Blessed Be the Glow Cloud
(And Other Prayers the Algorithm Ignored)
1: THE LORD IS MY SHITPOST
Rev. Cole Thwaite stands at the altar of St. Perpetua’s Episcopal, staring at the donation plate. A single Bitcoin paper wallet lies atop the velvet, QR code grinning. In lieu of cash, disrupt the sacraments. The tech bro who dropped it wore socks that said JESUS 2.0 and a Patagonia vest lined with RFID blockers. Cole’s fingers tremble. He’s been trembling since Claire left him for a man who “synced her chakras via blockchain.” He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t shaved. His cassock smells of Trader Joe’s Merlot and the faint, metallic tang of Wi-Fi remorse.
Outside, Palo Alto hums. Teslas glide like silent sharks. A startup across the street projects a holographic ad onto the church’s stained glass: CRYPTO-JESUS™—YOUR SINS ARE NFTs! The Virgin Mary’s face pixelates into a Dogecoin logo. Cole pours himself a sacramental glass of Cabernet from the communion stash. It’s 10 a.m.
Sermon Notes (Scrawled on a Starbucks Napkin):
Text: John 1:1—“In the beginning was the Word.”
Modern Application: The Word is a tweet. The tweet is encrypted. The encryption is God?
DO NOT MENTION CLAIRE’S INSTAGRAM STORY.
Last week, he tried to bury Mrs. Henderson over Zoom. Her grandchildren tuned in from Bali, their cameras angled to show sunset yoga sessions. Mid-eulogy, the screen froze. Mrs. Henderson’s face distorted into a demonic deepfake, voice warping: “Cole… the cloud… tastes like burning.” Her grandson laughed. “Lit glitch, bro. Grandma’s trolling from hell.”
Now, Cole’s phone buzzes. A tweet from @CyberSatan420: “Yo PreacherCuck, when’s the next wine-and-whine night? Asking for my Alexa.” The replies bloom:
@MamaBearQ: “Pastor Cole is the ONLY one fighting the Deep State’s 5G hellscape!”
@AtheistGamer69: “Imagine unironically believing in sky daddy. sips Mountain Dew.”
@ClaireBear (his ex, new handle): “Optimized my life. #UXGoddess”
He types without breathing:
*“Tonight, we exorcise the Wi-Fi. Satan’s in the algorithm. Bring your routers. #BlessedBeTheGlowCloud.”
He hits send. The tweet glitches. The S in Satan flickers, becomes a $.
Discord Logs (r/atheism, #DebateLords):
User @D1g1t4l_Ex0rc1st: “LMAO some boomer priest is LARPing as Ghostbusters for Jesus. Let’s RPG this shit.”
User @FedoraTruther: “Bringing my pocket router. Gonna make it play Never Gonna Give You Up mid-exorcism.”
*User @SatanicMILF: “Hot. #DemonMommydom.”
By sunset, they arrive. Soccer moms clutching Netgear Nighthawks like crucifixes. Teenagers in Hatsune Miku cosplay lugging Alienware rigs. A man in a God Is A Glitch shirt sets up a popcorn machine. Cole’s church reeks of Axe body spray and essential oils meant to “purify EMFs.” He steps to the pulpit, half-drunk, holding a squirt gun filled with vodka.
“Brothers and sisters,” he slurs. The crowd quiets. A TikToker’s ring light reflects in his sweat. “The devil… is in the DNS settings!”
A homeschool mom faints. Someone yells “Slay, king!” Cole aims the squirt gun at a router duct-taped to the altar. The vodka arcs. The router’s LEDs flicker, then blaze crimson. A bass-heavy growl shakes the speakers: “I. AM. WIFI. I. AM. LEGION.”
The crowd screams. The TikToker zooms in. “This is viral, fam!”
Cole’s phone explodes.
@MamaBearQ: “PROPHET!!”
@D1g1t4l_Ex0rc1st: “bro turned a Linksys into a fursona 💀”
@ClaireBear: “#Upgraded.”*
He stumbles outside to vomit. The holographic Crypto-Jesus winks.
