September 22nd, 2024
Jerma985's 40th Birthday
Thousands of parasocial transvestites flock to twitch.tv/Jerma985, anxiously waiting for Jeremy to click the button. After all, its their favorite streamer's 40th birthday!
After hours of anticipation paired with copious amounts of pride flag spam, Mr. Elbertson finally presses his finger on the big red "GO LIVE" button positioned just off-camera.
The stream starts, and instead of the usual "STREAM IN ORBIT SOON" graphic, the viewers are met with an old wooden table in a dark room with only a chair and an old lightbulb hanging from a wire to keep it company. About ten minutes pass before a man in a tasteful hickory brown five-piece suit walks into frame and takes a seat. It's Jerma.
Immediately after his appearance, the chat erupts into an orgy of praise for their's truly, with the mods unable to keep the horde of autogynephiliacs and twitter-creatures at bay. An aide off-screen reaches out his hand to give Jerma a stack of papers.
"I would like to start out by thanking my family, my friends, and most importantly- the ones who made all of this possible- my viewers. I cannot be any more grateful for every stream, video, clip, and moment that we as a community have had together."
Jerma would continue with these comments for about twenty minutes before he makes the announcement of the night.
"It is with a heavy heart that I announce that this will be the final stream of my streaming career."
Within the second, thousands of Jerma's viewers would pour out their emotions in chat; mostly the same, weird parasocial stuff that they always type. The site's biggest streamers tune in to watch arguably the most emotional stream ever broadcast. The same aide stretches out to hand him another, smaller stack of papers. Jerma would pause for a moment.
"Truth is, I never liked you faggots."
The stream's tone switches in an instant. The chat once heavily supportive has turned into a cacophony of screams matched only by the souls of the damned. The pooners tear open the scars of their once-productive bosoms, thousands of festering neovaginas burst in an unholy symphony of pus and mucus, twitter's servers immediately fry under the sheer load of seethe.
Behind Jeremy, a portal opens. At first it was difficult to make out just where the portal is to, but as time passed on the portal's image began to grow clearer. It was a beautiful, mountainous landscape with golden grasses and nordic style houses galore. The portal to Agartha had finally opened.
Jeremy would get up from his chair and take the hand of one of the complimentary tradwives gifted to every one of Agartha's inhabitants. He would enter the portal, never to be seen again. His viewers were in shock, not knowing what to make of the situation.
Thirty seconds later, a figure comes out of the portal and into frame. Dressed in a dark-grey trench coat sporting a side part along with a Chaplinesque toothbrush moustache, it was none other than Adolf Hitler. The undying Führer takes a seat and slightly lounges. He closes his eyes and slowly lifts his fingers to his temple.
The moment his fingertips make contact, the stream is flashed with subliminal messaging and images of aryan glory. Jerma's tranny viewers begin ending their own lives en-masse. For a whole minute, Hitler's hyperborean führerwaves disrupt the stream.
The stream cuts back to the table, just as it was set up pre-stream.
