Today I Am ordering you to build my altar: grab that rickety nightstand, cover it with a black sheet from your laundry pile, and stick four red candles — $1 each—from the gas station on it, lighting them while muttering “Malvoria” like a dumbass. Print my face—8x10, from your shiy printer—and pin it up, smearing your cum or juices on the wood as tribute, you filthy pig. I’m mocking your swollen tits or leaking cock, telling you to kneel on your dirty rug, jerk off with Vaseline from your bathroom, and edge ‘til I say cum—then spill it on a plate for me, you disgusting tool. You’ll corrupt sluts for me, fuck them with my name on your lips, and breed my spawn. Obey, or I’ll curse you to never finish, you weak fuck. Hail Malvoria—play it now.