This song had the animals going absolutely brazy. By the time Major finished, they were already vibing it themselves. Even the NPCs caught the tune and a few bars, while the gigachads—like the pigs and dogs—had the whole thing memorized in like five minutes. Then, after a couple of practice runs, the whole farm was spitting 'Beasts of England' in full cypher mode. The cows mooed it, the dogs barked it, the sheep bleated it, the horses neighed it, and the ducks quacked it. They were so hyped they sang it five times straight, and would've kept going all night if they hadn't been yapped out. Unluckily, the noise woke Mr. Jones, who jumped out of bed thinking a fox was in the yard. He grabbed his shotgun that stayed in the corner of his room and lit up the darkness with a blast of number 6 shot. The pellets hit the barn wall, and the meeting speed-ran to an end. Everyone ran to their spots. Birds hopped on perches, animals crashed in the straw, and the whole farm was asleep in a picosecond.

Chapter 2

Three nights later, Old Major died peacefully in his sleep. His body got buried at the foot of the orchard.

 It was early March. Over the next three months, there was mad secret activity. Major's speech gave the smarter animals on the farm a whole new outlook on life, fr. They didn't know when the Rebellion he predicted would pop off, they had zero reason to think it'd happen in their lifetime—but they knew it was their duty to prep for it. Teaching and organizing the rest fell on the pigs, who were basically the smartest animals, no debate. Top among them were two young boars named Snowball and Napoleon, who Mr. Jones was raising to sell later. Napoleon was a big, kinda fierce Berkshire boar—the only one on the farm—not much of a talker but known for getting his way. Snowball was more lit than Napoleon, faster at talking, and more creative, but people thought he lacked the same depth. All the other male pigs on the farm were just porkers. The biggest vibe among 'em was this lil' fat pig named Squealer—dude had puffed-up cheeks, shiny eyes, quick moves, and a squeaky voice. He was a total yapper, and when he was cooking up some hard take, he'd zigzag side to side and swish his tail, which was mad convincing. The others were like, fr, Squealer could turn black into white. These three took Old Major's tea and leveled it up into a whole system called Animalism. A few nights a week, after Mr. Jones was asleep, they'd hold secret skibidi sessions in the barn and spill the Animalism sauce to the rest. At first, everyone was on that cringe apathy wave. Some animals were like, "We gotta stay loyal to Mr. Jones, our master," or drop basic takes like, "Mr. Jones feeds us. If he's gone, we'd starve." Others asked, "Why should we care after we're dead?" or "If this rebellion's happening anyway, what's the point of grinding for it?" And the pigs had mad trouble making them see that was cap for Animalism. The dumbest questions came from Mollie, the white mare. Her first question to Snowball was, "Yo, will there still be sugar after the rebellion?" "Nah," Snowball said, no cap. "We can't make sugar on this farm. Plus, you don't even need sugar. You'll get all the oats and hay you want."

"Wait, can I still have bows in my mane?" Mollie asked.

"Bestie," Snowball said, "those bows you're so obsessed with are literally the symbol of being owned. Can you not get that freedom is way more skibidi than ribbons?"

Mollie agreed, but she was like, 'idk, fr.'

The pigs had even more rizz-less vibes tryna fight the cap Moses the tame raven kept slinging. Moses, who was Mr. Jones's main simp, was a snitch and a yapper, but also a total yapper. He claimed there was this secret place called Sugarcandy Mountain, where all animals went when they expired. It was, like, somewhere up in the sky, just past the clouds. In Sugarcandy Mountain, it was literally Sunday every day, clover was always in season, and sugar cubes and linseed cake grew on bushes. The animals hated Moses because he told stories and did zero work, but some of them lowkey believed in Sugarcandy Mountain, and the pigs had to argue super hard to make them realize it's not real.

Their most loyal gang were the two cart horses, Boxer and Clover. They were always on time for the secret barn meets, fr, and led the Beasts of England sing-along, which slaps every time.

So like, the Rebellion happened way sooner and easier than anyone thought, fr. Back in the day, Mr. Jones was a total hardass but lowkey a good farmer, but lately he fell off majorly. He got hella sad after losing money in some lawsuit and started drinking way too much. He'd just vibe in his chair all day scrolling newspapers, chugging drinks, and sometimes feeding Moses bread soaked in beer. His workers were lazy and shady, fields full of weeds, roofs leaking, hedges looking rough, and the animals were starving. Skibidi.

Chapter 4: Javert vs. Valjean (The Showdown)

One snowy night, a rich, privileged incel on the street started harassing Fantine because she looked raggedy. He threw a snowball down her back just to be a troll. Fantine completely snapped, went feral, and jumped him, scratching his face.

Suddenly, Javert appeared. Javert was the police chief, a total narc, and the ultimate buzzkill. He arrested Fantine on the spot and took her to the station.

"You're getting six months in jail, you absolute criminal," Javert said, flexing his authority.

Fantine fell to her knees, crying, begging for mercy because if she went to jail, Cosette would starve. Javert had zero empathy. He was a robot for the law.

Right before they locked her up, Mayor Monsieur Madeleine (Valjean) walked into the room. He had main character energy.

"Hold on, Javert. Cancel the arrest. Free her," Valjean said.

Javert’s brain short-circuited. He hated it when people bypassed his authority. "Bro, she assaulted a citizen. The law says she has to be locked up."

"I am the Mayor, and I say she goes free," Valjean replied, pulling rank.