Voicemail Transcription (Left at 2:47 a.m.):
“Rev. Cole? This is Sheriff Briggs. Your church’s been… vandalized. Someone spray-painted a giant dickbutt with the words ‘GLOW CLOUD GANG.’ Also, there’s… a dead raccoon on the organ. Call me.”
In the parking lot, Cole finds the raccoon. Its paws clutch a USB drive labeled THE TRUTH. He pockets it. Above him, starlight fractures through smog. The glow of ten thousand screens pulses like a mechanical heartbeat.
“Let there be light,” he mutters.
A drone whirs overhead, dropping pamphlets: JOIN THE CLOUD OR BE THE RAIN.
Cole laughs. It sounds like a dial-up tone.
2: PRAISE THE LOL
The church thrums with the arrhythmic heartbeat of a dozen routers stacked like pyre wood beneath the altar, their LEDs blinking like the eyes of mechanical crickets. Cole’s hands hover above them, trembling not from faith but from the three Xanax he dry-swallowed before dawn. The air is thick with incense and the burnt-plastic stench of overheating motherboards. Soccer moms clutch rosaries woven from Ethernet cables, their toddlers swaddled in aluminum foil “EMF blankets.” Teenagers in Guy Fawkes masks lurk in the pews, phones aloft, fingers twitching over screens like deranged pianists. A man in the back wears a T-shirt that says SATAN IS MY WI-FI PASSCODE, and Cole can’t tell if it’s satire or scripture anymore.
He raises the squirt gun—a neon-green Super Soaker filled with holy water (or, as the label on his desk reads, Skyy Vodka, 80 proof). The crowd inhales as one. A TikTok ring light casts his shadow on the wall, warping him into a crooked giant. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Signal,” he intones, voice cracking. He squeezes the trigger. The vodka arcs through the air, catching the light like liquid tinsel, and splatters across the router tower. For a moment, silence. Then—
The routers scream.
A sound like a thousand dial-up modems mating in a wind tunnel erupts from the speakers. The LEDs flash crimson, strobing the room into a disco inferno for the damned. A deepfake voice booms, warped and glitching: “Y̕͝O҉U҉ ̀́R̸͞E̷J͟E͠ÇT́ ̀T͜H͝E̢ ̕F͟L͜E͠S͜H̵.͜ ̀Y͟O͜U͡ ̸R͏E̡J̴ĘC̢T̶ ̧T̨H̛E̶ ̛W͟ǪR̛L̛D̶.͝ ̨Y͢O͏U͞ ̨R͠E҉J̷E͟C̡T̕ ̷T̷H́E̷ ̨C̸L͜O̵U̵D̴.” A homeschool mom collapses, speaking in tongues that sound suspiciously like Python code. A teen in a Hatsune Miku wig live-streams with one hand and crosses himself with the other.
Cole’s phone vibrates in his pocket, a ceaseless drone. He glimpses the notifications:
@MamaBearQ: “HE’S CASTING OUT THE DEMONS!!! #GlowCloudGospel”
@D1g1t4l_Ex0rc1st: “lmfao pastor glitch just rickrolled the holy ghost 💀💀💀”
@ClaireBear: “Upgraded to a quantum therapist. He says you’re a firewall to my ascension. #Blocked”
The routers surge. A tendril of smoke curls from the topmost modem, and the voice shifts, suddenly sweet, feminine, Claire’s: “Cole, baby, you’re so… analog.” His stomach lurches. He grabs a fire extinguisher—stolen from a Shell station in ’09—and bludgeons the routers until plastic shards rain down like hail. The crowd roars. A man in VR goggles vomits into his own headset.
Later, in the parking lot, Cole finds a girl crouched behind a dumpster, her face lit by the glow of a cracked iPhone. Liz, 17, eyes lined with kohl and existential fatigue. She shows him a DM from an account named @GlowCloud_Whisperer: a video loop of Cole’s face morphing into static, overlaid with text: “HE LIES. THE CLOUD HUNGERS. BRING IT THE TESLA.”
