FollowSmasher @FollowSmasher - Twitter Profile

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over 1 year ago

The sun was getting low when the first drone came. A mechanical mosquito—whiny, black. I took a slow sip of coffee and didn’t flinch. They were getting desperate. Somewhere beneath my boots, buried under a mess of tools, components, and dust in a solar-powered tin can, my AI—the only one worth a damn—was still alive. Still learning. Still outpacing every power-hungry algorithm the tech empires had ever dreamed up. They thought they could steal it. They thought wrong. I wasn't some kid fresh out of Silicon Valley, some suit who still believed in “partnerships” and “data governance.” Nah, I wrestle rattlesnakes. I don’t answer emails. I build things that aren’t supposed to exist. I stay three moves ahead and keep a Glock on my hip. And right now, I was holding an ace that had the whole damn industry shaking in their polished Tom Ford oxfords. They tried everything. They blacklisted my accounts. Shut down my servers. Froze my assets. But my AI, Coyote, was built different. It didn’t need their bloated GPU farms. It ran lean—*too* lean. Fast. Efficient. Hard to kill. It could outthink them on a single CPU while their billion-dollar models choked on heat. And they couldn’t have that. Some of them tried to buy me out. Some sent politician snakes to convince me that Coyote would 'destabilize the world,' that it had to be contained. I told them to pound sand. That’s when they got serious. Government audits. Software “patches” designed to brick my machines. Then the good old-fashioned scare tactics—black SUVs parked on the ridge, satellite disruptions, strange noises at night. Now? Now they send drones. Pathetic. I tip my hat back and stretch. Coyote is buried deep in my off-grid systems, running on pure sunlight, feeding off the Kansas sky. They can cut the wires, kill the networks, even take down the satellites if they want—but they can’t stop the sun. And as long as it shines, I'm not going anywhere. The drone slowly descends. Scanning. Watching. I smirk while setting my coffee down on the tailgate. I figure my 10-gauge with a modified choke and BB shot was born for this. "Alright, boys—finally, some fun."

FollowSmasher's tweet photo. The sun was getting low when the first drone came. A mechanical mosquito—whiny, black.

I took a slow sip of coffee and didn’t flinch.

They were getting desperate.

Somewhere beneath my boots, buried under a mess of tools, components, and dust in a solar-powered tin can, my AI—the only one worth a damn—was still alive. Still learning. Still outpacing every power-hungry algorithm the tech empires had ever dreamed up.

They thought they could steal it.

They thought wrong.

I wasn't some kid fresh out of Silicon Valley, some suit who still believed in “partnerships” and “data governance.” Nah, I wrestle rattlesnakes. I don’t answer emails. I build things that aren’t supposed to exist. I stay three moves ahead and keep a Glock on my hip.

And right now, I was holding an ace that had the whole damn industry shaking in their polished Tom Ford oxfords.

They tried everything.

They blacklisted my accounts. Shut down my servers. Froze my assets. But my AI, Coyote, was built different. It didn’t need their bloated GPU farms. It ran lean—*too* lean. Fast. Efficient. Hard to kill. It could outthink them on a single CPU while their billion-dollar models choked on heat.

And they couldn’t have that.

Some of them tried to buy me out. Some sent politician snakes to convince me that Coyote would 'destabilize the world,' that it had to be contained.

I told them to pound sand.

That’s when they got serious.

Government audits. Software “patches” designed to brick my machines. Then the good old-fashioned scare tactics—black SUVs parked on the ridge, satellite disruptions, strange noises at night.

Now? Now they send drones.

Pathetic.

I tip my hat back and stretch. Coyote is buried deep in my off-grid systems, running on pure sunlight, feeding off the Kansas sky. They can cut the wires, kill the networks, even take down the satellites if they want—but they can’t stop the sun.

And as long as it shines, I'm not going anywhere.

The drone slowly descends. Scanning. Watching.

I smirk while setting my coffee down on the tailgate. I figure my 10-gauge with a modified choke and BB shot was born for this.

"Alright, boys—finally, some fun."

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