Mainlining hadn’t wanted to come.

"East of the Mississippi." The phrase alone sent a cold shiver through him, a geographic curse that meant cities bloated with history, streets lined with the regret of dead men’s dreams, and an inescapable proximity to… proles.

He had spent a decade among peaks—moving against gravity rather than with it. Waking up at 11,500 feet, coffee brewed over a titanium stove, the air clean, crisp, untouched. His days no longer measured in billable hours or wage-cuck slavery, but by the rhythmic sound of crampons crunching ice.

But now? He was here. Philly.

Descent came swift—a Cinnabon-stuffed coffin, Mainlining’s hell—hurtling toward a land where free refills and obesity lawsuits coexisted in perfect contradiction. Altitude staved off manboobs; Philly’s grease had other plans.

Landing, the Mahchine™ choked him with fryer grease and civic rot. He paused at baggage claim, eyes scanning the terminal. Something was off. An Eagles hoodie prole gnawed a pretzel like it owed him money. This place was unnatural.

His body began to reject it. Sea level hit like a prole gut-punch. "Fucking oxygen," he muttered, blood slowing, muscles sagging—altitude’s purity replaced by civic slop.

But GunneraTTTT had summoned him, delicately via $moke signals and then $burners, and the pigeon post debts were long overdue.

GunneraTTTT, late 30s, a biglaw carcass turned in-house TTT. Too many 3 AM redlines left him twitching like a Westlaw junkie—180 soul, 0 hairline. Drugs of all manner help, yet he will never fully heal.

Via burner, he texted: "Cum ea$t, Mainlining, My Friend! Just this once. Let us Behold Kraftwerk in all its glory... before it's Too Late. Thank."

Mainlining begrudgingly agreed.

After all, he and GunneraTTTT once slung mail in Prussian siege balloons—65 sent, two lost - 180-tier logistics.

Out of respect, and a profound, shared love of Kraftwerk, he decided to cum.

But Boom? Well, as you will $ee, he had his reasons.

And Evan39? He's standing before his mirror at Philly's most luxurious hotel, adjusting the tie of his meticulously chosen suit. It was his best one, reserved for special occasions—court appearances, delivering associate performance reviews, and now, a Kraftwerk concert/XO Meetup. He hoped the expensive fabric would compensate for his receding hairline and the lingering scent of desperation that clung to him like cheap cologne.

***Philadelphia, 7:25 PM, Local Dive Bar Straight Out of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" — Mainlining Meets GunneraTTTT, Zurich, and Lex (IRL!)***

Zurich and Lex were already at one of the dive bar's grungy booths, silently contemplating life choices that led them to this latest, likely ill-fated "XO meetup."

Zurich sighed, staring lovingly at his drink, not even pretending to hide his alcoholism.

"I maek more "money" now than ever, but I still think about the ‘what ifs’ too much. Maybe Mainlining did it right - Off the Grid, Westwardbound..."

Lex, in contrast, was eerily calm, sipping a club soda. His smirk betrayed either inner peace or total resignation to his fate.

"I really leik it here," Lex simply said, the words carrying the weight of a man who no longer knew if he was being ironic.

Mainlining arrived, silently joining the two of them, having received the location details via the burner. His stomach immediately turned, and he began to feel sick due to being at sea level for the first time in a decade—but, again, he remained out of respect for GunneraTTTT.

GunneraTTTT shambled in, bloated, Westlaw’s ghost clawing his spine—3 AM memos still echoing.

"Friends," he greeted the Gang, then nodding to Mainlining, not even pretending to hide his admiration of Mainlining's perfectly tanned, wrinkle-free skin and Mainlining's lean build - a sharp contrast to his bloated "body."

"It is a pleasure finally meeting you in IRL, Mainlining, my friend...and handsome devil - you truly are Oberyn IRL. Let the Dance Party begin!" he excitedly proclaimed, discreetly, and generously, handing each poaster their own bag of MDMA.

Lex sensed something amiss in GunneraTTTT's eyes, arching an eyebrow. "What happened?"

GunneraTTTT’s enthusiasm briefly slipped, and he sighed, rubbing his temples.

"I just spent the entire goddamn day reviewing indemnification clauses for my TTT consumer goods F500 that wants to sue its own marketing agency. But enough of = fag law talk—let's get this Dance Party started! Let’s honor Sean Stephenson—180 dwarf, TTT world!!!”

Mainlining. At first, nothing. Then—a whisper of warmth unfurling from the back of his skull. A slow-motion pulse rippling through his limbs. The bar lights softened. The jukebox now played at the perfect volume. Mainlining exhaled, a slow grin forming.