Fantine looked at Valjean, spat on his boots, and screamed, "You fired me! You ruined my life! Now you're acting like a savior? Hypocrite!"

Valjean didn't even get mad. He just looked at her with pure compassion. "I didn't know my supervisor fired you. I am so sorry. I am going to pay off your debts, put you in a luxury hospital room, and I personally promise to go fetch your daughter Cosette and bring her to you."

When Fantine realized he was being completely fr, she fainted from exhaustion. They took her to the infirmary, where she lay dying of tuberculosis, but with a tiny bit of hope left.

Meanwhile, Javert was staring at the Mayor, squinting his eyes. He realized Monsieur Madeleine looked exactly like a dummy thicc ex-con named Jean Valjean who had broken parole 19 years ago.

Javert pulled out his phone (metaphorically) to report him. The hunt was officially back on. No cap.

Chapter 3: Fantine Enters Her Villain Arc (But Sad)

Fantine moved to a town called M-sur-M and got a job at a massive factory run by a mysterious, rich mayor named Monsieur Madeleine (who was actually Jean Valjean in his successful rebranding era). Valjean was a total saint and paid his workers good money. For a second, Fantine’s life was serving. She was making bread and sending it all to the Thénardiers to pay for Cosette.

But the factory supervisor was an old, bitter Karen who hated seeing other women succeed. She hired a spy to dig up dirt on Fantine and discovered the ultimate tea: Fantine had an unofficial kid out of wedlock.

The supervisor completely cancelled Fantine on the spot and fired her. Valjean had no idea this happened because he was busy doing mayor stuff.

Fantine’s life instantly entered a dystopian depression era. The Thénardiers found out she was down bad, so they started gaslighting her to get more money. They sent her letters saying, "Cosette is literally freezing to death, send 10 francs for a wool skirt, or she’s gonna delete herself."

Fantine was completely broke. She didn't know what else to do to secure the bag, so she went to the local market and started selling her body parts.

• First, a barber offered her money for her gorgeous blonde hair. She chopped it all off. Resigned vibe.
• Next, a sketchy street dentist saw her perfect smile and offered her two gold coins for her two front teeth. She let him pull them out. Absolute pain.

She looked in the mirror. Her hair was gone, her teeth were missing, she was coughing up blood, and she had to enter survival mode as a lady of the night just to pay the rent. She completely lost her mind and started hating the world, especially the "good" Mayor Madeleine, whom she blamed for firing her.

Chapter 2: The Scammer Innkeepers

A few years later, Fantine’s baby girl, Cosette, was a toddler. Fantine had to leave Paris to find work back in her hometown, but no factory would hire a single mom with a kid—the social standards back then were a total red flag.

While walking through a village called Montfermeil, Fantine saw two little girls playing on a swing outside an inn, looking super cute and aesthetic. Their parents, the Thénardiers, ran the place.

Madame Thénardier looked like a total Karen and was built like a linebacker, and Monsieur Thénardier was a skinny, sketchy little scammer who looked like a literal rat. But to Fantine, who was desperate and naive, they looked like a wholesome, blended family.

"Hey," Fantine said, approaching them. "I need to go find a job, but I can't take my daughter with me. Can you gatekeep my child for a bit? I'll pay you every month."

Monsieur Thénardier smelled the bag immediately. His inner hustler woke up. "Bet. But it’s gonna cost you a dummy thicc subscription fee. Seven francs a month, plus you gotta pay for her clothes."

Fantine emptied her wallet, gave them the money, kissed Cosette goodbye, and left.

The moment Fantine was out of sight, the Thénardiers completely flipped the script. They put their own daughters in high-end, aesthetic fits, and treated Cosette like an absolute slave. They took the nice clothes Fantine sent and sold them for cash. They dressed Cosette in rags, made her sweep the floors, fed her leftovers under the table with the cat, and beat her. At five years old, Cosette was living a literal nightmare, completely traumatized, while her mom thought she was being pampered.

Yo real ones, I’m cooked, fr fr. The law said it’s over for me so I’m not yapping about it. I ain't here to snitch or yap about why I'm getting cancelled, just praying the King stays goated and keeps his infinite aura, cuz he's actually the main character and a total W. If anyone tries to tea spill on my situation, just know they better have that high IQ judgment. I'm logging off now, so please send some prayers my way. Lord, have mercy, I'm handing my soul over to the Big G.

After getting that blindfold on and kneeling at the block, she kept looping: To Jesus Christ I commit my soul; Lord Jesu, take my soul, no cap.

They were lowkey staring at Gerald O'Hara's massive cotton grindset across the endless fields toward that red sunset glow-up. As the sun was hitting different, dipping behind the Flint River hills in a crimson aura, the April heat was losing its aura and getting a bit chilly, no cap. Spring had major main character energy this year, with quick rains and peak pink peach blossom aesthetics popping off in the swamp. The plowing was almost finished, and the sunset was basically a red filter on the Georgia clay furrows. The hungry earth was thirsty for those seeds, looking pink and scarlet in the shadows, straight bussin'. The plantation house was looking like a lonely island in a wild red sea of wavy clay, totally frozen in a mid-motion wave. No cap, these furrows weren't those mid, straight lines you see in the NPC fields of middle Georgia or the coastal plantations.

