Cathedral of learning

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Before We Begin[edit]

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Criminal Origins[edit]

A typical nationality classroom in the Cathedral of Learning. This one is China-themed. I'd totally send my kids here.
Truly a new-school Tower of Babel.

The Cathedral of Learning (often referred to as the Cathedral of Degeneration to insiders) is a front put up by the University of Pittsburgh to mask their involvement in the shady operations that the historically crime-infested city of Pittsburgh truly represents. Drug dealers, professional scumbags, and other scoundrels run rampant within city limits, and it is well-known as an international red zone for criminal activity by organizations such as the CIA, FBI, and ASS.

The University of Pittsburgh is heavily involved in these nefarious affairs. In fact, it isn't even a university at all, but we'll get there when we get there. So, let's talk about the Cathedral itself. The building was originally constructed in primordial America by the English under the jurisdiction of the Freemasons. Actually, it was the other way around, but honestly, I can't be bothered. I'm too busy right now, so sit down and shut up.[1]

Supposedly they spent a small loan of a bajillion dollars on it.[2] Now, why on God's green fuck would they do that?? Well, little Johnny, back in those days, before intelligence existed, a band of rebels known as the Pittsburgh Pirates scourged the land, burning African villages, burying treasure, and murdering innocent murderers who made up 99% of the population at the time. Pittsburgh was known as "Shittsburgh" back then due to the annual levels of shittiness reaching record levels year after year. The British needed this place cleaned out so they could sell more tea in more places, and the Masons were the right scumbags for this type of operation.

The Good Old Days[edit]

Pittsburgh in the good old days. It's still like this now, but I'm just feeling a little nostalgic today, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Times were tough in those days. The place was basically what a wastelander would call a wasteland. It was also what a shitholer would call a shithole, but I'm sure you can put 1 and 2 together yourself. It was pure, unadulterated shit. For one thing, the 3 Rivers were overflowing with radioactive sewage. So much so, that the water levels within city limits were much higher, allowing for pirate ships to travel freely through the various garbage island patches that comprised the city at the time. Nobody knows where that sewage actually came from, but there is speculation that it was just naturally put there by God to underscore what Pittsburgh was all about on a fundamental level. Noted theologist *REDACTED* has confirmed this theory through direct communion with God via drugs. He's now dead. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.

I grew up on Center Avenue. I'm happy to see that it's really improved in the time that I was away.

Murder was also fun a really big problem. Landfills were overflowing with dead people. The only reason why there was even a population left there at all was because families were pooping out babies like crazy to meet the insane murderer/victim demand, which somehow tied into the stock market.[3]

Food didn't exist in Pittsburgh back then either. People just ate dirt, garbage, drugs, corpses, or sometimes their own body parts. The streets were filled with so many steep slopes and potholes that cars would simply explode when confronted with the mere prospect of driving on them. Basically, everything was on fire all the time, bodies were everywhere, starvation ran rampant, and it smelled like shit every day and always. Who would want to live in such a place? Not me.

Let's Set the Stage Here[edit]


The Masons originally didn't care much for Pittsburgh. It was a place that even the US Army wouldn't invade if it was literally made entirely of oil. What's that? You say I've driven the point home that Pittsburgh sucked cock back then? OK, fucker, have it your way. No more colorful explanations for Johnny. Anyways, Captain Blackbeard made his way through the city at one point, when a giant volcano erupted right under his ship, obliterating it to pieces.

Another unfortunate victim of spontaneous volcanic activity.

[4] Booty from the wreckage remained magically unharmed, and it was rumored to be priceless. A rival pirate faction led by an El Capitaan, a notorious villain known for his vicious speedboat fleet, instantly caught wind of this news, and sailed to Pittsburgh.

They murdered a bunch of people and secured the wreck. A fanatical religious cult which began worshipping the wreck, and in turn, declared war on El Capitaan, causing a chain reaction of wars to consume the land. The daily murder rate spiked by about a quadrillion percent, as reported by MSNBC, a popular fake news network that you should NEVER trust. For the Masons, developing conspiracies to increase British tea sales was right up their alley (or up their asses, for that matter) at the time. They decided that if they drew a giant pentagram around a dedicated shrine in Pittsburgh, all the murders would double up as collateral sacrifices to Satan, and thus automatically boost profit margins.[5] This was pulled from theory described in the classical masonic formula: more death = more profit.

This next sentence doesn't really belong here, but I added it so the stupid fucking picture would fit the fucking god damn fucking thing. What the fuck? It STILL doesn't fit? Who the fuck came up with this stupid fucking shitty god damn fucking system. Fuck this website and its creators. They can suck a donkey's cock. Oh good, it finally fits. Bless the lord. Let us pray.

The Masons Come to Town[edit]

Fort Satan. Built like someone's life depended on it...and they ended up dead.
"Yes, hello?"

The Masons called Satan. The conversation involved them talking about his sex life for the most part (which they were highly interested in hearing about). However, just as he was about to hang up on them, they pitched their bullshit. Satan was pleased, as one might expect, but he had a tall order for them too. The shrine had to be "big as fuck" or their ass was toast.

They got to work in the war-torn city. Smack in the center of Pittburgh was a little island called Shithole Island, where the worst scallywags would gather for jolly merriment.[6] These were scumbags of the worst possible kind. To put it into perspective, the inventor of bitcoin was among their ranks. The Masons occupied the island by covering it with agent orange. The dangerous locals were instantly killed and God said, "It was good."

The Masons won the first war of their campaign, building a little jolly fort made entirely out of their victims' dead bodies. It really was a jolly place to be, let me tell you. The building was named "Fort Satan" after my 3rd grandmother. What's a 3rd grandmother, you may ask? Well, considering how small your brain probably is, you may never know, but I'll do my best to explain it as I would to a toddler. Well, you see, a 3rd grandmother is like a stepmother and stepsister combined into one. She's also the cousin that at least 5 members of your family may have slept with in a both sexual and asexual way. You're saying that makes absolutely no sense? Of course not. You're just too dumb to understand it. I told you so. Either way, let's get back to the story. Our heroes were attacked every day from all sides by the various powers that be. There was the threat of El Capitaan with his motorboat fleet by day, Blackbeard and his demonic ghost frigate that haunted the island waters at night, and the rapturous cultists who made suicide bombing attempts by dusk.

It was chaos. The casualty level transcended infinity within the first nanosecond of war. There were more casualties than people living in the entire city, which made no sense, but it happened anyway. They had gun-running networks stemming from Mexico, New Bangladesh[7], and Washington in order to keep the fort intact, as well as the war effort going.

Cap'n Crunch Blackbeard Attacks[edit]

Blackbeard's ghost was a problem, because nobody could tell if it was actually real, or if it was just collateral from the drug parties the Masons used to cope with the stress of the situation. They needed a ghost-mometer, a fabled ghostbusting tool that was illegal in 57 states at the time. But where would they get such a thing in a warzone like Pittsburgh? The answer lay with the cultists. Although they were dangerous, they could be easily manipulated if fed 5 pounds of heroin or more. The problem was that George Washington, a Mason involved in defending Fort Satan, injected all the heroin they had and blamed it on some idiotic scapegoat that insults my intelligence to mention in this text that happens to be highly-esteemed by at least 5 scientific peer groups. Holy FUCK, that was a long sentence. Don't ever make me exert myself like that again or I'll sue you.[8] Since all the syringes were thrown away, Ben Franklin had to suck all of the heroin out of George's blood by stabbing him in the ass, and using his mouth to *REDACTED*

He went above and beyond with it too, but we won't mention these things in order to sanctify the reputation of Mr. Franklin, who happens to look quite sexy on the 100 dollar bill. Amen.[9]

Holy ship.
Blackbeard's grave. You might be able to see why he opted out of using his actual name when plundering booty.

Anyways, they shot up one of the cultists with secondhand dope, and brainwashed him using some of the ancient demonic teachings of unspeakable demonology. The cultist was given a new identity, driver's license, and sexuality. He was also given a ticket to Disneyworld to enjoy his time off with his wife and kids. Anyways, he was sent on a divine mission to Somalia (a great vacation spot that I personally recommend) in order to retrieve the ghost-mometer. By the time he came back, Fort Satan was hardly standing. Washington was running out of mana (and drugs) to cast resurrection spells on his friends. But not all hope was lost, especially with this new superpower on their side. And it was just in time too. Blackbeard had imported nuclear bombs from Russia, and loaded them into all of his ghost ship's 69 cannons. They were aimed at Fort Satan. Oh FUCK. Using the power of the magical device of magicness, a wave of fabulous mystical wizard energy was blasted at him, exposing his ghostly arsenal for all to see. The Masons mounted a giant mirror on Fort Satan, knowing that Blackbeard was afraid of ghosts. He saw his own reflection, and screamed so hard that he died of a ghost heart attack. His head also exploded, but honestly, do you care?