“On balance, I am beginning to feel in balance :)”

The rest of the Gang LOL'ed IRL, having consumed their MDMA, ready for the long-awaited Kraftwerk Dance Party. They downed several Tequila shots.

Now adequately fueled, they marched to the venue's entrance line in unison.

***Philadelphia, 7:30 PM — Outside the Venue***

The Gang, MDMA humming, swapped Frank T.J. Mackey™ lines—‘Under-25s ripe for the taking,’ Zurich slurred, eyeing a Zoomer in line.” Each hoaped for their own post-concert creampie.

Then, the streetlights flickered.

The ground trembled—not enough to alarm, but just enough to be noticed. A slow, distorted bassline seeped into the air, its origin impossible to place.

Zurich stopped mid-sentence, his hand hovering over his drink.

“The fuck is that?” Lex muttered.

Before anyone could answer, the neon-lit abomination of a wheelchair barreled into view, rolling straight toward them at a speed that should not have been possible.

BOOM.

His pupils? Saucer-sized. His grin? Shark-like.

A glossy sheen of sweat coated his forehead, though it was unclear if it was from excitement, MDMA, or his natural state of being. His wheelchair pulsed with sickly blue underglow, the frame rattling with bass, a half-crushed Four Loko can duct-taped to one armrest.

"Hi, friends." His voice crackled with static-laced glee.

He held out a shaky, skeletal hand. "Give me my MDMA. It'$ Preemptive $trike time. Thank ;)"

Mainlining smiled at his old friend. "You’re not even in the venue yet, friendo. But I admire your excitement." (Tactfully ignoring Boom's...disturbing comment.)

Boom rocked, muttering, "TTTs towing my $oul," eyes twitching, then froze—finger stabbing a nearby tow truck.

"Friend$, it'$ already too late. 'They’re' here."

Lex, already feeling the first warm waves of ecstasy, blinked. "Who?"

Boom’s jaw clenched. He continued pointing his trembling finger.

A tow truck, idling nearby. Completely normal.

Except to Boom.

"Fraud tow driver$. Vega$-tier deception. We are not safe."

"You $ee that?" Boom hissed. "ADM think$ they can hide in plain sight. LJL—this will be 180...ADM’s goons. Stock closed at $32.70, March ‘08. Wake up, friend$."

Just in time, Evan39 stumbled in, not wearing grocery store attire but one of the finest suits on the marke - odd case.

Mainlining, used to Boom's madness, adjusted the cuff of his Arc'teryx jacket, and greeted Evan. His Fjällräven pants flexed effortlessly, tailored for high-altitude summits and navigating the horrors of an American urban core.

Evan could not resist immediately fixating on Mainlining's hair—a thing of legend. Thick, luscious, effortlessly resistant to male pattern baldness, untouched by the stress of the modern world. A cruel taunt to Evan, whose own hair had long since fled, leaving him with only the cold comfort of his Perkins Coie salary. Evan stared at it for a second too long, failing to hide his erection, before quickly looking away. "This is fine," he muttered.

Evan returned to reality, informing Boom: "It’s just a roadie. Calm down. This is fine."

Boom shook his head. "Lol. No...That'$ how they get you."

He pointed to the tow truck’s license plate.

"3... 2... 7... Now tell me, friend$, what'$ ADM'$ stock price as of clo$e on March 27, 2008? Hm? Coincidence? Lol no."

Zurich blinked. "Boom, what the fuck are you even saying."

Boom’s hand gripped his bat tighter. "Wake up."

And, of course, finally, Disco Fries materialized.

Yet another uninvited.

Unacknowledged.

But undeniably present.

Sweating profusely, wearing an XXXL European soccer jersey, he loomed over the group, still winded from the effort of existing.

"Hey guys," he panted.

A beat of silence.

"…How?" Evan finally asked.

Disco panted: "I saw Boom and followed the trail of horrified concertgoers. Lol."

A pale glitch flickered at the bar—now it stood, rigid, crowd blurring around its edges.

***The Bat Rampage: Boom Takes Down Kraftwerk (And "Security")***

The Gang entered the venue, each in their own MDMA-fueled world.

Mainlining felt it before he saw it.

Boom's breathing had changed.

The steady inhale-exhale replaced by something else. Short, jagged draws, like an engine seizing.

Boom uttered: "Fraudulent German$. Vega$-tier deception. I don’t tru$t thi$ $hit."

