Last week my aunt caught fire hege Her screams were like a bad choir pege I laughed and ate some chips real slow While flames made her face all glow

As I, Burner, enter the fray of Lemon's dueling server, I am greeted by the familiar chorus of confusion and amusement that follows my signature non sequitur: "last week my aunt caught fire." This seemingly random statement serves as a prelude to the unorthodox battle that is about to unfold, a testament to my unconventional approach to the game of Mordhau. Armed with nothing more than a humble training sword, I stand firm against the legions of skilled warriors who seek to test their mettle against me. They come equipped with an arsenal of powerful weapons, their techniques honed through countless battles and hours of practice. Yet, in the face of their superior equipment and experience, I remain unshaken, secure in the knowledge that my strength lies not in the tools I wield, but in the indomitable spirit that drives me forward. As I engage my opponents, I bear witness to the baseness of their tactics, the depths to which they are willing to sink in their pursuit of victory. They resort to underhanded techniques, exploiting animation glitches and abusing game mechanics to gain an unfair advantage. Their actions are a testament to the weakness of their character, a reflection of their misguided priorities and lack of true skill. In contrast, I stand as a beacon of integrity and fair play, relying on my own abilities and the strength of my convictions to carry me through each battle. I dance around their clumsy attempts to exploit the game's flaws, my movements fluid and precise, guided by a deep understanding of the game's true mechanics and the principles of honorable combat. With each victory, I see the frustration and demoralization etched upon the faces of my opponents. They are forced to confront the reality that their reliance on cheap tricks and exploits is no match for the power of a disciplined mind and an unwavering spirit. Some choose to flee from the battlefield, unable to bear the weight of their own inadequacy. Others stubbornly refuse to face me altogether, knowing deep down that they stand no chance against the purity of my skill and the strength of my resolve. In this virtual realm of Mordhau, I have become a living embodiment of the Quranic values of perseverance, integrity, and the triumph of righteousness over deceit. My journey serves as a powerful reminder that true victory is not measured by the weapons we wield or the exploits we abuse, but by the content of our character and the steadfastness of our faith in the face of adversity. As I continue to navigate the treacherous landscape of Lemon's dueling server, I am guided by the wisdom of the Quran, drawing strength from its timeless teachings and the example set by the noble figures who came before me. Like David standing firm against Goliath, I am a symbol of what is possible when one dedicates themselves wholly to a just cause, refusing to compromise their values or succumb to the temptations of easy victory. In the end, my journey as Burner is a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit, a shining example of what can be achieved when we stay true to ourselves and the principles that guide us. Through my actions and my unwavering commitment to fair play, I hope to inspire others to rise above the pettiness and deceit that plague the gaming world, and to strive for a higher standard of honor and integrity in all that they do.

As I step into the chaotic arena of Mordhau’s dueling servers, I find myself face-to-face with the self-proclaimed legionnaires of the SPQR clan, a group of players who’ve taken their love for ancient Rome to a level that’s equal parts absurd and insufferable. Draped in their virtual lorica segmentata and clutching their pilum-skinned javelins, they strut about like they’re auditioning for a low-budget gladiator flick, shouting “Senatus Populusque Romanus” as if it justifies the absolute travesty of their gameplay. These LARPers have turned Mordhau into their personal Colosseum, but instead of honor and martial prowess, they bring a steaming pile of foul tactics and deplorable behavior that would make even Caligula blush. Armed with an arsenal of exploits and a playbook of cheap tricks, the SPQR clan embodies everything wrong with competitive gaming. They spam animation cancels like it’s a divine right, feint-spam their way through duels with all the grace of a drunken centurion, and abuse hitbox glitches to land strikes that defy both physics and dignity. Their “Roman discipline” is a sham—a flimsy excuse to gang up on lone players, teabag fallen foes, and flood the chat with Latin phrases they probably Googled five minutes before logging in. It’s not strategy; it’s cowardice dressed up in a toga, a pathetic attempt to mask their lack of skill with the illusion of historical gravitas. Then there’s the SNAG clan, another blight on the Mordhau landscape, though they don’t sink quite as low as their SPQR counterparts. Where SPQR revels in their contrived Roman fantasy, SNAG at least keeps their nonsense more generic—your standard issue try-hards with a penchant for mild toxicity and the occasional lag-switch. They’re annoying, sure, but next to SPQR’s ostentatious degeneracy, they almost seem tame. It’s like comparing a petty thief to a full-blown war criminal—one’s a nuisance, the other’s a menace. What really sets SPQR apart, though, is the undercurrent of their vibe—a whiff of something nastier than their already rancid tactics. You’ve got your usual suspects: the wannabe Nazi LARPers who think Roman eagles and swastikas are interchangeable, spouting “heritage” nonsense while they butterknife their way through a match. Then there’s the contingent of what I can only describe as homosexual racist femboys—矛盾 incarnate—prancing around in mismatched armor, giggling about “purity” while slinging slurs in broken Latin. It’s a bizarre, toxic stew, like someone threw a history book, a 4chan thread, and a bad anime into a blender and hit puree. They’re not just playing a game; they’re performing a grotesque parody of everything they claim to idolize. Me? I’m no saint, but I step into the fray with a rusty longsword and a shred of integrity, determined to cut through their nonsense. They swarm me, of course—five-on-one, because “Roman teamwork” apparently means overwhelming through sheer numbers rather than skill. I parry their glitchy thrusts, sidestep their predictable feints, and land a few solid hits before the inevitable backstab from some toga-clad cretin seals my fate. The chat erupts with “AVE VICTORIA” and a flood of emojis, as if they’ve conquered Gaul instead of ganked a solo player. It’s pathetic. In the end, the SPQR clan isn’t just a nuisance—they’re a symptom. A gang of pretentious clowns hiding behind a dead empire’s banner, using every dirty trick in the book to compensate for their fragile egos. SNAG might be bad, but SPQR takes it to another level, a cesspit of contrived bravado and juvenile malice. They’re not legionnaires; they’re a legion of losers, and Mordhau’s dueling grounds are poorer for it. Somewhere, Julius Caesar is spinning in his grave—or at least facepalming through the afterlife—watching these fools tarnish his legacy one teabag at a time.