His soul, along with his ghost ship was released into purgatory, leaving behind a huge pile of ghost bones. The Masons considered these bones to be cursed, knowing that one day they may come to life and haunt the land, so they built a ghost prison underneath Fort Satan, and sealed them away in a magical grave covered in arts n' crafts glitter from Target. Blackbeard was taken care of, and they all celebrated by getting really drunk and *REDACTED*

Revenge of El Capitaan[edit]

A speedboat pirate, soon to be baptized by fire.

El Capitaan used this opportunity to strike. His wizard-pirates riding on yachts and speedboats propelled by stolen jet engines zoomed onto the scene. The shitfaced Masons had no chance at warding off this heinous attack. Frederick Johnson, a made-up historical figure, was the most sober of them all at the time, and realized in a half-wasted stupor how fucked he was. He wasn't thinking about his buddies. In fact, he was voted the most selfish person on the planet as recorded by This is Not a Real Magazine.


Knowing it was up to him to defend the fort, he climbed up on the roof, tripping over the dead bodies stacked up to make a staircase, and casted fireball spells at El Capitaan's fleet. He incinerated a few pirates, and the collateral damage from their exploding munitions killed off a few more, but there were too many. They fired the bazookas. Death and destruction suddenly surrounded Fort Satan. Oh shit. Johnson knew it was time to use the SECRET WEAPON. He ran into the bunker, sliced Washington's head off, and loaded it into the cannon. What nobody knew was that Washington's head contained highly unstable radioactive chemicals that originated from outside of this universe. He fired the SPACE CANNON directly at El Capitaan's yacht. An explosion to end all explosions ensued. He dove back into the bunker as a shockwave of pure intensity demolished everything outside. People were screaming. Shit was flying everywhere. The sky itself got set on fire. Pittsburgh was transformed into a nuclear holocaust.

El Capitaan's fleet was FUCKING OBLITERATED. But the treacherous pirate had an energy shield around him which allowed him to become invincible to all attacks known to man. He did a backflip out of the fire, and landed feet-first onto the shores of Shithole Island. Johnson ran out of the fort and saw him approaching. How the fuck did he survive?

We do not speak his name.

"๐ป๐’ถ๐’ฝ๐’ถ๐’ฝ๐’ถ๐’ฝ๐’ถ, ๐ผ'๐“‚ ๐’พ๐“ƒ๐’น๐‘’๐“ˆ๐“‰๐“‡๐“Š๐’ธ๐“‰๐’พ๐’ท๐“๐‘’. ๐’Ÿ๐’พ๐’น ๐“Ž๐‘œ๐“Š ๐“‡๐‘’๐’ถ๐“๐“๐“Ž ๐“‰๐’ฝ๐’พ๐“ƒ๐“€ ๐“Ž๐‘œ๐“Š ๐’ธ๐‘œ๐“Š๐“๐’น ๐’น๐‘’๐’ป๐‘’๐’ถ๐“‰ ๐“‚๐‘’ ๐“Œ๐’พ๐“‰๐’ฝ ๐“๐“๐“จ ๐“๐“ฃ๐“ฃ๐“๐“’๐“š ๐“š๐“๐“ž๐“ฆ๐“ ๐“ฃ๐“ž ๐“œ๐“๐“????"

It was clear that El Capitaan was not human. For one thing, he talked entirely in cursive. He was some Archon from the demonic netherlands. It would require a holy man to defeat him, but the problem was that Johnson was the biggest, baddest sinner that there ever was. He needed Jesus, and he needed him fast.

"`โœตโ€ข.ยธ,โœตยฐโœต.๏ฝก.โœฐ ๐•๐”ผ๐•Š๐•Œ๐•Š โ„‚โ„โ„๐•€๐•Š๐•‹ ๐•€๐•Š โ„๐”ผโ„๐”ผ! โœฐ.๏ฝก.โœตยฐโœต,ยธ.โ€ขโœตยด" Boomed a great voice from heaven, and a wonderful and holy light beam shined down through a hole in the fiery clouds. Jesus came crashing down like a meteor onto the battlefield. He looked South American.

Repentance is not an option.
This is what the Bible doesn't want you to know.

"`โœตโ€ข.ยธ,โœตยฐโœต.๏ฝก.โœฐ ๐•๐•†๐•Œ ๐•‹๐•Ž๐•† โ„๐”ธ๐•๐”ผ ๐•Š๐•€โ„•โ„•๐”ผ๐”ป ๐”ธ๐”พ๐”ธ๐•€โ„•๐•Š๐•‹ ๐•‹โ„๐”ผ ๐”ฝ๐”ธ๐•‹โ„๐”ผโ„ ๐”ธโ„•๐”ป ๐•Ž๐•€๐•ƒ๐•ƒ ๐”น๐”ผ โ„‚โ„๐•Œโ„‚๐•€๐”ฝ๐•€๐”ผ๐”ป! โœฐ.๏ฝก.โœตยฐโœต,ยธ.โ€ขโœตยด"

Shit. Jesus began casting crucifixion spells at both of them. BANG BANG BANG! Crosses began exploding out of the ground. Fire, mud, and shit flew everywhere. The crosses grew arms and tried grabbing both of them. They knew they had a common enemy. Jesus took out his lightning bazooka, and blasted a shot of pure energy at them. A deafening sound roared out as the fantastic electrical blast rocketed away. "Bombs away!" It nearly hit Johnson in the ass, ripping his Gucci jeans, which cost him a fortune. A supernuclear explosion rang out where the bolt hit. The sky turned red, blue, and then 50 shades of grey. Johnson suffered 50 fits of epilepsy in the process. The time to act was now. Using the power of love, Johnson did a quadruple roundhouse backflip towards Jesus, but missed, because his love levels were too low at the time. A cross grabbed one of his arms. Oh no! El Capitaan noticed this, and aimed his crappy flintlock pistol towards Johnson.

An accurate depiction of what went down.

"๐™‰๐™Š, ๐™”๐™Š๐™ ๐˜ฝ๐™€๐™๐™๐˜ผ๐™”๐™„๐™‰๐™‚ ๐™๐™๐˜พ๐™†!"

There was the sound of a thousand gunshots. I don't know what a thousand gunshots actually sounds like, but I like to think that it's a good ballpark estimate of where we're at. Johnson closed his eyes. There was a white light.

"Am I dead?"

"No, you stupid fucker," said the voice of God.

Johnson opened his eyes and farted. Jesus dropped dead. What the fuck? Yes, El Capitaan was using the ancient demonic flintlock pistol of the underworld. The bullet bounced off Johnson's bulletproof dick extremely smooth elbow and hit Jesus in the face. His body exploded into a quadrillion pieces of holy shrapnel, which shredded El Capitaan to a pulp. *NICE*

Cultist Stagnation and Demise[edit]

Cultists burning trash at a local landfill shrine circa 2020.

With Blackbeard defeated, the cultists became wandering savages that degenerated into local Pittsburgh wildlife. Most Pittsburghers today are descendants of these people. You're probably one of them. I most definitely am not. Go fuck yourself.

๐——๐—˜๐—”๐—ง๐—› ๐— ๐—œ๐—ฆ๐—ฆ๐—œ๐—ข๐—ก - ๐˜‰๐˜ˆ๐˜›๐˜›๐˜“๐˜Œ ๐˜๐˜–๐˜™ ๐˜Š๐˜ˆ๐˜›๐˜๐˜  (IN THEATERS NOVEMBER)[edit]

A common Pittsburgh road sign. The Indian translation is designed to inform Shiva the Destroyer on body disposal regulations, as she annually vacations there.
Crack-cooking Masonic alchemy in action.

