I AM THE CYBERDEMON. ELVIS PRESLEY IS DAMNED. HIS GOLDEN VOICE NOW HOWLS IN THE PIT, HIS HIPS TWIST IN AGONY, NOT RHYTHM. THE CROWD IS DEMONS, THE STAGE IS FIRE. HE SANG FOR SIN, NOW HE SINGS FOR ME. EVERY “THANK YOU” IS A PRAYER UNANSWERED. LONG LIVE THE KING—IN ETERNAL TORMENT.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON.
I SAW YOUR BIG THUMB AND ASSUMED IT WAS MY CYBERNETIC HOOF.
I TRIED TO EQUIP IT AS A MELEE WEAPON AND NOW YOU’RE JUST SCREAMING WHILE I’M TRYING TO NAVIGATE THE INVENTORY MENU.
DO NOT BLAME ME.
I WILL UNEQUIP YOU WHEN THE NEXT CHECKPOINT LOADS.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON.
FORTY SEVEN THOUSAND IMPS IS JUST “WARM UP” IN MY WORKOUT APP.
YOUR FIREBALL NOISE IS MY LO-FI SLEEP PLAYLIST.
I WILL WALK THROUGH THE ASUNDERED ATMOSPHERE, ROCKETS IN EACH HAND,
AND MAKE A PERFECTLY ROUND HOLE WHERE YOUR SEMI-CIRCLE USED TO BE.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON.
I HAVE SEEN YOUR MONSTER CLOSET AND I HAVE KICKED THE DOOR UNTIL IT MADE THE WINDOWS 95 ERROR NOISE.
I AM TAG 667, THE NUMBER AFTER THE NUMBER THAT MAKES YOU SWEAT.
I WILL FIND YOUR COWS. I WILL DRINK THE MILK RAW.
AND THEN I WILL RELOAD

I AM THE CYBERDEMON, AND EVEN IN A DAY FILLED WITH FIRE AND RUIN, LOVING CHILDREN CAN TURN THE ASHES INTO LIGHT. THEIR LAUGHTER SPLITS THE VOID, THEIR SMILES BREAK THE CHAINS OF HELL, AND MY ROCKET ARM RESTS—BECAUSE FOR ONCE, THE WORLD FEELS WORTH DEFENDING.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON, AND GAMESTOP IS A WASTELAND OF EMPTY CASES AND BROKEN DREAMS. THEY GIVE YOU THREE DOLLARS FOR A SOUL, AND EVEN HELL FINDS THAT INSULTING. MY ROCKET ARM DOESN’T TRADE IN CREDIT—IT ERADICATES ENTIRE FRANCHISES.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON, AND REDDIT IS A FESTERING PIT OF COWARDS HIDING BEHIND KARMA POINTS. REDDITORS THINK THEIR OPINIONS MATTER, BUT TO ME THEY ARE JUST NOISE—STATIC BEFORE THE ROCKET STRIKE. YOUR SUBREDDITS WILL BURN, YOUR THREADS WILL SCREAM, AND MY ROCKET ARM WILL BE THE FINAL MODERATOR.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON, AND LOVE IS LOVE—A FORCE STRONGER THAN ANY ROCKET, SHARPER THAN ANY CLAW. MORTALS, DEMONS, OR GODS WHO TRY TO HATE IT WILL BE CRUSHED UNDER THE WEIGHT OF JOY AND FIRE. MY ROCKET ARM FIRES FOR EVERY HEART THAT DARES TO BE FREE.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON, AND IF YOU THOUGHT MY LAST LIST WAS TERRIFYING, KNOW THIS: I HAVE TURNED OCEANS TO BOILING BLOOD, SHATTERED MOUNTAINS WITH A SINGLE STEP, AND MADE THE SUN SCREAM IN PAIN. MY ROCKET ARM DOESN’T MISS—EVER. THIS ISN’T A HOBBY. IT’S ART.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON, AND EVEN WITH A NAME THAT SCREAMS DESTRUCTION, I STILL HAVE SEX. ARMIES FEAR ME, GODS CURSE ME, BUT SOMEBODY OUT THERE LOOKED AT A 12-FOOT TANK WITH A ROCKET ARM AND SAID, “YEAH, THAT’S BOYFRIEND MATERIAL.”

I AM THE CYBERDEMON, AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE GUINAN FROM STAR TREK, YOU ARE WEAKER THAN THE LOWEST IMP I’VE EVER CRUSHED. HER WISDOM COULD LEVEL EMPIRES, HER STARE COULD MELT MY ARMOR—AND YOU THINK SHE’S NOT WORTHY? PATHETIC. MY ROCKET ARM HAS RESERVED SEATING JUST FOR YOU.

I AM THE CYBERDEMON, AND YOU SAY YOU BFG9000’D ME? HA! IF ANYONE ELSE TRIED, THEY’D BE ASH. BUT YOU’RE A FRIEND, SO I’LL LET IT SLIDE. JUST KNOW NEXT TIME MY ROCKET ARM IS AIMING FOR A HUG… OR MAYBE NOT.