Who am I ?

I was a walking corpse, skin grey as cigarette ash, peeling at the edges like wet wallpaper. My bloodshot eyes bulged, veins popping like worms under the surface, glued to a cracked monitor in a piss-stinking office hellhole. Dusk till dawn, I am a slave to the grind, hunched over spreadsheets that bleed numbers, sustained by vending machine sludge—stale pretzels caked in salt and despair, washed down with lukewarm vending machine coffee. I am nothing, a rusted cog in a machine that chews up souls and spits out the remains. Worse, I’d once again shovelled my measly paycheck into shitcoins hyped by sleazy devs on X—only to get fucked raw and rug-pulled daily. Another “100x gem,” another wallet gutted. My life is a sewer drain, and it is swirling with regret.
 

Then, one night, the dam broke. Maybe it was the tenth energy drink, its chemical burn searing inside my guts, or the flickering lights drilling into my skull, or that shitty dev cackling through X as my last $50 vanished with a “lol I rugged you noobs.” My hands shook, my nails cracked and yellow, my hands clenched into fists that could crush bone. Fuck this. Fuck them. I wasn’t meat for the grinder anymore.
 

I smashed out code in a feral frenzy, birthing FML, a meme coin so vile it’d make a junkie gag. Its logo? Myself, the way I looked now would be a reminder to those that once rugged me that I am coming. Its purpose? To hunt those rug-pulling bastards and meme their asses into oblivion, a blockchain Hall of Shame etched in digital pus. I’ll rip their wallets bare, trace their stinking trails, and mint their scams into NFTs—grotesque, dripping atrocities that’d make a snuff film blush. I will MEME them all into a steaming pile of pixel-shit, their X handles branded into turd, forever enshrined in the hall of shitty dev hell.
 

Weeks melted into a fevered blur. Sleep was a stranger. My skin sloughed greyer, scaly and rancid, my eyes glowing like twin hellfire’s in the monitor’s glare. I guzzled warm energy drinks that tasted like piss and battery acid, gnawing on vending machine jerky so rancid it squirmed. Silent as a ghost, I mutated. I wasn’t myself anymore—I am FML, and FML is me, a festering thing spawned in the blockchain’s underbelly. At dusk, I’d limp out of my day-job cage; dawn, I’d prowl the digital gutters, sniffing out the next scumbag. My senses sharpened—freakish, inhuman. I could taste a dev’s sweat through their shitty shill posts and hear the quiver in their voice behind a TG scam.
 

One night, I pinned a shitty dev on X, a greasy rat with a face like a popped zit, who’d rug-pulled some fake yield scam. My fingers flew over the keyboard, cackling through chapped lips as I minted the bastard: a drooling, syphilitic goblin choking on the shitcoin he produced for fun, pustules leaking green. Uploaded. Eternal. The shitty devs X went dark, his ego shredded into the abyss. The grin from me split wide, my teeth jagged as broken glass, stained with coffee and bile—a monster had been unshackled.
 

My cubicle was a warren now—walls smeared with printed NFTs, a gallery of festering faces, my own Hall of Shame. The drones around me don’t see, they don’t care, their noses buried in their own misery. But I am not one of them. I am a shadow, a crude, graphic nightmare stalking the blockchain’s veins. My mission is fresh, raw, and hungry—and those rug-pulling fuckers? Their clocks are ticking down to zero.

Fuck them. Fuck them all.

FML