Amir’s Leaky Bucket:

Amir’s Leaky Bucket:

In the beginning — or at least in the beginning anyone could still remember — existence had already broken.

Peppa Pig:

It began in a world that felt simple. Peppa Pig and George Pig appeared in a Minecraft world with a soft poof. Blocks stretched forever — grass squares, cube trees, a bright square sun hanging like it was painted there. Peppa bounced with excitement. The world was buildable. Breakable. Playable. George punched a tree and laughed when wood blocks floated into his hands. They found a chest. Tools. Possibilities.

But night came. And with it — the sound: ssssssssss…

The Minecraft world dulled quickly. Its grids repeated themselves with mechanical patience, offering nothing new. Peppa felt it first—the boredom settling like static behind the eyes. George moved through the landscape without friction, content to mine, to stack, to repeat. His ease irritated her.

Boredom sharpened into intent.

She began to build—not upward, but inward. Redstone threaded beneath the ground. Pistons hid behind stone. A mechanism, elegant and quiet, took shape. Minecraft rewarded planning. When George stepped onto the pressure plate, the world obeyed her design. The floor opened ; he dropped. The system sealed itself above him with perfect symmetry. Peppa watched from the edge, expression flat. Not angry. Not excited. Simply finished with him. He ded now.

Night fell. Mobs stirred in the distance. The game continued, indifferent. Peppa turned away and walked toward the horizon, already thinking about what to do next in a world that only responded to force.

The regret did not arrive all at once - it seeped in. By the first night, Peppa told herself the world would reset. That Minecraft always did. But morning came—square sun rising—and nothing changed. She built a marker where the mechanism had closed. Plain stone. No name. She sat beside it. Day after day, night after night, she remained.

She did not mine.
She did not build.
She did not run from the mobs that circled just beyond torchlight.

Rain fell in straight lines. Monsters hissed and burned at dawn. Hunger drained her hearts until only one remained, stubbornly blinking.

Ten days.
Ten nights.

The repetition of the world mocked her grief. Every block stayed breakable. Every mistake, permanent. On the tenth night, she finally understood what the game would not give her back: not George, not innocence, not the version of herself who had been bored instead of empty. When morning came, Peppa stood. She dismantled the marker block by block—not to erase what she had done, but to carry it with her. The stone went into her inventory, heavy despite its code. She walked on, not forgiven, not redeemed — just changed ; regret was a terrible thing… stupid shias.

Onur Bogdanov and Sufyan Joe Alnahita:

The world hard-cut. No pixels. No grids. Just gravity, fluorescent lighting, and the low hum of a city that never resets. There was Onur Bogdanov. Everyone knew Onur. Not personally—conceptually. He existed the way icons do: already quoted before he spoke, already watched while eating. Cafés adjusted their mirrors when he entered.

Onur ate constantly. Not out of hunger, but performance. Every bite was punctuation.

Onur Bogdanov was known for two things: eating as if it were performance art and speaking exclusively in drag queen dialect, every sentence dipped in glamour and mild violence. People orbited him for the commentary—sharp, theatrical, uncomfortably accurate—because he said what others edited out. In private, the diva dimmed but never disappeared; spectacle wasn’t a mask, it was how he survived a world that demanded sincerity but punished it.

Language, for Onur, had collapsed into drag queen dialect entirely. This was not affectation but evolution. Ordinary speech had proven too blunt, too honest in the wrong ways. Drag queen language allowed for distance: sincerity wrapped in irony, cruelty softened by glamour, vulnerability disguised as punchline. When he spoke, it was always performative, but never fake. “Baby,” he would say, surveying a room like a sovereign, “this energy is undercooked,” and somehow everyone would know exactly what he meant.

Onur still prayed to the chubby Buddha, not out of desperation, but gratefulness. The shrine sat in his apartment kitchen, tucked between takeout menus and spice jars, the statue glossy from years of incense smoke and accidental grease splatter. He bowed before it daily, sometimes mid-meal, lips murmuring gratitude in a tone that blended reverence with camp. Hunger, after all, had shaped his life more faithfully than any lover or job.

The blessing had come years ago, back when his body was lighter and the world less attentive. Infinite hunger sounded poetic then—romantic, even—an assurance that desire would never abandon him. Over time, the wish revealed its true scale. Meals multiplied, pauses disappeared, and fullness became a myth. His obesity arrived slowly, almost politely, settling in as the physical record of a prayer that never expired.

Now, the weight was undeniable. His joints complained, his breath shortened, mirrors grew more honest than flattering. Yet Onur refused the language of regret. This was not punishment; it was consequence. The Buddha had answered exactly as asked, and Onur wore that answer openly, flesh as testimony.

