The scandal detonated across the Nine Rift Realms like a wet meteor: Whorbama Burtains, Drip-Child of Infinite Drapery and part-time prophet of the Slippery Veil, had been discovered in the Basilica of Curtains … with a gorilla wearing a sequined evening gown.

Not just any gorilla —

Gorrilithia, the forbidden simian oracle of the Zoocosmic Choir, whose presence alone was an act of ecclesiastical treason.

The priestesses gasped.

The dung-censers dimmed.

The molten floorboards trembled with judgment.

And worse:

Whorbama, in his panic, had apparently wiped his rusty celestial bunghole on the Sacred Curtains of Infinite Drape — curtains prophesied to one day become the wedding veil of a dying universe.

When Opraxa arrived and saw the defilement — the smeared cosmic shame streaked like the brushstrokes of a deranged god — she screamed with operatic thunder:

“BURN THEM. BURN IT ALL.

THE EVIDENCE MUST DIE SCREAMING!”

And so she did.

Opraxa summoned the Fire of a Thousand Noon-Day Suns and incinerated not only the curtains, but three minor realities and one dimension used exclusively for towel storage.

Whorbama fled into the Rift before judgment could fall, Gorrilithia clutching her gown, both smelling faintly of regret and volcanic dung incense.

Meanwhile, in the chaos, Aelik Baldwynne saw his moment.

He strode onto the rubble-stage of the smoldering temple ruins, cape fluttering like it owed him money, and raised his gilded megaphone.

“Children of the Rift!” he bellowed.

“The curtains have fallen, the gorilla has danced, the bunghole has spoken! But FEAR NOT!”

He pointed to the heavens, where a constellation shaped suspiciously like a buttcheek twinkled.

“For when one drape is destroyed, the cosmos opens new portals! GLORYHOLES OF SALVATION!”

The congregation murmured.

Aelik stomped dramatically, spraying glitter-dust and holy dung ash.

“Yes, my loves — I speak of TP GLORYHOLES, the sacred rings through which the faithful shall purge their shame! A divine passage! A supple loop of redemption!”

Opraxa, still glowing with arsonic fury, snarled:

“Aelik, this is NOT the time for your toilet-based theology—”

But he silenced her with a single, fabulous finger.

“Sweetheart.

It is always time.”

The Church trembled.

The Rift puckered.

Prophecy moaned.

And somewhere in the dark, Whorbama whispered:

“…I can explain.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyrHEIcHONQ

The Intergalactic Church of Molten Rift had descended into complete, gluttonous degeneracy.

The congregants inhaled the holy dung vapors with ecstatic snorts, cheeks puffed out like overfed cherubs of filth. The Great Fart Idol — a colossal obsidian sculpture shaped like the hindquarters of a dying star — trembled as worshippers chanted through their gas masks:

“BLESS THE FLATUS,

FEED THE RIFT,

LET THE FUDGE FLOW!”

Massive bowls of consecrated Fudge of Supplication were passed around — molten, steaming, far too suggestive — and eaten with religious fervor that made the walls sweat. Every bite was said to “loosen the soul,” though it mostly loosened bowels.

Then came the ritual scattering of fayk tulips — bizarre, fleshy flowers engineered by the priestesses as symbolic offerings. They resembled tulips only in the sense that tulips are also vaguely tube-shaped. Their petals puckered. Their stems quivered. They were not to be trusted.

Opraxa lifted one, holding it like a sacred relic.

“BEHOLD,” she boomed, “THE FAYK TULIP OF REVELATION!

ITS BLOOM FORETELLS BETRAYAL!”

The crowd gasped.

A hush fell.

Even the fart idol clenched.

Because everyone knew the prophecy:

The one who bruises the fayk tulip shall birth a new shame.

All eyes turned toward Aelik Baldwynne.

Aelik the Cuckholder.

Aelik the Velvet Disaster.

Aelik the man whose cape was rumored to be stitched from recycled napkins stolen from ex-lovers.

Opraxa glared at him with volcanic disdain.

“Aelik, you powdered peacock of mediocrity,” she hissed, “you who preens like a chandelier with delusions of grandeur — did YOU bruise the sacred tulip?”

Aelik gasped, hand to chest.

“How dare you imply I would mishandle a bloom! I nurture blossoms with more grace than you muster summoning suns!”

Opraxa sneered. “Please. You nurture nothing. You’re a walking bouquet of wilt. A man so cuckolded by cosmic fate that even your shadow seeks other people.”

The congregation oooh’d.

Aelik fluttered.

