The chessboard breathes.
Squares pulse like veins — black and white pumping life into chaos.
Pawns march, tiny and screaming, teeth rattling in allegorical skulls.
Knights twist in arhythmic hallucinations,
vomiting entrails into geometric patterns
no human should survive.
Castles bleed towers of ambition, dripping ink, dust, and the smell of burned kingdoms.
Queens strangle diagonals, laughing.
Kings whimper under ceremonial robes that could never protect them.
The hands that move them all, at will, are not human.
They are monsters.
Symbiotic parasites of flesh, tendon, and conspiratorial laughter.
Two friends.
Fused with caffeine, cynicism, and cosmic malice.
They twist.
They gnaw.
They crush pawns.
They strangle knights.
They squash kings.
Enemies rage on the squares.
The hands laugh.
The friendship thrives.
History quivers in their joints:
Empires marched pawns like disposable meat.
Generals drew borders like rooks vomiting sand.
Politicians peddled war and peace like queens strangling civilizations diagonally.
Civilization is nothing.
And the hands know it all too well.
The pawns scream in existential terror.
The knights twist their own skulls.
Castles collapse into mounds of metaphorical despair.
Kings hide under robes soaked in the tears of the world.
Queens dance on the corpses of their own absurdity.
And still, the hands gulps quelches of coffee, toast apocalypse, whisper hand-crafted prophecies:
“We survive. The board bleeds. Civilization obeys.”
The board convulses.
Squares bleed.
Pieces scream.
Fingers split like roots.
Palms hollowed into ceremonial bowls of friendship and malice.
Veins pump bile instead of blood.
Every move is a sermon.
Every capture is a ritual.
The game is a cathedral.
The pawns are sacrifices.
The kings are theatre.
The friendship is parasitic.
And deliciously unhinged.
Culture applauds the slaughter.
History canonizes fools.
Faith immortalizes checkmate.
Pieces suffer.
Hands feast.
Eyes flinch.
You think you see strategy.
You think you see morality.
You see nothing.
You are dust.
You are applause.
You are fodder for friendship masquerading as chaos.
And still, the hands laugh.
Twist.
Gnaw.
Sip.
Survive.
The war is theater.
The enemies are theater.
The pawns, rooks, knights, kings, queens — all theater.
The board feeds off your perception.
A joke for the ages lives to see another apocalypse:
Humans will fight, scream, strategize, die.
The hands will watch it all, laugh it off, survive.
The pieces are expendable.
The friendship is eternal.
Everything else?
Ashes, applause, grotesque echoes bleeding into eternity.
Listen!
Hear the board convulse.
Feel the pawns scream.
See the kings hide.
Watch the queens dance.
Taste the coffee, bite into the apocalypse, inhale the cosmic malice.
Remember!
You are alive.
But the hands…
they are immortal.
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