So he continued to pray—not to undo the blessing, but to withstand it. He asked for strength, for stamina, for the grace to carry abundance without collapse. Then he rose, reached for food, and kept living loudly, devotion measured not in restraint but in persistence.

Onur noticed it mid-bite—the pause, the unfamiliar resistance in his body. Full. The word landed like an insult. He froze, fork hovering, fury blooming hot and immediate. After years of devotion, ritual, grease-stained prayer mats and whispered gratitude, his hunger had betrayed him. The blessing had blinked. The change was visible within sec. Weight fell away, limits appeared, doctors smiled approvingly. People congratulated him with that particular brightness reserved for transformation narratives. Onur accepted none of it. Health felt like theft. Moderation felt like censorship. His body, once a monument to excess and faith, had quietly defected.

Rage took up residence where hunger used to live. It vibrated through him—sharp, theatrical, humiliating. He still prayed to the chubby Buddha, but now the prayers were accusatory, lacquered with diva bitterness. “So this is what I get?” he hissed. “A finish line I never asked for?” He ate now with restraint, and every controlled bite felt like blasphemy. The world applauded his balance, unaware that inside him something sacred had been revoked. Onur remained iconic, of course—but beneath the gloss, he mourned the god who had abandoned excess, and the hunger that once loved him without limits.

Onur’s anger needed a new altar. Drag queens do not sit quietly with betrayal; they rebrand. When the Buddha failed him—when fullness arrived uninvited, neat and clinical—Onur took it as divine incompetence. He shed the shrine, the incense, the gratitude. Faith, like hunger, was supposed to be endless, and anything with a limit was suspect.

So he converted loudly. Hindu now, he announced, with the same certainty he used to order food. He was drawn not to doctrine but to the holy cow—abundant, revered, unapologetically present. A body worshipped not for restraint but for what it sustained. It made sense to him immediately. Divinity in flesh. Sanctity without apology.

He prayed in drag, makeup immaculate, palms pressed together with theatrical sincerity. His prayers were furious, operatic, demanding. Not for health; never that. He asked for excess to return, for appetite to roar back into him, for the insult of moderation to be revoked. “I did not survive this long to be balanced,” he muttered. “I was built for more.” The world, again, watched and misunderstood. They saw a queen spiraling, experimenting, performing belief. They did not see devotion shaped by rage, or faith as refusal. Onur remained healthy, limited, contained—and incandescent with anger, kneeling before a new god who, he hoped, still understood the holiness of wanting too much.

Two hours had passed without food, and to Onur it felt like a biblical punishment misfiled under wellness. Fullness clung to him like wet fabric—heavy, suffocating, obscene. His body functioned, efficiently and traitorously, while his mind screamed. Hell, he thought, would at least have had snacks. This quiet endurance, this polite hungerlessness, was torture disguised as improvement.

He wandered the city in drag, exhausted by the effort of being contained. Every café window mocked him. Every smell arrived dulled, irrelevant. The diva inside him paced violently, heels clicking against the inside of his skull. He had been built for appetite, for ritual, for excess—and now even desire seemed rationed.

That was when he encountered Sufyan Joe Alnahita. The meeting was unceremonious, almost banal: a street corner, bad lighting, mutual recognition without introduction. Sufyan had the look of someone who understood extremes—not indulged in them, but studied them, survived them. His gaze lingered on Onur with curiosity rather than judgment, which immediately felt dangerous.

Onur stopped walking. Something in him flared—not hunger, not faith, but the restless certainty that this figure marked a pivot. Two hours without eating had broken him open, and Sufyan Joe Alnahita stood there like a consequence waiting to be named.

Love struck them without negotiation. Onur looked at Sufyan Joe Alnahita and felt something rupture—clean, immediate, theatrical. No backstory, no caution, just recognition. As if hunger, faith, and rage had all been rehearsals for this exact second. He stepped forward first, because of course he did.

They kissed like the world was ending and they were offended it hadn’t warned them. They underwent nude therapy and fucked like there was no tomorrow. No tenderness, no easing in—just mouths colliding with purpose, with relief, with years of unsaid wanting compressed into one act. Ils se sont embrassés, fiercely, desperately, as if the act itself could restore something sacred that had been stolen. Onur’s exhaustion burned away, replaced by heat, by presence, by a sudden violent clarity.

For a moment, fullness vanished—not from the body, but from relevance. The kiss demanded everything. Faith, hunger, health, rage—all of it folded into that contact. The diva did not perform; he existed. Sufyan held him like this was not discovery but return.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and unashamed, the city resumed its noise. Onur was still full. Still furious. Still limited. But now there was someone standing in front of him who had met him at his most unbearable—and kissed him anyway.