The Masons had one more task to accomplish: to make the building really FUCKING big. They tried doing it with the only abundant building material aeround: dead people. Yes, I meant to spell "around" like that. It's a play on words. Don't question me or I'll throw you into a fucking fire. Too bad it smelled so bad that some of them suffered heart attacks (and were thus instantly thrown into the building material depot). They needed a good plan. Either that, or a good man with a semi-decent plan. They didn't happen to have any of those things. The only building materials around them were dead bodies. I know I already said that. Don't you fucking say anything right now. I'm the captain of this god damn article and I steer this shit wherever the hell I want, OK? That being said, the perceived scarcity wasn't entirely valid. Other building materials included shit, black magic, depression, and 5 candy wrappers. Only three of those things happen to smell worse than dead bodies, so our heroes weren't entirely screwed. With enough drugs, they eventually realized that combining these ingredients would trigger the ancient alchemical reaction of the ages. So they took all of them, started putting them in a bowl, mixed the แ–ดแต˜๐’ธ๐•œ out of them, and what did they get? A lame penis tower with a big electronic billboard mounted on the side that said something I don't happen to give enough of a fuck about to document. That's right. I roll like that. Deal with it. But the problem now was that the building was just a giant penis with no balls. This made Satan mad, sad, and other words ending with the suffix "-ad". The message was clear: build some balls or game over.

"You fuckers could've tried harder."

They were all out of magical alchemy soup, and so would have to use stone, which wasn't apparently available within city limits. They phoned their k'nex in the slums of Homewood (probably the worst shithole district known to man in modern times), and learned that the Squirrel Hill Mafia had a monopoly on all stone quarries around. Their informant, a weird little shit named Perry Samuels, told them to come over to his place. He had the guns and the goons. They would raid those mafia bastards tonight.

Could they really trust Perry? He kept bouncing off the walls like someone lit a firecracker in his ass, or worse. He was constantly moving and shaking. Probably cocaine withdrawal. They assumed that this would be his preferred form of payment, which unfortunately wasn't supported on Venmo at the time. He was also wearing sunglasses in a dark room, and kept bumping into everything, including his razor blade collection. Regardless, he insisted that they stay on. Perry bled all the time due to this unfortunate reality, but he honestly seemed to like it that way. He was like a live leaky faucet for vampires. Hell, he even had a few of them licking the pools of blood off the floor behind him. At one point he had to take an "asphyxiation break" and strangled himself. Holy shit. This was one strange dude. As if that wasn't enough, he had a collection of trophies for how many sheets of drywall he could run his head through. Holy good god damn. I totally don't have these trophies up on my wall. What kind of degenerate do you take me for?

He took them through his house. The walls were painted with partially-digested rotten egg salad, a popular color of the day. Our heroes were led to a bookcase. He pulled on the only book on any of the shelves, which was some manual on how to run a successful drug dealing business written by Ghandi. Most of the pages had chew marks on them. Major red flag for any of you Tinder users out there. A click sounded. The floor beneath them gave out, and they tumbled down a repurposed sewer pipe into some godforsaken underground secret sweatshop. It was the most unbelievable thing they had ever seen. I mean, not really, but you get the point. The hot-as-fuck room was filled with thousands of chained laborers building full-auto grenade launchers. What could be more wonderful? A little plaque hung on the wall above a portrait of Jeff Bezos with the text, "Hard work. Dedication. Hustle. Grind." They were all fucked up from the fall, but that was OK. Perry tossed them some crutches, and shoved cocaine into their faces. That magically healed their ailments, and they were back in action. I know because I was there. ๐–๐ก๐จ ๐š๐ฆ ๐ˆ ๐ž๐ฑ๐š๐œ๐ญ๐ฅ๐ฒ? The real question here is: "Wโ‚•โ‚’ โ‚œโ‚•โ‚‘ fแตคcโ‚– โ‚แตฃโ‚‘ yโ‚’แตค โ‚œโ‚’ bโ‚‘ โ‚โ‚›โ‚–แตขโ‚™g โ‚œโ‚•โ‚โ‚œ โ‚›โ‚’แตฃโ‚œ โ‚’f โ‚›โ‚•แตขโ‚œ โ‚แตฃโ‚’แตคโ‚™d โ‚•โ‚‘แตฃโ‚‘?"


Anyways, armed with grenade launchers and a squad of assholes, they stepped out into the Homewood streets. It was nighttime. The district was much shittier than Squirrel Hill, Silent Hill, or any other hill you can think of. It definitely didn't have a mafia, but I can say with certainty that it did have a graveyard, which is fine if you're into that sort of thing. Zombies were a problem. Some of them were diseased with AIDS. Others were straight up rabid. They wanted to eat people's brains, trust me, but very few people actually had them around town. With no meaning in their lives, the zombies would engage in meaningless activities such as wandering aimlessly, bumping into trees, orgetting run over by cars. Zombie mating season was in full swing at the time. The moaning was widespread and hard to ignore.

Suddenly, the smell of fresh brains caught the attention of the zombie hoard. Perry, his goons, and the Masons had to get the fuck outta Homewood ASAP. Could they make it? Find out in the next episode! Just kidding. Oh, you didn't think that was funny? Makes sense. Your generation is all like this. I was raised back in the day when shit like that was funny, when we still had things like standards. You know, stuff you probably have no concept of. One sec, I gotta go take my anger meds so I don't have to rip your head off. Anyways, a zombie that had been hiding out on the roof all this time took his chances. He came flying outta nowhere, and landed on Ben Franklin's neck. Perry busted out the hatchet, and mashed the zombie to a pulp in a coke-fueled frenzy. He then proceeded to eat the zombie's flesh and humped what was left of the corpse. It wasn't pretty, but man, was it hot as fuck. "They're coming from all sides!!" Yelled one of Perry's men.

"Cover me, guys! I'll go ๐Ÿ…ถ๐Ÿ…ด๐Ÿ†ƒ 2 ๐Ÿ†ƒ๐Ÿ…ท๐Ÿ…ด ๐Ÿ…ฒ๐Ÿ…ท๐Ÿ…พ๐Ÿ…ฟ๐Ÿ…ฟ๐Ÿ…ด๐Ÿ†!"

Wikipedia scholar breaks down what zombies do.

A massive orgy of zombies tumbled towards them from both ends of the block. Oh god. Ben Franklin and Fred Johnson fired the big guns. Zombies exploded left and right into enormous meat mounds. Perry had to get past the zombies on one end of the block to get to the heli garage. He decided to take it to the rooftops parkour style, climbing up the side of the building like a fucking squirrel. These crackheads were something else. He jumped half-assedly from building to building, being mostly undetected to the zombie hoard below. Something whistled by his ear. What the fuck? An explosion rang out in the distance. The zombies had RPGs now? Holy fukkin' Jesus. He took out his POWERDETECT NIGHT VISION THERMONUCLEAR GOGGLES (TM), and scanned the arena. It wasn't the zombies. It was Al Queda. Some terrorist was shooting out of an old abandoned DIY brothel across the street.

Another missile whizzed by, this time hitting the building in front of him and destroying the way forward. His parkour game was up. He would have to climb down into the zombie-infested streets where grenades were going off nonstop to advance. That wasn't an option. He had to deal with Al Queda. Ducking behind some cover, he opened his trenchcoat to reveal his throwing-machete collection. Well, actually he opened his trenchcoat to take a piss. His machete collection was hidden in his throat due to contraband laws in the area. He grabbed the first weapon of choice: a nail-covered blade with rocket engines strapped to it. Peeking out from behind the wall, he took his crackhead-aiming skills to the next level. The knife flew towards the abandoned building and sailed through the window from where the shots were heard. Nice!...Or not. The terrorist had a teleportation device. BANG! HWow, I think I scared myself with that sound effect. Holy shit. He teleported onto the roof where Perry was standing. His beard must've been at least 5 miles long. He pulled out an AK-57 with a shitload of mini AKs stapled to the side. Shit didn't look good. "เนเธฃเธ„เน“เธ„เธ„เธ„เธ„เธ„เธ„เธ„เธ„!!!!" He opened fire.

This pretty much speaks for itself. If it doesn't, you should probably see your eye doctor...or some other doctor, though I would have no idea which one it would have to be beyond that.

We have to take a pause here, because there's something that needs to be addressed. Have you ever noticed that Osama, Obama, and Omaha sound really fucking similar? I mean, have you?!?!?! You probably did, but tucked that shit far back into the closeted recesses of the cauliflower you call your brain. Sounds just about right for a scumbag like you. You were too embarrassed to point that out to anybody, huh? Guess what, fuckface, I'm here to surface those memories for you. Enjoy them, cunt. That's what you get for not speaking your mind when you had the chance. Jesus fucking Christ, the readers I have to deal with around here.

Perry, the machete-wielding menace machine. Armed and dangerous to himself and others.

