#zephaniah

Bleh...

AmalgamX

Zephaniah vs 2011x

Fighting in complete darkness.

(Or maybe one of them forgot to pay the electricity bill XD)

Credits: iqiwiwiwi (2011x by JoeDoughBoi) DastardlyDeacon (Mighty.ZIP or Zephaniah)

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Luchando en toda la oscuridad.

Zephaniah vs Sub-Zero

This fight is going to get very cold… literally.

Credits: EllisBros (wallpaper) https://x.com/EllisBros DastardlyDeacon (Zephaniah) https://twitter.com/DastardlyDeacon John Tobias (Sub-Zero)

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Yeah it sucks, I might mess with the thing that might doom us all if this does well as my other Puyo Posts, but for now, enjoy this horrible low quality slop.

This was made for educational and entertainment but mostly educational purposes only, I don’t entirely support AI.

If you want the image, here you go.

I have no idea if whatever is here with me told the truth, but they promised me that this letter would reach someone. I don’t know how to leave, but there’s only one thing I really need. If anyone is receiving this please write a letter confirming that you did receive this. Write the date you’ve written this letter. Then destroy it, preferably by fire. Any pieces that remain intact will not show up in the letter.

Signed, J.

2-23-2392

To J.,

Date: October 14th, 1852

I received your letter. Or rather, something claiming to be a letter from you arrived on my desk this morning, bearing a date that won't exist for another five hundred and forty years.

Let me be clear: I don't believe in time travel, spirits, or whatever elaborate hoax this is supposed to be. I've spent my life dealing with con men, swindlers, and fools trying to separate me from my money with increasingly creative schemes. This is either the most ambitious fraud I've ever encountered, or I'm finally losing my mind to fever and laudanum. Given my current condition, either seems plausible.

But you asked for confirmation, and I'm a man who honors his agreements. even absurd ones made with people who may not exist. So here it is: Yes, I received your letter. Today is October 14th, 1852. I'm writing this from my deathbed in my Estate, where I spend my days answering correspondence and watching my sons destroy everything I've built before I'm even cold in the ground.

You say you don't know how to leave wherever you are. You say something promised this letter would reach someone. That's delightfully vague. What kind of "something"? And what kind of place traps a person for five centuries?

I'll destroy this letter as you requested, by fire, naturally. It seems appropriately dramatic for whatever this is. Though I confess a morbid curiosity: if you're truly writing from 2392, tell me; does the Mann name still mean anything? Or did my idiot sons manage to squander the empire within a generation, as I suspect they will?

Actually, don't tell me. I'd rather die with the illusion that something I built might outlast me.

You're trapped somewhere, you say. Well, J., so am I. I'm trapped in this bed, in this failing body, watching everything I worked for circle the drain. At least your prison has the courtesy of being mysterious. Mine is just pathetic.

I'm burning your letter now. The paper curls and blackens in the fireplace as I write this. Whatever pieces remain intact won't show up in your letter—that's what you said, isn't it? A clever trick, if true. Pointless theater, if not.

Either way, this was more interesting than another letter from my sons.