Logos (The Internet Is Forever)

A One-Man War Against Relevance (And Himself)

“He called himself a philosopher. The internet called him a joke. His mom just called the cops.”

Zach — or as he prefers to be known, Logos — is the kind of white man who buys a globe just to spin it during rants. A fringe live-streamer on a platform so cursed it gives your laptop HPV, Zach preaches his gospel of "Western greatness" from a dimly lit basement surrounded by secondhand microphones, a sparsely populated bookshelf he keeps to look smart, and the unmistakable scent of Axe Body Spray and failure.

This isn't just a character study.
This is a digital autopsy.

Zach streams ever so often to a loyal fanbase of three bots, two trolls, and one terrified libertarian. His show opens with a synth version of Ram Ranch and ends with a Red Bull-induced breakdown about why no women “respect real men” anymore. He says “based” like it’s punctuation. He uses “degenerate” like it's a spell. He’s been shadowbanned more times than he's been hugged.

Once, he tried to own the libs by reading Mein Kampf to a Black man on stream.
It went exactly how you think.

He speaks in rants and breathes in cope.
His bookshelf? Pure theater.
His masculinity? Leased, late, and overdrawn.
He calls himself “alpha” but flinches every time someone says “Trogs.”

He hides his shame behind Latin phrases, misquoted philosophers, and long-winded sermons on "tradition," which — for Zach — means refusing to admit he once cried watching Brokeback Mountain. He's not gay, of course. He just watches men wrestle shirtless on YouTube for “aesthetic reasons.”

Every moment of the song rips another mask off until there's nothing left but a sad, angry boy with a lighting rig and a fantasy of being feared.
But Logos isn’t feared.
He isn’t even noticed.

Because Zach is not dangerous. Zach is not a threat.
Zach is digital white noise:
A fragile ego wrapped in a trench coat of buzzwords,
Screaming into a server no one backed up.

“LOGOS: The Internet Is Forever” is a pitch-black dark comedy.
A scorched-earth roast.
A funeral with no guests, no flowers, just one lonely modem still blinking.

By the time he logs off for the last time — banned, ignored, broken — the only sound left is the echo of his final chat message:

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

Spoiler:
We didn’t.