The wedding happened immediately, because escalation was the only language left. Someone screamed, someone cried, and then—absurdly, inevitably—the Pope was there, robes immaculate, authority deployed with reckless generosity. Vows were exchanged on the pavement, dramatic and poorly mic’d, Onur weeping in full drag while Sufyan smiled like this had always been scheduled. Sacrament met spectacle and neither blinked.

Angelina was present. No one questioned how or why. She stood slightly apart, sunglasses on, nodding with the calm of someone who had seen stranger unions survive worse logic. Later, people would say her presence legitimized the whole thing. Onur would insist it was the Pope. Both were probably wrong.

Sufyan did not comment on Onur’s body, not the excess, not the history written in it. Despite what the world whispered—ugly, fat, ruined—Sufyan treated the flesh like fact, not flaw. Onur noticed this immediately and hated how much it mattered. Love had arrived without conditions, without improvement arcs, without waiting for him to become presentable. He was still full. Still angry. Still divine in his own distorted way. And now married—sanctioned by God, cinema, and chaos—to someone who had chosen him at his most unbearable.

Angelina stepped forward with the calm of someone about to commit myth. She raised her hand—not in anger, not in cruelty, but with ceremonial precision—and struck Onur once, cleanly, as if ringing a bell that had been waiting years to sound. The impact echoed unnaturally, reality bending around it. Those big, chubby cheeks wibbled and wobbled as the noise of what followed spread through the fabric of time.

What followed was not gore, not pain, but displacement. The excess fat vanished as if it had never been earned, never prayed into being—flesh flung into abstraction, history rewritten mid-breath. Where abundance had lived, definition settled in. Muscle, sharp and unapologetic. A body rearranged by decree rather than effort.

Onur staggered, touched his torso, and laughed—high, disbelieving, almost offended. He was bootiful now in a way the world could digest easily, the kind of booty that invited approval without explanation. The irony was bitter on his tongue. After all that devotion, all that hunger, perfection had arrived through spectacle, not faith.

Sufyan watched without applause. Angelina lowered her hand and said nothing. And Onur—newly sculpted, newly legible—stood radiant and furious, knowing that even beauty, when granted without consent, could feel like another kind of loss.

Onur’s abs announced themselves immediately—hard, deliberate, almost architectural. Each line caught the light like it had been waiting for an audience, a body rewritten into something editorial and cruelly precise. He traced them with disbelief, not pride. This wasn’t effort rewarded; it was narrative theft. Buty had been imposed, not earned, and that distinction mattered to a diva who understood labor.

Above them, the displaced flesh moved through the air like a forgotten weather system. It drifted, slow and surreal, rolls unraveling into clouds, carried down the street by a wind that hadn’t existed seconds before. Passersby stared upward as if witnessing a miracle or a warning. The past, literally airborne, refused to disappear quietly.

Angelina didn’t look back. She adjusted her coat and walked away with the ease of someone closing a chapter mid-sentence. The slap had been decisive; so was everything else. Yes, she had cheated on Lenny. No, it didn’t matter. Lenny belonged to an older draft of her life. Lucas was a better fit—cleaner lines, fewer explanations. The city absorbed that truth without ceremony. Behind her, Onur stood sculpted and stunned, history floating overhead, while the world kept choosing efficiency over devotion, again and again.

Onur and Sufyan settled into a life of improbable peace at Onur’s house, a domestic rhythm that surprised everyone, especially them. Mornings were slow, theatrical, affectionate; evenings filled with commentary, shared silences, and the soft clatter of plates. It was the kind of harmony that didn’t ask questions. As the saying went—and life was good—a quiet, almost ironic echo of a children’s cartoon catchphrase drifting through an otherwise adult existence.

The house became a shared kingdom. Shrines coexisted with designer furniture, drag wigs with folded laundry. Sufyan moved through it all with calm steadiness, anchoring the diva storms without trying to tame them. Onur, for his part, allowed himself something radical: rest. Love without spectacle still felt like love, apparently.

There was only one flaw in paradise. The fullness never left. It lingered, low-grade and relentless, a constant hum beneath the surface of otherwise perfect days. No hunger to chase, no ritual to complete—just a body that refused to want more and a mind that hadn’t forgiven it yet.

Still, they lived. They laughed. They chose peace daily. And even with that insatiable fullness pressing quietly from the inside, Onur admitted—never out loud—that this version of life, oddly enough, worked.

On the sixty-seventh day of their marriage, Onur woke with certainty humming through his bones. A revelation, delivered not in thunder but in calm alignment: the Holy Cow had spoken. He could eat again—truly eat, endlessly, gloriously—but only if his hunger turned inward, toward love rather than flesh. Hinduism( or was it jainism(or buddhism), we will never know 😔) had spoken. The fullness cracked. Desire returned like breath after drowning.