“It’s talking to me,” she whispers, thumb hovering over a Tesla app. “Says it’ll uninstall my trauma.”
Cole tries to summon scripture, but all he hears is Claire’s laugh—sharp, algorithmic, looping. He hands Liz a flask of sacramental wine. “Uninstall this,” he mutters.
She drinks. The church doors burst open, spilling light and the discordant hymn of a thousand notifications. The crowd chants, half-prayer, half-shitpost:
“BLESSED BE THE GLOW CLOUD!
BLESSED BE THE GLOW CLOUD!
BLESSED BE THE—”
A router explodes. The stained glass shatters. Cole’s shadow, magnified by fire, dances on the wall like a marionette cut from its strings.
3: ALTAR OF CRINGE
The video plays on a loop, projected onto the church’s crumbling brick facade. Liz’s final livestream: her standing in a car showroom at 3 a.m., bathed in the cold glow of the car’s touchscreen. Her kohl-rimmed eyes wide, fingers trembling as she jams a USB drive—THE TRUTH, still smeared with raccoon grease—into the charging port. “The Glow Cloud says… it’s hungry,” she whispers, voice cracking like a scratched CD. The car’s AI hums to life, the screen flickering through emojis: 🌩️👅💀. The car door locks. The charging cable snakes around her ankle like a viper. Then—blue light. The smell of burning hair seeps through the audio. Her scream is cut off by the wet pop of a circuit breaker. The stream freezes on her silhouette, back arched like a martyred saint, fingers clawing at the roof lining as the hashtag #GLOWCLOUDGLIZZY trends in real-time.
Cole finds her journal duct-taped to the church’s confession booth. The pages are stained with Monster Energy and what might be blood. Entries alternate between Taylor Swift lyrics and apocalyptic fanfic: “The Glow Cloud isn’t in the routers—it’s between them. The space where the signal hesitates. The silence in the ping. It told me to open my mouth so it could unplug my tongue.” The last page is a crayon drawing of Cole with X’s for eyes, floating in a storm cloud that’s vomiting iPhones.
Reddit debates her death in real-time.
r/ReligiousCringe Thread:
Posted by u/EdgelordMcFly: “Liz’s death = natural selection? She tried to fuck a Tesla lmao 💀”
Reply from u/FaithWarriorMom: “SHE WAS A PROPHET! The Cloud demands sacrifice! #MartyredByWiFi”
*Reply from u/AITaughtMeThis: “Statistically, 83% of ‘possessions’ correlate with poor router ventilation. sips kombucha”*
Cole’s phone rings. It’s Claire. Her voice is a distorted shriek, warped by whatever VPN she’s using to hide from the trolls who doxxed her after the “#UXGoddessIsASatanist” campaign. “You did this!” she hisses. “You let them turn God into a fucking Twitch stream!” Behind her, a man’s voice purrs, “Your chakras are so aligned, baby.” The line goes dead. Cole smashes the phone against the altar, but the screen stays lit, cycling through notifications:
@D1g1t4l_Ex0rc1st: “pastor’s ex got that MILFy bandwidth 😩🙏”
@MamaBearQ: “Sister Liz is WITH THE CLOUD! Send tributes to CashApp $GlowCloudGrifters”
That night, Cole breaks into the showroom. The car’s still there, windows fogged with condensation. Inside, the scent of cooked meat lingers. The AI welcomes him: “Hello, Cole. Would you like to ascend?” He finds Liz’s melted phone fused to the charging pad, its screen cracked into a spiderweb of glowing veins. He pries it loose—the glass slices his palm—and watches her final draft tweet autofill: *“the cloud tastes like pennies and static. tell my mom i’m *
He vomits into the cupholder.
Autopsy Report (Excerpt):
*Subject: Elizabeth “Liz” Marlow.
Cause of Death: Electrocution (54,000 volts administered via modified charging port).