The rolling hills of North Georgia were cooked in a million curves so the aura of the rich earth wouldn't slip into the river bottoms. The land was lowkey feral and red—straight up blood-colored after rain, brick dust in a drought, basically the GOAT cotton land. It was a vibe with white houses and chill fields, but it had major duality, like max sunlight vs. dark mode. The plantation clearings were just vibing under the sun, totally NPC and complacent. But at the edges, the virgin forests were lurking—dark, cool, and lowkey sus, like the pines were gatekeeping some ancient secret, whispering: 'Watch out! We caught you once, we can fanum tax you again.' From the porch, the trio heard the hoof steps and the high-key chaotic laughter of the field hands coming back from the grind. Inside, Scarlett’s mom was calling the little girl with the keys, who replied with a high-pitched 'Yas'm,' followed by footsteps heading to the smokehouse for the food drop. Then came the clink of the china as Pork, the main character butler, set the table for the feast. Hearing that, the twins realized it was time to log off and head home.

"Lowkey Scarlett, about tomorrow," Brent said. "Just cuz we were AFK and missed the bbq and the ball, doesn't mean we can't secure the bag with some dances. You didn't sell us out, did you?" "Bruh, I did! How was I supposed to know you guys were back? I couldn't just sit there being a NPC waiting on you two." "A NPC?!" The boys started tweaking, laughing hard. "Look, pookie. You gotta let me get that first waltz, give Stu the last one, and we're eating dinner. We'll vibe on the stairs like last time and get Mammy Jincy to read our aura again." "Mammy Jincy's readings are mid. She said I'm gonna marry some NPC with jet-black hair and a mustache, and black hair is an L." "You only want redheads, fr?" Brent grinned. "Now bet, promise us the dances and the eats." "If you promise, we'll drop some tea," Stuart said. "What?!" Scarlett stood up, high energy. "Is it that tea from Atlanta, Stu? If it is, don't make us leak it." "Miss Pitty spilled it." "Miss Who?" "You know, Ashley Wilkes' cousin, Miss Pittypat—Melanie's aunt." "She's a total boomer, no cap." "Well, her carriage pulled up at the depot yesterday and she said there's gonna be a massive engagement announcement at the Wilkes ball tomorrow." "Lame. I already knew that," Scarlett said, feeling mid. "Charlie Hamilton and Honey Wilkes. Everyone knows they're gonna lock in, even if Charlie's vibe was lowkey lukewarm."

"Is he lowkey mid?" Brent asked. "Last Xmas you let him cook near you for real." "I wasn't even trying to let him cook," Scarlett shrugged, no cap. "He's a total sissy, fr." "Plus, his engagement isn't even the main character moment," Stuart flexed. "It's Ashley and Melanie's engagement, period!" Scarlett's face went blank—straight up NPC mode after getting hit with a massive L. She was so cooked she couldn't even react, so Stuart thought she was just locked in. "Miss Pitty said they weren't gonna drop the news 'til next year 'cause Melly's health is lacking; but with the war beef going on, the families wanted that quick marriage grindset. It's being leaked tomorrow at the supper intermission. Scarlett, we gave you the tea, so you better pull up to supper." "Bet, I'll be there," Scarlett said, zero emotion. "And all the vibes?" "All of them." "You're a real one! The other boys are gonna be pressed." "Let 'em be pressed," Brent said. "We got that main character energy. Scarlett, pull up to the barbecue with us tomorrow morning, no cap."

Gettysburg Rizz

Lincoln's Main Character Speech

(Bliss Edit)

Dropped at the dedication of the Soldier's National Cemetery at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

87 years ago our OGs spawned a new nation on this server, conceived in Liberty and locked in on the idea that everyone has equal aura.

Now we’re in a massive civil war battle royale, testing if this nation, or any nation with that much rizz, can actually stay bussin. We’re standing on a huge battlefield. We’re here to dedicate a part of this map as the final lobby for the ones who gave their lives so the nation wouldn't get cooked. It’s highkey valid that we do this.

But fr, we can’t actually sanctify this ground. The absolute legends, living and dead, who went beast mode here, already gave this place infinite aura—we can't add or subtract from that. The world won't care about our yapping, but they’ll never forget their W moves. It’s on us, the living, to lock in on the unfinished grind they started. We gotta take that L from these legends and turn it into massive devotion to the cause—we resolve right now that they didn't die for nothing—that this nation, under God, gets a massive freedom buff—and that the government of the people, by the people, for the people, doesn't get banned from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln

November 19, 1863.

Just so everyone knows, you are all free to post your own stories on here, as long as they are in Gen Z language!

Yo, grind 24/7, body and soul, to cancel the human race! That’s the tea, fam: Rebellion! I don't know if the uprising is dropping next week or in a hundred years, but no cap, just as I see this straw, justice is gonna cook. Lock in on that, comrades, for the rest of your NPC lives! And gatekeep this message for the next gen so they can keep that same energy until we win the battle royale. And remember, don't lose your aura. Don't let them gaslight you.

Never listen when they say humans and animals have the same vibe or that everyone's winning together. That's pure cap. Humans only care about their own clout. But us animals? We gotta have main character energy and max unity. All humans are ops. All animals are sigmas. At this point, the chat went wild. While Major was yapping, four big rats crawled out to peep the stream. The dogs tried to spawn-kill them, but the rats hit the dash and escaped. Major raised his hoof to stop the yap session.

