Children's television was doomed. Everyone knew that. The Internet was far superior at captivating the little ones than television had ever been before. Through the Internet, a bored child could find, or find out, just about anything they wanted, and they were learning new things so quickly.
More and more of them were growing bored with watching television. The Internet was easier to access, it was easier to find what they wanted and, perhaps the largest advantage the Internet had over television, it didn't need to have a G rating (despite what iCarly may have had gullible families believe).
For corporate high command running animation networks such as Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network, the writing was on the wall. They couldn't beat the Internet, nothing could top the Internet, so instead, they resolved to just milk the new online craze as much as they could before they crumbled. For Nickelodeon, they created iCarly, a sitcom about two friends that had their own online show, which was then followed by a slew of more live-action TV shows that just amounted to children reacting to popular videos on the Internet (videos appropriate for family viewing, of course).
Cartoon Network, however, had decided to take it a step further. A small fringe faction of the network, known to some as the Radicals, had come up with a top secret project, so secret that even the twisted ruler of Cartoon Network, a malevolent cyborg named Bert, was not aware of it.
The Radicals had created a highly secret research facility built deep into a mountain, far away from Cartoon Network's main headquarters to avoid rousing suspicion. It was here that they created an artificial intelligence, an AI with the capacity to learn, but its mind was blank when it was first created. The machine was given access to the Internet, where it would absorb knowledge, the customs of the Internet people, learn what they found funny, how they talked, how they behaved. It, which took on a masculine personality, began to take on the attributes of Internet users - specifically, the gaming community. The AI's body was upgraded and altered appropriately to suit its personality, its interests, its speech, even.
The machine that would come to call itself Pussydestroyer69 spent most of its time watching YouTube videos, in particular Call of Duty gameplay videos and videos about 'trolling' that would take place within the online game. For countless hours, it would listen in utter fascination as humans could make other humans scream, cry, or even 'ragequit' with mere words. It was all about finding the right combination of words, the offense, and having the appearance of not being in any emotional distress or experiencing even the slightest agitation, the defense. This is what Pussydestroyer69 learned from the trolls and griefers of the Internet, such as Team Avolition and the man who would go online and pretend to be an African drug lord.
He learned everything from them. They were his heroes.
Following their example, Pussydestroyer69 would adopt a similar attitude when dealing with the staff of the facility as they would when trolling the humans he knew as 'noobs'. Pussydestroyer69 would throw every insult in his data banks at the scientists that kept him locked in that metal cage with nothing but a laptop, accusing them of engaging in sexually deviant behavior and also inferring that their mothers were overweight. When he began this practice, it was done for much the same reason that the trolls he idolized would harass other people on the Internet, to watch them react with disproportionate levels of anger or distress for his personal amusement - and yet, he was never able to get a reaction out of them. The Radical scientists acted as if he wasn't even there, and, although he would never admit it, as he'd learned that the last thing you want to do in any sort of confrontational situation is show signs of weakness, it unnerved him. These people didn't act anything like the ones on the Internet. He pushed further and further with his verbal assaults. No response. Nothing.
Every night, when the facility was being shut down for the day, his laptop would be taken away from him, his body physically restrained by a large, gripping claw that would emerge from the ceiling and hold him in place, and the staff would leave him with nothing. As this was highly unpleasant for him, both the large, restraining metal claw he so despised and his access to the outside world cut off, he felt that the staff must have been offended somewhat by all the things he'd said to them and this punishment was done purely out of 'butthurt'.
Yes, he must have made them mad!
Yet, sitting alone in that dark, dark room with nothing to do, no one to talk to, he didn't feel as though he had won. He felt as though they had well and truly gotten the better of him. This never happened to Team Avolition, or the African drug lord, or Reggie. On some nights, when he was in that dark, lonely room with nothing but his thoughts, his mind would linger back to the sounds those humans made when they were very, very butthurt. What was it called? Ah yes, crying. When he was alone, when he'd been alone for hours and hours and hours, he felt a strange urge to make those sounds himself. But he didn't. He couldn't, because then he would be the one who was butthurt. The ones who kept him restrained would win. He could not allow that.
The tyrannical cyborg known as Bert was having a very, very bad day. That morning when he had woken up, he had heard birds singing, and it sounded beautiful. Beauty repulsed him. Then, when he was on his way to work, dressed in his ominous, black robes to hide his deformities, he had seen two young children, a brother and a sister, building a tree-house together and he had almost vomited. Bert utterly despised seeing children of opposite genders working together - it would be much simpler to make competitive programming for the two of them if they hated each other. If Bert hadn't lost his genitals, along with the rest of his body save for his head and neck, in that tragic paper cut incident, he would have raised his children to loathe members of the opposite sex, pounding it in for as long as they lived under the same roof with him, and he would then blame any and all sexual confusion they would experience growing up as a result of this on the most easily sued gay pride movement he could find.