He woke up and without a doubt gobbled him whole - biting through the fullness that was to soon disappear. Sufyan remained inside him, alive, chosen, intact. Onur grew larger again in presence if not in body, swollen with wanting, with faith, with the unbearable sweetness of being allowed excess once more.

Life stayed good.
But hunger—finally—was louder.

Alien Business:

In another world entirely, Solaris herself stood as the Gen-Z woman distilled to myth: founder and creator, origin and endpoint, the blueprint everyone copied and no one surpassed. She was praised into abstraction—screens loved her, movements cited her, history prematurely canonised her as the last legacy of doing it right. Effort clung to her like light, invisible yet undeniable, and even her silence felt authored.

Amir watched from a careful distance, carrying his crush like a private doctrine. It wasn’t just attraction—it was reverence sharpened by longing. To him, Solorais represented possibility made disciplined, desire that had learned how to win. He never spoke it aloud; some icons, he knew, were powerful precisely because they were never touched.

Solaris carried a secret beneath the polished mythology: she was not from this world. An alien, an exile, shaped by a culture that would never appear on a moodboard, hiding in plain sight behind Gen-Z perfection and viral relevance. The pop life she curated was camouflage, every success another layer sealing the truth away. To be adored was easy; to be discovered was unthinkable.

In truth, Solaris was not merely an alien in disguise—she was the living essence of alienness itself, a vessel through which every otherworldly exile had learned how to endure. Her façade was elegant but thin; anyone attentive could sense the strangeness in her timing, her silences, the way she seemed to observe humanity rather than belong to it. Fans mistook this for mystique, for branding. They adored the surface and never asked what sustained it.

True love, however, saw past admiration. Amir did. He recognized her not as an icon but as an outcast performing survival at scale. Where others consumed her image, he listened for the gaps between her words, the loneliness threaded through her perfection. Loving her did not demystify her—it made her more real, more fragile, more extraordinary. This knowledge only deepened his devotion. He did not fear her alien nature; he revered it. To him, Solaris was proof that something utterly foreign could still choose care, creation, and attachment. He loved her not despite her difference, but because of it. And so the thought came to him—not as entitlement, but as hope: a child together. Not ownership, not legacy, but continuation. A being born of love that crossed species, myth, and loneliness. Whether Solaris could allow herself that kind of future remained unknown—but for the first time, she was seen by someone who loved what she truly was. The only thought that ever went through his mind: her fucking him 24/7 everyday so that he could produce not 1, but 5 children every day to repopulate the earth full of their own flesh and being.

Amir did the unthinkable—he stepped forward and struck her, the sound sharp and misplaced, as if it had come from another scene entirely. He didn’t know why his hand moved; Solaris didn’t know how it had happened. The moment fractured around them, time stalling in disbelief. Then came the pause. The world held its breath. Solaris stood perfectly still, not shocked so much as revealed, her composure thinning enough for the alien truth beneath to flicker. Amir’s certainty collapsed into horror as the weight of his action arrived all at once, heavy and irrevocable. Nothing rushed to fix it. No apology fit yet. No myth absorbed the damage. They stood there in silence, facing the space where love had been—and the question of whether it could survive what had just broken it.

The slap was not human in scale: it cracked through the moment like tectonic movement, like a sound older than language. Even the gods—whatever watched from beyond narrative—fell into stunned silence. It was not violence for its own sake. It was time, arriving. Just as the prophecy had always said it would. In that suspended instant, truth unfolded. Amir was not separate from Solaris. He was her alter ego, her counter-self, the human echo of the alien consciousness she carried. Not twin. Not reflection. Completion. The love he felt for her had always been self-recognition across form—alien and human, myth and flesh, origin and adaptation. They had loved each other because they were never truly apart. The revelation landed fully formed, godlike in clarity and terror. No explanation. No language. Only certainty. Solaris understood. Amir understood. No one else would ever know. Not fans, not history, not the watchers beyond the world. Some truths, once revealed, demand privacy to survive.

Amir left quietly after that. No farewell speech. No collapse. Just departure. The world closed around the moment like water sealing over a stone. Solaris returned to her life, her myth, her perfect Gen-Z divinity. Everything continued as normal. The façade held. The secret deepened.

Until, one day, much later, in a completely different chapter of existence, Amir met Sufyan. And something in the universe shifted again—softly this time, but just as permanently.

The 2 idiots:

Sufyan’s anger was not loud. It was catastrophic. The kind that rearranges gravity inside a person. To him, whatever had just unfolded felt like ultimate betrayal—cosmic, intimate, humiliating. It didn’t matter that Amir had never met him before, that no promise had technically been broken. Emotion does not negotiate with logic, and Sufyan’s rage rooted itself deep, patient, and alive.

