Donald T, the once-mighty Destroyer and reluctant Master of Daiarira, trudged onward through the twisted badlands of Labio. His guts were a battlefield, roiling like a pot of overcooked chili left on the stove too long. Every step? A thunderclap of torment. "Why me?" he muttered, clenching everything clenchable. But the prophecy had spoken: only a man cursed with eternal runs could unseat the Reptails. Diarrhea wasn't a weakness—it was his superpower. Or so the ancient toilet scrolls claimed.
As he approached the Gay Kingdom's glittering gates (made of recycled disco balls and unicorn horns), his belly let out a ominous glorp. "Not now," he whispered, but oh yes, now. The Only Right Princess Bitch Queen, Tyrone and Savior Vunder Kurr Wer Durver—let's call her Queen Bitch for short—appeared on her throne, floating on a cloud of rainbow fart mist. She cackled, her crown of bedazzled butt plugs sparkling. "Ah, the Shitter of Labio! Come to soil my realm?"
Donald charged... or tried to. Mid-stride, disaster struck. Splat! He shit himself. Not a dainty dribble, oh no—a full-on eruption, like a chocolate volcano spewing molten regret. His pants ballooned, then deflated in a squelchy symphony. The ground beneath him turned to mudslide central, and he slipped, sliding face-first toward the Queen's guards: a squad of fabulous flamingo warriors on stilettos.
"Attack!" Queen Bitch commanded, but the flamingos were too busy gagging. "Eww, what is that smell? It's like expired guacamole met a sewer rave!" One guard barfed glitter, starting a chain reaction. Donald, covered in his own "hero sauce," rolled like a human log down the rainbow ramparts, bowling over Reptail spies hidden as backup dancers. "Take that, you scaly bastards!" he yelled, though it came out more like "Blargle flargh!"
But wait—the diarrhea had a twist! Turns out, his epic dump was laced with anti-reptilian enzymes (from all those talking mushrooms he'd eaten earlier). The goo spread, melting Reptail disguises left and right. Merchants turned back into lizards, bankers into geckos, and one high-ranking Vank exec into a chameleon that couldn't decide on a color—so it exploded in a puff of confetti scales.
Queen Bitch, horrified yet impressed, hovered closer. "You fight dirty—literally! Join me, and we'll rule with fabulous filth!" But Donald, pants sagging like a defeated parachute, stood (wobbled) tall. "Never! Labio will be free, even if I have to crap on every conspiracy from here to the squirrel overlords!"
Just then, the interdimensional cats appeared—fluffy fiends with NFT collars—pouncing from portals. One landed in Donald's mess and yowled, "This is worse than litter box duty!" Chaos peaked: cats slipping, flamingos fleeing, Reptails retreating in a slimy stampede. Donald laughed maniacally, his diarrhea-fueled slip 'n' slide turning the battlefield into the world's grossest water park.
Yet victory was bittersweet (or bitter-shitty). As the moons crashed overhead, sparking a fireworks show of exploding acorns (squirrel spies, confirmed), Donald realized: the real enemy was his diet. "No more mystery mushrooms," he vowed, hobbling away in search of Imodium and glory.
The battlefield reeked of rainbow mist, melted lizard scales, and Donald T's latest "strategic deployment" from his cursed bowels. Queen Vander Kurr Wer Dyrver (full title still too fabulous to fit on one line) hovered above the chaos on her glittering throne, arms crossed under her sequined cape. She eyed the orange-haired destroyer with a mix of annoyance and reluctant respect.
"Listen, Shitter of Labio," she boomed in her dramatic queen voice, "your quest is an honorable one—even if it's literally shitty. I shall not stand in your way. Go forth, save your weird little world from the geopolitical reptails and their endless fiat fuckery. Just... try not to track that mess through my kingdom again."
Donald T, still dripping and pants at half-mast like a sad flag of surrender, straightened up as best he could. "Thank you, Your Bitchiness. But I gotta save the world from the filth those reptail people did to the economic value of money—in golden proportion to the short market, formerly known as CFDs! They turned honest speculation into a rigged casino where only insiders win, and the little guy gets liquidated faster than my bowels after mushroom tacos!"
Queen Vander nodded solemnly (or as solemnly as one can while wearing a crown of vibrating butt plugs). "Fair. Go wreck 'em. My unicorn cavalry will cheer from afar."
Before Donald could hobble away, a sleek, pixelated shadow slunk out from behind a fallen disco ball. It was the interdimensional NFT cat—once a majestic crypto lord with a floor price in the millions, now looking like a mangy alley stray with glitchy whiskers and a sad, empty wallet icon floating above its head.
"Meow... Donald T," the cat whimpered, eyes big and watery like over-leveraged moonboys. "Because of the recent downfall of my entire collection—floor crashed harder than a 2022 bear market—I'm broke. No kibble, no catnip, no nothing. Can you spot me 10 bucks? Just 10! I'll give it back once my NFTs moon again. Promise. Pinky swear. Or paw swear. Whatever."
Donald stared down at the pathetic furball, then at the horizon where the squirrel overlords were probably plotting their next acorn pump-and-dump. He sighed, a deep, rumbling sound that almost triggered round two of diarrhea.
"Look, kitty," Donald said, voice gravelly with wisdom and lingering gut pain. "Money is not everything. You gotta find honest work. Something that exploits your health, destroys your psychic health, grinds your soul into dust—just like the rest of us mortals. No shortcuts. No begging for bailouts. Get a job flipping burgers or mining shitcoins the old-fashioned way—with blood, sweat, and existential dread."
The NFT cat's ears drooped lower. "But... but rug pulls are my love language..."
