy. What's going on? All the bars are up. You try again, this time a little more urgently.

"Have you finished?"

Your companion stands behind you. Same distant look. Same weird smile. But now he's holding a knife.

To resume dialing, POAST Ding, fag

To ask for a few more minutes, POAST Chillax

To laugh, POAST U mad

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240339)

/Fuck that bitch

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240278)

God, she smells gross. You can barely get hard. But it's a mission of mercy...and besides, you're kind of curious what pussy feels like.

It feels disgusting, if this woman is anything to go by me. The walls are loose and chafe against your dick, making small tears along your shaft. Jesus Christ, this is worse than that time you were fucking your mother's teddy bear and broke through the sawdust pouch. But she seems to enjoy it. That's something, right?

She moans, and now you can clearly see most of her teeth are missing and the gumline is a mess of abscesses. You bury your face in her fat shapeless breasts, purely from fear, a fetal need to curl yourself into a ball of safety, but she mistakes this for primal lust and passion. She squeezes you tight. The stench is too much; you lift your head to the side and vomit on the ground. Her nails dig into scalp, your neck, your back, your ass.

Your legs. You feel two cold metal braces lock on your legs. You hear the click of lock. There's a sharp blow, a shock of pain. An involuntary cry comes from your mouth; an involuntary rush of semen comes from your cock. The woman lolls her tongue around. She tickles you.

Your legs. You can't feel your legs.

She pushes you off and now you see the misshappen mess where your legs once were. You will them to move. They won't move. Your companion stands in the corner, a twisted smile on his face.

"She was my wife," he whispers. "A little slut." You can barely hear the anger in his even voice, but his fists are clenched. He stares at the two of you in silence for a long time, then finally heaves a dry laugh, and turns to go.

When night falls, the children swarm into the hut and torment you, nibbling all over your body, leaving bites and welts and bruises. At daybreak, they leave you to the rats. Fever takes hold of you; you cry several times for your mother in agony.

Dusk of the third night. You don't feel you can take it anymore. With superhuman strength, you drag yourself to the hut door using only your arms. You're weak, emaciated, crippled. You stand no chance. But the children are horrible.

Suddenly, you hear the woman call.

"Stay with me one more night."

To crawl outside, POAST Knights Who Say Ni

To stay with her, POAST Punish me

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240436)

She strokes your arm. You're not sure whether to cry or vomit. So you do both. And something inside you snaps.

"I can't take it anymore. I can't take this. Those kids, those painful nibbles, innocent yet cruel...even a cisgendered male-appearing human has a breaking point."

Here you are, a normal American kid who did nothing other than follow a flying magician to India, and how did it turn out? Dying of AIDS on the floor of shitcaked hut, vermin crawling all over you, children slowly consuming your flesh, with a fat smelly turdskin whore your only companion. What a way to go. All those hopes, those dreams. That girl whose budding breasts you used to stare at it in seventh grade. You haven't thought of her in years. How sad, if she could see you. God, if she saw you now, she would double over laughing and then go back to fucking her alpha 6'2" boyfriend. 6'2". You always wanted to be buried that deep. We want from death what life can't give us. Death. What a portentous word, so final. Your parents. What will they do without you? Well, they're boomers, probably celebrate and get another reverse mortgage. You dredge your brain for a more satisfying avenue for self-pity, but come up empty. You hardly feel the swarming children.

A sound, a beat, the gentle tinkling of a piano. Is it the fever? Your ears strain. No. The voice is there, the beat is true. At this dire hour, your savior has come.

Phil Collins croons "One More Night" and you join him, enthusiastic and off-key. Yet it's close enough to the melody line that the children line up against the wall in respectful awe all night.

When dawn breaks, you are in a rich and luxurious bed. A gorgeous woman is rubbing ointment over your wounds. She kisses you.

"You saved me."

Over the next few days, as you recuperate, she tells you her story.