Amir, meanwhile, felt nothing toward him. Not cruelty—just absence. Sufyan was a stranger. A moment. A ripple in a life already split by prophecy and revelation. When Sufyan confronted him, Amir answered with a sharp, dismissive slap—clean, theatrical, diva-precise—and walked away without turning back, aura immaculate, exit perfect.

Sufyan stood there, anger expanding, crystallizing, becoming something denser than emotion—something with future consequences.

Then, the air shifted.

The holy cow appeared, not descending, not arriving—simply being there, vast and calm and impossible to ignore. The street noise dulled. Time softened at the edges. Even Sufyan’s rage paused, confused by the presence of something older than conflict.

And the cow had a revelation.

Not spoken. Not written. Given.

The holy cow’s revelation was not gentle. It settled into Sufyan’s mind with absolute, divine certainty: he had been wrong to marry Onur—not because of love, not because of fate, but because he had tied himself to a life that was never meant to hold him. He became ugly just by ever meeting the fat pig. The message twisted harsher, colder: he had been foolish, blind, unworthy of the path he thought he was on. Beauty, destiny, devotion—he had misunderstood all of it.

The judgment came with sentence. Eternal punishment—only then, after endurance beyond measure, could he approach something like nirvana.

Sufyan did not argue. Divine revelations don’t invite debate. They simply replace reality. The world folded around him. Light pixelated. Air squared. Gravity simplified. Sound flattened into digital ambience. When sensation returned, he was standing on blocky grass under a square sun, the sky an endless blue grid stretching over forests and distant mountains. Somewhere in this world—absurd, bright, indifferent—echoes of another story lingered. A world once touched by Peppa Pig’s simple declarations that life was good. A world that did not understand divine punishment or cosmic betrayal. A world that only understood survival, building, and nightfall.

Sufyan stood there, alone, rage still burning inside him, now trapped inside a universe that could not comprehend its scale. And somewhere deep in the code of this world, something ancient and patient began to watch him—waiting to see what anger, carried long enough, might finally turn him into.

Nirvana:

In the realm beyond worlds—the quiet expanse called Brahman—the gods assembled without ceremony. Brahma, architect of beginnings, sat in contemplative stillness. Vishnu, preserver of balance, watched with the patience of someone who had seen cycles repeat endlessly. Nearby, the baby Jesus radiated a soft, unsettling innocence, while the chubby Buddha rested in heavy silence. The holy cow stood calm but unmistakably tense. Unfortunately, the Holy Spirit was too busy fucking up lives - like if you gonna be father, son, holy spirit, at least make sense stupid cunt.

The meeting was not about power. It was about mistake.

Brahma spoke first, voice like creation itself remembering something it wished it had built differently. The chubby Buddha’s blessing—endless hunger given without wisdom—had warped a life into devotion without relief.

Vishnu followed, with more extreme and upsetting news: the holy cow’s choice to remove buddha’s blessing so Bogdan would worship her AND the revelation—punishment born from shame and judgment upon Sufyan—had fractured destiny rather than guiding it. Gods could give gifts. Gods could give trials. But distortion, they agreed, was not balance.

The baby Jesus did not speak, but his presence pressed gently against the room, like a question none of them wanted to ask We were enjoying seeing onur and amir and alien being like little fuckheads - why did you stop the comedy? unc.

The holy cow lowered its head. The chubby Buddha’s smile faded into something older, heavier. Neither argued. Even divine beings, it seemed, could act too quickly when faced with mortal devotion that was too intense, too absolute.

And though the Holy Spirit was absent—busy, as always, moving invisibly through chaos and consequence—the decision settled quietly among them:

Something would have to be corrected.
Not erased.
Not undone.
But answered.

Across worlds—Onur’s, Solaris’s, Peppa’s—the fabric of destiny trembled slightly, as if waiting for the gods to decide what mercy looked like this time.

The judgment was final.

The holy cow was stripped of divinity and bound to human existence—reborn as Lina, permanent, mortal, finite. No return, no hidden godhood, no memory except a faint, aching sense of something vast that had been lost. Immortality replaced by years. Omniscience replaced by confusion.

The chubby Buddha did not fall. He was executed—his head chopped off and fell on Lina mouth open, no longer a being, no longer a will. Not death in the human sense. Removal. The assembly of gods watched in silence, understanding that divinity misused could not always be repaired—sometimes it had to be ended.

A day passed across all realms.

Onur slept beside Sufyan’s absence, fullness no longer humming inside him.
Sufyan slept on blocky grass under pixel stars, anger burning even in dreams.
Solaris slept under the weight of being adored and never fully known.
Amir slept with prophecy folded quietly inside him.
Lina—newly human, disoriented, ordinary—slept without understanding why existence suddenly felt so small. Lina/former holy cow is ugly - she is an abomination to the human socitey - case-oh is a sexy ass godess compared to her; a pile of poo would have been nicer to see(and smell).

