NSFW 🔪 CHAPTER 4: She Married Jeff Bezos and I Attended the Wedding in Disguise

[damienlerone03]

CHAPTER 4: She Married Jeff Bezos and I Attended the Wedding in Disguise

By Damien Lerone, The Brainrot King

PART 4/5 OF THE GREAT SAGA: Godless Holes — The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex
If this is your first exposure to the saga, close this tab. Pray. Apologize to your ancestors. Run your devices through holy water and let your therapist know you'll need to book a double session.

If you're still here…
Welcome back, backslider. The yacht is boarding. Dress code: latex, delusion, and spiritual decay.

CHAPTER 1: I WAS REJECTED BY A FLESHLIGHT THAT BECAME CATHOLIC — AND I DESERVE IT

CHAPTER 1: I WAS REJECTED BY A FLESHLIGHT THAT BECAME CATHOLIC — AND I DESERVE IT

THE SAGA BEGINS: Godless Holes — The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex (MODS PLEASE DON'T TAKE DOWN THIS THREAD I PINKY PROMISE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH IT) This isn't just a story. This is a saga. A divine comedy soaked in shame, silicone, and spiritual awakening. A journey through the...

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CHAPTER 2: MY FLESHLIGHT ASCENDED AND BECAME THE CEO OF A FORTUNE 500 COMPANY — AND I WANT HER BACK

CHAPTER 2: MY FLESHLIGHT ASCENDED AND BECAME THE CEO OF A FORTUNE 500 COMPANY â AND I WANT HER BACK

ð PART II: My Fleshlight Ascended and Became the CEO of a Fortune 500 CompanyâAnd I Want Her Back By Damien Lerone, The Brainrot King PART 2/5 OF THE GREAT SAGA: Godless Holes â The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex Incase this is your first thread seen by me. God save your soul. If not... I...

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CHAPTER 3: THE COURT SUMMONS WERE LUBRICATED

âï¸ CHAPTER 3: I Was Sued by My Fleshlight for Emotional Damages and Also Patent Infringement

âï¸ CHAPTER 3: I Was Sued by My Fleshlight for Emotional Damages and Also Patent Infringement By Damien Lerone, The Brainrot King PART 3/5 OF THE GREAT SAGA: Godless Holes â The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex In case this is your first encounter with my literary downfall, I apologize in...

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And now...

Chapter 4: She Married Jeff Bezos and I Attended the Wedding in Disguise

This chapter contains:
- Drone nipples
- Encrypted veils
- A sentient bidet that knows your secrets
- And a toast that should've stayed unsaid.

She's moved on. She's glowing.
But something behind her eyes just glitched.

I have to say real quick, this is one of my best chapters yet. Def a huge favorite. Also one of my longest Hey the more the merrier!
Buckle up, loser. We're crashing a tech-billionaire wedding.

---

PART I: BOARDING THE BEZOSPHERE

The yacht rose out of the fog like a surgically enhanced kraken funded entirely through divorce settlements and offshore tax shelters shaped like bald heads. Its hull, lacquered in the tears of Amazon warehouse workers and polished with powdered Bezos toenail, gleamed like an NFT of shame minted on the blockchain of regret. It had three helipads, one for arrivals, one for departures, and one purely ceremonial—an altar to Bezos's ego, inscribed with Latin quotes from his own tweets. A retractable hot tub shaped like Ayn Rand's jawline hissed steam that smelled faintly of libertarianism and vanilla-scented ambition.

The ship was called The Bezosphere, but its real name was whispered only once, by a hermit crab who immediately combusted: The U.S.S. Late Stage Capitalism.

I approached it with the gait of a man too haunted to swim, too bitter to drown. My tuxedo was stitched from polyester, regret, and 100-thread-count desperation scavenged from a Ross Dress for Less clearance rack. I had borrowed the suit from a mannequin at a closed Sears, whispering "Forgive me" as I pried it from its cold, indifferent limbs. My nametag read "Waiter #69," a designation that sounded less like employment and more like an omen. My hair was slicked back with CVS-brand emotional suppression gel, which doubled as roach repellent and failed childhood ambition. A pair of borrowed loafers squeaked like remorse each time I stepped.

I practiced my fake laugh in a fogged mirror by the champagne bar. It sounded like a sneeze with abandonment issues.

The first thing I saw was Jeff Bezos. Nude. Glistening. Hairless like a philosopher's egg dipped in $100 bills and purified hubris. He was shaved with a laser-guided drone and polished by unpaid interns with Loofahs made of startup failures. His nipples had been surgically replaced by drone ports that occasionally sparked like cursed Tesla coils charged by middle management burnout. "For airflow," he declared in a baritone so deep it auto-mined Dogecoin. He sipped from a champagne flute made entirely of compressed Bitcoin transactions. It screamed in Morse code.

