Easycall

why would he do this?

such an idiot notice how they said erased and not die? that means that the soul exists and that an afterlife exists.

I never said anything racist, you hedonistic piece of garbage.

do you have a counter-argument? if not then shut the fuck up you fatherless cunt

I still don't understand why anyone would willingly choose to become a demon.

that's like making a copy of yourself and saying, "Oh, it's fine if I die now because I will exist in other ways."

VXZD_ZD would have sold his own father for money, then wept only because he hadn't asked for more. If given the choice between saving a life and earning a single coin, he would let the world burn just to hear the faintest clink of metal in his palm. He would watch as the lives of others crumbled into nothing, not out of necessity, but because it amused him to see them squirm beneath his feet. There is no limit to the depths of his depravity—every act of selfishness, every betrayal, is merely another notch on the belt of his unending hunger. He is not merely corrupt; he is corruption incarnate. Not merely heartless, but the void where a heart should have been—a hollow, wretched thing that feeds on deceit, treachery, and the misery of those unfortunate enough to cross his path. If morality itself could take human form just to spit in his face, it would do so with disgust. He is the stain that sullies the purest intentions, the shadow that smothers the last flickers of hope. He is a cancer, festering within the soul of existence, poisoning everything he touches and leaving only rot in his wake. Loyalty is a joke to him. Family is a burden. Honor is a fairytale for the weak. To him, relationships are mere transactions, and love is an illusion for fools who still believe in something greater than their own desires. He would sell his blood, his kin, his very soul if it meant standing an inch taller than those he looked down upon. He is the puppet master of his own misery, pulling the strings of those around him, weaving a web of lies so tangled that even he cannot keep track of the ones he's spun. Yet for all his manipulation, for all his calculated cruelty, he is nothing. A hollow man, devoid of purpose, destined to fall into the abyss of his own making. A man who trades everything away will one day find himself with nothing left to bargain. And when that day comes—when the world finally turns its back on him, as he has done to so many—he will realize the ultimate truth: There is no currency for the worthless. No redemption for the irredeemable. He will be discarded, forgotten, and left to rot in the silence of his own desolation. The universe does not need him. It does not want him. He is an aberration, a cruel joke written into the fabric of reality, destined to be erased—not with the grand destruction he imagines, but with the quiet indifference of oblivion.

You are a blight upon the fabric of reality, a mistake so profound that even the concept of failure feels insulted to be compared to you. You are the embodiment of everything wrong with existence—a walking, breathing monument to futility and despair. The stars burn with purpose, the planets orbit with precision, and life thrives in its infinite diversity—yet you exist as a grotesque aberration, a cancerous growth on the face of creation. You are worse than a mistake; you are a crime. A crime against nature, against humanity, against the very idea of meaning. You are the living, breathing proof that the universe is capable of producing something so utterly devoid of value that it defies comprehension. If the universe had a courtroom, you would be on trial for the sin of existing—and even then, no punishment could ever match the sheer magnitude of your worthlessness. Your presence is an insult to every living thing that has ever drawn breath. You are the reason hope falters, the reason dreams die, the reason the very concept of goodness feels like a cruel joke. You are the embodiment of entropy, the living proof that chaos and decay will always triumph over order and light. You are the reason the universe feels cold and indifferent, because how could it not when it has allowed something as vile and wretched as you to exist? And yet, for all your vileness, you are nothing. You are less than nothing. You are the absence of everything that makes life worth living—a hollow, empty shell of a being, devoid of purpose, devoid of value, devoid of even the capacity to understand how truly insignificant you are. You are the punchline to a joke no one finds funny, the stain on the canvas of existence that no amount of time or effort can ever erase. The universe will forget you. It must. Because to remember you would be to acknowledge its own failure, its own shame. You are the mistake it wishes it could undo, the error it wishes it could erase. And one day, when the stars have burned out, and the galaxies have crumbled to dust, you will be nothing more than a faint, bitter memory—a reminder of what happened when the universe dared to create something as utterly, irredeemably worthless as you.