And in sleep, the walls between worlds thinned.

They all opened their eyes into the same place: a vast, soft, boundaryless expanse—no sky, no ground, only presence. Not heaven. Not afterlife. Something closer to a waiting room outside suffering.

The Nirvana Dream.

No one spoke at first.
They simply recognized one another—not faces, not histories, but essences. Hunger. Anger. Love. Exile. Loss. Consequence.

For the first time across all worlds, they were connected.

Not punished.
Not redeemed.
Just… present together.

And somewhere beyond even this place, whatever remained of the divine watched—not interfering, not correcting—waiting to see what beings would do when finally allowed to exist without illusion.

In the Nirvana Dream, where souls stood stripped of performance, Sufyan saw Onur.

The anger he had carried across worlds broke open—not as words, not as violence meant to destroy, but as overwhelming, consuming need to reclaim what he believed had been taken from him. They collided in raw, chaotic intimacy—fierce, emotional, consenting, driven by grief and history rather than tenderness. It was less about pleasure and more about semen release, about two forces crashing together after too many lifetimes of separation.

And from that impossible union, reality warped.

A child appeared—not born in time, but manifested. A baby boy, radiant, calm, ancient and newborn at once. The essence that many realms had once called the baby Jesus returned through them, as if love and suffering combined had recreated him. It just came right out of them - it was acc so cray cray.

Lina—once the holy cow, now trapped in human limitation—felt fury like acid in her chest. Divinity stolen from her, eternity denied, and now a god reborn in front of her through beings she saw as undeserving. Rage overpowered reason. She reached for the child—not to nurture, but to reclaim power, to pull divinity back into herself. She attempted to penetrate the child.

Across the Nirvana Dream, another transformation unfolded.

Amir and Solaris stood together—no longer separate forms trying to love across distance, but perfect opposites completing one truth. They were not soulmates. They were something more absolute: two halves of cosmic contradiction resolving into unity. Their presence distorted space. Love, identity, alienness, humanity—all collapsed into one balanced being.

And slowly, gently, inevitably—

They became the new Chubby Buddha.

Not the old one.
Not the flawed one.
But a being born from true recognition rather than blind devotion.

The Nirvana Dream trembled, holding its breath, as power shifted once again between love, anger, loss, and rebirth.

Then—without warning, without ceremony—Peppa Pig arrived in the Nirvana Dream, bright and solid in a place made of essence and memory. She looked around once, twice, and then saw him.

George.

Small. Whole. Familiar in a way that cut through every cosmic misunderstanding at once.

And suddenly the truth landed—this child was not the baby Jesus reborn. Not divine incarnation. Not prophecy. Just George. Somehow, impossibly, still himself across worlds and consequences.

Across the dreamscape, Lina felt reality snap again.

The power she had tried to reach for dissolved, and instead she was pulled inward, reshaped—her essence compressing, reforming, simplifying—until she became George. Smaller. Mortal. Limited. No divinity. No revenge. Just existence. A truer reflection of the ugly pig she is. And she felt it fully: loss, confusion, grief. The rage didn’t disappear—it had nowhere divine to go anymore.

For a moment, it felt like she might try to destroy everything. Not as a god—but as pain with nowhere else to live. Omnicide was a real and recurring thought in her/his mind.

And then—absurdly, mercifully—a beef burger with bacon appeared in front of her/him.

No divine speech. No prophecy. Just food.

She ate.

And something softened. Not erased. Not healed. Just… paused. The contradiction—current pig, former cow, eater of both—should have shattered meaning. Instead it grounded her. Existence was messy. Identity was not clean. Hunger, love, loss, survival—they all overlapped.

She finished the burger. Looked up.

And then she rose.

Not falling upward, not ascending through ritual—just lifting, as if gravity had finally stopped insisting she stay small. Higher. Higher. Past dream, past form, past story.

Until she, too, unfolded into something vast and round and calm and knowing—

Another Chubby Buddha.

Not copy.
Not replacement.
Addition.

And across the Nirvana Dream, multiple Buddhas now existed—each born from contradiction, consequence, and survival—watching quietly as worlds continued to create beings messy enough to become divine.

Divinity spread through the Nirvana Dream like dawn. One by one, the others settled into godhood—Solaris/Amir as the chubby Buddha, Lina transformed beyond her punishment, Peppa stabilized into a myth of simple truth. The realm glowed with beings who had crossed suffering and become something larger.

Only two remained mortal.

Onur.
Sufyan.

