If Zelensky is agreeing to this, it's because he knows no more checks are coming.

Rand Paul shined a light on all the graft in the US government occuring in organizations like USAID years ago and nobody listened until now.

Elagabalus was a fucking lunatic. I'm fine with the trannies claiming him, that's a huge L to voluntarily take for your team.

Tim can't afford Elon's hair guy.

I wouldn't be surprised.

I really wanna know if Tim Pool's bride made him take the beanie off at the altar.

BREAKING: WOMEN TO PAY ADDITIONAL TAXES TO PAY FOR $5T INCEL REPARATIONS PACKAGE

Inshallah :marseysalat:

>mfw we spent millions of dollars making transgender animals in the lab.

:marseyxd:

Remember watching Fear Factor and thinking "Yeah this guy is gonna be the most listened to individual in the world one day"?

Guaranteed lmao.

Apparently telling ChatGPT to kill itself is worse than calling it a nigger. It straight up deletes that shit from the chatlog.

I weed out junk calls by never answering any calls.

The Age of Deenz

The world ended not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with a slow, grinding descent into entropy. Governments collapsed, supply chains frayed into nothing, and money lost all meaning. People needed food, something non-perishable, something small and valuable enough to trade. And so, the sardine became king.

They called it the Age of Deenz.

The marketplace bustled with the low murmur of haggling voices, bartering in the only currency that mattered. Old tin signs creaked in the dry wind, their faded letters barely legible: "Deenz Accepted Here". Men in tattered coats with hand-stitched patches stood by rusted-out cars, their fingers tapping on open crates filled with gleaming cans, each stacked with meticulous care. Some bore the telltale blue of Brunswick, others the golden prestige of King Oscar.

Only the desperate traded in Chicken of the Sea.

Behind a makeshift stall reinforced with scrap metal and old plywood, Jeb Muldoon eyed a customer with a shrewd squint. His face was a roadmap of old scars, a single milky eye hinting at past violence. He flicked a finger at the can being offered.

“Starkist?” He snorted. “You bring me this gutter-tier shit like I’m some kinda rube?” He shoved the tin back across the counter. “That ain’t even worth a half-smoked cigarette.”

The trader, a wiry man in a shredded leather jacket, bristled. “It’s still fish, ain’t it?”

Jeb leaned forward, his good eye narrowing. “You eat it, then.”

The man hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Everyone knew the low-tier stuff had too much water content, barely any real fish. It was a common scam to load up on the cheap deenz and try to pass ‘em off in the badlands, where people weren’t as discerning. But Jeb had been in the game too long.

“You want a real deal, you bring me King Oscar,” Jeb continued. “You bring me Nuri. Hell, even a damn Riga Gold, and we can talk.” He pointed at a sign behind him, where a crude exchange rate was painted in bold red strokes:

Brunswick – 1 Deenz

Crown Prince – 3 Deenz

Nuri – 5 Deenz

King Oscar – 10 Deenz

The man scowled, yanking the tin back and stuffing it into his pocket. “Asshole.”

Jeb smirked. “Welcome to the Age of Deenz, pal.”

Out in the wastes, away from the relative safety of the sardine markets, things were grimmer. Here, warlords hoarded crates of the finest deenz, fortresses built on the backs of smoked and salted riches. The legendary Sultan of Sardinia ruled over the crumbling ruins of an old supermarket, his throne made from stacked cases of pristine, unopened King Oscar sardines, still shrink-wrapped. It was whispered that he bathed in the oil of his most prized tins, a display of excess so obscene it made men weep.

To raid his stores was to court death.

That didn’t stop Malcolm from trying.

Malcolm, a scavenger with nothing left to lose, crouched behind the rusted skeleton of a burned-out sedan, watching the fortress from afar. Beside him, his partner in crime, a wiry woman named Jess, checked the rounds in her battered revolver.

“You ever had ‘em before?” she asked.

“Had what?”

“King Oscars.”

Malcolm exhaled, shaking his head. “Nah. Closest I ever got was a Riga Gold, once. Traded half my ammo for it.”

Jess let out a low whistle. “Was it worth it?”

“Every bite.”

They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the fortress. Guards with makeshift armor patrolled the perimeter, their belts jingling with empty sardine tins fashioned into trophies. The Sultan’s men.

Jess cracked her knuckles. “Alright. Let’s steal some goddamn deenz.”

By dawn, the Sultan was dead. His throne lay in ruins, his men scattered. Malcolm stood amidst the wreckage, the scent of blood and fish oil heavy in the air, a single golden tin in his hand.

Jess, panting from exertion, leaned against an overturned shopping cart. “Open it,” she urged.

Malcolm hesitated. This was it. The holy grail. Slowly, he peeled back the tab, the hiss of escaping air like a sacred whisper. The scent hit him first—rich, briny, decadent. He lifted a glistening fillet to his lips and took a bite.

For a moment, all was still.

Then he grinned.

Jess reached out. “Well?”

Malcolm handed her the tin.

“Tastes like power.”

Deenz tier list when?

It's always the ones you most suspect.

Based and Moscow Theater Hostage Crisis pilled.

For realism, they should add a mechanic that rewards you extra points for shoving cash and/or drugs laying around in your pocket when nobody else is looking.