Grunt: The King of Sleaze
In the decaying outskirts of a forgotten suburb known as Crumpleton, a man named Grunt sat upon his cracked faux-leather recliner—his throne, as he called it—wearing an unwashed bathrobe patterned with mysterious stains. Though he had never ruled anything beyond his cluttered living room, Grunt referred to himself as “His Excellence,” a title he insisted was self-appointed through destiny, not delusion.
Grunt believed himself to be a visionary leader, though he lacked both vision and leadership. His education consisted of online conspiracy videos and misread Wikipedia pages. Still, he spoke with unearned confidence, mispronouncing words like “dictator” as “dick-taster,” much to the horror and amusement of anyone within earshot.
Despite his claims of virility and charm, Grunt resembled a half-deflated beanbag chair with patchy stubble and a dental situation best described as “post-apocalyptic.” His teeth—those that remained—bore the amber hue of instant gravy and regret. Yet Grunt carried himself as if he were irresistible, which made his unsolicited messages to strangers all the more disturbing.
Grunt had never held a job, unless one counts managing to burn microwavable burritos and demanding government support as employment. His financial sustenance came from a cocktail of sycophantic supporters, a handful of equally confused relatives, and the final remnants of a modest inheritance from his late grandmother—whom he openly insulted, even while spending her money on off-brand soda and mystery meat jerky sticks.
“I’m a culinary mastermind,” Grunt often declared, while serving burnt noodles garnished with ketchup and despair. To date, not one living soul had confirmed this claim, though several were hospitalized trying to.
Astonishingly, Grunt had a child. The exact biology of this miracle remained a topic of local debate. Theories ranged from laboratory error to the possibility that his wife’s polyamorous adventures may have introduced alternate contributors. Grunt, of course, insisted the child inherited his “elite genes.” The child, notably intelligent and polite, suggested otherwise.
When not pontificating about his imaginary empire, Grunt dedicated himself to digital pursuits: playing vintage video games, hoarding Pokémon cards with food stains, and crafting poorly edited self-promotional videos in which he declared war on logic and grammar. These were often accompanied by pleas for donations and mysterious “investment opportunities” involving bathwater and rare NFTs featuring his face.
Grunt’s favorite pastime, however, involved sending photos of his underwhelming anatomy to disinterested women. These unsolicited tributes were followed by accusations of conspiracy when blocked, prompting rants on public forums about how society "fears real masculinity."
He lived in a neighborhood with cracked footpaths and perpetual sirens—an environment that mirrored his inner chaos. “This place suits me,” he’d say, proudly gesturing at the collapsing mailbox and a burnt-out shopping trolley in his front yard.
His mother, a woman of curious proportions and no visible neck, was often seen yelling at birds or playing slot machines on her tablet. From her, Grunt inherited a compact build and a penchant for blaming others. He frequently boasted about his fitness regime, which consisted of slowly getting off the couch and counting that as cardio.
Authorities were mildly aware of Grunt—mostly due to noise complaints and a questionable pyramid scheme involving beef jerky and diet pills. Still, he remained blissfully oblivious, convinced he was moments away from becoming a revolutionary leader, or at the very least, a famous influencer.
And so, the Kingdom of Sleaze endures. Built on delusion, debt, and digital debris, ruled by a man too ridiculous to fear and too loud to ignore.
Long may he slouch.