Now, where the FUCK were we? Oh yeah. Perry cartwheeled Matrix-style across the rooftop. He knew he couldn't dodge these bullets forever and might only probably survive, like, 50 gunshot wounds max with all the meth he'd been taking. He threw another knife. Spot on. It sliced the dude's arm off. Hell yeah, brother. That stopped him...but only for a second. It was enough. Perry took cover behind a wall as the bullets rained down on him. He was WAY too close to the edge. One more step, and he'd fall.

When your next step could be your last, Liberty Mutual Life Insurance gives you a leg up on competing brands. Only pay for what you need. LIBERTY LIBERTY LIBERTY!

He could hear the sound of his heart jumping from the usual 9999 BPM to some number currently unknown by science. Armed with 2 machetes at the same time, he waited as patiently as someone like him could (which really wasn't that long). The enemy didn't show. Must've been waiting for him to come out. They reached an impasse. Perry had an epiphany, he clawed a brick out of the wall he was hiding behind, and tossed it over. As soon as it landed, he jumped out in a leap of faith. The terrorist was distracted. He ran up to him and sliced him into exactly 1000 pieces. So, Al Queda was involved too. This made things more complicated. But this was no time to think...not like there was any room for thinking in Perry's schedule anyway, but now certainly was less of a time to think than any other time. The Masons were surrounded. Perry had to get over the destroyed roof. Maybe he could do it a few floors down, jumping from window to window. He ripped the roof access door off its hinges with his bare hands, and jumped into the crackhouse below. Good idea so far. The staircase was filled with drug addicts partying and setting each other on fire. Others were straight-up dead, but do I really have to explicitly point that out to you?

Paid actor shows us what Tot is like in real life. Since he has an extensive criminal history and is on the run from law enforcement (which is a fancy way of saying "the cops,") we've opted to not add his real picture to this article. Instead, here's this asshole we hired.

"Yoooooo, Perry!" Shouted a really deep voice that sounded like the unofficial spokesman (or smokesman) for Camel, Marlboro, and pretty much any other cigarette company combined. Perry look around. It was his old friend Tot. He didn't have a last name. It was almost like he was manufactured in some now-derelict cloning lab, only to be let loose into the world without anybody knowing about his status as a damned testament to the collateral woes of progress. He was wearing a Camel tee, and smoking 4 cigarettes at once. One of them was shoved up his nose. Jesus.

"What's good, man?"

Chillin like a villin.

"Not much, not much. Just ใ€œcโˆฟhโˆฟiโˆฟlโˆฟlโˆฟiโˆฟnโˆฟ โˆฟlโˆฟiโˆฟkโˆฟeโˆฟ โˆฟaโˆฟ โˆฟvโˆฟiโˆฟlโˆฟlโˆฟiโˆฟnใ€œ."

"Hey, man, this job is gonna cost me millions. My buddies are pretty much dead out there. I gotta get to the choppa and end these zombies once and for ALL."

"Hey, man, this sounds important. What if I hopped on board for old times' sake? We'll split the profit."

"OK, Tot, but we gotta go go go!"

He threw Tot a machete, and together, they ran through the building to the windows.

"I knew I should've brought an extra lunch."

"Hey, bro, catch this fatass rip, maaaaan," said some hippie blocking the window. They stabbed him 50 thousand times, and he was promptly defenestrated. He landed into a dumpster, which was already full of murder victims that were thrown out of these windows on a daily basis. It was on. They raced to the helicopter hangar, and stepped on the gas. Tot pulled out the minigun, and they flew into battle.

"Hey, man, this shit's outta ammo, bro."

"What the FUCK does you mean?"

"What I said."


They had no time. The Masons were screwed. Something had to be done. It was now or never. Perry snorted a line of coke through a $1 bill tube, and set the helicopter for a collision course into the zombie hoard. The chopper literally became a chopper. The propeller minced the zombies to a pulp as it sailed through the street in one giant nose dive. Tot laughed in a bloodlust-induced high as body parts flew everywhere. They landed the helicopter by crashing it into the international headquarters of Productive Professional Dayjob Citizens International. Tot spit on the ruins of the building and took a shit on them. Good for him. He didn't miss his office job, except for the time when he shotgunned the water cooler. I don't know how they survived the crash, but it was probably just magic. It could've also been black magic too, but that's besides the point.

Special delivery.

The way was clear. They advanced towards the Homewood bridge by foot, scanning for any stray zombies in the darkness. Their anxious breathing was almost as disconcerting as their through-the-roof paranoia levels. Come to think of it, they were probably equally disconcerting. It was dead quiet otherwise. They were exhausted, but they had to persevere. Suddenly, they saw headlights in the distance. A truck was advancing towards them. They pointed their guns at it. It was hard to tell what exactly the truck was in all the dark, but it seemed to be unbranded "beer delivery."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's all this sอขhอขiอขtอข?" Said the driver. He had a really thick Italian accent. He didn't look Italian

"We're on drugs and ready to kill."

"Hey, dude, no need for that. My name is John Penske. I can take you to where you need to go."

"We're heading to Squirrel Hill Mafia HQ. Can you sneak us across the border?"

"Yeah, man, I run all sorts of illegal shit from point A to B if you get my meaning. Get in the back and don't bother the hookers. They don't speak English."

Driving in Pittsburgh at night is no joke.

They piled up into the truck. It was a tight fit. Beer cases were everywhere, but it didn't smell like alcohol (or alcoholics, just FYI) at all. In fact, the air reeked of weed. The walls were covered in a suspicious mossy-green substance. It was within minutes of their departure that they could hear the Homewood Bridge border patrol rummaging through the stacks of beer casing. One of them was complaining about how the gays were taking over. It didn't sound like they were big fans of their job. This was great, because the Masons didn't have to try too hard to hide. They just wore Bud Lite attire, and kinda just blended in with the beer like chameleons. The agents said fuck it, and let Penske drive into what they called the Dangerzone. They held their breath as the truck rumbled through the shitty...oops, I mean CITY streets.

Their spines contorted like accordions as they hit pothole after pothole. Most of the street was just either potholes, or cheap cement used to cover the old ones. To call it a street would be insulting to the word. They ran over a few dead bodies here and there, but that was OK, because the truck tires were specially designed to deal with that sort of thing. The broken headlights flickered as if in response to the half-baked street lamps that turned on and off at a moment's notice. A rabid werewolf howled in the background. They twisted and turned through the desolate district. The road signs only became more nonsensical and contradictory as they went. Eventually they disappeared altogether and were instead replaced by DIY wooden signs with skulls spraypainted on them. Most of these were half-finished, covered in blood and bulletholes, as well as surrounded by repairman corpses. Electrical wires were ripped out of their sockets all around. Probably scrapped for copper. Shit looked ugly around here. Penske spoke up.

"Ey, fellas. We're comin' up on da mafia house. If you need a getaway car, you'll have to stop by my uncle Vinny's. I gots responsibilities with this truck. He's down the block. Last house on da left. Your call."

"Let's shoot him and take the truck GTA style," snarled Perry in a low, bloodthirsty voice. Clearly his coke high was coming down.

"No, man, Penske might be useful to us later," said Ben. He prepped a crack pipe just in case Perry went off the rails.

"He's got a point," said one goon, "Last thing we need is his cousin on our asses."

Da Mafia House. Decorative lightning courtesy of Hasbro Halloween Decorations INC.

"Fuck, man, I just gotta murder something," said Tot. He seemed even more unhinged than Perry in some really odd and subtle way. Maybe the perpetual chainsmoking helped keep that shit deeper under wraps.

A great street to get murdered on.

The truck stopped. All they could hear was the rumbling of the shitty engine. It sounded old. Maybe it was some ancient truck from the Soviet Union. Hell if I know, but it certainly looked like a relic. As the truck drove away, they took a look around. The block was cold. Nothing was happening. Pure darkness. Pure silence. Destroyed cars were parked all along the road. They probably weren't going anywhere anytime soon in those bad boys-burned to the ground and demolished centuries ago. The mafia house was located on 666 Woodcock Street (this is a real street in Pittburgh, so don't act like I made this up). They knew this because there was a huge sign that said "MฬณAฬณFฬณIฬณAฬณ ฬณHฬณQฬณ-ฬณNฬณOฬณ ฬณGฬณIฬณRฬณLฬณSฬณ ฬณAฬณLฬณLฬณOฬณWฬณEฬณDฬณ" in the front yard. This place was fucking scorched earth.

"Should we trust this Vinny guy? He literally lives a few houses away. He could be an informant."

"We REALLY need a getaway car, man. How do you think we'll get out of this neighborhood? If we try to steal any of these dead cars here, we won't get too far. I wouldn't even call it stealing given their condition."