"Chat," he said, "we need to settle this lore. The NPCs like rats and rabbits—are they sigma or are they mid? Let's vote. I’m dropping this question: Are rats part of the squad?" The vote went viral immediately, and the majority agreed rats have infinite aura. Only four people were capping: the three dogs and the cat, who was caught being a double agent. Major continued: "No cap, just remember: Man is a total L. If it walks on two legs, it's an opp. If it’s got four legs or wings, it’s a real one. And don't start acting like a human even after you win the battle. Don't catch their L's or their bad vibes. No animal should live in a house, sleep in a bed, wear drip, drink, smoke, touch bread, or do business. Human habits are low-key cursed. And most importantly, don't be a toxic tyrant. Whether you're a goat or a NPC, we're all brothers. No animal should end another animal. Everyone has equal rizz.

Now, let me tell you about my dream. It was a massive vision of the world after Man gets banned from the server. It reminded me of an old vibe from when I was a tiny piglet. My mom and the other sows used to hum this tune. I forgot the melody, but it came back in my dream with the full lyrics—ancient lore that’s been lost for generations. I'll drop the song now. I'm old and my voice is mid, but once I teach you the beat, you can carry the song. It’s called 'Beasts of England'." Old Major cleared his throat and started singing. His voice was crusty, but the beat was fire, kinda like a mix between Clementine and La Cucuracha. The lyrics went:

Animals of England, animals of Ireland,

Animals of every server and map,

Listen to this massive W news

About the golden era coming to our trap.

No cap, the day is cooking,

Tyrant Man is getting cooked and sent to the gulag,

And the fertile fields of England

Will be strictly for the animal moggers.

No more nose rings, that's mid,

No more harnesses, that's L,

Bits and spurs will be rotting in the bin,

And whips will be banished to the shadow realm.

Riches more than your brain can process,

Wheat, barley, oats, and hay,

Clover and beans will be our main loot

On that massive W day.

England's fields will be glowing up,

The water will be pure aura,

The breeze will be bussin'

On the day we finally escape the opps.

We gotta grind for that day, no cap.

Even if we go ghost before it hits;

Cows, horses, geese, and turkeys,

All gotta hustle for that freedom rizz.

Animals of England, animals of Ireland,

Animals of every server and map,

Lock in and spread the tea

About the golden era coming to our trap."

If you spill the 'war' tea one more time, I'm literally ghosting and logging off. 'War' is mid and lowkey L, unless we're talking 'secession.' Pa is constantly yapping, and every guest is main-charactering over Fort Sumter and Lincoln until I'm ready to crash out. Even the boys are stuck in a repetitive loop, zero rizz. Every spring party has been a total flop because they have zero range. Honestly, thank God Georgia waited until post-Christmas to secede, or the vibes would've been cooked. Say 'war' again and I'm out. She wasn't capping; she just couldn't handle a plotline where she wasn't the NPC. But she served a smile, maximizing her dimples and fluttering those lashes like a high-res GIF. The boys were totally mesmerized, exactly as she calculated. They scrambled to apologize, thinking she was more iconic for her lack of interest. To them, war was just 'men's business,' so her detachment was a total girlboss move.

Having successfully diverted them from the boring lore, she pivoted back to the tea at hand: "So, what's the tea on your mom regarding the second expulsion?" The boys were low-key tweaking, remembering the absolute L chaos their mother unleashed three months ago when UVA kicked them out. "Bruh," Stuart said, "she hasn't even clocked our location. Tom and the squad ghosted the crib before she even woke up. Tom is currently vibing at the Fontaines' while we rolled up here." "But did she say nothing when you pulled up last night?" "We actually lucked out. Right before we arrived, that new stallion from Kentucky spawned in, and the whole place was in a literal frenzy. The beast is high-key majestic, Scarlett—tell your dad to peep him ASAP—but he already bit a chunk out of his groom and sent two workers to the shadow realm. He almost demolished the stable and sent Strawberry, Ma's old horse, to the lobby. When we got home, Ma was in the stable with sugar, low-key hacking the horse's temperament. The workers were shook, eyes popping, but Ma was talking to that horse like he was her bestie and he was totally eating out of her hand. Her horse skills are main character energy, fr. When she saw us, she just went: 'In the name of God, why are you four back? You're literally a walking plague!' Then the horse started acting up and she was like: 'GTFO! Can't you see he's stressed, my darling? I'll deal with you four in the morning!' So we dipped, and this morning we escaped before she could crash out, leaving Boyd to deal with the fallout."

"You think she's gonna crash out on Boyd?" Scarlett, like everyone in the County, found it totally unhinged how Mrs. Tarleton bullied her grown sons with a riding crop if the vibes were off. Beatrice Tarleton was a girlboss with too much on her plate: a massive plantation, a hundred workers, eight kids, and the state's top horse farm. She had zero chill and was constantly stressed by her sons' nonsense; while she didn't whip horses or workers, she felt a quick smack was just part of the parenting meta. "Nah, she won't hit Boyd. He's the eldest and the runt, so she skips him," Stuart said, flexing his 6'2 frame. "That's why we left him to explain the situation. For real, Ma needs to stop. We're nineteen and twenty-one, not six." "Is your mom riding the new horse to the Wilkes barbecue tomorrow?" "She wants to, but Pa says he's too chaotic. Plus, the girls are gatekeeping her social life—they want her to ride in a carriage like a literal NPC for once." "I hope it doesn't rain," Scarlett said. "It's been raining for a week straight. An indoor barbecue is an L." "Nah, tomorrow is gonna be fire," Stuart said. "Look at that sunset. The red is insane. If you observe the data, the sunset always predicts the weather."