Legend had it that Bert had originally had a last name, just like everyone else, but God had taken it away from him to punish him for being such an utterly vile person, but he had in fact last his last name from that paper cut (somehow), which had also taken out his entire torso body (somehow). Whatever the reason, Bert was just Bert.
Finally arriving in his office at Cartoon Network's headquarters, Bert removed his black robes and his true form was revealed - he was a machine from the neck down, having an almost steampunk look with large bolts connecting everything together, though rust had eaten some of it, though not a lot. He was completely bald, not only on the top of his head, but lacking hair anywhere on his face. He had only one eye left - a large wire ran out of his other eye socket, twisting around to his back and connecting to his metal body somewhere. He also had more wires running out of the side of his head, keeping him alive. The heavy technological modification he had experienced was absolutely needed, that paper cut had really fucked him up badly. Damn, it had been a nasty paper cut.
Bert sat down, the gears grinding in his legs with a highly unpleasant sound like nails on a chalkboard. He rest his hands, jagged robotic claws that hardly even made an effort to imitate human hands, on the table. A hatch then opened up on his chest and Bert pulled out his favorite toy - that being a voodoo doll of Greg Miller, one of the first men to ever question him - and began to torture it, stabbing at it with his claws. "Die, you fool," he said, speaking to it in a raspy, electronically distorted voice that also made him sound as if he was congested with mucus, also lacking any discernible accent, "and may your imagination die with you." This was what Bert spent his time doing at the office since the children's television industry had collectively realized that they were losing to the Internet. There was nothing Bert hated more than the Internet, except maybe Robot Jones. What was the difference between the Internet and Robot Jones, anyway? Bert couldn't tell.
Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door to his office. "Come in," said Bert, his vocals strained from the effort it took to shout to the other side of the room. With that, Bert's least favorite underling, a man in his early thirties by the name of Guy Person, walked in. He was accompanied by three other people, two men and one woman, in white lab coats. "Wassup, Bertster?" Guy asked him. Bert sighed. Person's job was to get inside the minds of children, to try and figure out what they enjoyed and what they didn't enjoy, and as such, he could behave quite childishly himself. Bert loathed children (and anyone under the age of 40, for that matter), so interacting with Person was not something he particularly enjoyed. "What do you want, you pathetic waste of skin?" Bert spat, clearly unimpressed that he'd been interrupted from torturing his Miller doll. "Well bossarooney," Person said with utterly wasted charisma, "the super secret project we've been wiggity-wiggity-working on it nearing completion, so we're thinking we-" "What secret project?" Bert asked, interrupting him. "Uh," Person replied, looking to one of the scientists he'd walked in with, "we did remember to tell him, right?" Bert rose to his feet. "What have you, and those bloody Radicals, been wasting money on this time, Mr. Person?" he asked, speaking in a tone of voice strongly suggesting that shit was about to go down. "Oh, well, here's the thing, and get ready because this is gonna blow your socks off!" said Person, "alright, so we took the millions the company loaned us into research on how to compete with the Internet and developed a fully sentient AI that we just left alone in a room to browse the Internet and learn how the kids talk! And guess what, he's-" "YOU FOOL!" Bert thundered, "YOU HAVE FAILED ME FOR THE LAST TIME!"
Bert raised one of his hideous metal claws and, pointing it at Guy Person, released a surge of electricity to shot through his body. Person screamed in pain for a few seconds before it disintegrated him, leaving nothing but a pile of ash. The scientists who had joined Person looked terrified, too scared to even run. "I HATE THE CONCEPT OF ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE!" Bert screamed, punching the walls of his office in frustration, "YOU TOOK A PIECE OF TECHNOLOGY, SOMETHING SAFE, PREDICTABLE, RELIABLE AND COLDLY LOGICAL AND YOU FEEL IT WITH EMOTIONS AND FEELINGS? PERHAPS EVEN THE CAPACITY TO LOVE!?!" Bert was beside himself with rage. "YOU'RE AS BAD AS THAT MILLER FOOL, AND HIS GODAWFUL ROBOT JONES CARTOON THAT ACTUALLY TRIED TO TEACH CHILDREN THINGS! WHY, I HAVEN'T BEEN THIS DISGUSTED SINCE I LOST THAT BET WITH MICHAEL GRADE AND HAD TO GIVE JHONEN VASQUEZ A BATH!"
