It’s like he bootcamps at the bottom of Silver Lake, coached by a blindfolded dolphin. His strats come straight from a napkin at a Chuck E. Cheese.

2000 games and still gets outfragged by guys playing on trackpads and café Wi-Fi. Bro’s got more experience than some pros, but his crosshair placement is still playing hide and seek.

Honestly, you don’t even hate him anymore. It’s impressive.
Like watching someone lose at Monopoly 2000 times and still start every game with “I’ve got a plan.”

He ran out mid like a golden retriever chasing a laser pointer, no smokes, no flash, just raw hope and hubris. Instantly one-tapped.
“Where’s the trade, bro?” he wheezed, like it was your fault his brain was running Windows 95 with 12 Chrome tabs open.

Ten rounds in, you checked the scoreboard. He was sitting at a crisp 2-8, still demanding A executes like he was FalleN coaching a major. His comms were less “strat call” and more “audible whining.”

By the end of the game, he finished with a glorious 10-16, bottom frag, two team flashes, and one rage quit from a random teammate who couldn't handle the ego-to-skill ratio.

BAHAH I LOOK 3 COMMENTS DOWN jrdnEX Apr 2 @ 2:20pm
-rep crybaby

It was a INFERNO lobby on FACEIT, the kind where tensions rise faster than the round timer drops. You queued solo—no expectations, just hoping for a chill game. But of course, he was on your team.

His name was 死 - Tap, a bold name for someone who couldn’t tap a shot on a stationary bot. Within three rounds, he was already barking in voice chat.

“Bro, are you braindead?” he spat after you missed a trade in mid. “Why would you peek there? You cost us the round.”