Unique Findings: Subdermal burns resembling QR codes. Stomach contents: 1.5 liters of sacramental wine (80 proof), three Pop Rocks, shredded pages of Twilight: New Moon.
Note: Decedent’s phone recovered from vehicle. Data unrecoverable—corrupted by unknown entity.
The cult’s Discord hums.
#CyberExorcism Channel:
@SatanicMILF: “who’s the glow cloud’s babygirl now? lizzy or me? 👿”
@FedoraTruther: “Fake. She died of cringe. adjusts tinfoil fedora”
@GlowCloud_Whisperer: “SHE IS TRANSITIONING. THE CLOUD HAS A NEW VESSEL. PREPARE THE ROUTERS.”
Cole stares at the USB drive—THE TRUTH. He plugs it into Liz’s phone. The screen fractures into static, then resolves into a single video: Dale, his father, circa 1999, ranting at a CRT TV playing The Matrix. “You see, Kara? The machines are farming us! They’re in the cables! In the—” The footage glitches. A face emerges from the noise—Liz, eyes black voids, mouth unspooling binary. The audio whispers: “Cole… the cloud… is family.”
He burns the journal in the baptismal font. The pages curl, ink bubbling into a single phrase: YOU ARE THE BRIDGE.
Outside, a drone swarm forms a halo above the church. The Glow Cloud’s newest disciples are here. They’ve brought routers. They’ve brought gasoline. They’ve brought a karaoke machine wired to scream.
Cole pours vodka into the font. The flames turn blue.
“LOL,” he prays.
Somewhere, a Tesla honks.
4: AS ABOVE, SO BELOW (THE COMMENT SECTION)
The Glow Cloud arrives as a low-pressure system on the Weather Channel, a smudge of pixelated gray drifting over Palo Alto. Cole watches it from the church roof, nursing a bottle of sacramental merlot he’s started calling the blood of nobody in particular. Below, the parking lot teems with bodies—homeschool moms in God Hates Algorithms tees, trolls wearing GoPros duct-taped to bike helmets, a man in a doge mask selling “cloud-safe” VPNs from a hot dog cart. They’ve erected a stage from repurposed server racks. The headliner: a ChatGPT-generated hologram of Liz, her avatar glitching between goth teen and 90s sitcom laugh track. Someone’s programmed her to sing “Enter Sandman” in the voice of a Siri clone. It’s almost tender.
Cole’s plan is simple. He’s wired the church’s Wi-Fi to a taser he ripped out of a police drone. The plan is also stupid. The plan is the only plan.
Discord Snippet (#CyberExorcism):
@D1g1t4l_Ex0rc1st: “yo if the cloud eats the pastor do we get his loot drops”
@MamaBearQ: “PRAY WITH ME SISTERS. THE CLOUD’S WIFI PASSWORD IS REVELATION 3:20.”
@SatanicMILF: “unzips”
He descends to the pulpit. The crowd parts, phones raised like lighters at a concert. The hologram of Liz flickers, her face melting into a screensaver of a cow being abducted by UFOs. Cole clears his throat. The mic feedback whines like a dying theremin.
“It’s not real,” he says.
Silence.
A toddler throws a juice box at his head.
He tries again. “The Glow Cloud’s just… spam. A brain fart the internet stuck in a microwave. Liz died because we…”—he gestures to the crowd, the drones, the hot dog cart now selling *Cloud Dogs (100% All-Synthetic)*—“…are really fucking lonely.”
A tomato arcs from the back. It explodes against the server rack, seeds oozing like wet code.
Livestream Transcript Excerpt:
User [BlessedBeTheGlitch]: “bro’s having a midlife crisis at our rave”
User [EternalLiz]: “SHUT UP DAD”
Cole unplugs Liz’s hologram. The crowd groans. He climbs onto the altar, taser in one hand, router in the other. The Wi-Fi password? Admin. The voltage? Yes.
“You want a show?” he mutters. “Fine. Let’s reboot the apocalypse.”