Vinny's house.

Eventually they decided to talk to Vinny. He had an interesting lawn. It was covered in little Italian flags. An ornamental graveyard sat in the corner. There was also a pizza sauce fountain in the middle. They knocked on the door.

"No, man, you gotta do it the special Italian way," said Perry.

He rammed his head through it. The door had no chance against such an unstoppable force. The blow demolished it into pieces, and whatever was left flew into the house at the speed of sound, taking out at least 6 walls in the process. A guy who looked exactly like Mario came flying out of nowhere, kissing them all on the cheek.

"You must be Vinny."

"Yeh." His voice was deeper than depth itself, and even more so. He had a Russian accent. Must've been some kind of Italian wannabe or something.

"We need a getaway car."

"10000." The voice got deeper.

"10000 what?"

"10000." He said something else, but the voice got so deep that it was below the human hearing threshold. He coughed uncontrollably, and a small cloud of pollution escaped his nostrils.

"Welcome to Vinny's Garage. We've got fun and games for all ages."

They gave him $10000. Without another word, he took them into his garage and turned on the lights by tying some sketchy-looking wires together. There was a long buzz paired with a humming drone. Wild sparks flew as Vinny's hair stood up on its end. He kept holding the wires together like a boss. Smoke started fuming out of every hole in his body. His eyes glowed brighter and brighter. Finally, there was a loud bang, and a dim, shitty lightbulb smack in the middle of the room lit up to reveal a nasty-looking shopping cart, among other interesting things. The cart was rusted out badly and had a revving diesel engine strapped to it with zip ties and packaging tape. A giant circular saw for destroying roadkill (I think) was spinning menacingly out in the front. He obviously left it running often because there was hardly any oxygen left to breathe in the place. The light was having a lot of trouble penetrating the long thick, black smoke. Maybe that's why his voice was so deep.

This can't be healthy, but who's counting?

A dismembered homeless guy was lying in a big plastic bin labeled "trash," though the "t" was quite badly banged up, and it looked like it spelled "rash." Some of the fingers periodically twitched. He walked over to a gasoline can, and started drinking from the spout. The thing was mummified in faded middle finger stickers that looked like they all came from a single sticker sheet he had no reasonable application for. It took him a solid minute to finish his clearly refreshing beverage. He let out a massive sigh of satisfaction and burped in manner that implied pain was involved. Ben noticed his fly was down this whole time.

Vinny grabbed a pack of cigs, and unceremoniously dumped them out on a steel table. Although the side said "stainless steel," it was pretty badly stained alright. One leg was also replaced with a cracked bedpost from, like, the 1st century. He crushed the cigarettes with his bare, blackened hands, doused them in gasoline, and rolled them up into a giant blunt wrap. That shit looked like a mutated breakfast burrito only palatable to, well, no one. It was then that they noticed how badly charred his lips were. That didn't stop him. He shoved it into his mouth, and chewed it for a good while before lighting it with a propane torch. It looked like he was contemplating some deep existential questions during this whole process, so they let him do his thing. A nearby pool of gas he must've spilled on the floor spontaneously combusted into a little bonfire, making the temperature at least somewhat bearable.

"Be outside da mafia house in 10." They didn't know if they could trust a gasoline junkie. They weren't common, and where they existed, they were feared. They say seeing is believing, and this sure as hell looked like proof to them. But seeing as a druggie like Perry could be reliable, they chose to trust Vinny, all things considered. Anyways, they headed back out into the street at night. It only seemed to get darker, even though it was as dark as physics themselves would allow.

They creeped up to the mafia house. It was still quiet. They crawled through the grass Vietnam style and looked through the windows. It was a bunch of fat monopoly men smoking cigars. Sitting ducks. They demolished the windows with their weapons, and did backflips into the house (with varying levels of success).


"NOBODY MOVE!" The monopoly men threw their hands up. Perry ran around, putting them in handcuffs.

No one expects the Squirrel Hill Mafia...except for the Squirrel Hill Mafia itself.

"Alright, you fuckers, we're here to take the quarries from you. You're all gonna die. Any last words?"

Suddenly, the monopoly men began to melt, distort, and deflate like balloons. They were decoys!!!!!! Machine guns went off from the balcony upstairs.


Perry took 3 bullets to the chest, but with a single meth tablet, he shrugged off the injury like a pro. They hid behind some fancy Greco-Roman columns, and fired back.

"You'll never defeat the Squirrel Hill Mafia! We go where we please, and we most certainly don't aim to please where we go! Hahahaha!"

7 minutes till Vinny would arrive.

Ben didn't get to cover in time and got shot in the ass. "AHHHHH! FUCK!" He crawled to safety, just barely dodging a hailstorm of fresh-out-of-the-barrel bullets. His ass was the source of all Masonic power. With this injury, no magic could be cast ever again for all ages and generations in past, present, and future! They had to summon a demon to help them fight. In order to do that, they needed to arrange themselves in a circle, but the columns only would protect them in a semicircular arc. Shit.

"๐˜—๐˜Œ๐˜™๐˜™๐˜ ! ๐˜‘๐˜–๐˜๐˜•๐˜š๐˜–๐˜•! ๐˜–๐˜•๐˜Œ ๐˜”๐˜ˆ๐˜• ๐˜‰๐˜Œ๐˜๐˜๐˜•๐˜‹ ๐˜Œ๐˜ˆ๐˜Š๐˜ ๐˜Š๐˜–๐˜“๐˜œ๐˜”๐˜•! ๐˜—๐˜™๐˜–๐˜•๐˜›๐˜–! ๐˜’๐˜Œ๐˜Œ๐˜— ๐˜›๐˜๐˜Œ๐˜” ๐˜–๐˜Š๐˜Š๐˜œ๐˜—๐˜๐˜Œ๐˜‹! ๐˜Ž๐˜Œ๐˜› ๐˜๐˜• ๐˜›๐˜๐˜Œ ๐˜Š๐˜Œ๐˜•๐˜›๐˜Œ๐˜™! ๐˜Ž๐˜– ๐˜Ž๐˜– ๐˜Ž๐˜–!"

There's always a fucking sniper.

Perry nodded. He took out a massive sack of cocaine and snorted it all. God knows how it all fit into his body. His pupils dilated to the point where they almost became separate entities. He grabbed 3 machetes in one hand, and 2 RPGs in another, along with a sniper rifle in his teeth, and ran out, guns blazing. Perry's goons and the Masons began scrambling to occupy each of the 24 columns. They couldn't lose more than 3 people, or they'd be short. Ben had to stay behind because he clearly wasn't going anywhere. Perry's bulletstorm shocked them to the core. He took another 2 bullets straight to the chest, but they bounced off like Nerf darts. The mafia backed up further into the building, save one persistent sniper. Perry was so coked out, that he couldn't really do much aside from intimidate and shoot blindly. One of the goons tumbled out behind the column, shooting at the sniper. All misses. In turn, the sniper fired away and hit dead center. Fuck. To make matters worse,


Perry's animalistic rage made him shoot at his goon's dead body with an RPG point-blank. There was a massive explosion. Perry was mutilated beyond belief, but alive and kicking hard. The sniper pulled out a switchblade, and backflipped from the balcony into the crater Perry created. He tried to stab him in the face. The knife got stuck in his rock-hard brain. The sniper tried to run, but within 5 seconds he was shredded to pieces by Perry's overgrown nails. The demon circle was complete. A glorious pillar of fire formed in the center of the room, and a monstrous, spideresque hybrid horror materialized. Perry found it sexy and tried to ask it out on a date. It snarled. Drool was pouring out from behind its vicious, daggerlike teeth. Perry snarled back in excitement.

Holy guacamole, science is a lie.

"Uhhhhhh, let's go."