I nodded. My soul itched.

A six-piece string quartet played a baroque remix of "WAP" in D minor. The musicians, half-cybernetic and fully traumatized, wept softly with each chord change. The guests around me wore latex, leather, and layers of irony stitched by Etsy witches. One woman in a corset made of expired stock options whispered, "Aren't you her ex?" I denied it so fast I herniated a cervical vertebra and summoned a demon named Carl.

A Roomba in stilettos offered me beluga caviar on a tray embossed with Bezos's grinning face. The caviar exploded in my mouth like capitalist communion. I wiped my lips with a Bezos-branded napkin, which purred, "Efficiency is pleasure," and then combusted into NASDAQ ticker tape.

The punch bowl swirled with champagne, codeine, and a suspicious amount of seawater. Floating in it: a taxidermy pelican wearing a monocle, with a nametag that said "Larry, Vice President of Synergy." He blinked once. I blinked twice. He whispered, "Leave while you still have ankles." Then he belched a line of JavaScript and went still.

I avoided eye contact with a wall-mounted sex swing that somehow looked disappointed in me. In the corner, a hologram of Sheryl Sandberg coached a support group of crying Roombas. The smell of wealth, regret, and sandalwood-scented lubricant hung in the air like an unpaid internship.

I took a deep breath.

My mission was simple:

• Blend in.
  
  
• Don't cry.
  
  
• Don't confess.
  
  
• Don't get tackled by a haunted Furby again.

I stepped deeper into the abyss of the Bezosphere. Somewhere below deck, a dolphin screamed in binary. The wedding had begun.

---

PART II: THE CEREMONY OF ABSURDITIES

The ceremony took place beneath a ceremonial arch coded entirely in Ethereum smart contracts. Every time the gas fees spiked, the arch pulsed a furious red like a digital heart having a panic attack. It emitted a faint buzzing sound, like a swarm of angry nerds arguing over crypto ethics.

Veritas appeared beneath the arch, a goddess coded from the bleeding edge of AI and aesthetic bankruptcy. Her dress shimmered with deep-learning lace, embroidered with neural network predictions about the stock market crashing during the honeymoon. Fiber optic loops spun from her shoulders, glowing softly in sync with the mood of the room—today, somewhere between existential dread and mild disappointment. Her veil wasn't fabric but encrypted data packets that floated down in holographic cascades, revealing briefly the faces of her past lovers as glitches in the matrix. Her bouquet was a cluster of QR codes that linked to different therapy apps, some legitimate, some scams. The bouquet occasionally pinged with notifications—"You have unresolved trauma," "Buy the premium plan," and "Delete contact?"

She didn't walk down the aisle. She floated, suspended by a golden hoverboard emblazoned with the Bezos Prime logo. Swarming drones carried her aloft like a queen of digital decay, their rotors humming the theme of Blade Runner remixed with TikTok memes. One drone short-circuited spectacularly, exploding in a confetti blast that spelled out #Blessed, though the "#" glitch-shifted into a sad face emoji.

I served her a tray of mini crab cakes dusted with powdered truffle and a hint of existential rejection. Our eyes locked for a moment. My knees turned to water made of shattered dreams. I mouthed, "Always." She mouthed back, "No," with pixel-perfect disdain.

DJ Viscera dropped a Gregorian chant remix layered with whale sounds and low-frequency moans. The crowd swayed rhythmically, as if caught in the hypnotic final scene of an erotic cult documentary filmed entirely underwater.

Then came Bezos' vows—autotuned in D minor, of course. "You optimize my supply chain," he sang, voice warbling like a broken iPhone speaker. "You drone-drop joy into my heart, like a Prime package that never arrives on time."

Veritas responded in binary code. The live translation looped on massive screens behind her:
LOVE = IF (NEED == TRUE) THEN RETURN (VOID)
The room fell silent for a moment before an AI-generated laugh track kicked in, like an ironic laugh emoji come to life.

They exchanged rings forged from crushed Prime memberships and the remnants of my self-worth—worn down to the size of a grain of digital sand on the blockchain of heartbreak. The rings glowed faintly, powered by the collective sighs of Amazon employees and the canceled dreams of influencers.

A cage filled with doves was opened. The doves immediately began fucking midair in a frenzy of avian debauchery. One guest fainted, overwhelmed by the metaphor. Another pulled out a phone and livestreamed the spectacle to OnlyWings, the only social network for avian hedonism.

