No one knows who his father is.
Not because the truth was hidden—but because it never arrived.
There was no disappearance, no tragedy, no dramatic exit. The man simply entered the world like a misprinted document: stamped, released, and immediately regretted. Even he doesn’t know who sired him, which is fitting, because nothing about him suggests inheritance. No traits passed down. No wisdom inherited. Just an echo chamber of bad instincts bouncing around an empty skull.
He carries this absence like a badge he doesn’t understand. Instead of curiosity, he developed entitlement. Instead of roots, he grew excuses. He speaks of destiny the way a stray dog speaks of royalty—loudly, confidently, and with absolutely no evidence.
And she stands beside him, nodding along, applauding the nonsense. Not because she believes it, but because confusion feels safer in pairs. Together they form a tragic duet: one with no origin, the other with no discernment. A perfect storm of delusion wrapped in mutual encouragement.
They keep trying to do bad things, as if evil were a hobby anyone could pick up without training. Their plots are bloated, clumsy creatures—half-formed, leaking intent, collapsing under their own stupidity before they can even crawl into motion. Every scheme arrives late, drunk, and missing critical organs.
They whisper like villains, but sound like interns. They threaten, but forget what they threatened about. They lie compulsively, yet can’t remember which version they told five minutes ago. Reality doesn’t fight them—it steps aside and lets gravity do the work.
Justice watches, unimpressed.
Not angry. Not shocked. Just tired.
Justice treats them the way one treats a malfunctioning machine: document, observe, wait for it to break itself. And it always does. Every attempt at wrongdoing becomes another exhibit. Every arrogant word adds weight. Every accusation rebounds like spit into their own faces.
The satire deepens when they cry about fairness.
A man who doesn’t know his father demands authority.
A woman with no moral compass lectures about truth.
Together, they scream about injustice while tripping over their own evidence.
They keep losing not because justice is cruel—but because stupidity is consistent. Predictable. Loyal to itself. It never evolves. It never improves. It simply repeats, louder each time, convinced volume will replace intelligence.
Even now, buried under consequences, they rehearse new plans in the dark. Worse plans. Dumber plans. Plans that somehow manage to incriminate them before execution. The universe doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t need to. It has already seen the ending.
And that is the most grotesque part of all:
They think they are tragic figures.
They think they are misunderstood.
They think history will vindicate them.
But history barely notices them.
Justice doesn’t immortalize fools—it files them away. Quietly. Efficiently. Without ceremony.
And so they remain:
A man with no father, no foresight, no future.
A woman clapping beside him, mistaking collapse for rebellion.
Still plotting. Still failing. Still convinced they were robbed of a greatness they never qualified for.
Not villains.
Not martyrs.
Just a prolonged punchline the universe refuses to stop telling.