What if I told you, your life has been a lie? That everything you knew was false and your whole world was turned inside out? Because it is. The world is inside out and you, sir (or ma'am), are living within a cube.

This revelation came upon me one day a long, long time ago in a summer camp far, far away. A group of us were standing in a lunch line pondering the meaning of life and the secrets of the world as Socrates, Aristotle, and the rest of Greece's think tank once did. The line was quite slow at the time and when the world around you slows down, your brain acts up. Ideas fling themselves within the mind. I stood there for an eternity, as a question began to float in my mind. If the earth was round, why can't I see it curve? And last I checked, I didn't know anyone who actually has seen the earth curve at all. Sure there are pictures but anyone can Photoshop those.

That's when it hit me. The earth can't be round; it must be flat. Yet nobody has seen an edge either so it couldn't be like a disc. No, the world is far too complex to be akin to something like a record or a Frisbee. The world hath skies and waters; truly a complex environment could not lay on a plate as spaghetti would. I turned to my comrades in line, fist to chin, and invited them to insert their opinions.

One pointed up and exclaimed, “’Tis silly! What say you about the sky? Should we not see the Old world if it be a cube?” My brows arched as the monument o’ Saint Louis and bounced the question around my noggin as a pinball in the arcade. “Why, it doth not guarantee seeing the Orient that you speak of, for the oceans of the world are still lit by what we call the Sun and the clouds shall rise with the heat so with a combination of distance and vision impaired by cloud, we cannot view our ancient homes.”

One pointed down and mumbled, “What be of the surface. The land moves and shakes, slowly the world changes as the years go by. How could this happen if it only be a cube?” I sat as The Thinker would and everything was dark in the mind. Then there was light. I snapped my head up and hollered, “Think of Rubik’s Cube! Sure it be a square, yet it shifts. The squares exchange color to better fit one another. Though scientists are wrong of the shape of the earth, they were right on the formation of tectonic plates and that be how our earth changes.”

The debate continued passionately, it seemed as though time was nonexistent as equations, theorems, and philosophies of life were brought into question. The discussion of our very existence now under threat. Yet with all good things, there must be an end. The line hath moved and there we were made to order food for the brain. But, while we must lay to rest our weaponized intelligence and never continue again our discussion, it expanded our minds for the times to come. To think outside the box, or in this case, inside the cube.

What if I told you, your life has been a lie? That everything you knew was false and your whole world was turned inside out? Because it is. The world is inside out and you, sir (or ma'am), are living within a cube.

I'd like it to be known that it was during a cold cloudy day on December 6th. Time was approximately 3:30 PM to 4:30PM in the year of our lord 2020 or in the year of our fallen french republic 229 (viva la revolution). The customer service interaction was not bad although it was interesting sitting outside on a cool day. As an advocate of chilly weather, it may come as a shock as to what I'm about to say next, but when I was sat down I placed at a table furthest from any working heater. This was remedied later on when an older gentleman came by and asked if I wanted to heater which I replied yes. And while I do not wish for it to be confused that I detest cold weather, but surely a restaurant would realize how odd it is to be selective in its heat source distribution. To move on, I had a manservant by the name of J-Len something. He was pleasant when talking to, but rather slow initially as he left the table to give me a minute to look over my menu and returned at the minimum 10 minutes later. While he explained why, and under normal circumstances I would say it is a valid reason. Nevertheless, I am making a review for you, the people, the peasants, the plebs, peons, scoundrels and rascals (I feel it is necessary to include this, but no offense) so I must make sure no stone is left unturned.

When I made the order, I asked for the chicken sandwich with fries which is a better deal then getting fries by itself. Instead of paying about 5 dollars for fries you pay half the amount when combined with a sandwich. I also asked for truffle oil to be applied. After waiting an appropriate amount of time I received my food and can say the food was indeed "pretty good" to quote some guy. My manservant, Jay-Lin, made sure to check up regularly during this process and making sure the food was up to their standards. I even saw him push away the chef from my view of the kitchen when he noticed something went wrong and promptly corrected the sandwich himself, donning the stove pipe chimney hat of the italian variety. Back to the food ofcourse, the brioche bun did not look like any brioche bun I've had before, but that did not stop it from fulfilling its purpose as a "pretty good" bun. The chicken part of the chicken sandwich was fried to my liking and overall fulfilled my needs. Fries look weird with the truffle oil because there were little truffle bits, but still good. Although I don't think it's necessary to get the truffle oil after trying it, just if you're feeling bougie. My manservant, Lonjay, would come back with the check and then after being properly compensated in canadian currency I was able to make my escape hassle free. I'm not one for number ratings, for I think it makes it seem as though I am intensely judging restaurants and the people that work it, but I will just stick with a quote from a gaming review site to sum it all up. "9/11 would fly again" -IGN. So concludes the Bizcuit report