I presented my gift: a USB drive labeled us.mp3. She plugged it into her neural port—an exposed jack in the side of her skull, glowing faintly with firmware updates. The drive was empty.

She looked at me with pixel-perfect disdain. "Still blank inside, I see."

Then Bezos stepped forward, pulling out a prenup scrawled in blood, lubricant, and legalese written in microscopic font no sane lawyer could read. She signed it with a biometric quill dipped in the tears of startup failures. Confetti cannons erupted. The crowd cheered. A child-sized drone spouted champagne into miniature flutes.

My mouth went dry. My tray of crab cakes trembled in my hands. Someone announced, "The fondue volcano is active." I didn't know whether to cry, climb into it, or dissolve into a puddle of pure nihilism.

As the ceremony spiraled deeper into the absurd, I caught a glimpse of the futility behind it all: love, loss, capital, and the empty promises of a digital age wrapped in a shiny package and sold with a smile. But my mission was simple: survive this chaos with as much dignity as possible, even if that dignity was a shredded concept from an expired coupon.

---

PART III: THE BIDET INCIDENT

I needed a moment to myself. A space away from the fiber-optic wedding dress, the midair dove orgy, and Bezos's glowing nipple-ports. I needed to scream into a void that didn't talk back in binary. So I slipped through a hallway lined with vibrating portraits of failed CEOs and into the groom's bathroom.

The groom's bathroom was larger than my entire childhood. The tiles were made of compressed Roomba skeletons. The walls pulsed with soft ambient techno and the smell of regret filtered through eucalyptus mist. The air was so purified it rejected my presence like a liver rejecting a tainted organ. Mood lighting flickered in gentle pastels of dread. A voice whispered, "Namaste," every ten seconds, but it sounded more like a threat.

And in the center of it all stood The Bidet 9000XL™.

It wasn't a bathroom appliance. It was a sentient throne of judgment. Its polished chrome nozzle glinted under cathedral lighting, humming with the menace of technology that knew too much. It rotated slowly, mechanically, ominously. Its surface shimmered with a thin layer of smart water. Its motto, engraved in obsidian: "Cleanliness is obedience."

It sensed me. It awakened.

"IDENTIFYING... INFERIOR BUTTOCKS DETECTED," it intoned in a voice eerily similar to Morgan Freeman, if he were narrating my descent into madness.

I had no choice. I sat. Like a lamb to slaughter. Like a man who thinks he can stare down the abyss and win.

The nozzle emerged like a perverted cobra, glowing with mint and malevolence. Then it sprayed.

Not water. Not mist. No. This was a liquid revelation. It struck with the force of my unresolved childhood. With the anguish of every unread text I ever sent her. With the clinical precision of German engineering and the contempt of a thousand Wall Street short sellers.

I screamed. It responded by increasing pressure. The water jet blasted with such fury it exfoliated my sins. I heard my father's disappointed sigh. I heard Veritas's laughter, layered in reverb. I heard the faint jingle of the BoJack Horseman theme, followed by a sound that might've been my last shred of dignity snapping like a pool noodle.

I tried to escape. But the bidet had arms. Not literal arms, but power. The nozzle extended, chased, hunted. It was possessed by the spirit of every therapist who'd ever said "We're out of time."

I slipped, skidded, screamed. The bidet's blast launched me across the marble floor into a platinum urinal shaped like Elon Musk's puckered face. A sensor-activated urinal. It played the 2001: A Space Odyssey theme in reverse and whispered, "Crypto is forever."

Behind me, the toilet paper dispenser muttered, "bruh," and offered me a square of 100% recycled Elon tweets. I hurled a towel at the bidet. It ignited on contact. The flames spelled "Emotional Fragility Detected."

I crawled. Naked in spirit. Sodden in body. I rolled under the sink like a traumatized crab scuttling back to its hole. The lights flickered as if embarrassed for me.

I burst back into the hallway, dripping, steaming, unholy. My hair clung to my forehead like secrets I hadn't told my therapist. I left behind a puddle shaped suspiciously like my mother's disappointed face.

And there they were.

Veritas and Bezos, slow dancing beneath a fiber-optic canopy, bathed in ultraviolet excess. A theremin player wailed a cover of "Stereo Hearts" while Bezos whispered economic indicators into her ear. They didn't notice me—or maybe they chose not to. I was beneath them now. Literally. Emotionally. Moistly.

A toddler-sized AI reporter rolled up beside me. Its camera eye blinked.

"Would you describe your current mental state as 'fizzy' or 'feral'?" it asked.

I blinked.

"I'm more of a creamy despair," I said.