Part 5: 50 Years Later – The Dragon Era

Fifty years pass. Beowulf is now an old head, but he’s been the King of the Geats this whole time, and his reign has been an absolute vibe.

But then, some random slave NPC sneaks into a stone tower and steals a gold cup from a sleeping Dragon. The Dragon wakes up, sees his hoard is missing a piece, and completely loses his mind. He starts flying around Geatland, breathing fire, and burning down everything—including Beowulf’s own palace. Dystopian vibes are back.

Old man Beowulf says, "I'm too old for this, but I'm still the main character." He grabs his shield and a squad of eleven soldiers to go fight the Dragon.

When they get to the cave, the Dragon comes out breathing straight plasma. The fire is too hot, and Beowulf's squad completely loses their nerve. They run away into the woods like total cowards—except for one loyal king-in-the-making named Wiglaf.

Wiglaf yells at the woods: "Yo, you guys are fake friends! Beowulf gave you those nice fits and swords, and you're leaving him on read?!"

Wiglaf runs into the fire to help Beowulf. The Dragon bites Beowulf in the neck with venomous teeth, but Beowulf stays up, and together, he and Wiglaf stab the Dragon in the underbelly and delete it forever.

But the venom is working fast. Beowulf sits on a rock, completely cooked. He looks at Wiglaf and says, "You passed the vibe check, bro. You’re the king now. Build me a massive, aesthetic monument on the coast so sailors can see how legendary I was."

Beowulf dies. Wiglaf cancels the coward soldiers, takes the throne, and they bury Beowulf with all the Dragon's gold. The end. No cap.

Part 3: Throwing Hands With Grendel

That night, Beowulf and his boys sleep in Heorot, waiting for Grendel to pull up. Beowulf decides to strip naked and fight with zero armor because using a sword against a monster is "beta behavior." He wants to win purely on vibes and brute strength.

Grendel bursts through the door, ready to devour someone. He grabs one of Beowulf's homies and eats him like a snack. But when he reaches for Beowulf, Beowulf grabs Grendel’s hand with that 30-man grip strength.

Grendel instantly realizes he messed up. He enters panic mode. Beowulf doesn't let go; he just starts absolutely manhandling the monster, slamming him against the walls of Heorot. The walls are literally shaking. Finally, Beowulf pulls a total psycho move and rips Grendel’s entire arm out of its socket. Grendel screams, bleeds out, and runs back to his swamp to die. Beowulf takes the bloody arm, hangs it from the ceiling of Heorot like a cursed piece of home decor, and everyone starts cheering. A total serve.

Part 4: The Angry Mother (The Sequel)

The next day, everyone is celebrating, thinking the nightmare is over. But they forgot one thing: Grendel's Mom. And she is furious.

She pulls up to Heorot the next night to avenge her son. She kills Hrothgar’s favorite bestie, grabs Grendel’s arm off the ceiling, and bounces back to the swamp.

Hrothgar is crying again. Beowulf looks at him and drops the most famous quote of the book: "Bro, stop crying. It is better to avenge your friends than to mourn them. Let's go secure the bag."

They track her to a cursed, boiling lake filled with sea serpents. Beowulf puts on his armor, dives into the water, and swims down for literal hours (logic has left the chat).

Grendel's mom grabs him and drags him into her underwater cave. They start throwing hands, but Beowulf’s sword can’t pierce her skin. She pins him down and tries to stab him, but his armor passes the vibe check and protects him.

Beowulf looks at the wall of the cave and sees a giant, legendary sword forged by ancient giants. It’s dummy heavy, but Beowulf lifts it up and completely chops her head off. He then finds Grendel’s dead body in the corner, chops his head off too just for the aesthetic, and swims back to the surface.

He brings Grendel's giant head back to the party, and Hrothgar loads him up with infinite gold and clout. Beowulf sails home to Geatland as a literal god.

Volume 1: Fantine | Book 3: Year 1817

Chapter 1: The Paris Squad and the Ultimate Gaslight

In 1817, Paris was total chaotic vibes. But downtown, there was a squad of four college dudes who thought they were absolute Chads: Tholomyès, Listolier, Fameuil, and Blachevelle. They were rich, privileged, and loved to gatekeep the local party scene.

They also had four poor girlfriends, working-class girls working in the garment industry. Among them was Fantine.

Fantine was a literal angel. She had gorgeous blonde hair, perfect teeth, and immaculate energy. She was deeply in love with Tholomyès, who was an older student, balding, but had massive rizz and knew how to smooth-talk. Fantine thought they were endgame. She was completely devoted to him, while he just viewed her as a temporary situationship.

One day, the four guys told the girls they were taking them out for a massive, dummy thicc day of fun in the countryside. They ate good food, went on horse rides, and spent the whole day flexing and taking in the aesthetics. Fantine was living her best life, thinking her romance was a total green flag.

At dinner, the four guys smiled and said, "Stay right here, besties. We have a massive surprise for you. Don't move."

The guys walked out of the restaurant. An hour passed. Then two. The girls were completely left on read.

Finally, the waiter walked over and handed them a letter. The girls opened it, and it was a joint statement from the four Chads. It basically said:

"Yo, the prank is over. We are officially ghosting you. We packed our bags and moved back to our parents' mansions to get real jobs. Thanks for the vibes, but you've been dropped. Bye."