ACT I, SCENE I: Lemon’s Dueling Grounds Enter BURNER, stepping into Lemon’s server, TRAINING SWORD in hand, facing newlings. Chorus: Hark, ye churls! Behold Burner’s noble tread, A thousand hours where honour’s oft been bled! To Lemon’s fields he strides with gentle art, A training sword to mend each tender heart! Burner: O Lemon’s lists, where duels should pure abide, “Last week mine aunt caught fire!”—thus I cried! With training sword I greet these greenhorn knaves, To school them fair, tho’ baseness oft enslaves! He duels a NEWLING, when a SECOND NEWLING fells the first with a craven blow. Burner: Fie, thou rogue! What vileness dares to stain, My duel-mate slain, ignoble wrath profane! A thousand hours I’ve mourn’d such treachery, Yet wield I still this blade of chivalry! ACT I, SCENE II: The Invasion Server Enter BURNER, amid Invasion’s fray. MEGA BITEZ, squat as a dwarf, cracks skulls with a maul. JAKKA mans the catapult. THE COMMON MANIPULATOR emerges, a sneering trickster of accels and drags. Mega Bitez: Ho! Mega Bitez, since July’s acclaim’d decree, In dwarf’s garb clad, I smite with maul’d glee! From shadows low, their pates I rend apart, Oceania’s guard with unrelenting heart! Jakka: From siege’s perch, I, Jakka, loose my bane, The engines roar to crown my fierce domain! Burner: O Mega, dwarf of might, thy maul doth ring, And Jakka’s bolts a fiery ruin bring! Yet lo, a foe doth rise with curs’d deceit— THE COMMON MANIPULATOR strikes with an accel’d overhead, felling BURNER. He rises, only to fall to a dragged slash, then an arcing stab, yet persists. The Common Manipulator: Behold, ye dolt! My accels swift do bite, My drags delay to mock thy feeble fight! With footwork sly and windup’s base disguise, I coach this craft—thy honour’s frail demise! Burner: O base Manipulator! Thy twists confound, Thrice slain I rise, yet firm my soul is found! A thousand hours I’ve bled ‘neath such as thee, With training sword, I scorn thy trickery! ACT I, SCENE III: The Horde Descends A HORDE OF NEWLINGS floods the field, PlayStation banners aloft, clad in sleeveless teal, the game declared free. THE COMMON MANIPULATOR votekicks MEGA BITEZ, burns JAKKA’s engines, and turns to crush the newlings. Chorus: Woe’s me! A tide of teal-clad souls doth spill, PlayStation’s boon, yet frail their console skill! ‘Gainst one fell knave, their hopes in ruin lie, A Manipulator’s guile their doom doth ply! The Common Manipulator: Out, Mega! By vote thy stunted reign I end, And Jakka’s works to ash and cinders send! These sleeveless whelps in teal, so brash and green, I crush with drags—accels their doom convene! Enter LONGSCHLONGUS, raging against the foe. Longschlongus: LONGSCHLONG!!!!!!!!!! I’ll rend this knave’s design, No accel’d trick shall thwart this blade of mine! Enter LITTLE NIBBLEZ, a spectral jest. Little Nibblez: Heigh-ho! I nibble at this dire decay, A shade to taunt where honour fades away! Burner: O Nibblez, sprite! Thy jest doth sear my breast, A thousand hours I’ve watch’d this game’s unrest! I seek a teal-clad soul, with training sword, To duel him oft, tho’ Manipulator’s hoard— With accels swift and drags that linger long, Doth stomp these newlings, hast’ning Mordhau’s wrong! No space they grant for growth, no joy to bloom, Seal-stomping scribes our game’s untimely doom! Chorus: O Burner, lone crusader ‘midst the strife, Mega’s banish’d, Jakka’s flames lose life! Longschlongus roars, Nibblez mocks in jest, The Manipulator reigns, honour’s sore oppress’d! Burner: HUZZAH! Ye lords of rank, heed my lament, The training sword I wield, my soul unbent! Cease these base arts, let newlings rise and play, Lest Mordhau’s heart in darkness waste away! Exeunt omnes, BURNER dueling a teal-clad PlayStation soul, the MANIPULATOR sneering, chat ablaze with “GG” and cries of woe. FINIS

THE RATZ