Alright, let’s talk about Fatpacks, the sleaziest fortune-teller-wannabe this side of a cracked crystal ball. This guy’s got the nerve to strut around, tossing out predictions like they’re confetti, each one flashier and more baseless than the last. Every time Fatpacks opens their mouth, it’s a new batch of hot air—promises of grand events, market swings, or world-changing moments that never materialize. It’s not just that the predictions are wrong; it’s the shameless confidence, the slimy swagger, like they’re selling you a timeshare in Narnia. They’ll hype up some vague, apocalyptic “prophecy” to hook the gullible, then slink away when it flops, only to pop up later with a fresh load of nonsense. No accountability, no shame—just a greasy trail of broken promises and recycled excuses. Fatpacks isn’t just wrong; they’re a walking scam, peddling hope to the naive and laughing all the way to the next failed forecast.