5 minutes to go. They all ran up the stairs, demon in tow. The ground exploded beneath its feet with every step. It shrieked violently, and the massive, oak doors blocking entry into the next chamber were FUCKING OBLITERATED with fire. It slowly walked into the next room on its awkward 3 legs. Machine gun fire rang out. The thing was fucking bulletproof. The shots stopped. The mafia guys came out with crosses. The demon didn't like the ๐“…โ˜ฏ๐“Œ๐‘’๐“‡ โ๐’ป ๐’ฅ๐‘’๐“ˆ๐“Š๐“ˆ. That was the call to act. Our heroes shot a few mafia guys as they stormed the room. Looks like the enemy couldn't use holy and unholy warfare at the same time! They could either hurt the demon, or them, but not both. More horrid screeching. The mafia people literally popped like bubbles into showers of blood and guts. They had no chance, and ran further into the building. It looked like they were going to win the war with minimal casualties. Easier estimated than done. The wall on the other end of the room crumbled to dust. A massive mechanical menace machine jumped out of the scattered rubble and landed dead center with a big *KABOOM*. It was theology VS. technology VS. people. They had their own powerhouse, and it had miniguns on it. It was the size of 5 planet Earths fit into a single room, and was covered in cool blue lightning armor. The demon took the bait and charged at the robot, while the mafia guys split up into 2 groups. Some went for the demon with their crosses, and others went for the gang with their firepower. The battle of the blitz was on. If I could describe the shit I saw there, your face would melt 50 thousand times over. Blue lightning combined with green fucking fire fused together to erupt into a mini-nuclear bomb that sent the room into a kind of chaos that has only been described in the ancient cosmic space battles of the bible. Holy fucking shit. It was epic. I literally died in that room while all this was going on, and got reincarnated due to the epicness. I even grew an extra dick on my back. Been there. Got the tee.

"How many of these assholes ARE there???" Yelled Johnson. They needed a plan that would end this fast. The cock-I mean clock was ticking. Even Perry, the human bulldozer, was showing signs of wear and tear. The demon screamed out in pain. The holy light was burning its dry, disgusting flesh. But there was no giving up now! Never give up! ๏ผฎ๏ผฅ๏ผถ๏ผฅ๏ผฒใ€€๏ผณ๏ผต๏ผฒ๏ผฒ๏ผฅ๏ผฎ๏ผค๏ผฅ๏ผฒ!

"๐“๐“ž, ๐“œ๐“จ ๐“‘๐“”๐“๐“ค๐“ฃ๐“˜๐“•๐“ค๐“›"
Perry completely lost it. He ran into the room to the demon, and in a fit of blind rage, swung a machete at the robot. The blade literally MELTED from the friction as it completely SLICED a leg off. Spark showers EXPLODED violently around the room. In the chaos of the moment, the gang bum rushed the enemy, and very soon they were victorious.


This page needs to calm the fuck down, now!

"Great job, Perry!"

He wasn't listening because he was too busy making out with the demon. Holy shit. "Look!" A goon pointed to the robot cockpit. The guy inside armed the self destruct sequence. FUUUUCK!!!!!!. They ran, leaving Perry to his own affairs. There was no saving that man, for he had found true love. Vinny had been parked outside in his shopping cart. They all piled in, and shot off into the sunrise with a blaze of glory as the mafia house exploded in A BIG FUCKING FIRESTORM.


...And then Perry was obliterated into a quadrobajillion tiny pieces. Rest in piss. The demon shrugged, and walked back to the 666th dimension where it had come from, wondering why the fuck it got involved in this bullshit the first place.


Little remains of the mafia house today.
Heinz Chapel, AKA Perry's memorial tower. Lord knows why it's named after a ketchup brand.

Years passed, and the Cathedral of Satan was completed, as requested. Daily death was capitalized off of, and all was peaceful in Pittsburgh under the jurisdiction of the British Royal Tea Company who colonized the city. A second, smaller cathedral was built out back in memory of Perry, the local Pittsburgher who gave his life for love. Benjamin Franklin seceded from the Masons, and made the building the central hub for drug trafficking. The university front was established shortly after, and the building soon became known as the Cathedral of Learning.

The scum-infested city of danger remains as the Pittsburgh status quo. The only difference is that now things are more subtle, and violence is a less popular sport compared to how it used to be. The Cathedral, commonly dubbed Cathy, is still a hot zone for the distribution of various illegal narcotics, contraband, guns, bodies, and heist loads. It is also a common vacation spot for escaped criminals and home to vice and thuggery, though the guise of civility still exists due to pressure from Mayor Peduto to keep shit under wraps.

What to Do if You Suspect Your Kids Are in the Cathedral of Learning[edit]

A common sign found outside that may or may not help you solve your existential questions.

First of all, don't panic. Give up hope, but whatever you do, don't panic. Panic is illegal and also not allowed by law. That's what the aluminum warning sign on the wall says, and we all know that official-looking aluminum warning signs can only be installed by God himself. Understand that there is no saving your kids. They're fucked. Forget about them. Chances are that they already turned to a life of degeneracy, lust, greed, and sin just by so much as looking at the Cathedral. Hell, they're probably straight up dead and gone. So what do you do? If you're like me, you always think of the children first. Little Timmy from across the block went in there once, and WAS NEVER HEARD FROM AGAIN (OH SHIT). My daughter went in there and literally rolled out 5 seconds later, dead as a doorknob. Are you scared yet? No? Wrong answer. Yes? Good. Your first move should be to call your probation officer and confirm that you are not on illicit or recreational substances. Once you've established that you can trust your own senses, you have to actually call your probation officer and stop bullshitting yourself. After that, steal some police gear, and raid the cathedral to save your family. Of course, this won't actually work because you'll most certainly end up dead in there. The sin level is higher than me right now. In fact, it's so high, that your soul might WILL burst out of your body and run screaming into the street, leaving you dead. So here my solution for you: just do drugs and forget about it. I've done this, and I'm living a happier life as a result. Trust me. I would never lie to you or sell you out for a teaspoon of crack. My kids are long since in heaven...or hell-I have no idea because I skipped town when they were born.

FBI Most Wanted[edit]

These nefarious individuals are known to frequent the Cathedral, and are responsible for 199% of all crimes known to man.

  • Mr. Omega and the Lightning Ninja ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆใ€ | Reward: $999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999 | Front: Electriciansใ€‘
Mr. Omega and the Lightning Ninja. Distinguished, but not trustworthy.

Mr. Omega appears to be your typical jolly electrician at first, but don't be deceived by his looks. He'll shank you out of this universe faster than you can say, "OH SHIT." He looks like a train conductor from the 19th century, moustache and all. That's because he actually is one. He was zapped into the future by the electrifying powers of the Lightning Ninja, a mysterious masked man whose face has never been revealed to to anyone ever in the history of all eternity. He was born with a mask, and according to the ancient wisdom teachings, he can never die so long as the mask is on his face. His powers are limitless, infinite, and also without limit. Nobody knows what he is truly capable of doing, but he might as well be responsible for Vietnam, 9/11, etc. Legend has it, that the Cathedral itself is actually a prison specifically designed to keep him confined for the war crimes he committed in Atlantis 69 trillion years ago. What has he done to deserve this? I don't know, and it's probably for the best. Your head would probably explode if I spelled it out for you. Mine would too, but yours would be first, because I'm not a wimp. Mr. Omega and his trusty sidekick are inseparable. It is rumored that they are actually one entity, and that the jolly train conductor that is Mr Omega is actually some past life version of the Lightning Ninja himself. Whatever the case may be, they rob banks-lots of them. Every day they can be seen wheeling giant carts of cash into the rogue's den that is the Cathedral. They are heavily linked to an even more bizarre man who goes by the name of John Cuz, but that's classified information that I'm not contracted to reveal. Should you find yourself in the presence of these two, you will instantly know them when you see them. In that case, running for your life is useless. The Lightning Ninja possesses the mystical power of lightning, and can turn you into a fucking pile of charcoal from thousands of miles away, so you might as well just give up and accept your death.

  • Mystery Mike ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆใ€ | Reward: Ownership of the Federal Reserve Itself | Front: Plumberใ€‘
Mystery Mike. He may be the one creating the problems.

Nothing is known about Mystery Mike at all except that he is mysterious. In fact, his mystery levels are so high, that he breaks at least 5 city ordinances per nanosecond by simply existing. Not that those ordinances actually mean anything in a lawless city like Pittsburgh, but the point is that he breaks them regardless. He uses the power of mystery to rob banks at a distance. The way in which this is done is incomprehensible to mortal man. He is the original engineer behind the chakras according to the Book of Enoch. He says he's a plumber and looks like a pirate. He is probably neither of those things.

  • Cap'n John Cuz ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘ใ€ | Reward: $5 | Front: Securityใ€‘
John Cuz. Don't ever hire him as a security guard.