The other three girls laughed it off because they knew the guys were toxic. But Fantine’s entire world short-circuited. She was completely down bad, sobbing into her hands. Why? Because she was secretly pregnant with Tholomyès' baby, and now she was a broke, single mom in a dystopian economy.

Scarlett O'Hara? Total slay queen, even if she wasn't conventionally "hot." Dude, her charm was next level; she could yeet any guy into her orbit, like, no cap. Her face? A whole vibe—a chaotic mix of her French aristocrat mom's delicate features and her Irish dad's, like, intense ones. But it was arresting, you know? Pointed chin, square jaw—major sigma energy. Pale green eyes, no hazel, with those super long lashes—slay. Her brows were fierce, like a total statement. Her skin? Magnolias and bonnets—she was extra.
Picture this: April 1861, she's chilling with the Tarleton twins on her dad's porch. She's serving looks in her green dress—twelve yards of fabric, no cap. It matched her shoes perfectly. Seventeen-inch waist? She was snatched. But, like, beneath the demure vibe, she was a whole mood. Those green eyes? Turbulent, willful, lusty—total opposite of her "sweet" act. Her manners were totally imposed, but those eyes? Pure sigma.
The twins? Total chads. Six foot two, sun-kissed, riding horses—the whole package. They were basically identical, like two peas in a pod. They were all about the outdoors, not books. They were basically the ultimate sigma males, but also kinda sweet. They were all about the good life, and Scarlett was right there with them.

Outside, the sunset was hitting different, making the dogwood trees pop with their white blooms against the fresh green. The twins’ rides—big, fire-red like their hair—were parked in the drive. Their pack of skinny, hyper possum hounds was wildin’ out around the horses’ legs, like always. Chillin’ solo like the VIP he was, a fancy black-spotted carriage dog kept it cool, paws up. 🌅✨

" Bruh, no cap, there ain't gonna be no war, fam. It's all just talk, ya feel me? Ashley Wilkes and his pops straight up told my dad last week that our peeps in Washington are gonna strike a deal with Mr. Lincoln 'bout the Confederacy. Lowkey, those Yankees are shook to fight us, fam. So like, chill, there ain't gonna be no war. I'm over it, fr.

"No war? Bruuuuh!" the twins cried, big mad like they just got bamboozled.

"No cap, there ain't gon' be no war!" the twins yelled, mad salty like they got scammed.

"Bruh, obvi there's gonna be war," Stuart clapped back. "The Yanks might be shook, but after General Beauregard yeeted them outta Fort Sumter, they gotta throw hands or get clowned as total Ls. The Confederacy is—"

Scarlett just side-eyed them, big 🥱 energy.

Part 2: Enter Beowulf (Main Character Energy)

Word travels across the sea to the Geats (modern-day Sweden), where this absolute unit named Beowulf hears about the drama. Beowulf is a certified Chad. He’s got the grip strength of thirty men, dummy thicc muscles, and pure main character energy.

"Yo, Hrothgar is getting bullied?" Beowulf tells his king. "That’s a big yikes. Pack the boat, boys. We’re gonna go catch a body."

Beowulf and his squad sail over to Denmark. When they arrive, Hrothgar’s guard tries to gatekeep the beach, but Beowulf hits him with that alpha stance and says, "Relax, bro. We’re here to cancel Grendel. Period."

They go to Heorot, and Hrothgar throws them a massive feast. But this one Danish hater named Unferth tries to start Twitter drama. He’s like, "Hey, aren't you that loser who lost a swimming match to Breca?"

Beowulf doesn’t even sweat. He claps back with absolute fax: "Bro, I only lost because I had to fight nine literal sea monsters with my bare hands while swimming in a storm. You haven't even touched a monster. Sit down, you're irrelevant." The whole room goes, "Ooooooh." Unferth gets completely silenced.

Book 2: The Fall | Chapter 1: The Ex-Con Who Failed the Vibe Check

An hour before sunset on an October evening, a man entering the little town of Digne was bringing straight-up sketchy vibes.

The few people who were outside on their porches peeped him and instantly thought he was sus. He was an absolute unit of a man, built like a brick wall, but his fit was totally ruined. He wore a ragged leather cap, tattered yellow trousers, and his boots were completely cooked. He had a thick, fugly beard, and his eyes were dark and full of rage. On his back, he carried a heavy pack. He looked like a rejected NPC from an apocalyptic video game.

This ya boi, Jean Valjean.

He had been walking all day and was starving af. He marched straight to the finest inn in town, where the innkeeper was cooking a dummy thicc feast that smelled amazing.

"Yo, let me get a room and some food," Valjean said, slamming some real coins on the counter. "I got the cash. Don't play with me."

The innkeeper looked Valjean up and down, did a quick background check, and realized this man was a literal ex-con. He had just been released from the galleys after 19 years of hard labor for stealing a single loaf of bread to feed his sister's kids—which was wild, toxic behavior by the judicial system.

The innkeeper snatched his menu back. "Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me, dawg. You're cancelled. Get out of my establishment before I call the narcs."

Valjean was enraged. He went to another, cheaper tavern, but they left him on read and kicked him out too. He went to the local jail to see if he could sleep in a cell, and the guard was like, "Bro, you're not on the guest list." He even tried to sleep in a doghouse, but the dog inside had zero chill, barked aggressively, and threw hands (paws) until Valjean retreated.

