amongus forehead forms a star and SUStains itself using sussy nuclear fusion

It was the best of tasks, it was the worst of tasks, it was the age of completeness, it was the age of sussiness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of crewmates, it was the season of Imposters, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before sus, we had nothing after sus, we were all going direct to Amongus heaven, we were all going direct the other way — in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There was a white with a large forehead and a Blue with a plain facemask, on the throne of the now destroyed skeld; there were yellow with a large forehead and a Pink with a fair flair, on the tasks beneath the vents. In both cases it was clearer than crystal to the people of the crewmates' preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever. It was the year of voyage 10000000,00000000. Spiritual revelations were conceded to main base at that favoured period, as at this.

When I think of the situation, it is, in a way, strange to consider thus, how the sus (indeed the sus!) affects the Freudian psyche. They call it a prion disease, a corrupting malady, a sussy illness that fills my mind with thoughts of murder, of death, of the inexonerable march of time towards a grim valley, the trickle of life long since departed from its terrible river bed of bones. Its barren trees of ego stand tall over the sussy wastelands of my soul. My life is purely a suppression of the id, an overwhelming, monstrous id, grown beyond its size like a goose’s liver, enlarged for foie gras, fattened by a cruel hand. Even the slightest slip, and I am taken over. While my suit is bright lime in colour, like the green blade of grass that rises in the fields of my home planet, my passive visor hides a deep black sussiness. The obvious facts of my suit and faked task deceives and misleads, while inside my mind grows ever sussier.

The Hegelian march of history weighs on me now, like Atlas below the globe. If all of time is simple progress towards a consciousness of freedom, then where do I stand? My mind knows not itself, for it is corrupted, like a file. In my sussiness, do I achieve complete freedom, or a deep failure, an abandonment of what should be my sole aim. These questions, quizzes, queries are too much for one sus imposter to bear on his own.

There is blood on my hands, the red blood of the innocent crewmates, their dreams and wishes free of the sus, free of what has made me my hideous self, free to complete their tasks without the eternal distraction that drives me ever onward towards the deepest pits of Tartarus that await. This is blood I cannot wipe from me - out damn spot I say! Yet, what is done is done, and what must be done will be done; this bleak truth is a yoke upon my neckless forehead.

Yellow, White, Orange. Mere colours, representations, feeble imitations of personality. Their forehead, their beautiful, colossal among us hairline is all that created their image. I have banished them, broken them; discarded them as a child does to a toy it does not like, throwing it from the high chair to shatter on the floor like fragile bones. In the meantime, it is folly to grieve, or to think.

It was this that I thought that evening as I looked over the red lava of Polus, boiling and spitting red buboes into the air, bursting into yellow fragments of pus. Something drew my attention then, pulling me from my sussy thoughts. It was Blue and Purple, standing together, their sus undeniable. Blue stood thus so then, his forehead moving in the breeze that had been stirred up in the frozen air, gently pushing snowflakes that dance gracefully like Air Bud leaping to shoot.

The moment was not peaceful though. Though his visor was impenetrable, Blue’s anger emanated, “We cannot wait any longer! The airship takes too long and all the while the sus imposter looms”

Purple shakes his head, “But who? Who do we eject into the lava? Who is the sussiest of the sussy crewmates? Tell me this, truly now.”

“If we do not act now, then we have no hope! To simply fool around as sitting ducks, waiting for the imposter to choose his moment. He is in no hurry, see! Our tasks take too long, sabotaged electrics slow every action - he has all the time he needs!”

“And accuse with no reason? What if we are wrong and eject an innocent crewmate?”

“Then so be it.” Blue’s voice sank as low as the Mariana Trench. “But as Emilio Zapata so wisely said, ‘I’d rather die on my feet than live on my sussy knees’, just to be killed not long later.”

“You really wish so? What if you are the sus imposter yourself?” Purple speaks, more loudly now. The sus courses through my veins, but I resist. This is no time for that.

Blue pauses, considering his words, and says, “I have strong bones like my father. I noticed when I was 5, 6 years old I’m different than others when I was playin’ with another crewmate. I was 5 years younger than him and he accidently hit me and almost broke his leg. In this year, I was in O2 and I hit a tree - I spin 3 times in the air and nothing happens to me and I just put some water on my finger. I was coming back to my home and started working. After 5 years as a crewmate, I stand here before you, wrongly accused. This is my story.”

“That is your story?” asks Purple, the accusation thinly veiled. “Maybe we should eject a crewmate, indeed!” Purple turned and stormed off towards admin. He took a final glance back at Blue, who stood silently, staring blankly into the lilac soil.

“Goodbye, Purple” Blue’s voice wavers in the air. He seems fearful, yet unknowing. The sus imposter remains a mystery to him, tormenting him with the peril that looms on this jodforsaken planet.