At the end of all things, Canthalar Til stood victorious atop a mountain of bone.

He had never wanted any of this. As a child, he’d dreamt of devoting himself to providing what little joy he could to the billions of struggling souls that lingered on in this cursed world, brightening their days through the shared catharsis of play. But his father had been furious at the idea. Even now, Canthalar winced as he recalled the words: “no son of mine is going to be a gamercel! I was a mogger, and my father was a mogger, and by Rizz God you’ll be a mogger too!”

His dream had died that day. There was no further conversation — his father sent him away the next morning to live with the Looksmaxxer Monks, and his life was no longer his own. The call to rise in the monastery sounded at five in the morning. Canthalar and his fellow aspirants were expected to gather promptly for four hours of mewditation. The elder monks would stride around the room with thin rods, watching for any whose tongue slackened and fell from the roof of his mouth. The punishment for such failure was swift and severe.

They took their morning meal next: egg whites, extra-rare steak, and a foul green beverage which the monks prepared from a powder they insisted was a “science-backed superfood formula.” Afterwards the students dispersed according to the specialized training each required. Canthalar was grateful for the growth spurt he’d experienced in the year before his arrival, as the distant screams from the heightmaxxing chamber seemed to confirm the whispered rumors of aspirants whose legs were broken and re-set to grant them a few precious inches. His days, however, were far from painless. He could still recall that first taste of the hammer against his cheekbone, after which the supervising monk handed him the implement and demanded that he continue on his own.

Some didn’t make it. They fled or else perished under the intense training regimen. The monks made no apology for their methods, however, for their results spoke for themselves. When Canthalar and the few of his cohort who had survived were through with the program, they were unrecognizable as the boys who had first arrived years earlier. Skinnyfat bodies had been reshaped into top-heavy, muscular forms. Limp and messy hair shone and stood proud atop their heads. Faces, once gaunt or chubby, now uniformly resembled the statuesque profiles of antiquity.

They were no longer children. Nor could the term “men” fully describe what they had become. They were something better, now. When Canthalar stridemaxxed back into civilization, this became immediately apparent. Lesser males wept as they were mogged from all angles. Some became homosexual on the spot — others killed themselves. Foids squealed and climaxed uncontrollably, flinging themselves at the living titan who paid them no more notice than they did the ground beneath their feet. Canthalar had but one thing on his mind.

He had pushed through the smashed jaws, the steroid injections, the leg days, by holding onto a single burning desire: to return to the man who had forced those experiences on him and to thank his father for what he had done in the only way he now knew. He would mog the man, mercilessly, unto death.

But when Canthalar returned to his childhood home and knockmaxxed on the door, he was greeted not by his father, but by a complete stranger.

“I think… that guy… died years ago…” the man told him between heaving sobs. Canthalar narrowed his hunter eyes at the baldmaxxing little gooner before him, who promptly disintegrated into a pile of ash.

After all this, to be denied his vengeance? Canthalar bellowed with such a fury that everything within ten miles of him was utterly annihilated. His call resounded across the globe, and thousands of looksmaxxers and would-be moggers set out to defeat the one who inadvertently declared the challenge. Thus, World War Mog began.

Canthalar took no joy in dispatching the pitiful creatures who stalked him from that day forth. Their feeble efforts at framemogging, their recessed side profiles, their 15% body fat — it was all so mid, so beta, so soy. But the trail of mogged corpses he left wherever he went did little to dissuade his enemies. No quarter was given, none was asked in the struggle of all against one. And throughout that long campaign, hundreds of millions of ordinary people were killed, collateral damage in a conflict they could not hope to understand.

Finally, Canthalar grew tired of the game. Out on a lonely dune, he flexed and he waited. His foes surrounded him — frat leaders, rizz commanders, fraudmaxxers, hairfishers. They leapt upon him and he was buried beneath a heap of Chad jawlines, pec implants, and shoulderpads. For a moment, they thought they had won. But the ensuing mogging was so brutal that it glassed the desert, awakened dormant volcanoes, and eradicated all remaining life on the planet.

He climbed atop the pile of charred remains. There was, at last, no one left to mog.

“Well, dad? Was it worth it?” Canthalar asked the molten skies.

A voice echoed back. “My son, you have brought about man’s end.”

“Father? Canthalar replied.

“Yes. It is I, the Lord your God. The Father of All.”

God parted the skies to reveal Himself to Canthalar in all of His infinite glory. Angels sang of His resplendence, and heavenly light shone upon the shattered earth.

“Slightly negative canthal tilt,” Canthalar said.

“I’m an omnipotent, omniscient being that can take any form. Such things are of no relevance to—”

“Midface ratio is off. Weak maxilla. Pathetic clavicle.”

“What are you say—”

“Sub 5.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jestergoon,” Canthalar spat, and God was undone.

Canthalar Til was finally, completely alone. At least, on this world. But perhaps there were other worlds out there, other realms in the twisted skeins of space and time which were now his to roam. And perhaps, somewhere amongst the blind eternities, he would one day find a looksmatch.

But that seemed like a lot of work. Instead, Canthlar snapped his fingers and called into existence a perfect copy of himself. The two beings locked hazel predator eyes and wordlessly converged, their lips crashing together with enough force to shift galaxies. Their hands roamed one another’s forms, gliding over the lean arms, the broad shoulders, the proportionate necks, creeping upwards until they both said, simultaneously and in voices that would obliterate the minds of mortals were there any left to hear them:

“Don’t mess up my hair.”