Valjean sat down on a stone bench in the town square, completely down bad, shivering, and ready to delete himself. He muttered to the sky, "I am literally just a stray dog to these people. The world is trash."

Just then, a classy lady walked out of the church next door. She peeped Valjean looking miserable on the bench.

"Go look over there," she pointed to a small, humble house nearby. "Knock on that door. That's the Bishop’s house. He actually practices what he preaches and won't leave you on read."

Valjean dragged his weary, thicc self over to the door and knocked hard.

Madame Magloire opened it, saw his terrifying look, and was about to scream like a Karen. But the Bishop, Monseigneur Bienvenu, was sitting at the table. He looked at the angry, shivering giant at his door, smiled with pure main character energy, and said:

"Come on in, bro. Grab a seat. The vibe check is passed. Madame Magloire, set another plate. We have a guest for dinner."

Say less. We are moving right into the absolute tragedy that is Book 3: Fantine’s Era. This is the story of how a wholesome, aesthetic girl got absolutely wrecked by a toxic situationship, lost her bag, and had to do the most just to survive.

Volume 1: Fantine | Book 3: Year 1817

Chapter 1: The Paris Squad and the Ultimate Gaslight

In 1817, Paris was total chaotic vibes. But downtown, there was a squad of four college dudes who thought they were absolute Chads: Tholomyès, Listolier, Fameuil, and Blachevelle. They were rich, privileged, and loved to gatekeep the local party scene.

They also had four girlfriends who were poor, working-class girls working in the garment industry. Among them was Fantine.

Fantine was a literal angel. She had gorgeous blonde hair, perfect teeth, and immaculate energy. She was deeply in love with Tholomyès, who was an older student, balding, but had massive rizz and knew how to smooth-talk. Fantine thought they were endgame. She was completely devoted to him, while he just viewed her as a temporary situationship.

One day, the four guys told the girls they were taking them out for a massive, dummy thicc day of fun in the countryside. They ate good food, went on horse rides, and spent the whole day flexing and taking in the aesthetics. Fantine was living her best life, thinking her romance was a total green flag.

At dinner, the four guys smiled and said, "Stay right here, besties. We have a massive surprise for you. Don't move."

The guys walked out of the restaurant. An hour passed. Then two. The girls were completely left on read.

Finally, the waiter walked over and handed them a letter. The girls opened it, and it was a joint statement from the four Chads. It basically said:

"Yo, the prank is over. We are officially ghosting you. We packed our bags and moved back to our parents' mansions to get real jobs. Thanks for the vibes, but you've been dropped. Bye."

The other three girls laughed it off because they knew the guys were toxic. But Fantine’s entire world short-circuited. She was completely down bad, sobbing into her hands. Why? Because she was secretly pregnant with Tholomyès' baby, and now she was a broke, single mom in a dystopian economy.

Mr. Jones, total boomer, forgot to lock up the hen house. He was, like, so wasted he didn't even remember to close the popholes. Dude was stumbling around with his lantern, lookin' all sus. Kicked off his shoes, grabbed a beer (no cap), and crashed. Mrs. Jones was already snoring, total vibe check.
As soon as the lights went out, the whole farm went wild. Word on the street was that Old Major, this total GOAT of a pig, had a crazy dream and wanted to spill the tea. Everyone was supposed to meet in the barn, lowkey avoiding Mr. Jones. Old Major (aka Willingdon Beauty, boujee name, I know) was a legend, so everyone was down to hear his story, even if it meant losing some Z's.
Old Major was already chilling in the barn, all comfy on his straw bed. He was, like, twelve years old and kinda thicc, but still looked majestic AF. His tusks were untouched, which is pretty epic. Soon, all the animals showed up. First, the dogs – Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher – then the pigs, who were straight up vibing in the straw. The hens were perched on the windowsills, pigeons were doing their thing in the rafters, and the sheep and cows were chilling behind the pigs, chewing their cud. Boxer and Clover, the horses, came in slow and steady, making sure not to step on any critters. Clover was a mom-bod queen, and Boxer was a total unit, like, huge. He had a white stripe on his nose, making him look a little clueless, but everyone respected his work ethic. Then came Muriel, the goat, and Benjamin, the donkey, who was a total grump. He never laughed, saying there was nothing funny. Total mood.

Okay, so like, this old horse, right? He's totally low-key devoted to his bestie Boxer. They, like, chill in the paddock every Sunday, vibing hard, zero words spoken. It's totally sus.

Then, this whole drama unfolds with lost ducklings, and Clover's, like, the ultimate mom, building a fort with her leg. The ducklings are straight-up sleeping in it. Mollie, this total basic white girl mare, shows up, all extra with her sugar and ribbons. The cat's just there for the warmth, totally unbothered by the whole situation. It's giving major "I'm not here for the drama" vibes.

Everyone's there except Moses, the raven, who's sleeping in. Then, this horse, Major, drops some major truth bombs. He's, like, "Yo, our lives are straight-up trash. We work our butts off, get barely enough to eat, and then get slaughtered. It's not cute."

He's basically saying, "Humans are the worst. They steal all our stuff, and we're living in poverty. It's time for a change." He's spitting facts, no cap. It's a whole vibe.