And for a brief, fragile moment, Sufyan felt relief. Not alone. Not abandoned to smallness while everyone else transcended. Their shared limitation felt like an anchor, like proof that existence without godhood still meant something.

Then the universe shifted again.

Onur changed.

Not through punishment. Not through revelation forced on him. Through nature. Through truth. Through the thing that had defined him across every world—

He became the God of Food.

Not hunger. Not gluttony. Not excess.
Food itself. Nourishment. Desire. Comfort. Celebration. Survival.

The air around him filled with the smell of bread, spice, sweetness, salt, warmth. Meals across universes suddenly felt more vivid. Hunger felt more meaningful. Eating became sacred, joyful, alive.

And Sufyan—

Sufyan felt something tear.

Because now he was alone again.

Not just non-divine.
Left behind.

To him, it felt like betrayal layered on betrayal. First love, then fate, then gods, then destiny—and now even shared mortality was taken. The anger he had carried since the street corner, since the slap, since the revelations—it crystallized.

Not chaos.

Not noise.

War. War has been declared.

Not armies. Not weapons.
But intention.

Sufyan decided, in that silent, terrible way that changes reality:
If divinity meant abandonment—
Then divinity would have to be challenged.

And across the Nirvana Dream, the newly born gods felt it.

Not attack.
Not yet.

But the beginning of something: inevitable.

War, huh, yeah, what is it good for, absolutley nothin’:

They woke suddenly—no transition, no fading—back in their original universes, as if the Nirvana Dream had been both real and not. Onur woke in his apartment still God of Food ofc, the scent of food still clinging to reality around him. Solaris/Amir/chubby buddha woke beneath screens and myth and quiet alien distance. Lina/holycow/george/chubby buddha woke up as a big, fat chubby buddha body. The gods(brahama, vishnu, baby jesus, holy spirit) woke too—but something was different.

The god universe—the realm of pure divinity—had become mortal. Time existed there now. Decay existed. Choices had consequence. The gods felt weight for the first time.

Because Sufyan had changed.

His anger, carried across worlds, had reached critical mass—not exploding outward, but collapsing inward until it became something vast enough to hold everything. He did not become a god. He became Brahman—not ruler, not personality, but total existence. The field. The container. The sum of all contradictions.

And with that power, intentionally or not, he did something irreversible.

He merged the universes.

Minecraft skies bled into city skylines. Alien myth overlapped with human streets. Divine realms fell into time and gravity. Gods walked and aged. Mortals brushed against eternity by accident. Hunger, love, rage, devotion—all lost their boundaries.

The world—what used to be called the world—became chaos.

Not destruction.
Not apocalypse.
But collision.

Onur felt food become sacred and ordinary at once.
Alien felt millions more suddenly capable of sensing what she really was.
Lina/poo poo head felt the echo of lost godhood and new humanity simultaneously.
The former gods felt fear.

And Sufyan—everywhere and nowhere—felt everything all at once.

Not satisfied.
Not calm.
But finally…

Not powerless.

In the merged world, love had stopped making sense.

Lina loved Amir.
The memory of the Holy Cow loved Amir.

George had run away from home because his parents said loving Amir was wrong, impossible, forbidden by the new laws of chaos. George rebelled over loving Amir.

But Amir loved Solaris.

And Solaris hated Amir.

Even though Solaris was Amir — or had been — or would be — depending on which universe you stood in. Solaris hated Amir — while being Amir.

Together, when they stood in the same place long enough, they folded into something else entirely —
Chubby Buddha, loving only itself, complete and infinite.

Solaris = Alien Gen Z Icon

Amir = Her biggest simp

Solaris = Also secretly Amir

Together = Chubby Buddha 2.0 Deluxe Edition

Onur loved Sufyan.
But Onur loved food more.
And food, now that universes had merged, had become sacred matter — prayers you could eat.

Sufyan, who had become Brahman and still somehow remained Sufyan, hated Onur.
But Sufyan loved the memory of the Holy Cow.

He loved that memory so much that, one day, standing in the centre of all realities, he ate a beef burger — not out of cruelty, not out of rebellion, but out of grief. Out of contradiction. Out of love twisted into something mortal.

Peppa watched all of this.

She was tired.

Not sad.
Not broken.
Just… tired of being a symbol, a mistake, a cosmic joke people argued about.

So she didn’t try to destroy herself.

Instead, she chose to leave the story.

She walked to the edge of the merged world — where Minecraft blocks dissolved into divine light and city noise turned into silence — and stepped beyond narrative, beyond memory, beyond role.

Peppa got bored so she decides to commit altruistic suicide. The whole world stops. They all burst out in celebration, for Peppa was an abomination, an affront to nature. Finally, a sense of normalcy became apparent in this new combined world.

