Sometimes the worst betrayal is the one you never saw coming. I put my trust...in the fact that this blog would not be so melodramatic. I'll try to not fade away.

And as former MFUJ front man, Slate Man, wandered around the sloppy coke-fueled masses amongst the CBGB's crowd (Don't fact check us, it's a little late in the game  for that, don't you think?), he noticed something strange happening. the louder and faster that Super Mario and the Koopa Troopas played, the more he felt his very being affected. He looked around the crowd once more and, to his horror, discovered that almost all of the members shared at least one part of his appearance. A tattoo here, a spiky hairdo there. In fact, one terrible certainty was becoming clear. Slate was a composite of everyone at this club on this forsaken night in the past.

Slate struggled to figure out what was going on as the band began playing a new tune, A Means to an End.

Slate tried to figure out what was going on but the more he attempted to think, the more he realized that he was incapable of going anywhere past surface levels emotions. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had delved into his own mind for anything, as if he had never had a mind of his own.

The frustration built up inside him as the crowd became more and more frantic in its movements until everything stopped and Slate was staring at a young G Mod eye to eye.

"Having difficulty thinking your way out of this, moron?"asked the pretentious future producer.

"What the hell is going on? I was always loyal to you... why?"

"You've served your purpose."

"But... how is all of this happening? I have no control and... how are you manipulating..."

"You were never meant to have an power of your own. You were always meant to be an extension of my will."

"Your will?"

"You have no thoughts of your own that I have not planted in you."

"What?"

"I knew you wouldn't understand. You're not a person. You're a pastiche, a collage, a joke. You're made up of such disparate impulses and influences that you could never exist as an actual person. Not a sane one. You're pure Id. There is no depth to you. And now, there's no need for you."

"But why here?"

"This is a memory. One that you'll never know."

Slate looked at his normally tattooed arms and noticed his features slowly being absorbed by the cliché punks from hence his existence was spawned. And as G mod smiled, the unenviable Slate Man was wiped clean from existence and faded away to the cavernous void in the mind where bad ideas disappear to.