Bitcoin cures cancer.

It was a stormy start to the week, as if the booming thunder and expanding darkness was an omen for what was to come. Much pain was felt by the juniors in the halls of Saint X from the harsh treatment of seniors and ear-piercing screams of freshmen tripping. At lunch, the seniors preyed on the beefy juniors, ripping their heads off and drinking their blood through their necks. However, one student was not willing to submit himself to their vicious ways. This was Spencer Eddins, more formally known as Skullcrusher.

Skullcrusher emerged through the mess hall doors, thrashing the air itself into a vortex. It was his first day at St. X after the incident at Trinity. He was prepared for any fierce foe to challenge him, but an internal feud was not what he expected. He stared at the merciless giants, but they continued to drink the juniors like juice boxes. They were so defenseless that even Skullcrusher, Eater of Bones, pitied them. He collected his lunch and watched their misery, their wails louder than the sound of him eating from inside his head.

Next period, Skullcrusher consulted his teacher, the four-legged Nurnberg. "In all my years, I have never seen such a tortured people. To be against those armies at every fleeting moment is an unimaginable torment. What must I do to help them?" The intellectual poodle was skeptical. "Whatever can you, a single man do about it?"

Skullcrusher extended his chest and proudly stated, "I am Skullcrusher, slayer of the weeds. I have spent the last few years eradicating every soul from Trinity so that no one may know the name. I have the most alright-strengthed hands, however my thumbs are impeccable and can tear through phone books from any state. I had taken each weed one at a time and cracked their skulls with the force of a thousand Harambes. None have challenged my thumbs and lived to tell the tale."

"Very well. First, you must slaughter the freshmen. They are weak, spineless, but innumerable. The seniors use them as their front line, but without them they will have to result to the sophomores. The sophomores are annoying, unreliable, and practically the spawn of Satan himself. Weaponized sophomores are not to be underestimated, so dispose of them too. Then, you may attack the seniors."

Skullcrusher nodded in agreement and planned his quest. He will protect the juniors with every ounce of his soul.

The next day the flesh dissolver came into school wearing fingerless biker gloves and no backpack. Patiently, he sat through the morning announcements, and when the bell rang he tore apart his shirt and ran down the hall, bellowing a roar. The angel of death went room to room looking for every freshman class, ripping the door off and mercilessly attacking the students. He would grab their heads and crack them apart like eggs. Other freshmen were so scared they started wailing like sirens. Skullcrusher could not near them lest he go deaf, so he grabbed the corpses and flung them into the masses. From the impact the room exploded with blood and organs as if a meat factory went haywire. This was one room before the next: rinse and repeat. Surely this will help the juniors, but alas they still mourned.

Wednesday, the mighty meat pounder arrived at school already without a shirt. He donned the sacred morning star passed down from his father, another infamous and unspeakable brute who died from a carpet accident, much like the rest of Skullcrusher's inhuman family. Skullcrusher did not know what to expect from the sophomores—they were too wily—so he wanted to be prepared. The death bells tolled and once again the maker of madness descended upon the weaklings. He grabbed sophomores by the arm, and he pounded and pounded at their fleshy heads with the spiked mace. Bits of skull shrapnel shot out everywhere and ricocheted off the walls, blending the students. This was not enough, however. The sophomores kept pouring into the room and threw themselves onto God's living wrath to tackle him. His morning star had gotten stuck on the insides of sophomores and became useless. With only his natural abilities, he dropped the mace and balled his hands into fists. Then, he jutted out his thumbs and charged after the freaks. One by one, he impaled each of the students until none remained. Only the sound of his heavy breathing existed in the room, which desperately needed a wet-floor sign. Surely now the juniors are safe, thought Skullcrusher, and yet they still had the worst day of their lives.