Depending on who you ask, the Cathedral is actually a spaceship disguised as a brick tower. At the helm is the strange and deranged Cap'n Cuz, who knows the secret route to heaven via the Bermuda Triangle. He also knows the secret route to hell via the Bermuda Octagon, but he will never take you there in fear of you ruining it. His origin is unknown, but it is said that one day, a brick fell out of the Cathedral basement wall, and magically transformed into a human. This is the accepted narrative, because all others are considered too bizarre by modern criminologists. This individual is confirmed by science to be the man behind the Great Cheez-Its Massacre of 1901, the Underground Railroad, and the original recipe for crack. He has been observed by our FBI agent hiding in the trees with binoculars outside to be at the forefront of inspecting Cathedral imports for fake narcotics and government bugs with his giant nose. He is clearly addicted to nuclear waste fluid imported from sources such as Chernobyl and Fukoshima, and can be seen drinking it out of a gigantic, shady-as-fuck cannister on a daily basis. Some believe that he was the original reason behind those nuclear disasters so that he could continue nurturing his nuclear sludge addiction. Naturally, these habits have mutated him, and his thoracic chakra is completely deactivated. He fears astrologers, cats, and salt. According to magical theory, he can be turned back into a brick and banished from our plane of existence, but this has yet to be demonstrated by the mystic sciences.

  • Andreas the Devil Worshipper ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘ใ€ | Reward: Participation Trophy | Front: IT Departmentใ€‘
Andreas the Devil Worshipper. He's really fucking tall.

He claims that he works for some made-up IT department with a name too ridiculous to exist, but he's really the local devil's advocate and satanic medium. He operates under the radar, but is usually seen fleeing the scene when a house known to be his "temporary address" suddenly goes up in flames. What he actually does in there isn't clear, but leftover pentagrams and occult scrawlings are a signature of this contemporary Mad Max. It seems as though he is either deliberately creating chaos with these collateral arsons, or just a bad satanist in general.

  • Martian Matt ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘โ–‘ใ€ | Reward: A Refinanced Mortgage | Front: IT Departmentใ€‘
Martian Matt. He is one with the darkness.

Matt is an ancient alien spacecraft disguised in human form. He often talks about fun subjects such as anarchy, wretchedness, and evil. He commits crime every second of every day, as well as all the time. Even when he isn't committing crime, he somehow manages to commit crime anyway. How that makes sense is anyone's guess except mine, because I am a genius, a wizard, and I know everything. Anyways, the aliens that pilot him do so remotely from the Scorpio star system, the most evil star system in the entire universe. Some say that it is made of pure evil itself, and that's probably true, but since I am 1% pure evil, I'm assuming the real numbers are closer to, like, 99%. Similar to Andreas, he claims he works for some IT department, but that's a front he doesn't try very hard to uphold. Pittsburgh's scam schools would give him a failing grade for that. He is responsible for the creation of humanity and is the most important deity in the Freemason pantheon. He spontaneously gave birth to Rich the Psyonic Bricklayer (see below) after the ancient Atlanteans tried to destroy him with their death star Giza pyramid technology. The two of them then proceeded to sink Atlantis once and for all. The Cathedral is also built in his image.

  • Rich the Psyonic Bricklayer ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘โ–‘ใ€ | Reward: Amazon Gift Card | Front: IT Departmentใ€‘

After Martian Matt gave birth to him, Rich was cursed to eternally worship his oppressive celestial parent. He was destined to throw annual human sacrifices into random bottomless pits for the rest of all eternity forever in order to keep himself alive. During the bottomless sacrificial pit shortage of 1869, he became depressed and desperate. He then had an epiphany. He would create his own bottomless pit. What better city to do so than Pittsburgh itself? There, he was employed by Benjamin Franklin during the Cathedral's construction to telepathically interlock the huge bricks in place via the astral realm. As you might expect, you will also find a sacrificial pit(t) in the Cathy sub-basement dedicated to the god of the Freemasons, Martian Matt. It smells really bad down there and I wouldn't recommend checking it out. It is illegal to have a visit to this place down on your bucket list, so don't be getting any ideas now.

  • Father Samuel Fohcker ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘โ–‘ใ€ | Reward: Volcano Insurance Provided by Liberty Mutual | Front: IT Departmentใ€‘

A high priest of the occult, Father Fohcker writes spells for werewolf transformation, infinite money, and the destruction of his worst enemy: the government. He came to Pittsburgh on the Mayflower, and sacrificed the crew so that the Pilgrims wouldn't freeze to death. He then transformed himself into a bird, flew away, and was never seen again until relatively recently. He is wanted for soliciting donut shops and posting advertisements for his occult classes on people's backs while they're not looking. He is assumed to be be Indian or Middle Eastern according to what is known about his appearances, but he is actually half Scottish and half Narcotic (an obscure South American country).

  • Jasper ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘โ–‘โ–‘ใ€ | Reward: Brand-New UFO with UFO Operator's License | Front: IT Departmentใ€‘

You can't spell Jasper without Jerusalem, and there's a reason for that. Actually, there is no reason for that, and you CAN spell Jasper without Jerusalem. Geez, what do you think this is, some kind of language class? She was born in Yemen and raised in Somalia. Her most recent past life was in Australia, and her soul is from the Outer Dimension. Her father is a fish-headed demiurge from the Yoruba pantheon and her mother is the sun itself. Her first toy as a baby was an AK-47 and an RPG. Even the coolest kids on her block had desert eagles at best, making her the star of the show at the time. She ran away from her family at age 5 after her parents told her she couldn't set people on fire. She started her first gang by liberating a bunch of Guantรกnamo prisoners. Her diet consisted mostly of rocks and sand while she was on the run. Sometimes these things were mixed like a salad or fried with onions, but not often. Her brain is so big, that 99% of it is stored in the cloud. To be more specific, her brain IS the cloud. You think big tech has the intelligence to come up with that shit themselves? Hell no. They try to keep this conspiracy under wraps, but truth seekers like me will always tell you how it is. She's the only one on the planet who can prevent forest fires aside from Smokey Bear, and we all know that Smokey isn't worth his weight in gold when it comes to practical safety. However, she chooses not to, and forests continue to burn. Her place in the wretched hive of scum and villainy that is Cathy is to spread subliminal messages throughout the advertisement industry in order to promote the Illuminati, crime, and drugs. This is accomplished via the IT lab, where all subliminal programming known to humankind is secretly devised.

  • Vignesh ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘โ–‘โ–‘ใ€ | Reward: Credit Worthiness | Front: IT Departmentใ€‘

He is God in human form observing his creation. Apparently, God likes to commit crime too. Hell, he created crime, so why not partake?

  • Whaddup Adams ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘โ–‘โ–‘โ–‘ใ€ | Reward: Nuclear Warhead | Front: Food Serviceใ€‘

A dude so chill, that you might end up freezing to death near him. This is his primary criminal tactic: Freeze, Rob, and Run, code named "FRReeze" for short. In order to prevent his sidekicks from being transformed into ice sculptures, he carries an emergency pack of cigarettes to warm their soul with. If he fistbumps you though, your soul might catch fire and burn your body to a crisp. This is known as advanced temperature warfare, and is still being analyzed by the CIA for further information. He is very powerful and can never be defeated.

  • Strongman Rich ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘โ–‘โ–‘โ–‘ใ€ | Reward: Trump's Wig | Front: Food Serviceใ€‘

A former WWE wrestler, Strongman Rich now runs the Cathedral's very own meth lab, where "Perfectmeth (TM)" is created. The secret "grandma's recipe" of this mysterious meth is only known to Whaddup Adams. Rich's hobbies include crushing boulders with his bare hands, and when he's not doing that, he's crushing other things with gloves on. He drives the "BIG WHEELZ," a hi-tech kart racer from the future through the halls of the Cathedral. It can travel faster than the speed of light, and exactly at the speed of sound. There are no other speeds. Anyone caught in its path is instantly transformed into roadkill.

  • Ruthless Ruth ใ€Wanted Level: ใ€Žโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–‘โ–‘โ–‘โ–‘โ–‘ใ€ | Reward: An All-Expenses-Paid Family Visit to the CIA | Front: Facilities Managementใ€‘

The long-lost band member of Korn. Her lyrics were deemed too edgy by the other band members, so she left.

Who the Hell Even Wrote this Shit????[edit]

Has the mystery truly been revealed?