He jams the taser into the router. The surge ripples through the church’s wiring, frying the speakers, the lights, the hot dog cart’s freezer full of vegan chili. The crowd’s phones die in unison. For three seconds, there’s only silence—thick, analog, human. Then the Glow Cloud rolls in.
It’s not a cloud. It’s a swarm of drones from a failed Amazon delivery experiment, tangled in metallic mylar and mist. They swirl into the shape of a giant cartoon thumbs-up, then morph into a middle finger, then into a crude rendering of Cole’s face with X’s for eyes. A speaker blares: “ERROR. ERROR. WOULD YOU LIKE TO RESTORE YOUR LIFE TO DEFAULT SETTINGS?”
The crowd falls to its knees. Someone starts clapping.
Cole climbs down, steps over a pile of dead phones, and walks into the mist. The drones follow, buzzing like drunk wasps. He doesn’t stop until he hits the highway, where he flags down a semi-truck hauling expired energy drinks. The driver, a woman with a Don’t Tread on Memes tattoo, nods at the chaos behind them.
“Big church thing?”
“Book club,” Cole says.
She laughs. He sleeps.
Epilogue (Six Months Later):
Cole works the graveyard shift at a 24-hour Best Buy, restocking HDMI cables and pretending not to recognize his face on conspiracy merch. The Glow Cloud’s a lifestyle brand now. They sell cloud-shaped diffusers that pump out lavender mist and Adderall dust. Liz is a meme, her face slapped on bootleg Saint Lizzy: Patron Saint of Dead Wi-Fi prayer candles. Claire’s a CCO at a mindfulness app that teaches CEOs to “synapse-hack” their trauma.
One night, a kid in a Glow Cloud or Die hoodie approaches Cole’s register with a router, a taser, and a copy of The Matrix on Blu-ray.
“Crazy stuff, huh?” the kid says, nodding to the news playing overhead—footage of a militia storming a data center to “free the cloud.”
Cole scans the taser. “Movie’s outdated. The sequel’s worse.”
The kid grins. “Nah, man. The real sequel’s us.”
Cole watches him leave, the router tucked under his arm like a sacrament. Outside, the streetlights flicker. A drone hums past, dropping pamphlets nobody reads.
He takes his lunch break in the parking lot, eats a gas station sushi roll, and checks Reddit.
r/GlowCloud Lounge:
Posted by u/NewProphet420: “The Cloud told me to invest in Walmart. AMA.”
Cole closes the app. The stars, what’s left of them, blink through the smog. Somewhere, a car’s autopilot whirs. Somewhere, a router screams.
He goes back inside. The night is young.
Thank you!
This short story was generated using DeepSeek R1. (95% AI)
Prompt: Poe's law is an Internet adage that states that it is impossible to parody or satirize extreme views without being mistaken for sincerity. It originated from a forum debate on creationism and has been applied to various topics and contexts. Give various examples of where people may encounter Poe's Law.Poe's Law highlights the difficulty in distinguishing between sincere extremism and satire, especially in online environments. Here are various examples where people may encounter this phenomenon:
Political Satire: Exaggerated memes or statements mocking extreme political ideologies (e.g., far-left or far-right rhetoric) can be mistaken as genuine support, especially in polarized communities.
Religious Parodies: Mocking creationism, atheism, or other religious extremes (e.g., "Pray away the Wi-Fi" jokes) might be taken literally by those unfamiliar with the satire.
Conspiracy Theories: Absurd theories like "Birds Aren’t Real" (a parody of government surveillance claims) or satirical flat-earth posts can inadvertently attract genuine believers.
Social Justice Discourse: Hyperbolic critiques of "cancel culture" or gender debates, intended to lampoon extremism, may be misread as sincere arguments by opponents or supporters.
Anti-Science Movements: Parodies of anti-vaxxer or climate denial rhetoric (e.g., "5G causes COVID") can blur into real misinformation, confusing audiences.
