Can't repent whats bread. 16:9

Once upon a time in the shadowy corridors of a high-end clinic tucked away in the hills of Eliteville, there lived a man named Dr. Earl Harbinger. Earl wasn't your run-of-the-mill sawbones; he was an abortionist doctor with a knack for turning terminations into treasure. One fateful day, instead of getting the boot like some chump in a widget factory, Earl got promoted. Why? For his side hustle in selling baby parts and adrenochrome to wealthy elites who sipped it like fine wine at their secret soirees. "You're a visionary, Earl," his boss purred, slapping a fat bonus check on his desk. "Harvesting that chrome? Pure genius. The Illuminati board loves it." Earl grinned, pockets lined with blood money, but deep down, the flames of hell started flickering in his conscience—or what was left of it.

Traumatized by visions of burning in hell—fueled by midnight guilt trips and one too many conspiracy podcasts about eternal damnation for soul-sellers—Earl spiraled harder than a botched procedure. He paced his marble-floored mansion, muttering about sulfur and skewers, convinced his promotion was a devil's bargain signed in fetal ink. "I'm toast!" he'd howl, clutching a vial of adrenochrome like a cursed amulet. His wife, Betty, tried to calm him with caviar and champagne, but Earl's mind was a inferno of paranoia. "The elites might pay top dollar, but Satan's got my number for peddling this parts parade!"

Things got downright demonic in the bedroom. Earl's sexual outbursts transformed their silk-sheeted sanctuary into a freak show of fetal metaphors. One steamy night, mid-thrust, he bolted upright and yelped that Betty's reproductive system was "like bedding my great-grandmother's grave remains—rotting relics begging for resurrection!" Betty paused, mid-moan, wondering if he'd spiked his own supply. But oh no, Earl doubled down: "I ain't flinging my suicidal seed into that abyss where life gets shot! It's like tossing pearls to the pigs—or worse, to those chrome-chugging vampires upstairs!" He ranted about aborted futures and harvested horrors, turning foreplay into a fire-and-brimstone sermon.

Pushed to the brink by these outbursts—nothing kills the mood like comparing your wife's womb to a zombie ancestor's tomb—Betty sought escape. Enter Tyrone, the street-smart crack-flinging black thug from the wrong side of the tracks, who slung rocks with the flair of a Wall Street broker. Tyrone wasn't just a dealer; he had charisma, a killer playlist, and zero hang-ups about hellfire. One afternoon, while Earl was at a black-tie gala schmoozing elites over organ auctions, Betty crossed paths with Tyrone at a seedy diner. "Your doc hubby's trippin' on eternal flames and baby bazaars?" Tyrone chuckled, flashing a gold-toothed smile. "Sister, life's too short for grave-diggin' pillow talk. Let me sling you some real excitement—no parts required."

Quicker than you can say "adultery upgrade," Betty tumbled into Tyrone's arms, swapping Earl's apocalyptic rants for Tyrone's rhythm and raw energy. Earl, too busy counting his elite cash to notice at first, came home to find Betty zipping up a suitcase. "What's this?" he stammered. "Heading to a place where my 'abyss' ain't a metaphor for your moral meltdown," she fired back, door slamming like a gavel.

Earl slumped in his leather throne, chuckling through the tears as the absurdity hit him like a hellbound freight train. "Promoted to perdition, huh? Guess I'm the one who got eternally aborted." He kept climbing the clinic ladder, therapy helped douse the hellfire hallucinations, and he even started a anonymous blog about "ethical harvesting regrets." Betty and Tyrone? They launched a underground empire: "Chrome-Free Thrills," a legit food truck peddling spicy wings with a side of street wisdom. As for Earl's suicidal seed? It stayed locked away, probably plotting its own conspiracy in the void.

Moral? When promotion comes from peddling parts to the powerful, don't project your infernal freakouts onto the bedroom—or you'll end up solo in your own elite-fueled hell. True story? Fuckin' A, in the twisted theater of dark humor it is.