Before it could meow another plea, the pile of Donald's earlier "contribution" to the battlefield began to bubble and steam. The shit itself trembled, then erupted in a geyser of grotesque glory. Out burst he—the Big Black Gorilla in his gay armor, forged entirely from interlocking figures of muscular gay men frozen in heroic, sparkling poses. Rainbow plates of abs, biceps, and pride flags formed impenetrable armor that shimmered like oil on water. The gorilla's eyes glowed with fabulous fury, chest heaving, fur glistening under disco lights that somehow still worked after the battle.
"ROOOAAARRR!" the gorilla bellowed, flexing so hard his armor twinkled like a pride parade supernova. "I AM THE GUARDIAN OF CHAOS AND CAMP! BORN FROM THE DEPTHS OF YOUR... UH... SACRED OFFERING! NOW, WHO WANTS TO GET WRECKED?!"
The NFT cat yowled and bolted. Queen Vander raised an eyebrow. "Okay, that's new. Even for my kingdom."
Donald T blinked, wiped a streak of something unmentionable from his face, and grinned. "Guess the prophecy meant 'Master of Daiarira' literally includes shitting out allies. Alright, big guy—let's go crash the squirrel economy next. And maybe find a bathroom on the way."
The gorilla pounded his chest (causing a minor gay pride earthquake), and together they marched off—Donald waddling, gorilla strutting, cat trailing behind begging for scraps.
The battlefield (now more like a shit-smeared pride parade aftermath) fell into an awkward hush as the Big Black Gorilla in his gay armor of interlocking muscle dudes flexed dramatically and pointed one massive finger at Donald T.
"I am the Slayer of 100 Men!" the gorilla roared, voice echoing like a bass drop at a bathhouse. "Trained in the secret dungeons of the Portugal Zoo by the great António de Oliveira Salazar himself, back in the good times! When honest work was rewarded, bread was real bread—not this slop GMO poison they call food now. We lifted weights made of fascist concrete and ate oranges that actually tasted like oranges!"
Donald T wiped a fresh streak of regret from his leg and squinted up at the towering beast. "If you're the gorilla that killed a hundred men... then I'm gonna have to day you. Right here. Right now."
The gorilla tilted his head, rainbow abs glittering. "Day me? You mean slay me? Fine, little shitter. But first—adopt the politics of 2000+ or get wrecked. No more boomer nostalgia. Embrace the chaos, the memes, the endless scroll!"
Donald T shook his head slowly. "If Gorilla ain't willing to adopt the politics of 2000+, then he gonna day." His voice cracked with determination—and intestinal pressure.
Suddenly, the pressure hit critical. Donald's bowels unleashed with biblical force. A wet, thunderous BLORP-SPLAT-WHOOSH exploded outward, propelling him forward like a human rocket on a methane booster. He flew—pants flapping like sad wings—straight at the gorilla, fist cocked for the knockout punch.
But physics in Labio is drunk. Donald's American fist stopped exactly 2 meters (that's about 6.56 feet, or for every Amerikan 3 feets of lehts per mill as the old saying goes) short of connecting. He hung there mid-air, arm trembling, looking like a confused action figure.
The gorilla doubled over laughing, armor jingling. "Yes! And I Jewish—I converted back in the good ol' Aryan years of 2008!"
The year 2008 hit Donald like a second wave of diarrhea. Memories flooded in: bailouts, foreclosures, Lehman Brothers collapsing like a house of cards made of subprime dreams. "2008..." he whispered. "That's what I fight for. To stop the next one. To free the markets from the reptail short-sellers and their CFD casino!"
Rage (and more guts) ignited. Donald started shitting and spinning at the same time—full tornado mode. A swirling vortex of pure kinetic energy erupted around him: brown waves of righteous fury mixed with sparkling pride particles. The energy wave slammed into the gorilla like a freight train made of bad decisions.
"AAAAAARGH!" the gorilla screamed as he flew backward. "2008 was the year of the people! The old boomer generation—"
He never finished. From behind, Queen Vander Kurr Wer Dyrver appeared in a flash of glitter. She drove a famous sword straight through his armored back. Not just any sword—this was the legendary blade signed by Miyazaki himself, creator of Erdon Ringue (the forbidden bootleg edition where you fight naked bosses with emotional damage). The blade glowed with anime anguish.
The gorilla gasped, eyes wide with fanboy ecstasy. "My god... Miyazaki's signature... I was such a big fan..." He clutched the hilt protruding from his chest. "I always dreamed of dying like this—with piss in my heart and a sword in my ass..."
He slumped forward, armor clanking, then whispered his final words: "Tell... Harambe... I said sup..."
Donald T turned slowly, still spinning a little from the energy wave, pants now completely unsalvageable. The NFT cat peeked out from behind a disco ball, tail puffed in terror.
"Donaldie T! Look out—he had payot!" the cat yowled, pointing at the sidelocks still dangling from the gorilla's furry temples.
But it was too late for warnings. The gorilla was gone—spirit ascending to the great Harambe meme in the sky.
Donald exhaled (and maybe a little more), then looked at the cat. "Quest ain't over, furball. Time to free the market from the reptails, the squirrels, the boomer ghosts, and whoever else rigged the game. No more bailouts. No more rugs. Just honest chaos."
The NFT cat nodded solemnly. "I'll follow... but only if you spot me that 10 bucks later."
Donald snorted. "We'll see. First, find me a laundromat. Then we crash the next pump-and-dump."
Together—man waddling in ruined glory, cat slinking with glitchy hope—they left the glittering ruins of the Gay Kingdom behind. The quest to liberate the markets had truly begun.