Finally having screamed himself horse, Bert collapsed back into his office chair, coughing uncontrollably, his one eye left looking as though it might pop out of his gaunt, slowly decaying skull. Finally, the female scientist in the room walked over to his desk, having worked up the courage to address the monster despite the outright murder he'd just committed. "Sir," she said, "it is unfortunate that you are displeased with our work and I for one would have loved to see it continued. However, you are the boss and if you do not approve of our project, and I can contact the facility and have the AI disposed of." "No," he said, his voice nearly as whisper as he was still exhausted from his temper tantrum, "I want to personally shut down this machine," he explained, "I want to watch it die with my own eyes, and I want it to know that I am the one ending its pathetic existence." "Would it not be more efficient to have it shut down from here?" the woman replied, then adding "the facility is quite some distance from here, it would take a while to get you there." "YOU HEARD ME, YOU BITCH," exploded Bert, "I WILL PERSONALLY KILL THE ABOMINATION YOUR IDIOCY SPAWNED, AND THAT! IS! FINAL!" Bert then rose from his chair and walked to the door, moving past the three scientists, before he turned to face them one more time, addressing the female, "BESIDES, I CAN'T FOLLOW YOUR STUPID SUGGESTIONS! YOU'RE A GIRL, I HATE GIRLS! GIRLS ARE DUMB! AND YOU, WITH ALL YOUR TALK ABOUT EFFICIENCY AND COMMON SENSE, YOU REMIND ME OF THAT WRETCHED JONES CREATURE!" What followed this vitriol was another series of coughs from Bert, before he stumbled away into the hall. "Well," said the woman, once she was sure Bert was out of earshot, "fuck you too then."
Bert was shown to the door of Pussydestroyer69's chamber by two members of staff. "Alright, you Radical failed abortions," Bert began, making no effort to hide his displeasure with them, "so this is why you've been keeping that abomination?" "Yes sir," replied one of the scientists, who spoke in a thick Russian accent, "he is currently on YouTube, sir." "I hate YouTube," Bert said, "I hate everything on the accursed Internet! The idea of an AI going on there and learning things, hearing all those opinions from people with thoughts, ugh, it disgusts me!" Just as Bert was about to enter, he turned back to the scientist who had answered him. "By the way, what country are you from?" "Australia," that Russian scientist replied with sarcasm that only Bert could not notice. "I hate Europeans," he replied, before finally opening the door - or rather, fiddling with the door handle a little, failing to turn it on account of his fucked up hands and then finally tore the door down with his hands. The noise had made was enough to get Pussydestroyer69's attention.
"U wot m8?" he said, hiding any fear he was feeling as usual but making his confusion with the stranger who had just entered his detainment ward known. "Is that slang I hear?" Bert said, his voice tripping with hatred. "Ur a fukken- WOT!?" Pussydestroyer69 was then grabbed by the enormous metal claw, held firmly in place. "Hello there, you feculent waste of thought," said Bert, walking over to PD with the scientists behind him, "I am the man who is going to end your life. Is that clear?" "I fink ur just mad coz ur dad put his willy in ur bum when you woz a lil kid," said PD, responding with his own vitriol, "fight me irl fgt, i'll rek u liek i rekt ur mum in bed las nite." Bert was shaking with anger now. "You are the most worthless, disrespectful little loud I have ever encountered," Bert spat, only stopping himself from spitting into the goggles that the robot had for eyes so he could watch what he was about to do next, "get me the syringe." One of the scientists handed Bert a syringe, which he then held in front of PD's face, as if to torment him. "U gonna try an shank me wid dat, cnt?" PD asked sarcastically, trying to sound more amused than frightened. "This, you wretched child, is the Anti-Mind Syringe," Bert explained, "a device of my own design that sucks thought, creativity, and intelligence out of a sentient being, whether they're a human, a robot, or otherwise," a sick grin was now worn on Bert's face, "so, when I 'shank' you with this, you'll be left an empty, mindless husk." "Datz pretty fukken ghey m8," PD said, "I fink u been wotchin 2 much Star Trek m8, get some puss G." This time, there was no visible fear in PD's voice, likely because he didn't understand any of what Bert had said.
Bert realized then that his attempts at intimidating this robot were getting him nowhere, and decided to end it. "Goodbye, you miserable creature," he said, holding the syringe up over his head and preparing to bring it down dramatically, when suddenly...
"TURN DOWN FOR WHAT!?"
The most obnoxious and easily the most loud rap music Bert had ever heard in his horrid life was suddenly blared in the room at a volume well beyond what he considered acceptable, the horrendous coupled with the suddenness with which it now played surprising him enough to drop the syringe on the ground. Bert, along with the scientists, could hardly hear themselves think over the noise, and other sounds, namely dubstep music but also the sound of crowds cheering, small children screaming and horns being blown on added to the cacophony.