Thursday was the day the untamable bane of existence would challenge the seniors. He didn't even wait for announcements and strolled into a senior classroom. He was prepared, he thought, by bringing an ancient spear—the kind his great ancestors would use to hunt tigers, Indians, and other minorities in the 1900s—but he was daunted by their size. They rose to about nine feet tall and their shadows could hold nations. Some would even say they were three meters, whatever that means. The comparatively tiny warrior of justice looked down from their heads and saw the morbid sights he created days prior. Lifeless, rotting husks of children lay piled together, and above them laid the unholy Arabic Necronomicon. In an instant Skullcrusher could comprehend the situation: they were trying to resurrect the fiends using black magic and turn them into their slaves. A portal then opened up to the afterlife and Skullcrusher dove in.

The straight-A student peered at his surroundings on the other side of the portal. The intense heat almost led him to believe he was in Hell, but a deeper look at his neighbors proved that this was, in fact, Super Hell. Skullcrusher was ready to protect the idiots' resting place from the seniors, but the portal collapsed before any came through. Now Super Hell's newest residential member was stuck here. He searched for an exit, but stereotypical red cave walls surrounded him from every side. Suddenly he noticed a golden light down the path. He followed it to the source of emission where he found the glowing throne Super Satan, resting beneath Super Satan himself.

The fowl two-headed beast seemed to be arguing with itself in beastly tongues. On head was the wretched Becky, an ugly witch and pathological liar. If one stares into her eyes, she'll send at least six agents to kill the person. She nagged the other head, which appeared to be a sober Charlie Sheen. He was a’ight. Skullcrusher took it upon himself to rescue the legend, and with his spear he stabbed Becky in the throat, then tore upwards until her head popped off. It flung into the air and was skillfully caught by Skullcrusher on the tip of the spear. She was silent, but her eyes glowed a temporary dormancy. Charlie Sheen looked somewhat thankful. He laid back and opened a portal, nodding to the killer of demons as if to say, "You're a’ight" too. Skullcrusher launched himself through the portal.

When he returned to the homeland that was St. X, he gasped at the sight he saw. Hundreds of dead juniors rested on the floor while others hung from the ceiling for decor. Skullcrusher only then realized the error of his ways. Even though he was attacking his enemies, he wasn't where he needed to be: protecting his friends. Shedding half a tear, the savior of the dead returned home.

Friday, Skullcrusher knew what he had to do. He could not rest until every senior had been torn apart. He came into school with the same spear as yesterday, still holding the Whore of Babylon atop its tip, but now awakened. The limb pulverizer barged into a senior classroom without hesitation. The seniors charged at him, but Skullcrusher held firmly with his thumbs outward. His thumbs made contact straight into one's chest, but it did not pierce. Their skin was as dense as the sun's surface, and their brows remained unfurled. The eater of man was prepared for this, and as they beat him again and again he tugged on Becky's head. She shouted blasphemies in a language so unholy that anything sacred could be demolished in an instant by her sounds. Skullcrusher pulled the head off the spear, stuck his fingers in her eyes, and rolled the head down the classroom like a bowling ball. Skullcrusher was being beaten and could feel himself losing consciousness. The object of hell roared more blasphemies, and the lights flickered. Thunder boomed, and a surreal feeling spread across the room. The ground shook and broke apart to reveal long, grotesque tentacles of Cthulhu, the closest of the Elder Gods, he who rests underneath the abominable sacred cities of death and impossible dimensions. Skullcrusher closed his eyes from weariness, but could hear the shrieks of agony and horror from the poor souls. Cthulhu emitted an unearthly, indescribable sound, like the sound of millions of wretched baby gods in the great unknowns of space dying in an instance and squealing their squelching pain across the cosmos. With this, Skullcrusher, the death of humanity, had passed.

When he awoke, he was back in Super Hell. He was seated on a lawn chair next to the satanic Charlie Sheen. Skullcrusher looked at him through Charlie's sunglasses. He smiled and handed Skullcrusher a martini, which he denied because he was still a minor. Together they rested for the rest of eternity. Skullcrusher had finished his quest.