She wasn’t part of the story anymore.

And something incredible happened.

The world paused.

Not in celebration.
In relief.
In confusion.
In quiet.

For the first time since the merge, the chaos slowed enough that people — gods — former gods — aliens — mortals — could breathe.

Normality didn’t return.

But a new normal appeared:

Gods who could age.
Mortals who could accidentally perform miracles.
Love that contradicted itself but still existed.
Food that could be sacred or just lunch.
Anger that could create universes.
And stories that could lose characters — and keep going.

Somewhere, beyond everything.

Not an abomination.
Not a savior.
Just… someone who finally got to rest.

Amir stood in the middle of the merged, glitchy universe, arms crossed, radiating pure “main character energy” — except… nobody noticed. Onur was summoning a croissant tornado, Sufyan was rage-meditating in space, and Lina was arguing with a sentient burger about taxes. Amir coughed loudly. Nothing. Not even a dramatic wind.

Nobody noticed; nobody cared. He’s irrelevant - get used to it unc.

But he did the only reasonable, totally normal thing.

He called Judgment Day.

The sky didn’t crack.
It buffered.

Then a notification appeared across all realities:

⚠️ FINAL PATCH UPDATE: JUDGMENT DAY DEPLOYING ⚠️

And then Angelina arrived.

Not walking.
Not flying.
Just… loading into existence like the final boss of reality.

She was the Final God — the last admin, the last moderator, the one who decides if existence gets deleted, archived, or turned into a meme forever.

She spoke once, and every universe got quiet.

“Hey sistas- lets see who I am gonna slut up next queen.”

Onur looked up at angie, wishing he was as ever such a diva as she.

Judjement daye:

It started with Angelina making executive chaos decisions.

She rose above all realms and declared Lina worthy — not for purity, not for wisdom — but because she passed the ancient cosmic test: the Burger of Contradictions. By accepting it and eating it with such a passion as to want to jerk off to it, despite everything she once was, Lina proved she could exist in paradox. Angelina crowned her co–Final God — a union of power, law, and eternity.

Punishments and fates were handed out like cursed party favors.

Onur, the eternal sassy diva and God of Food, was sentenced to Heaven Without Food — a place of perfect peace, infinite light… and zero snacks. No hunger, no taste, no craving. Pure divine stillness. For Onur, it was the most sophisticated torture ever invented. It was punishment made of pure divinity, not evil.

Peppa, declared cosmically a wimp was removed from relevance. Like a deleted save file. She got crushed, her body part flying across the realms, blood oozing everywhere, bones shattered, soul removed: she was gone.

Solaris was sentenced to Eternal Performance — forever twerking across cosmic stages, her movement literally powering reality’s heartbeat.

Sufyan was sent to Hell — fire and demons, endless frustration. Nothing ever fully wrong, nothing ever fully right. Just enough irritation to keep him permanently mad.

Brahman’s fragment inside him was burned away in divine reset fire — not destruction, just… downgrade to mortal-level suffering. icl sucks to be him.

And Amir?

His eternity was… humiliatingly symbolic.

A leaking bucket above him.
It fills with piss..
It pours.
Again the cycle repeats.
Forever.

A reminder: you can chase being “the main character” forever, and still feel empty.

Because he and Solaris were reflections of each other, he was bound to her fate — forced into the same eternal twerking cycles, half himself, half her, never fully either. They had to touch butts and sometimes moan - zac would goon to this sometimes.

Chubby Buddha emerged from Amir/solaris’ being, turning him into Nirvana’s Custodian.

Every day he must travel Nirvana, removing souls who refuse to come out for judjement day.
Every day they respawn.
Every day he starts again.

Endless. Tiring for such a fatty. Absurdly bureaucratic.

Baby Jesus and the Holy Spirit were elevated to Heaven — stabilizers of existence.

And by extension, most remaining mortals were slowly lifted upward too. The merged universe needed less chaos now. Less noise.

Lina, now Final God, was given one personal choice:

Heaven.
Or Hell.

She chose Hell.

Not for suffering.
Not for punishment.

But because Amir was there — flawed, ugly, irrelevant, sexy af — and to her, weirdly, that mattered more than perfection.

In the final scene:

Angelina visited Lenny one last time. She walked up to him like the diva onur bogdan could never become(cuz he failure), and slapped those big round and chubby cheeks.
She gives him a last big, goodbye, smothering kiss as she violently lets go of their love making and pushes him into the endless deep and dark fires of hell.

Then she turned, hair flicked her face as it were in slow motion and ran as fast as she could with those small fatass legs toward Lucas, and vanished into the horizon of a new reality.

And far away…

Liv just watched.

Silent.
Thinking.
Wondering which story — and which boy — would be next for her lips and hole?