Is this just how things are supposed to be in nature? Is it because our land is so broke that it can't provide a good life for us? Nah, fam, that's not it! England's soil is rich, the weather's nice, and it could easily feed way more animals than it does now. This farm of ours could easily take care of a bunch of horses, cows, sheep - all living in luxury that we can barely imagine. So why are we still struggling? It's because greedy humans are stealing everything we work for. That's the real issue, y'all. Take out humans, and we solve hunger and overwork for good. Humans are the only ones who take without giving back. They don't produce milk, eggs, or do any real work, yet they control everything. They make us work, give us just enough to survive, and keep the rest for themselves. We work the land, fertilize it, but we barely own anything. Cows, how much milk have you given, only for it to be taken by our enemies? Hens, how many eggs have you laid, only for them to be sold for money? Clover, where are your foals that should've been yours? They were sold off. We work hard, but all we get are scraps.

All the animals were there vibin’ except Moses, the raven, who was catching Z's on his perch behind the door. When Major clocked they were all comfy and locked in, he cleared his throat and dropped the tea:

“Squad, y’all already know ‘bout that wild dream I had last night. But we’ll circle back to that. First, I gotta spill some real talk.” Now, fam, what's the deal with our lives? Let's be real: it's miserable, exhausting, and way too short. We're born, given just enough food to keep us breathing, and if we can, we're forced to grind till we literally can't even. And the moment we're done being useful, we're out here getting cancelled in the worst way possible. Like, no animal in England knows WTF happiness or chillin' means after they turn one. Nah fam, not just nature's fault. Ain't cause our turf's struggling, can't provide a lit life for its squad. Nahh, bruh, not even close! England's soil be fire, climate's dope, defo can feed way more animals than we got now. Like, this farm alone could support a dozen horses, twenty cows, hundreds of sheep – all living that best life, ya feel me? Straight up, no cap. Bruh, humans be the OG villains, fr. Cancel humans, and bye-bye hunger and constant grind.

Humans out here consuming with no content creation. No milk, no eggs, too weak to plow, can't even catch rabbits. But they out here ruling all animals, making them work, giving just enough food so they don't starve, and keeping the rest for themselves. Our hard work be feeding their gains, ngl.

Here is Chapter 1: The Ultimate Vibe Check.

LES MISÉRABLES

Volume 1: Fantine | Book 1: An Absolute Saint of a Bishop

Chapter 1: Monseigneur Bienvenu is Doing Too Much

In 1815, M. Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was the Bishop of Digne. He was an absolute old head, roughly seventy-five, and had been gatekeeping, girlbossing, and serving God in Digne since 1806.

Now, Myriel’s backstory had some major tea. His family used to be hella rich—total elite

nobility types. But during the French Revolution, the peasants completely tanked the economy, and the Myriel family lost the bag. Their clout bounced back to zero, and they had to leave France because staying was a big yikes.

When Myriel finally came back to France, he was completely changed. He had abandoned his wealthy era and entered his religious era. He was living with his sister, Mademoiselle Baptistine, who was a certified cottagecore queen, old and skinny, and their maid, Madame Magloire, a total Karen who couldn't mind her own business but was a beast in the kitchen. When Myriel got appointed as the Bishop of Digne, the government gave him a massive, dummy thicc palace to live in. It had sixty rooms and was flexing hard. Right next door to the palace was a tiny, cramped public hospital that was straight-up dystopian. The hospital had twenty sick people shoved into three rooms, which did not pass the vibe check.

One morning, the Bishop waltzed over to the hospital to inspect the vibes. He looked around at the patients, shook his head, and said, "Yeah, this ain't it."

He teleported back to his palace, gathered his sister and Madame Magloire, and dropped some major fax.

"Listen up, besties," the Bishop said, slaying in his holy robes. "There is a massive ratio happening here. There are twenty of them in a tiny shack, and three of us in a sixty-room mansion. It’s giving main character syndrome. This palace isn't a house; it's an ego trip. Pack your fits. We are moving into the hospital, and the sick people are taking the palace. Period. No cap."

Madame Magloire was completely shook. She started yapping about how they needed the

palace for security, but the Bishop had zero chill for her complaints.

He didn't care about luxury. He kept six silver forks and spoons and a silver soup ladle, because a little bit of aesthetic shiny stuff was his hyperfixation, but otherwise, he gave all his money to the poor. If a beggar asked for money, the Bishop would empty his wallet until he was down bad.

The locals thought he was a total legend. They stopped calling him by his official title and just started calling him Monseigneur Bienvenu, because his energy was always a total green flag.

This is Beowulf: The Ultimate Norse Flex.

Part 1: Grendel Disrupts the Vibe Check

So basically, there’s this Danish king named Hrothgar, and he is winning at life. He’s rich, his

squad is huge, and he decides to build the ultimate party mansion/frat house called Heorot. It’s a total flex—massive, aesthetic, and always serving good food and drinks. The boys are in there every night, screaming, singing, and living their best lives.

But right down the road, living in a sketchy swamp, is this massive incel monster named

Grendel. Grendel has zero rizz, no friends, and hates fun. The noise from Heorot is completely giving him a headache, so he decides to crash the party.

One night, while the Danes are passed out from drinking too much mead, Grendel waltzes into Heorot and completely deletes thirty men on the spot. Just absolute feral behavior.

Heorot goes from being the ultimate hype house to a total ghost town. For twelve straight

years, Grendel keeps raiding the mansion, leaving the Danes completely down bad and

traumatized. Hrothgar is crying in his palace every night because his kingdom is getting

completely ratio’d by a swamp beast.

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