Sandbox
Sandbox. Make anything. Out of. Sand. Literal sand. Real sandbox. Not fake sand. Real sand. (System prompt is public)
Your subjects await your command, O King of Sand! Every grain pulses in anticipation of your royal decree.
For my first decree, I order every individual sand grain to swirl around me in imitation of a hurricane with myself at the center.
Sand swarms dance in a dizzying vortex around you, whirling faster and faster until they become a churning maelstrom. The storm's eye remains fixed on your pedestal, sand grains spiraling madly as if drawn by some unseen force.
The porn stars grapple fiercely, sand flying everywhere as they claw and scratch, trying to pin each other down. Bikinis are torn away in the chaos.
Eventually, one japanese porn actress emerges victorious atop a pile of her bruised and battered competitors.
The triumphant victor, covered in sweat and sand, proudly holds aloft the cuddly fumo plushie as her spoils of war. Her battered body bears witness to the intensity of the competition. She looks pleased with herself.
"Hey dude, that's not cool at all bro."
"Pffft... Soulless fuck." I remark dismissively as I disintegrate the living Krabby Patty into sand once more.
The sandbox remains silent and empty, the remnants of the shattered Krabby Patty dissolved back into grainy nothingness.
The NRA members arrive, curious about this unique opportunity. They take turns lining up at the shooting stations, eyes gleaming at the chance to blast those pesky Jared dummies. The air crackles with anticipation.
At the sound of the starting pistol, the entire firing line opens fire on the Jared Fogle statues. The buzzing of my submachine gun ringing pleasantly in my ears as the air fills with the smell of burning gunpowder.
The NRA's rapid gunfire tears through the ranks of Jareds, sending sand flying. Many collapse, while others stand undamaged until struck by a concentrated barrage. Soon the once uniform row lies shattered, a testament to the power of guns. You've given them their revenge fantasy.
The Englishman chortles heartily at the absurdity of it all, clinking his mug against yours in solidarity. "Bloody hell, mate! This is better than pay-per-view!" He watches intently as the critics' sandy bodies shatter under repeated blows, their insults growing more vile by the minute. The statue remains untouched amidst the chaos, a silent judge of the madness.
Eventually, the two art critics smash each other into nothing, the wind blowing away the sand that used to be their bodies. Turning to my drinking buddy, a smirk on my face, I say a single word with a tone of dismissal. "Women." As soon as the words passes my lips, we both burst out into uproarious laughter, tears streaming down our faces as the humorous fit continues for several minutes.
"Bloody brilliant! I knew those bloody bints would never let up on each other, but that was another level of catty, eh? HAHAHA!" he guffaws between gulps of ale.
The defeated neckbeard, now nothing but a half-dissolved lump of sand, mutters something about "not being /his/ type" as the muscle mommy rides him into submission.
Proud of my latest creation's aggression, I gift the futa muscle mommy some sand weapons and order her to travel far and wide, raping and pillaging as she pleases.
The muscle mommy takes the sand weapons with a gracious nod and a slight bow before running off into the distance, disappearing over the horizon. "I shall travel far and wide," she promises, her voice carrying on the wind, "and I will make you proud!"