Then, before the Gang could even reach their position near the stage, Boom's final triggering straw:

A massive banner unfurled behind the stage, glowing in harsh, sterile neon:

"THIS TOUR IS PROUDLY BROUGHT TO YOU BY ADM—Nourishing the World, One Beat at a Time!"

Boom’s left eye twitched. His hands gripped his trusty Louisville Slugger tighter, resembling a wheel-chairbound version of Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Trident.

A low growl emanated from his throat.

"THEY'VE FINALLY DONE IT."

"Boom, no," Mainlining sighed, his mind still dwelling on the indignity of being east of the Mississippi.

Boom replied: "Boom, yes, friend$! You will all $ee."

Boom’s breath quickened. His pupils shrunk to pinpricks. The bat tightened in his grip, a living thing yearning for impact.

And before anyone could stop him—

Boom’s growl peaked, his wwheelchair buzzing like a modded Roomba, and then liftoff—a neon-lit bat fury forged to smash German frauds, his bat forged for smashing fraudulent German synths.

The first keyboard crumpled under the impact, keys flying like shattered bones. The second? Exploded in a detonation of circuits and despair. A roadie shrieked, ‘Was tut er?!’

Boom cackled, his wheelchair careening forward. A synth player attempted to flee, but the Mahchine™ had chosen its first victim.

Florian, vocoder humming "Wir sind die Robo—," froze as Boom’s Slugger sang. CRACK TO FLORIAN'S SKULL—silence, save for a glitchy "Robo-ro-ro…"

The impact echoed through the venue. The crowd stood in slack-jawed horror. A neon-haired Zoomer live-streaming the event murmured, "Bro, what the fuck. This is... performance art?"

The ADM-sponsored banner fluttered in the background. Boom wheeled toward it, bat raised. "YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE BEHIND SYNTHPOP, FRAUD$?! ADM WILL PAY!!"

Security—DEI midgets fresh off a sensitivity seminar—crumpled like wet TTTs. "180 strike, DEI frauds" Boom howled, bat dripping synth guts—"LJL at their TTT tears.”

The venue was a scene of pandemonium. Fleeing concertgoers tripped over overturned chairs, their cries mingling with the lingering scent of smoke and shattered synths.

Boom, still clutching his bat, cackled amidst the wreckage, a triumphant gleam in his bloodshot eyes. He’d hummed ‘European Endle $$’ in line—now it gleefully roared from his throat, a war cry over the wreckage.

Mainlining watched, stone-cold, like a marmot mocking flatlanders flop a 14’er in flip-flops.

***Aftermath: The Lynchian Encounter***

The Gang bolted, Boom’s arrest sirens wailing behind. ‘He’ll be fine,’ GunneraTTTT panted, ‘he’s got nine lives and a burner.’

Then—the pale man loomed.

Suit off—like "human" was a manual he skimmed and failed.

He smiled—half a second after a normal person would have.

"You were at the concert," he said. But the voice wasn’t quite right. It carried a faint digital artifacting, as if a corrupted MP3 file had been converted into speech.

Evan took a step back. The neon light behind the Mystery Man flickered—and for a fraction of a second, his shadow didn’t move.

The Mystery Man's grin widened.

"You broke the stage," he glitch-whispered, pupils swelling. His grin lagged, then stretched. "They’ll bill you in binary."

Boom gripped his bat tighter.

"They’re still watching you, you know. You've disrupted the delicate balance, you see. There will be... repercussions."

Trembling, Evan39 replied: "That’s fucking crazy, man."

The pale Mystery Man tilted his head slightly. His grin did not change.

"It's been a pleasure talking to 'You.'", gazing straight into Evan, Boom, and Mainlining's eyes.

The Mystery Man's form wavers, and he smears into the neon, a pixelated stain bleeding through Philly’s grid.

***Final Scene: 2:13 AM, Some $hithole "Philly" Diner***

Sirens faded—then Boom rolled in, GunneraTTTT trailing.

"Bailed him for $500," GunneraTTTT sighed.

"Can’t cage me—Preemptive $trike pays ADM’s Becumming™ $$$," Boom grinned, "Thank!"

Zurich snorted, "Your bat’s the real felon."

Boom, bloodshot and still gripping his bat, let out a wheezing chuckle. "Friends... you, too, are Privy to a Great Becumming™."

By now, the Gang's ecstasy had worn off, replaced by the harsh fluorescent glow of a greasy spoon diner and the lingering taste of regret.

Mainlining stared blankly at the chipped coffee mug, its faded floral pattern a pathetic imitation of the wildflowers he'd seen blooming on a thousand alpine slopes.