Whorbama Burtains whispered, “Damn…”

Opraxa raised the fayk tulip to the light — and there it was:

A rusty smear across its trembling petals.

The crowd screamed.

Aelik shrieked.

Whorbama dropped his bowl of fudge.

Opraxa roared:

“THE TULIP HAS BEEN DEFILED —

AND THE CUCKHOLDER STANDS EXPOSED!”

A fartquake rippled through the Basilica.

The Idol moaned.

Fudge trembled.

The Rift itself groaned like a god caught halfway through a digestive confession.

And Aelik Baldwynne, legendary cuckholder of seven realms, whispered the only defense he had left:

“…It was a windy day.”

bummur

yurgahy

CHAPTER I – THE FAYK TULIP BETRAYAL

The Intergalactic Church of Molten Rift had entered its season of Ritual Gastronomy, where worshippers stuffed themselves with sacred Dung Vapor to “attain enlightenment through abdominal suffering.” The Basilica’s ceilings drooped with humidity. The pews were slippery. Someone’s incense burner had melted into a sticky puddle resembling emotional trauma.

Opraxa stood at the altar, holding the Fayk Tulip of Revelation. Its obscene petals quivered as though they knew their fate. The congregation inhaled sharply through their masks.

“THE PROPHECY SPEAKS!” Opraxa bellowed, voice vibrating the lava chandeliers.

All eyes turned to Aelik Baldwynne, Cuckholder of the Rift, whose cape flowed like drama in liquid form. His eyebrows fluttered defensively.

Opraxa revealed the stain:

A reddish-brown streak across the tulip’s trembling flesh.

“THE TULIP HAS BEEN… UNCLEANED.”

The congregation collapsed into holy gagging.

Aelik’s jaw dropped. His cape recoiled. His reputation combusted in real time.

“I did NOT smear the sacred bloom!” he protested. “I am a man of finesse! I exfoliate!”

But the damage was done.

The Fayk Tulip had spoken.

The shame had begun. https://www.youtube.com/shorts/ayeO2Rv8-6Q

CHAPTER II – THE FUDGE APOSTLES AWAKEN

Deep beneath the Basilica, in the molten caverns where the air tasted like liquefied disappointment, the Fudge Apostles stirred.

These were monks of pure gluttony — round, sweating, radiant with spiritual indigestion. Their chants echoed:

“LET THE FUDGE FLOW,

LET THE BOWELS KNOW.”

When the scandal of the Tulip reached them, they rose from their bubbling mud baths, robes stained with ceremonial slop.

Head Apostle Gloopius waddled forward.

“The time has come,” he declared, wiping fudge from his beard with the seriousness of a man handling national secrets. “The prophecy of the Defiled Tulip heralds… the Great Fart Reckoning.”

The Apostles gasped, causing small tremors and one embarrassing toot.

“But who,” one whispered, “shall bear the shame?”

Gloopius answered gravely:

“The Cuckholder. Aelik Baldwynne. The man whose very footsteps echo with romantic failure.”

The Apostles nodded.

They knew what had to be done.

Fudge oaths were sworn.

Bowels were tightened.

The Reckoning began. *https://www.youtube.com/shorts/QghylUqmU7U

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lezX_Y9h_UQ

CHAPTER III – THE CENSUS OF GLORIOUS HOLES

Aelik, desperate to salvage his scandal-ruined reputation, launched a sermon atop the Basilica ruins. He held his gold megaphone like a weaponized vanity mirror.

“My beloved sinners!” he cried. “The tulip may be tarnished — BUT THE RIFT STILL RECEIVES US! Through divine portals! Through sacred openings! Through—”

Opraxa groaned.

“Oh gods, not this again.”

But Aelik continued:

“THE TP GLORYHOLES OF SALVATION!

Circular gateways to redemption!

Soft rings of cosmic forgiveness, where all shame is wiped away!”

He unveiled a chart nobody asked for.

He pointed to diagrams shaped suspiciously like flaming anuses.

“This census,” he proclaimed proudly, “lists every holy wiping portal in the Rift Realms. I’ve inspected them personally. Thoroughly. Vigorously.”

Whispers spread:

“He’s lost it…”

“Wasn’t he already lost?”

“Why is that one diagram wiggling?”

Whorbama Burtains stepped forward, draped magnificently in reality-warped curtains.

“Aelik,” he said gently, “you’re embarrassing yourself.”

Aelik’s eyes flashed. “My dear Drip-Child, embarrassment is simply courage with diarrhea.”

The congregation pondered this.

It was a terrible thought.

It made far too much sense.

And so the Church braced itself.

Aelik’s holy nonsense was only the beginning.