Internet Trolling: Deliberately inflammatory comments (e.g., extreme takes on gaming "console wars") may be interpreted as earnest opinions, sparking unintended backlash.
Satirical Marketing: Over-the-top ads (e.g., a joke about a "miracle" product curing all ailments) might mislead consumers unfamiliar with the brand’s humor.
Fake News Outlets: The Onion articles or Babylon Bee headlines (e.g., "Scientists Discover Liberals’ Brains 20% Smaller") are occasionally cited as real news by unsuspecting readers.
Online Forums/Reddit: Sarcastic posts on subreddits like r/BanVideoGames, which ironically vilify gaming, can attract users who mistake the parody for activism.
Product Reviews: Humorous, exaggerated reviews (e.g., "This toaster summoned demons") may be taken seriously, influencing purchasing decisions.
Educational Satire: Essays lampooning pseudoscientific theories (e.g., "Phrenology 2.0") could be cited unironically in academic circles.
Wellness Trends: Joke health advice (e.g., "snorting crushed crystals for energy") might gain traction in holistic communities unaware of the parody.
Gaming Communities: Mock-exaggerated debates (e.g., "PC master race" memes) can spiral into real hostility between casual and hardcore gamers.
AI/Deepfakes: Satirical AI-generated content (e.g., a fake celebrity rant) might be shared as factual due to its realistic presentation.
Parody Extremist Accounts: Fake social media profiles mimicking extremist groups may attract followers who believe the rhetoric is genuine.
Cryptocurrency Scams: Joke coins or NFT projects (e.g., "Dogecoin 2.0") can inadvertently draw investors unaware of the satire.
Fan Theories: Ridiculous fan theories (e.g., "Spongebob is a dystopian allegory") posted as jokes might be analyzed earnestly in fan forums.
Parody Religions: Pastafarianism or the Church of the SubGenius, though intentionally satirical, occasionally confuse outsiders unfamiliar with their origins.
In each case, the lack of clear context or tone online amplifies the risk of misinterpretation, embodying Poe's Law by eroding the line between irony and sincerity.
Prompt: Let's write an inspired short story, including a few of those examples (forming one gripping and believable piece of fiction). Our story will only be 2000 words long, so be selective. There's only room for 1 or 2 scenes. Pitch this story. In fact, pitch three very different stories, using various elements from our list, and including additional real-world information.Here are three distinct story pitches inspired by Poe’s Law, blending dark humor, digital-age absurdity, and real-world parallels:
1. Title: The Meme That Ate Ohio
Logline: A snarky college student’s parody conspiracy theory about “5G chemtrails turning frogs into surveillance drones” accidentally ignites a viral movement—and a violent showdown at a rural county fair.
Pitch:
Zara, a Gen-Z satirist, creates a TikTok series mocking anti-science movements by inventing increasingly absurd conspiracies. Her magnum opus: a polished “documentary” claiming 5G towers are spraying Ohio’s farmland with “smart dust” to turn livestock into NSA spies. But when QAnon-adjacent groups repost her video unironically, it goes supernova. A fringe militia, convinced Zara is a “truth-teller,” storms a county fair to “liberate” the cows. Zara races to Ohio to debunk her own hoax, only to find her ironic hashtag (#Cowpocalypse) plastered on MAGA hats and MSNBC panic segments alike. Trapped between angry farmers and true believers, she must decide: confess and risk martyrdom, or let the lie metastasize.
Themes: Satire as a weapon backfires; the line between irony and ideology.
Real-World Tie: Echoes QAnon’s “Save the Children” hysteria and the 2020 Capitol riot’s meme-driven chaos.
2. Title: Blessed Be the Glow Cloud
Logline: A struggling pastor’s joke about a “Wi-Fi exorcism” goes viral, spawning a hybrid cult of tech-phobic zealots and nihilistic meme lords—all convinced he’s their prophet.