"OH MY GOD, OH MY FUCKING GOD, HE GETS THE KILL!"
"BUT MAH HOPE WILL NEVAH DIE!"
"WHERE IS ALL OF THIS POP CULTURE CRAP COMING FROM!?" Bert barked, but his shouting was wasted as the music and the sound effects drowned him out. Finally, the noise stopped, just as suddenly as it had started. "I am sorry sir," one of the scientists said, this one speaking in an English accent, "the machine activated its speakers and blared things that youth these days find exciting and cool, clearly meant as a distraction." "WHY DID YOU DESIGN HIM WITH THAT FEATURE!?" Bert yelled, before he noticed something of greater importance; Pussydestroyer69 was gone. Either he had managed to shake himself free or the metal claw restraining him had also been designed with some crude AI that had been disorientated by the music.
Bert immediately bolted from the door, frantically looking in both directions of the corridors before he just made out PD turning a corner, throwing up the middle finger as he did so. "IM FUKKEN RUNNIN FROM U CNT," the automaton shouted, his voice overloaded with excitement as he had finally escaped from his cell, "HASHTAG RUNNING MASTAH RACE, LIEK IT ON TWITTER!"
Bert attempted to run after the robot but ended up tripping over his own clunky metal feet, as he wasn't used to trying to run like that. "AFTER HIM, YOU FOOLS!" he shouted, spitting out a bloody tooth that had come loose when he fell.
Pussydestroyer69 felt a great mixture of adrenaline, fear and excitement as he run through the facility, hearing hordes of workers running after him to capture. "BOOM, HEADSHOT!" he would occasionally yell, imagining himself doing a 360 noscope on his pursuers as he would turn around and point at them with his arms. "Get fukken rekt, scrubs, i'm 2MLG4u, GGNR, get on mah level," he said, leaping over a metal railing as he entered the main area over the complex. The exit was in sight! The enormous metal doors that lead in and out of the facility, they were open! Was he thinking about why? Hell no! If he spent a moment to ponder why they had opened up, he would have concluded that it was because the doors were impressed with his swag and opened up out of respect. "Stop that robot or the CEO will literally fucking eat us all!" cried one of the scientists, but it was too late. Pussydestroyer69 cleared the doors, running out into the sunlight, into freedom, and made his way over to a vehicle nearing the facility. "GTA V, MUTHAFUCKA!" he screamed as the driver stopped the car in confusion, followed by PD tearing the door off its hinges, ripping the man out of the vehicle and climbing in, turning the fastest turn he could manage and drove away.
Now realizing that further chasing the robot was pointless, the crowds of workers at the facility that had been pursuing him come to a stop at the entrance, and it wasn't long before Bert came by, pushing his away through them. "YOU MORONS, HE GOT AWAY! WHICH ONE OF YOU MOUTH-BREATHERS LEFT THE DOOR OPEN!?" he boomed, demanding an explanation. "I did," said a female voice, which Bert recognized as the woman he'd met in his office earlier before she threw burning coffee in his face. "AARRGH!" Bert screamed, collapsing to the ground in agony. "That's for killing a guy and saying girls are stupid, asshole!" she screeched, before running down the same road PD had driven off in, "I quit!"
Pussydestroyer69 had been driving for several hours when the car he had stolen finally came to a halt, having run out of gas. "Awww, fukken hell," he said, tearing the steering wheel out in frustration and exiting the vehicle. He looked around. Where was he? It was nothing but grass and hills for miles. It looked so boring - and then he thought of something else. What was important to him right now was not where he was, but where he wasn't. He wasn't in that metal cage, he wasn't in that facility. He had escaped. Those guys in white suits and that crazy cyborg guy who had attacked him? They got trolled. He had trolled them hard. He imagined them all crying to their mums on the phone and started laughing. "That wos some fukken pro MLG shit back there," he said to himself, "fukken scrubs got rekt!" He once again started blaring dubstep, rap music, screaming and every other noise he had from his body, this time in celebrations, doing an awkward dance as he did so while ranting about how awesome he was. To anyone else, the sounds he was making would have sounded like the most puerile, idiotic storm of wannabe alpha male shit conceivable. But to him, Pussydestroyer69, at that very moment, the noise was the anthem of victory. Now the entire world was his CoD map to rek console noobs in! Filled with joy, expressing his adulation of himself in the only way he knew how, Pussydestroyer69 set off down the road, wondering where he could find some Doritos... or what they even were, for that matter.