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United States
He stalks the night with blade in hand,
A terror meant to rule the land.
Yet every chase, they slip away,
He swings—he misses—what a day!
The survivors laugh, they dance, they spin,
A looping game he’ll never win.
He lunges left, they dodge to right,
He blames the lag—oh, what a sight!
His traps untouched, his aim askew,
His Hex is gone—what can he do?
He camps the hook, but still they flee,
Four teabags left for him to see.
And when the gates are open wide,
He swings once more, they step aside.
A single hit? Perhaps a fluke—
GG, well played. He rage-quits.
PS: Jacob Black is CRYING.