"My father was a banker. He had a younger brother, Apu, who wanted to borrow money for school in America. When my father heard Apu got into Harvard, he gave him a personal loan, expecting to reap many returns on having an HBS grad in the family. But Apu actually went to the law school, got medianpwned, and nojerbed because employers expected an Indian striver to at least making fucking law review.

"The loan had been packaged out as a derivative throughout Europe and the United States, and was actually the single asset hedged against a complete mortgage failure, an event considered probable but unlikely. My father, who had rated Apu's HBS degree at AAAAAAA+++++, had no choice but default. In the settlement agreement, he sold me to the magician.

"The magician used me as his sex slave all throughout the mortgage crisis, but being a true intellectual, his passion was to watch me with other men. He would send me out on buses or into fields, where men would gang rape me. But since he was a magician, he could always restore me to virgin tightness. But even this debauchery bored him at last. He made me more and more loathsome, delighting to see how low men would sink for a little pussy. He placed me under a final charm, which could only broken if an awkward virgin fucked me, then stayed by me through three nights of torture. That you have done. I owe you my life. I will be your slave for life."

To accept her as your slave, POAST Yny

To insist she become your wife, POAST Tbf

To decline any recompense, POAST Nbd

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240596)

Sipping orange juice in bed, you surf the Internet for porn. AutoAdmit has been down for weeks, but rach is getting around to it. You've flaming some other boards, but the mods are so fucking lame.

Your phone rings. It's President Obama.

"We have a critical situation at the White House and need you at once."

"Me?"

"Yes. I can't say more. Get to the roof immediately. We'll be there in five minutes."

He hangs up. You're still a little tired and, fuck, this is good porn. Amateur porn. It took a long time to search. You're horny and just want to rub one out and drink this awesome orange juice and go back to sleep.

But the POTUS of America needs you.

The door opens. It's the woman, wearing only a silk robe and stocking. She dances close to you, teasing. God, she's beautiful and you're hard already.

"I want you, bad boy," she whispers.

Now she's only wearing stockings.

Run for the roof, POAST USA USA USA

You can fuck her in five, POAST Minuteman

Make sweet love to her all night, POAST Not My President

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240631)

USA USA USA

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240633)

"Are you telling this committee there was no cover-up? We have e-mails with conflicting--with contradictory testimony--and your testimony is not resolving any of those important issues that the American people are entitled to know."

John Kerry sighs. "What I'm saying, Senator Graham, and I respect your position immensely, but I think you should realize that when I'm speaking, I'm speaking with the authority of the Secretary of State, with a Cabinet position's authority, and that I don't take that responsibility lightly, just as I didn't take my 38 years as a Senator lightly, as you well know, and especially assignments on the Foreign Relations Committee, which is an important part of Congress exercising the necessary and proper clause, and so that while there may be some discrepancies, information from various sources and also at various times that changed minute-to-minute in our globalized world, which is really a marvel that American ingenuity and government support working together helped to build and is a vision I would like to see implemented for this country so that I can carry that message of hope that we have historically for around the world, none of these discrepancies were intentional, there wasn't actually any consciously formed will that was then directed to action, and I think we have answered this committee in good faith, indeed with reason and not just speculation, which can always harm our interests overseas, which I don't want to do."

That was the closest the hearing ever got to the puzzling question of how you ended up on a roof swarming with militant jihadis. Even the diplomatic cables only hinted at a larger plot, a magician's sleight of hand. Historians may one day sort it all out, but it's a matter of indifference to you, because for your bullet-riddled corpse, it was...

THE END

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240645)

The wallet drops on the floor. Two thousand dollars cash.

Take it to the bank, POAST Deposit

Buy some anime, POAST Loser

Head for the strip club, POAST Baller

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240617)

"That's all right, God," you say. "I'm glad you're there for me and appreciate my poasting, but why not take care of the bigger problems like war and famine and the consequences of Industrial Revolution? I don't want any of those powers."

The light gleams and is gone. You lie down, exhausted, but just as you're about to sleep, you realize something.

Holy fucking shit.

