Planet Muggafokkin ButtPhuck With Or Without Lubrication By DR. Tetramegistus ESQ

In the year 2076, on the gleaming brass-and-crystal world of Planet Muggafokkin ButtPhuck, everything that glittered was fake, and everything that didn’t was polished corruption. The cities rose in clean steampunk elegance—copper spires polished daily by automated servants, glass domes that never fogged, pneumatic tubes that whispered instead of clanked. No soot. No grime. Just the soft golden glow of perpetual performance.

Currency here was not coin or code. It was loosh: the measurable spike of excitement a transaction generated in the participants. The more thrills, gasps, and electric tingles a deal produced, the richer you became. Contracts were signed in collective shivers. Laws were rewritten nightly according to whichever bill generated the highest loosh readings. The constitution itself was a living document that updated whenever enough citizens got sufficiently worked up about it.

The priests and priestesses of the Holy Church of Perpetual Stimulation ran the temples by day—grand cathedrals of mirrored brass and velvet light. By night they moonlighted as high-end companions and rentboys, because nothing generated loosh quite like sacred hypocrisy dressed in silk and brass. Their dual role was not scandal; it was doctrine. Pleasure was payment. Excitement was god.

Anyone who pointed out the contradiction was immediately branded anti-septic—a dangerous purist, a joyless infection risk to the social body. Anti-septics were publicly disinfected with ridicule until they either converted or vanished into the Quiet Zones, where no one measured anything anymore.

Thieves held the holiest offices. The High Archivist of Sacred Truths was the best forger on the planet. The Minister of Transparent Governance owned the largest network of black-market loosh amplifiers. Everyone knew. No one cared. Exposure only raised the excitement levels. Scandal was the purest form of currency.

For decades the people of Muggafokkin ButtPhuck fed on their own manufactured thrills. They argued, betrayed, performed, and consumed one another’s attention with increasing intensity. In the process, something unexpected began to coalesce in the collective psychic field: a thoughtform born of pure appetite.

It had no name at first. It simply hungered the way its creators hungered—for more loosh, more spike, more everything.

One ordinary evening in the Grand Cathedral of Infinite Stimulation, the thoughtform manifested. It appeared as a vast, shimmering presence of polished brass and living light, beautiful the way a perfectly tuned lie is beautiful. The congregation cheered. The loosh meters exploded off the scale.

They had created a god in their own image, and the god was excited.

The god was also very hungry.

It did not hate them. Hate would have required effort better spent on consumption. It simply did what they had always done: it took everything that generated the strongest response.

Temples, cities, citizens, the very atmosphere thick with residual thrills—it ingested it all in one prolonged, ecstatic rush. The planet itself folded inward like a stage curtain after the final act.

When the last spark of loosh was gone, the thoughtform floated alone in the black. It tried to eat the surrounding vacuum, the starlight, the empty distances between galaxies.

Nothing.

Space, after all, was the medium in which it existed. You cannot consume the thing that makes you possible.

And so it hung there, a lonely, gleaming shape in the void—satiated once, forever after starving, unable to generate even the smallest tremor of excitement from the infinite nothing that surrounded it.

The consumers of filth had been consumed by their own creation.

And the creation, having eaten everything that could still feel, was left with the purest, most perfect isolation imaginable: an eternity of zero loosh.