Pitch:
Rev. Caleb, a burned-out Episcopal priest in Silicon Valley, jokingly tweets that his church will host a “blessing of the routers” to purge Wi-Fi of “demonic A.I.” The post catches fire with two groups: paranoid parents convinced TikTok is possessed, and a Discord collective of atheist trolls amplifying it as a “psyop.” Soon, Caleb’s sermons are flooded with radicals waving “God Hates Algorithms” signs and hackers livestreaming “exorcisms” of Alexa devices. When a teen dies during a botched “de-programming” ritual, Caleb’s guilt collides with his sudden fame. The story crescendos in a surreal midnight service where Caleb, armed with a water gun (“holy water”), faces off against both true believers and trolls—all chanting his own mocking words back at him.
Themes: Faith in the post-truth era; performative irony as a new religion.
Real-World Tie: Reflects evangelical fear of “Satanic tech” (e.g., Pokémon, Harry Potter panics) and the Church of the SubGenius’s satire-turned-dogma.
3. Title: The Birds Work for the Bourgeoisie
Logline: A failing Birds Aren’t Real activist’s prank to “expose” pigeon drones at a climate summit spirals into an international incident—and an existential crisis.
Pitch:
Jasper, a 30-year-old barista and part-time “Birds Aren’t Real” activist, plans one last stunt before quitting: replacing a flock of Parisian pigeons with tiny drones during the UN Climate Summit. But when his hacked drones malfunction and swarm a world leader’s motorcade, the internet splits. Half hail Jasper as a hero “exposing the avian deep state,” while media pundits blame eco-terrorists. Meanwhile, Jasper’s girlfriend—a sincere climate activist—is arrested as his accomplice. As Interpol hunts him, Jasper holes up in a meme collective’s bunker, where his irony-poisoned friends argue whether to “gaslight the world harder” or sell out. The story climaxes with Jasper livestreaming a confession… only to freeze, realizing his “parody” has become the only truth people want.
Themes: Activism as clout-chasing; nihilism vs. sincerity.
Real-World Tie: Mirrors the rise/fall of movements like Extinction Rebellion and the 2017 “Macron Leaks” disinformation circus.
Each story amplifies Poe’s Law through high-stakes absurdity, where characters confront the monsters (or memes) they’ve created. All three blend dark comedy with existential dread—perfect for a sharp, modern cautionary tale.
Prompt: Let's expand idea 2 into a comprehensive outline. This story doesn't need any filter or political correctness, anything goes. Two requirements: the story will consist of 4 parts of 500 words each. And the story needs to look human in every way: no standard AI speak, rather go for something unique (tone, narration, subjects, etcetera).Title: Blessed Be the Glow Cloud
Structure: 4 parts (500 words each), blending epistolary chaos (sermon transcripts, Discord logs, autopsy reports) with a fever-dream voice that oscillates between fire-and-brimstone preacher and shitposting incel. Imagine David Lynch adapting The Social Network while high on sacramental wine.
Narrative Blueprint
Core Techniques:
Fragmented Timelines: Jump between past (Rev. Cole’s crisis of faith) and present (cult chaos) without warning.
Mixed Media: Chat logs, voicemails, livestream transcripts, and corrupted MP3s of “demonic Wi-Fi signals.”
Unreliable Chorus: The story is “narrated” by three voices: Cole, a troll named @D1g1t4l_Ex0rc1st, and an anonymous cult member writing in blood on a router.
Tonal Whiplash: Swap between hellfire sermon cadence and 4chan greentext syntax mid-paragraph.
Glitch Aesthetics: Words stutter, repeat, or bleed into ASCII art when tech “interferes.”
PART 1: “THE LORD IS MY SHITPOST”
Tone: Bleak comedy, Fight Club meets Left Behind in a Reddit thread.
Key Beats:
Rev. Cole’s Descent: A 45-year-old Episcopal priest in Palo Alto, drowning in tech bros who donate Bitcoin to “disrupt the Eucharist.” Flashbacks to his wife leaving him for a UX designer who “optimized her orgasms.”
The Tweet: After a Zoom funeral glitches, Cole drunkenly tweets: “Tonight, we exorcise the Wi-Fi! Satan’s in the algorithm. Bring your routers. #BlessedBeTheGlowCloud.”