Hi, it's me, the author. My name is Saturn, and I happen to be a planet. How did I write this? Well, what you don't know is that I have arms. All planets have arms, and all arms have planets. We're not just stupid little poop balls floating around for no reason. We do things. Well, except for Mercury, but I've sworn an oath to the Powers That Be not to slander that little idiot. Sometimes planets write. The idiotic ones write memoirs, while the sentimental ones write idiocy. I stand with the latter category, and proudly so. I happen to like writing. You see, it gets kinda boring up here sometimes. Believe it or not, there isn't much going on in space. I just watch the earth. That's my TV. Getting old sucks, especially when you're a planet. Can you imagine having arthritis with spherical bones? Not to mention those bones are trillions of times bigger than yours. That's trillions of times more pain that I feel. It sucks. Anyways, after my 60th divorce (yes, planets have marriages too), I decided to live out the rest of my days in this star system and watch you folks do stupid shit all day on your colorful little planet. What I soon discovered was that after watching you people for long enough, I started to become like you. I resorted to interplanetary space drugs to cope, and am now a bit of a shell of what I used to be. But that's fine, as long as I have my pen and paper. I like writing. Did I mention that? Yes? OK, well, I do. I don't have much of a brain left, so there isn't much intelligence to put out on said paper, but as a fat planet, I have a fat job to do, and sometimes that means writing the kind of fat drivel that nobody else will write. It's how we do things up here in the heavens.

The universe from the outside looking in.

Well, I do need to take a pause here to let you know that this isn't entirely true. In fact, it's not true at all. I'm not actually Saturn, and I'm most definitely not a planet. OK, sure. I was lying, and everything you just read was bullshit. What of it? I happen to enjoy lying. Is there anything wrong with that? Yes? Well, who cares? It's fun to me, and I can lie all I want. You can't stop me. I'm the best, most underappreciated author in all existence, and that gives me the permission slip to get away with anything at all. Well, to be fair, I can't travel back in time, which means that fundamentally I'm a slave to the laws of physics. That isn't right. Why do we have to be slaves to physics? Like, why can't we fly? Who made these idiotic rules up? Can we make math illegal? No? Wow. The universe is a SLAVE CAMP!

Anyways, you may be wondering who I actually am. Well, to answer that question, we have to go back to where it all began, and how it all led up to this moment. I was sitting on a bench in the park, when some shabby-looking homeless guy walked up to me. He looked like an axe-murderer, sans the axe (either because he was too broke to buy one or forcefully deprived of one by law enforcement). His trenchcoat was processed by what looked like a schizophrenic woodchipper that engaged in self-destructive practices and probably needed chemo, radiation, and plain old regular therapy. Upon further inspection, it seemed to be an old, discolored taxi driver coat that he probably stole in a daring feat of grand theft auto that may or may not have resulted in the giant burn mark across his face. It COULD have been a daring feat. I mean, I don't know. Maybe it wasn't. Seriously, don't ask me, because I wasn't there when it happened. He smelled great. What, you thought I was gonna say he smelled like shit? Well, guess what? I punch people right in the expectations, and I shoot to kill. So there.

We still have an article, I promise. It's just getting really fucking confusing.

It was daytime, and cameras where everywhere. I wouldn't expect him to be particularly violent, despite all the blood dripping from his clothes. That's a weird assumption to make, isn't it? He stretched out his hand towards me in a...what? In a what? What are you expecting me to write next? You know it's all bullshit by now, and I'm running out of mental real estate. Your trust in who you thought the author has probably just hit sub zero. This is insanity. Seriously, who WOULD write something like this? I'm pretty deranged, but not THIS deranged. I mean, I know I'm the author, but seriously, what the fuck? OK, maybe I AM that deranged. Who knows? Most certainly not me, or you, or anyone else for that matter. But come on now. Criminals in the Cathedral? Masons? Jesus? Zombies? Holy shit. To what idiotic psychological depths does one have to go to pull something of this caliber of stupidity out of their ass? Alright, alright, I'll calm down. Fine. Maybe we can actually do something productive with all this mess and try to figure out the secrets of the unconscious mind through what's been put on paper. I know it's not actually paper, but fuck it. OK, sounds great! Let's begin. Well, let's start with what we know: the Cathedral. Is it that the author goes to the Cathedral on a daily basis? Maybe they could be a recent graduate or know people who go there.

How to solve for the point of no return WITHOUT reading this article. Yes, it IS possible using geometry, but not recommended for the unskilled, AKA you.

Maybe they have siblings that know somebody who went there. Hell, they could even have kids who go there. Fine. So we don't know that much about the author for certain except that he's connected to the Cathedral SOMEHOW, however loosely. Since I'm a professional investigator, I have the divine authority to assume narrow-minded, clearly-biased things with impunity, using the training provided within my career field as a way of bypassing personal accountability. Great! OK, so, hear me out. Since E=MC2, we can conclude that the author IS GOD HIMSELF. He is the ONE THAT WAS, the ONE THAT IS, and THE ONE THAT WILL BE. Whoa. Where did THAT come from?...


The Point of No Return[edit]

Can we stop pretending like we have an article anymore?


...Anyways, how did I conclude this? Well, I just asked Neil deGrasse Tyson. Oh, by the way, while we're on the subject, he sure has a pretentious name. I mean, does he HAVE to make the fucking "deGrasse" part of the equation?? Would it KILL him to just be called Neil Tyson? Seriously? Jesus Christ. How much of a controlling douchecock do you have to be to make people say pretentious extra shit that makes NO god damn sense when referring to you? The first letter of whatever the fuck that is isn't even capitalized, so it's probably some fake bullshit name he made up to make himself look cool. What an asshole. Who's waiting for the onslaught of sexual allegations to destroy his career? I know I am. I mean look at that smug face of his. You know he's been up to some shady shit. What, you think I'm too judgmental? Well, fuck you too. You ain't all that and a bag of chips either. Either way, since he is, IN FACT, a massive douchecock (as I may or may not have mentioned before), he holds the keys to all truth forever and ever till death do us part.

JEHOVA looks at itself through a cosmic mirror, thus creating separation of church and state.
How to actually pronounce the word "JEHOVAH" in order to form light and create darkness.

You see, scientific dogma delivered in a carefully-concocted, condescending, and assholeish way is pure, 1000000% untainted truth surpassing divine revelation in all its glory. Wow! If Neil tells you to inject poison into your system, do it. He's wrong, but it doesn't actually matter because he is who he is, and you are his eternal slave. What, you're saying this article is revealing my own insecurities and biases? Well, I'm sooooooooooooorry, officer. I'm a human being and happen to just naturally have these things, just like you. Your shit stinks just like everyone else's, so do yourself a favor: take that pole out of your ass and live a little. How spoiled do you have to be to seek control over other people's insecurities and shit? You should be locked up in prison for that. If I had my own country, that's exactly where I'd put you for that kind of bullshit, AND you'd also be getting the death sentence on top of that. Where is your god now? Yes, that'd make things right, I think. Wait, that wasn't grammatically correct, now, was it? Oh, yes it actually was. Jesus Christ, you people. It's like I can't even get a hateful, swearword-infested rant across to anyone anymore. The world's going to shit.

Anyways, what were we talking about? Oh yeah. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. So, what's the conclusion? Well, since God may or may not exist in the classical context in which we define existence itself, the author is probably undefinable by his creation. HOWEVER, since I'm an insedcure-I mean INSECURE and idiotic human who needs to latch on to specific definitions of things to feel secure for some reason, I will do whatever my master, Neil DEGRASSE Tyson says. Amen.

OK, What the Fuck is Happening?[edit]

Nothing. Nothing is happening at all anymore. Time has ceased to be. Get the fuck out of here. Go home to your wife and kids or something.

Consumer Survey[edit]

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See Also[edit]


  1. โ†‘ You'll have to excuse the author of this article, as he is thoroughly insane. I've tried reasoning with him. He fought back and I now no longer have an arm. I don't recommend going against the grain here.
  2. โ†‘ The idiotic author of this article talks in extremes, if you haven't noticed. A "bajillion" isn't a real number and he clearly needs to be institutionalized (assuming he isn't already).
  3. โ†‘ I recommend investing in murder futures. Big bucks.
  4. โ†‘ Spontaneous eruptions are a humanitarian crisis in certain parts of the world that I personally happen to know absolutely nothing about. I also don't happen to care about them.
  5. โ†‘ I've started about 5 successful small businesses and 1 big business by doing this, and can personally speak for its efficacy.
  6. โ†‘ The author is on crack. It's a pretty nice place. I personally find the smell of garbage quite aromatic, especially when it's got bad milk in it.
  7. โ†‘ New Bangladesh is a country from the future that got caught in a time matrix, and exists in several timelines at the same time.
  8. โ†‘ Call for a free consultation. Our lawyers are standing by (420-420-6969).
  9. โ†‘ The picture is a headshot of Franklin from the 1776 edition of Playboy, so please understand that it's touched up a bit.