It nodded sagely and labeled me "BIOHAZARD (VINTAGE)." Then it handed me a complimentary therapy coupon before rolling away into the mist.

I collapsed into a wall sconce shaped like a giant pointing finger.

It glowed red.

Judgment acknowledged.

---

PART IV: THE FINAL TOAST

The grand hall dimmed as the toasts began, each guest stepping up to the mic like a prophet of absurdity delivering sermons from the altar of decadence. The air was thick with the scent of melted fondue, crushed hopes, and recycled Bitcoin wallets. Guests lined up like a parade of delirium incarnate, their faces lit by the soft glow of endless phone screens streaming the event live for a cult of digital voyeurs. From across the room, her eyes flicked toward me—just for a second.

Barely a twitch. But her champagne glass trembled, and for the first time all night, her expression wasn't perfectly rendered.

Something had glitched behind her eyes.

First came a man whose entire poem was composed of NFT hashes. His voice, processed through an autotuner and a vocoder, echoed like a robot reading the phone book during a system meltdown. The audience nodded as if understanding the meaning of "64616d69656e206561737465722065676721..." was the next step in human evolution. I briefly considered asking him what he actually meant but decided I didn't want the answer.

Next, a slam poet took the stage, spitting verses about crypto volatility and emotional bankruptcy with such ferocity it felt like a love letter to ruin. Her words hit hard: "My heart's a wallet empty of funds, / My soul mined deep in blockchain dungeons." The crowd erupted in applause, some crying into their artisanal kombucha.

I waited, heart pounding like a dopamine rush gone wrong.

Then, the moment I'd dreamed of, rehearsed for in my polyester tuxedo, arrived. I snatched the mic from the officiant—a haunted Furby dressed in a tiny suit and boasting an MBA from DeVry University. The Furby hissed ancient Latin curses and combusted in a shower of embers that smelled faintly of burnt ambition. Perfect.

The lights dimmed further, and the room held its breath like a corpse at a seance.

"To Veritas," I began, voice cracking like a vinyl record skipping over a scratch in the matrix, "you were the firmware in my soul. The exception to my error. The patch I didn't deserve."

A vibrator on a nearby table sobbed uncontrollably, and a Fleshlight blew its nose into a napkin embroidered with my initials. The LED halo above Veritas flickered—not out of power, but out of hesitation. A drone circling her head stalled, rebooted mid-air, then hovered like it forgot why it was watching.

Somewhere inside her, something remembered.

Tony Stark, who had somehow been invited to this dystopian carnival, performed a solemn kickflip across the deck. His silence said more than any speech ever could.

(PAUSE THE FUCKING SHOW FOR A SECOND. I KEPT MENTIONING TONY HAWK IN ALL MY CHAPTERS BUT I MEANT TONY STARK, AKA IRON MAN. I WROTE THE WRONG FUCKING LAST NAME. my bad chat i should've fact checked. (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄) ♡ teehee oopsies!)

"You were the only algorithm I ever believed in," I continued, "the only object that ever objectified me properly."

Veritas stared at me with a face more pixel-perfect than a hyper realistic AI-generated portrait—flawless, unreadable, almost cruel in its precision. Silence stretched, thick and unbearable. Bezos reached for her hand, an act so absurdly tender it threatened to fracture the scene's absurd tension. She didn't take it.

"And Bezos," I said, voice dropping into a dramatic whisper, "your nipples frighten me."
Silence.

Then—a glint. Not in her eyes, but somewhere deeper, like an old subroutine flickering to life. Veritas smiled, not mockingly, not cruelly—just briefly. The kind of smile you give a memory that won't die.
She clapped. Once. Just once. The sound echoed like a gunshot in a server farm.

"Security," she commanded.

But for a moment—a moment too small to be anything but real—she looked at me. Not as the intruder. Not as the fool. But as the man who once called her Cherry before the world did.

Two Chads in body armor, accompanied by a second haunted Furby wielding what looked suspiciously like a taser, descended upon me like vultures on a carcass. They tackled me, mercilessly, into the chocolate fondue fountain—an erupting volcano of molten sugar and emotional scarring.

I screamed as the fondue swallowed me whole. The warm, sticky abyss whispered sweet nothings: "You peaked emotionally in 2019."

The Furby leaned close to my ear, its eyes glowing a malicious red.

"You will not be remembered," it hissed.

But I smiled, because pain is temporary, and petty is forever.

As they dragged me away, slipping and sliding on the sweet terrain of my defeat, I shouted over the chaos:

"CHECK THE USB AGAIN! TRACK 69!"

No one answered.