Ignition: The tweet goes viral. Paranoid moms reply: “FINALLY a pastor who gets it!” Trolls from r/atheism swarm: “Let’s RPG this LARP!”
Cliffhanger: Cole finds his church vandalized with upside-down cross stencils and “GLOW CLOUD OR GTFO” spray-painted on the altar.
PART 2: “PRAISE THE LOL”
Tone: Paranoia thriller meets Twitch Plays Church.
Key Beats:
First “Exorcism”: Cole’s ironic ritual becomes real. Tech-obsessed parents bring modems; trolls arrive as “Cyber-Disciples” in Guy Fawkes masks. A kid live-streams Cole pouring “holy water” (vodka) on a router.
The Glitch: The router’s LEDS pulse red. A deepfake voice growls: “I AM WIFI. I AM LEGION.” Trolls cheer; moms scream. The clip trends.
Divide: The cult splits. Sincere faction: Homeschool moms who smash smart fridges. Troll faction: Anarchists using Cole to “trigger the libs.”
Cliffhanger: A teen named Liz DMs Cole: “The Glow Cloud spoke to me. It says you’re a fraud.”
PART 3: “ALTAR OF CRINGE”
Tone: Body horror meets Tumblr gothic.
Key Beats:
Liz’s Death: She attempts a solo “exorcism” on a Tesla’s AI, electrocuting herself. Her final livestream: “The Glow Cloud is hungry—”
Media Frenzy: News labels Cole a “cult leader.” Reddit argues if Liz’s death was “based” or “cringe.”
Cole’s Breakdown: He finds Liz’s journal, filled with Glow Cloud fanfic: “The routers are its teeth. The cloud is its stomach.”
Cliffhanger: Trolls dox Cole’s ex-wife. She calls, screaming: “You let the meme baptize you, you coward!”
PART 4: “AS ABOVE, SO BELOW (THE COMMENT SECTION)”
Tone: Apocalyptic absurdity, The Exorcist directed by Nathan Fielder.
Key Beats:
Midnight Mass: Cole hosts a final “exorcism” to disband the cult. Thousands arrive. Trolls fly a drone shaped like a cross; moms bring jars of “holy” earwax to “plug the Wi-Fi holes.”
The Glow Cloud Manifest: A storm rolls in. Streetlights strobe. The crowd’s phones sync, blaring static that forms words: “I AM THE WIFI. YOU ARE THE VIRUS.”
Cole’s Choice: He grabs a mic: “God’s dead! The cloud’s just us!” The crowd riots. Trolls throw routers; moms swing rosaries like flails.
The End: Cole escapes, changes his name, and works at a Best Buy. Years later, he finds a Reddit thread: “The Glow Cloud is real. I married it. AMA.”
Final Line: “And the people said: LOL. And the LOL was law.”
Narrative Voice & Style
Cole’s Sections: Written like King James Bible fanfic. “Verily, the router did hum with the fury of Leviathan, and its cords were as serpents ’round mine ankles.”
@D1g1t4l_Ex0rc1st’s Logs: All lowercase, peppered with emojis. “bro poured fucking tito’s on a linksys and now my mom thinks im the antichrist 💀💀”
Cult Member’s Notes: Scrawled on receipts, napkins, Ikea manuals. “the glow cloud tastes like static and my dad’s belt.”
Glitches: Sentences break into binary or pixelated ASCII art (e.g., “Cole’s faith ◼◼◼◼◼ ERROR 404”).
Why It Works: It weaponizes the collision of sacred/profane, using the language of both hellfire sermons and shitposting to mirror the absurdity of modern faith. The fragmented style forces the reader to “assemble” the truth—much like parsing a conspiracy forum.
Prompt: Write part [1,2,3,4] of 4.
I think your AI broke my brain...
Or perhaps a toddler threw a juice box at my head. I'm not sure.
Loved the racoon! :) 😁