What a thread idea.

To poast your new thread idea, POAST ITT pics of my gaped butthold

To fall asleep, POAST Jerk to thoughts of cows

To eat breakfast first, POAST Mom, where are my Pop Tarts?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240143)

Your mother appears at the head of the stairs, her tired, careworn face creased with suffering. She's holding a plate with your Pop Tarts, freshly toasted.

"Breakfast, dear." A weak smile, hardly cheerful. Why does she always look like she's ready to cry?

"Bring it down here," you shout.

She tiptoes downstairs, her nose only slightly wrinkling at the musty odor of Doritos and cum. "I brought you some salsa too. For later." You accept the jar, indifferent, and examine your Pop Tarts with the practiced eye of a true connoisseur. Your face is rigid, not betraying the least hint of approval or condemnation, but you admit privately to yourself that she did a pretty good job. The sprinkles have come out especially well.

"Everything all right?"

You dismiss her with your poo-bah wave, the one you've often practiced after a particularly intense masturbation marathon, pretending to dismiss a whore from your presence. But carpal tunnel syndrome makes the motion jerky and ungainful, rather like the final spasm of a dying seal's flipper. Your mother bows her head and turns to go.

To ask your mom if her nails are real, POAST Neg

To ask your mom if you have any mail, POAST Small Talk

To turn your laptop back on, POAST This is my life, it's now or never, I don't wanna live forever

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240269)

This is my life, it's now or never, I don't wanna live forever

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240349)

Suicide threading gets old after awhile. It's true that you haven't varied your material all that much, but DO IT FAG seems like a stingy return even given your minimal investment.

Change tab. Stocks are up. You don't have any stocks, but your master of the universe shtick over at SomethingAwful has been taking a few credibility hits lately. You purse your lips, study those squiggles, and mentally test various flames. Need to think about it some more. Change tabs. Marriage law. Your expertise. You open up NOFAULT.docx and carefully cut and paste some arguments for arranged marriage you found at nomarriage.com. Change tabs. Your field report is almost done. Just needs that extra detail. Something really convincing, to prove you did have sex, actually. What would a person who had sex notice about sex? Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. There must be some kind of touch involved in sex. How to describe authentically. Change window. Ah, breasts. Those must be wonderful to touch, some day. Something off about those elbows, though. Change tab. That's better. Change tab. Google videos of her and...jackpot! "Download time: 32 minutes." You look at the clock. Yeah, you have 32 minutes.

Check Tor. Refresh. Fuck, another TBF thread. The board is declining. You should let them know it has not escaped your notice. Type. Poast. Change tabs. LOL, this dumb bitch again, whining about harassment. What a beautiful troll. You scroll through the other comments, giggling. This is great. It feels awesome to be part of a community. You laugh out loud at one particularly brutal comment; you check the username. Your laugh softens a little. It's one of your alts. Oh well, the price of genius. You type out another witty nigger-laced vignette and press comment.

Change tabs. Stocks are down. You will probably have to take a hard line on the Germans. Open NAZIGOLD.docx and cut-paste some particularly well-chosen swipes at those ruthless Krauts. Change tabs. Search YouTube for cat videos. Those always come in handy. The progress bar on your video is at 85%

Change window. Your fake OkCupid profile hasn't been doing well. Strong proof that looks don't matter; even a Brad Pitt profile pic isn't working. You practice thinking like an alpha. Dominate that savannah. Change tab. You haven't seen this personality quiz before.

Download complete, you click on the video.

It's a Trojan, flooding your screen with pics of child porn. You give a little scream as the photos cascade across your laptop.

Close your laptop and destroy it, POAST Code Red

Restart your laptop in Safe Mode, POAST Code Blue

Masturbate to free porn, POAST Amber Alert

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23240469)

The wallet drops on the floor. Two thousand dollars cash.

Take it to the bank, POAST Deposit

Buy some anime, POAST Loser

Head for the strip club, POAST Baller

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=2261787&forum_id=2#23245778)