“Murder, they called it," he scoffed. "East Coast pussies cry murder—Eiger’s north face, 180, no ropes, fag$"

Boom, his face still smeared with a bizarre mixture of blood and synth dust, grinned maniacally.

"They'll never silence the beat, friends! The real Kraftwerk is in now our hearts... and on LimeWire. Always on LimeWire." He paused, his eyes gleaming with a feverish intensity. "Fraudulent bands, fraudulent live set. I did them a favor, heh. And maed ADM pay $$$"

Evan39, his expensive suit now rumpled and stained, stared at the table as if it were a mirror reflecting the shattered remnants of his soul. His gaze drifted towards Mainlining's perfect hairline, muttering, "180 follicles, I’m a TTT scalp now."

Evan then glanced at the window, grease warping their faces. Mainlining’s jaw sharpened Boom’s grin, Evan’s eyes sinking into the mix—a single, fucked-up XO ghost staring back.

"Jesus Christ. No respite from SeaTTTle,’ he muttered, "Perkins by day, Safeway’s night king—Tabitha haunts me."

Disco Fries, sweat soaking through his XXXL soccer jersey, looked around the table with an air of unexpected contentment. "'So, anyone else hungry? I'm thinking... maybe a triple stack of pancakes? With extra whipped cream?'"

Zurich, nursing a black coffee, simply muttered, "How much was bail?"

Boom, lost in his own world of conspiracy and triumph, didn't answer.

A heavy silence fell over the group, punctuated only by the clatter of dishes and the distant wail of a siren.

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the diner's grime-coated windows, Mainlining's burner phone vibrated with a new message. He glanced at the encrypted text, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the sender.

"The game's afoot," he muttered, a grim smile playing on his lips. The others looked up, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension in their eyes. "Duty calls," Mainlining explained, rising from his booth. "The mountains aren't going to climb themselves." He cast a final glance at the group, silently acknowledging the shared madness that bound them together. "Until next time, friends."

***EPILOGUE***

Something shifted somewhere deep within the neon haze of Philadelphia’s dying lights. Evan39 stumbled out of the diner, the harsh morning light a jarring contrast to the neon-drenched darkness of the concert venue. He hailed a cab, the strains of "Autobahn" filtering through the car radio, a haunting reminder of the night's chaotic events.

As the cab pulled away, he glanced at the news ticker scrolling across a nearby television screen: "Wheelchair-bound man arrested for disrupting Kraftwerk concert; ADM remains silent."

The words seemed to mock him, confirming his inescapable reality. Through the cab’s grease-smeared window, three figures melted into one—a warped XO ghost. Mainlining's rugged silhouette, Boom's manic energy, and Evan39's reflection merged, their identities dissolving into a single, unsettling image.

Was this the culmination of the Great BECUMMING™? Or just another cruel trick of the light?

Evan’s eyes twitched. He closed them, trying to shut out the image, but it only intensified behind his eyelids. The diner, the city, the entire world seemed to be tilting, the lines between reality and delusion blurring like the edges of a poorly rendered JPEG.

"This was always fine," Evan39 mumbled, the words a hollow mantra against the rising tide of despair. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was just another cycle in the endless loop of his XO existence.

Faces shift, dread stays—XO’s eternal loop.

And he, along with the rest of them, was merely a pawn in its endless, recursive play.

Somewhere, a pumo poasted: "Boom Did Kraftwerk 3/6/25—180 Bat Strike or ADM Flame?" 50 replies in 5: "LJL, Florian’s TTT synth trash-—Boom’s bat = 180 this year's MPM winner!"

And elsewhere, Disco’s burner pinged from Teewinot’s edge—then silence.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5690162&forum_id=2#48722794)

Please come into my office promptly, we need to discuss your failure to pay attention to detail. Thank, and see below.

"But now? He was here. Philly.

Descent came swift—a Cinnabon-stuffed coffin, Mainlining’s hell—hurtling toward a land where free refills and obesity lawsuits coexisted in perfect contradiction. Altitude staved off manboobs; Philly’s grease had other plans.

Landing, the Mahchine™ choked him with fryer grease and civic rot. He paused at baggage claim, eyes scanning the terminal. Something was off. An Eagles hoodie prole gnawed a pretzel like it owed him money. This place was unnatural.

His body began to reject it. Sea level hit like a prole gut-punch. "Fucking oxygen," he muttered, blood slowing, muscles sagging—altitude’s purity replaced by civic slop."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5690162&forum_id=2#48725856)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5690162&forum_id=2#48726718)