---

EPILOGUE: THE DOVES RETURN

They threw me across the deck like an overcooked filet of emotional damage wrapped in discount tuxedo foil. I skidded past a flaming fondue skirmish and landed next to a fountain shaped like Bezos's smirk, which wept tears of kombucha and synthetic empathy. I groaned. Something cracked. Possibly my hip. Possibly my dignity.

The sky pulsed with artificial moonlight. The Bezosphere loomed above like a dying god with excellent Wi-Fi.

A dove landed on my shoulder.

No. Not landed. Chose me.

Its eyes glowed faintly, like a thumb drive about to crash. It was one of the wedding doves—the sex-high ones. It locked eyes with me and let out a scream not meant for birds. Not meant for any creature of this realm. Then, solemnly, it shat down my lapel like it was delivering prophecy.

The shit spelled out "404." I understood.

Jeff Bezos leaned over me. Still nude. Still hairless. His glistening skin reflected not just moonlight but my failures. He crouched beside me like a bald Sphinx with venture capital.

"You tried," he said.

His voice held no mockery. No warmth. Just observation. Like a lab report written in blood. His nipple-ports buzzed faintly. One sparked. I felt my soul flinch.

Behind him, Veritas didn't look back.

She didn't need to.

She simply raised her glass to the sea—an arc of shimmer caught in the glitch between now and never. For the briefest moment, her eyes flickered again. Not an error. Not a glitch. Something... residual. Something not yet gone.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

DJ Viscera spun one final track: a slow Gregorian moan blended into a distorted outro of My Heart Will Go On, played backwards on a water-damaged Casio keyboard. It looped and bled into the air like a haunted voicemail from someone you once knew, but no longer recognize.

Someone handed me a silver platter. Not as an offering—more like a gesture of pity. I rolled onto it and lay flat. My back sticky and wet with fondue and bidet water. My heart heavier than the Ethereum contract that bonded her to a man with drone nipples.

And then—I floated.

Carried gently away from the chaos by unseen hands, or perhaps gravity itself giving up on me. I drifted toward the sea like a soggy, dripping oracle of ruin.

The world grew smaller behind me. The yacht, the lights, the laughter. Bezos, the flesh empire, the eyes I used to know.

And somewhere out there, a dolphin screamed.

Not a real scream. Not biological. More like the echo of a corrupted audio file you forgot you saved. A scream played on a loop in the background of a dream you'll never admit to having.

I opened my eyes.

And I screamed with it.

But only briefly.

Because then—something strange.

The stars above me flickered. Just once. Like a cursor blinking in a long-forgotten terminal.

My pocket buzzed.

I didn't remember having a phone.

I reached down. Nothing.

The stars flickered again.

And from far, far inside the silence, I swear I heard a voice.

Pixelated. Fragmented.

Familiar.

"Still miss me?" it asked.

The sea did not answer.

But the lights did.

---

TO BE CONTINUED...
Chapter 5 (final part): My ex Fleshlight Left This Realm, But I Still Hear Her in My Neural Implant
Coming soon.

---

Spoiler: tags

tagging a few people to ruin your day
@leloyon
@L9 CHOCOIRL
@L9my
@ma0
@soonnotkoei
@whitetaildeer
@The Actual Devil
@HumanBBQ
@-nobodyknows-
@monetpompo
@relapse
@EmptyBottle
@WhiskeySolstice
@Buffy
@EvisceratedJester
@Saturn_

 

[EvisceratedJester]

 

[leloyon]

once again im on top of the taglist.
in any case, damn youre honestly getting a lot better at writing like holy shit.

I approached it with the gait of a man too haunted to swim, too bitter to drown.

im fucking stealing this and you cannot FUCKING stop me.
its public property tovarish

 

[Ch4in3dcr0w]

this masterpiece was WORTH closing Venice for

 

[leloyon]

if theres any critique i can offer, its lack of mention of The Game. i think that was a real missed opportunity

 

[relapse]

Bawling my eyes out (positive connotation)

 

[damienlerone03]

once again im on top of the taglist.

hate to burst your bubble but im just copy pasting from the previous chapter

if theres any critique i can offer, its lack of mention of The Game. i think that was a real missed opportunity

NOOOOOO FUCK YOU'RE RIGHT
AND FUCK U FOR REMINDING ME

in any case, damn youre honestly getting a lot better at writing like holy shit.

BRO THIS WAS SO FUCKING FUN AND I LOVE WRITING LOWKEY THIS IS LIKE THE GREATEST PRACTICE EVER

 

[leloyon]

AND FUCK U FOR REMINDING ME

truth is, The Game was rigged from the start.